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scullysexual · 3 months

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You're Never Just Anything To Me (2)

@today-in-fic | ao3 | Prev.Chapter.

A look into Mulder and Scully's relationship starting from Millennium going all the way up to Requiem.

II. Rush.

“Would you like to come over tonight?”

“Mulder, it’s a Wednesday,” her voice shrills through the phone.

“Well done, you know the days of the week,” Mulder says with a massive grin, hoping the convey the joke through the phone.

She grows quiet and he thinks for a second that he’s overstepped the mark and offended her but then her voice sounds again.

“Shut up…” she says but he can hear her smiling.

“Seriously, so what if it’s a Wednesday? I miss you.”

“You saw me three hours ago.”

“Yeah, too long ago. What’s wrong with coming over? I stayed over on Monday.”

“Yeah and look at how much scrambling around we had to do to make sure we got to work on time. Separately.”

There was a lot of fumbling. Alarms going off an hour before they usually would. He had to get home, shower, change his clothes, and drive to work. They also kept getting distracted. Well no, he kept getting distracted, trying to convince her to skive off work and stay here and have sex all day. Scully shot that idea down immediately and his distractions had meant he only had an hour to get home, do his thing, and get himself to work.

“Bring some things with you, shower here, and we’ll go to work together.”

She laughs. “Then they’ll definitely know we’re sleeping together.”

A thrill runs through him hearing her say sleeping together. That’s what they were doing after all. Even weeks later from that first night on New Years Day and he still couldn’t believe it. He grins like an idiot.

“They already think we’re sleeping together. Does it really matter if they know?”

“Of course it matters, Mulder. There’s a reason it’s…frowned upon. You know they’ll split us up.”

She’s right. They might even take her away from him. Permanently. No, he couldn’t have that. Will not have that. Not now. Not ever.

Scully sighs. “I think we need some rules.”

“What? Why do we need rules? Rules are boring, they get in the way.”

“And for good reason,” she says. “Workdays are for work things. Weekends are for us. Okay?”

Mulder nods to himself. “Weekends are for us.”

“I’m glad we understand.”

“But does that mean I could, theoretically, invite you around through the week and say I had a case to discuss with you and if one thing led to another we wouldn’t technically be breaking your rules because I invited you around to look at a case?”

He hears her exasperated sigh and smiles. “Mulder, stop trying to find loopholes already. But yes, you could invite me round to go over a case through the week.”

Mulder listens, wanting to hear more.

“But Mulder.”

“Yes?”

“You keep your hands to yourself.”

…

He starts living for the weekend. Starts counting down the days, even hours, till he can have Scully in his arms, her mouth on his, her body beneath him. When Work Stuff melds into Us Stuff.

He finds himself unable to wait until Saturday. When Friday rolls around he can barely contain himself. He glances towards Scully every moment he gets and she does well to ignore him, to get on with their boring end-of-week paperwork unaffected by whatever has affected him.

It's 1:37pm, his lunch half finished on his desk when he finally asks.

“So…” Mulder begins and Scully looks up at him from her salad. “Since tomorrow is a Saturday and not a workday that means Friday nights aren’t school nights.”

“What is it you’re asking, Mulder?”

“Can Friday nights count as the weekend?” he chokes out desperately.

She smiles to herself. “Always searching for a loophole,” she says more to herself than him. Then he watches as she thinks it over. “Yes. Okay.”

“Starting today?” She looks at him aghast. “Please,” he pathetically begs.

Scully sighs. “Starting today.”

Mulder lasts until 4:46pm. Those last 14 minutes are tortuous. He’s stopped typing his report, he can’t remove the images of what he plans to do to Scully tonight from his mind. He looks over at her. Since his question at lunchtime he’s noticed she’s become a bit more restless, her foot tapping incessantly against the footrest of her chair. She remains more focused than himself, still scribbling away at expense reports but the calm, collected, in control person of this morning is slowly starting to unravel.

“Scully?”

She jumps up like she’s been shocked, slamming the accounting book shut with more force than necessary.

“My place,” is all she says.

It’s 4:52pm.

…

They barely make it through the front door.

Scully had wanted to throw the weekend rule away as soon as she mentioned it but listening to Mulder try to loophole is way out of them only made her resolve more certain. Rules were necessary. They needed to not get caught out.

His lips crash into hers and Scully gasps as he picks her up, holding her between her entry way wall and his body. She thought about putting a plant here, the space looked so empty and sad. Now she realises it would just get in the way. The space has a purpose: them.

They don’t even take their clothes off properly.

The waiting, the anticipation, counting down the days and the hours until they could devour each other again had gotten the both of them pent up with energy. It was like all the other years only this time they knew it was going to get resolved and that just made the energy between them stronger.

Scully unbuckles his belt, undoes the button on his pants. Mulder pulls her tights off, pushes her skirt up, and drags her underwear to the side.

He’s thrusting into her with no time wasted. Scully’s head falls slack against the wall, withering and moaning as Mulder ploughs into her at a hurried pace. It’s quick, hard, and slightly erring on the rough side as her lower back is constantly being slammed into the wall by his eager hips. There’s embarrassing wet sound emitting from between her legs but Scully can’t bring herself to care as she crests over the peak. She becomes dead weight in his arm only perking up slightly when she feels the surge of Mulder’s cum rush inside her.

They fall to the floor and don’t move for what feels like hours.

…

Perhaps he could get used to this weekends only thing. It only seems to serve them in the long run.

They had sex three times in about as many hours. Pouring an entire workdays week worth of sexual escapades into one night, probably because they both know it’ll be another week before they can do it again.

Food has been ordered and there’s about an hour delay, not that either of them are complaining. Their night is quite simple; sex, nap, sex, eat, nap, sex, more sex, sleep. They don’t talk about work. They don’t talk about future cases. They don’t talk about what happens if it’s the weekend and they’re on a case and staying in a motel.

Mulder doesn’t ask because it’s a weekend and even if they aren’t at home surely that means this won’t be put on hold.

But looking at Scully, thinking about her rules, there’s a vague thought that it just might.

Scully was hovering somewhere around his legs, near his groin. She had gone to the toilet and he expected her to return to his arms, to continue their post-coital nap. Instead she had disappeared halfway down the bed. He had no idea what she was doing.

“You have a pretty cock.”

Mulder’s eyes burst open. “Excuse me?” Said pretty cock becomes alive.

“It’s pretty,” states Scully doing nothing to elaborate on her original statement.

Mulder swallows as she trails her finger from base to head. Now his dick was really starting to wake up.

“Uh, thanks…I guess?” He’s never had someone compliment his penis before.

“It’s the nicest one I’ve seen,” she mutters to herself.

Mulder doesn’t like to think about Scully having sex with other people, seeing their cocks. It draws up mixed feelings for him. On one hand, the idea of her with anyone but himself as a course of jealously surging through him. On the other hand, it turns him on. A lot.

Then he frowns. “Scully…what are you doing?” Because her hovering her face around his cock had his thoughts going elsewhere.

“Huh?” she asks, looking at him with confusion.

“Why are you just looking at my dick?” He catches a look in her eyes and is quick to placate it. “Not- not that I don’t appreciate you calling my dick…pretty I just…You’re there and…”

“Oh..” it dawns on her then just what is question was. “Well…I was gonna ask because you asked me on New Years Day but then I didn’t know if I needed permission but then what if you didn’t like that and I should’ve asked and…” She was rambling now. Something he’s known her to do when she’s scared or anxious about something. He gently interrupts her.

“Oh I like that, Scully.” She looks at him still unsure. “As for permission…consider it granted. You no longer need to ask from this point forward.��

She smiles, reassured. “Okay.” She moves so she’s between his legs and Mulder waits, holding a breath as she holds him gently at the base.

The first touch of her tongue, the heat of her mouth, has his eyes rolling back into his head. He clenches the duvet so as to stop himself from grabbing her. He let’s her do her thing, explore him with her tongue. The newness in it, the inexperience with his cock in particular spreads a loveable warmth through him. He loves her. He loves her so fucking much.

“Fuck, Scully…” he breathes and Scully hums around him. The vibrations coursing through him. He’s close, so dangerously close. He wants to come in her mouth but it’s their first time and what if she doesn’t like that…Now he was rambling, spiralling, all the while feeling his balls tightening. He’s seconds away from blowing.

His hand unclenches the covers, finding her, tapping her, trying to gain her attention.

“I’m gonna—”

Her eyes widen in realisation. She pulls her mouth off him and pumps him the rest of the way. He finishes it, his cum spilling all over stomach.

Mulder lets his orgasm settle as Scully scampers off into the bathroom. He hears the sound of a faucet and closes his eyes trying to calm himself down.

He jumps at the contact of a warm cloth against his stomach, eyes reopening and finding Scully.

“Sorry,” she apologises shyly but continues to gently clean him up like he usually does with her. His heart grows bigger.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to…” He coughs trying to find the words. “If I was allowed to…”

She smiles at him sweetly. “Consider this permission to come in my mouth next time.”

Mulder is dumbstruck as she wanders off to the bathroom again. She said it so sweetly, so innocently yet the words that came out of her mouth were not sweet or innocent.

He loves her so much.

He almost says it when she emerges out of the bathroom and climbs back into the bed, snuggling down beside him. He stops himself at the last minute, bites his tongue to keep the words from falling out on their own accord. Instead he squeezes her against him, presses a kiss to her hairline and hopes his actions conveys what he longs to say.

…

“Mulder…” she warns for the third time.

“I’m not doing anything.”

Mulder stands incredibly close to her, the front of his body flush with the back of hers. It’s unnecessary given the amount of space behind him. He’s doing this on purpose.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she says.

“And what am I trying to do?”

His hands touch her hips, she can feel his bulge pressing into her lower back. He’s doing what he’s been trying to do all week.

“No, Mulder.” She pulls herself away.

“Please,” he begs, desperation on his face. “It’s been a fantasy for so long. Just this once.”

This is what she was worried about. Us Stuff getting mixed in with Work Stuff. They have to keep them separate. They can wait until the weekend.

But it was only Tuesday and even with the addition of Friday night falling into ‘weekend’ it still felt so far away.

This was proving difficult for both of them.

“What if someone comes down here?” she asks eyes straying to the office door.

“Who comes down here?”

“Skinner?”

“Skinner’s been down here once and that was just to throw my resignation back in my face and tell me it was unacceptable.”

“You handed in your resignation?” Scully asks surprised.

“No, I just told you Skinner threw it back in my face.” He shakes his head. “You’re changing the subject. No one comes down here, Scully. No one cares.”

“No, Mulder.” She can’t do it. She can’t let the lines be blurred. “Rule Number Two—”

Mulder let’s out an exasperated groan.

“No sex in the office,” she yells above his groan.

Mulder pulls away from, sitting back down in his chair and looking at her like a child who’s just been denied ice cream.

“It’s my most frequent fantasy,” he mutters with pity to himself.

Scully sighs. “Do you have your report. I’m going to give it to Skinner.”

He yanks the papers from the printer and smacks them down onto her hands looking every bit like a spoilt child.

Scully can’t help her grin at his behaviour.

“Hey,” she says gently and Mulder looks at her with hope in his eyes. “Friday. We can act out any fantasy you’ve ever had.” His eyes light up and he thinks he’s won. Scully quickly adds. “At home.”

She makes her way towards the door, smiling as she hears him mumble and grumble about how “Home isn’t the office now, is it?” She shuts the door behind her, shaking her head but still smiling.

Then a dark thought overcomes her and makes the smile fade. Did he and Diana do it in the office? No! She can’t think like that, it didn’t matter. Diana was gone, 6 feet in the ground, Mulder has made it clear to her that Diana was history.

But still, Scully couldn’t help but wonder if he was constantly comparing herself to the other woman.

#the x-files #the x files #txf fic #xfiles fanfiction #soss #season 7 #scullysexualwrites

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desertedcorridors · 3 years

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Morning Person

I woke up at 7:14 again today. I’ve always wanted to become a morning person. Not the ones that wake up at dawn to go running or get a headstart on the workday, but the ones who wake just in time to lay there, that brief juncture in the almost-day when the light is golden and still innocent, pliable enough to mold, when the tendrils of sleep take their time loosening their hold. I like to think I can cut through this softness like butter, run my hands through it, pack it into a little cube and pocket some for night. Of course, I’ve never been a morning person. I wish I was. I never wake up in time.

I can’t remember the exact moment I decided I couldn’t stand to sleep in my own room anymore. Springtime in Lahore means dusting off the ceiling fans in mid March. I had started sleeping horizontally on my bed so I could be directly under the cool air. When I woke up one morning I found that someone had filled my bones with cement and suspended me in a sunbeam. I’m not sure what made that particular day so defining. It wasn’t a new feeling, this heaviness in me weighing down my mattress. It wasn’t even an oh, there it is again feeling. When I think of the word constant I try to rack my brain for emotions, people, anything to remind myself that I am wanted, that I am anticipated. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing except the familiarity of my own expendability. When you have hollow bones it’s inevitable that someone will want to anchor you like a bird to a cage. I tired myself out a long time ago. I’ve never been one to fight back; it’s one of my mother’s favorite things about me. That morning I felt strange, like I was intruding on an intimate moment between the sun and the eggshell white of my walls, like I wasn’t meant to see the behind the scenes. I was acutely reminded of the feeling of walking into a room you don’t belong in, the heads of strangers swiveling around to look you up and down before returning to their business. I felt shame prickle through my scalp in a wave. My room aglow with the yellow filtering through my curtains, childlike and pure, my body a deadweight, supine and useless, lips cracking in the recycled air, I looked at the clock. 7:14. So this is it, I thought. This is what I’ve been waiting for. I wanted to go back to sleep with a desperation so intense it numbed my toes and curled my fingers. My room looked beautiful and alive and determined to set me on fire. I felt its smirk against my throat as it settled its weight on my chest and pressed me into the bed. I thought, leave it to me to turn beautiful things evil. That night, blanket and pillow in hand, I knocked on my mother’s door.

The sun rises differently in my mother’s room. When it wakes me up at 7:14 again, it has the decency to look apologetic, remorseful. I decide to have mercy. Next to me my mother is folded into the cocoon of sleep. I tamp down my envy and inch closer. When she puts an arm around me and strokes my hair I fake my breathing. I tell myself I can cry later. The intimacy that lives confined in this hour of undiluted quiet is too pure for someone as polluted with guilt as I am. I’m supposed to say something in this moment, I know I am. Sometimes I think I’ve spent my whole life trying to find the right thing to say. One day I’ll wake up and my lips will be gone, the top of my throat sealed shut. I’ll know I deserve it, I’ll know that only people with things to say deserve voices. I have nothing to say. With my face turned into the mattress I can almost convince myself I’m here simply because I was bored, not because my loneliness is a clawed hand around my ankle, not because I’ve made a villain of the sun and my room and time itself and fear is a wave cresting outside my window. I can almost convince myself that my self loathing is contained in the room I’ve left behind. In this new room where the sun is more forgiving and my mother’s arm is a shield I cower behind, I can convince myself I’m safe. The ticking of the clock mocks me.

I can feel the wave catching up to me.

Once, in a fit of desperate rage, I thought maybe I could outsmart time. That night I didn’t sleep till 5am, until my eyes were begging me for release. I thought surely this would mean I would sleep in until noon at least. When I woke up the next morning, wide awake and smug, the light was all wrong. It was too bright and the room was too humid. I looked at the clock. 7:14. I could feel the sun shake its head in pity, felt the clock narrow its eyes in annoyance. I conceded. As I lay there, limp and exhausted, I began listing all the adjectives I could think of to describe the light at 7:14. Soft. Supple. Ethereal. Tender. Tangible. Ephemeral. Blinding. Desolate. Lonely. Desperate. Gone. Desperate. Desperate. My head started hurting.

A couple years back when my migraines got really bad, I went in for an MRI. I remember the frustration I felt when the doctor said there was nothing wrong with me, the desperation of wanting her to stick a label on the issue and file it away as a problem solved. I wanted her to tell me what I already knew: that the migraines came from the same heaviness that pressed me into my bed every morning. I wanted her to stick her hands in her white coat and tell me not to worry, there’s a very simple solution to this, we’ll send you into emergency surgery and hollow your bones out again and then you’ll be as good as new. Instead she told me to take it easy and stay hydrated. On the way home the sun was white hot. I’ve always found it weird that when I have a good day, I go to bed with a headache. It’s important to note here that a headache is not a migraine. I never understood these headaches; maybe they came from laughing too hard, or smiling for too long. On these days I think my heart pumps blood differently, like it’s so relieved to find a reason to beat again that it works overtime to compensate for all the days I let it sit in my chest and harden. I like the idea of giving my poor heart a purpose, the way it trips over itself trying to butter me up. When I hold two fingers up to the side of my throat, my skin feels alien, the veins underneath pounding out a code of don’t let us forget this feeling again. I send back an apology in advance. I can’t remember the last time I got a headache.

Tonight my dinner congealed like wet sand on my gums. But it’s night, I thought, I’m supposed to be okay, at least for now. I dared to look at the clock. 7:14. Is nowhere safe? There was a time when I didn’t know how to read clocks. There was a time when I chided myself for never waking up before noon. I don’t know when I started being afraid of the sun. I don’t know how to stop.

#i wrotre this a couple months ago as a submission to a magazine and ive been thinking about it recently #aha ha vulnerability is agonizing #writing #poetic prose #prose #spilled poetry #poetry #essay #academia aesthetic #writers of color

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stargleeksil-blog · 6 years

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Criminal Minds S06E21 “The Stranger” review - or more aptly named, funny and twisted in the same episode? Hells yes, we’re back on track XD I love this!

Episode 21 – The Stranger

Hey everyone! So last time was uberly weird, and depressing and emotional ... I need a reprieve, so let’s hope this has slightly more humoristic scenes with my three faves (Derek, Spence and Penelope) and more Rossi sarcasm, because I need it direly.

Let’s see what happens.

“Unnecessary. There’s too much blood and gore and ew.”

And that is why me and her are so perfect for each other.

“Garcia, it’s a slasher film. How do you do a slasher film without violence?”

“You imply it.”

“Baby the movie is called Slice 6. What were you expecting?”

“A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy.”

“I’m gonna have nightmares for a week.”

“With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?”

“Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night.”

So I don’t need to even comment on this, because the dialogue does it for me XD

“Why are you worried? I’m sure that Morgan will protect you.”

“As long as he’s not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl.”

WHAT?!

“The only reason I jumped is ‘cause you guys woke me up.”

“How could you sleep during that?”

“Easy. You drag me out after a 12-hour workday … for what?”

“You telling me that girl didn’t know the unsub was waiting for her upstairs?”

“Come on.”

Oh my tough puppy.

“Villain.”

“What?”

“In movies, unsubs are called villains.”

“My bad.”

I LOVE THIS SHOW SO FUCKING MUCH!

“Still, it’s totally unrealistic. No one should be walking through ha dark alley by themselves at night.”

“Ahem, hello.”

“Ah. No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side.”

Oh lordy, this show is awesome.

“What we didn’t see coming is the Slicer’s brother was in the closet.”

“Frightening.”

Ah, the sarcastic Rossi.

“He betrayal consumed him and he sent his brother to his own private hell.”

Oh my god, just look at him so happily describing a horror movie. I balk at those.

“Speaking of horror …”

“What’s Strauss doing here?”

“Whatever it is, I cast my vote on ‘no good’.”

I love my goddess XD

“I left them on your desk last night.”

“This really isn’t the time for another evaluation.”

So Strauss is being the regular bitch and trying to get Aaron to do an evaluation on himself? And to have everyone take it again? I’m going to smack this bitch.

So three girls in college, who look eerily alike, were murdered ... yikes.

“As it stands right now, I’m coming up empty.”

“Their apartments were spread throughout the city, so … no fingerprints at the crime scene.”

“The unsub uses gloves.”

“He’s organized.”

“Forced entry at all the apartments. Back door, patio door, living room window.”

“The homes were wrecked.”

“Clear evidence of a struggle.”

“He’s creating a scene.”

“He wants to inflict fear not only in his victim but in whomever finds the body.”

“Could be a message to the local PD. ‘Look what I can do’.”

“He’s killed three women in under a week. San Diego PD wants us on the scene as soon as possible.”

Stephen King: “Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters.”

Dang, Mr. King, just dang.

“Our unsubs has a type and a temper.”

Yeah, he’s angry at brunettes. Seriously creepy (I’m brunette :O)

“Amber was getting ready for her bath. It would have been an easy target for a sexual assault, but none came.”

“That’s highly unusual for this kind of unsub.”

“You know, extreme violence in physical aggression is in its nature sexual.”

Again with the hot people talking about sex.

“That’s true, but as a substitution for the sex act.”

“This guy could be impotent. He can’t perform, so that’s why he goes all out for the kill.”

Again with the sweet ‘innocent’ people talking about sex.

“If he’s targeting female college students, we need to make sure that campus officials are informed if they haven’t been already.”

“We also can’t rule out other students and faculty.”

Insert Reid’s immense knowledge about San Diego college layout ... that’s a lot.

“Each girl lived off-campus and was attacked in their apartment.”

“That’s pretty high-risk.”

“Less risky if he’s stalking them in advance, running layouts and routines.”

“Between classes and part-time jobs, they’d be home sporadically at best.”

“Which tells us they’re not victims of opportunity. He targets them, then stalks them to know where they live and when they’re gonna be home.”

“Morgan, you and Reid go to the last victim’s apartment. Seaver, interview the roommate. Dave and I will go to the medical examiner’s.”

“Well, there’s no secure parking.”

“I rode a bike when I was in college.”

“That’s ‘cause you weren’t old enough to drive, Einstein.”

Oh my god, the Reid-Morgan bromance teasing is back. I love those two so fucking much.

“I could drive. It’s just the government wouldn’t issue me a license until I was fourteen.”

Oh, schooled!

“A lot of places for the unsub to hide out here.”

“Yeah, he could have easily grabbed her when she passed through here.”

“Yet she made it all the way to her apartment.”

“Where she should feel safe, but then he took that from her.”

“The number of stab wounds increases with each victim, yes?”

“Did the strike indicate any medical knowledge on the part of the unsub?”

“He hadn’t built his confidence yet.”

“He’s improving quickly.”

“He made the struggle last longer because he wanted her to suffer.”

“So now he’s starting to enjoy it.”

And I’m about to upchuck the strawberries and banana

“I’m Agent Derek Morgan. This is Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“He jimmied the lock on the window.”

“I guess he needed the privacy to complete the torture.”

“Well, most sadists like to kill on their own turf. This guy didn’t risk taking her to a secondary location.”

“Maybe something happened which makes the location of the kill significant. Look.”

“That’s something new.”

What is?

“He’s smearing the blood on the walls, exhibiting more control and rage over his victims, taking pleasure in the kill.”

Ew!

“It looks like he’s taking his anger out on women who represent someone he knows.”

“Yeah, like Edmund Kemper. He most likely can’t confront his true target yet, so he’s going after women who look like her until he can build up the confidence to complete his endgame.”

“So she wasn’t into the college scene.”

“Academically or for money?”

“Do you know where she heard about the part-time work?”

Craigslist ... yikes.

“The first victim, Monica Shanley’s, BFF reported that they were talking on the phone and hung up just before Monice stepped inside her apartment.”

“What does that get us?”

Phone time with the sexy goddess?

“Well, some neighbors heard loud screaming coming from Monica’s apartment at 11:12 pm.”

“At 11:15 they called 911.”

“11:26 cops arrived.”

“He’s able to strike, kill, and get out in less than 14 minutes?”

That’s one fast sicko.

“How’d it go?”

“According to her roommate, Amber worked odd jobs to make ends meet.”

“Could be where she met with the unsub. Garcia, get us a list of jobs that Amber worked the last few months, and look for personal checks she might have deposited as under-the-table payments.”

Oh, you smart Italian stallion.

“Copy that.”

“The unsub stalks his victims. He knows their routine.”

“He could attack them anytime they’re alone, even in their cars, but he chooses to attack them in their homes.”

“And waits for them to bolt the doors before he strikes.”

“He wants them to feel safe before he takes that away from them.”

“It’s about making them feel powerless in their own personal space.”

“So it’s physical and psychological torture.”

No shit.

So he killed a babysitter. Yikes. Poor baby.

“We profiled that he gets off by striking inside the victims’ homes. Why did he kill her here?”

“That’s a big change in MO.”

“Maybe Laurie had a roommate, so the unsub figured he’d have more time on the job.”

“Did he hurt the child?”

Thankfully, no.

“I’ll talk to them. You two go in.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, I’m David Rossi with the FBI. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“And how did you meet her?”

Again with the fucking Craigslist.

“How many people did you interview?”

“Did she talk about any boyfriends or say anything that may have raised an alarm?”

“And how long ago was that?”

So she had a boyfriend up till a month ago. Yikes.

“With an infant in the room, Laurie would have been at her most vulnerable.”

“Look at this.”

“He felt compelled to organize the supplies.”

“Look.”

Now, if it weren’t for the blood, I would have so many images of Daddy!Derek.

“Do you think the unsub fed the kid?”

“Then he stabs Laurie, so the kid probably starts crying.”

“Maybe he gave the kid the bottle in order to keep him quiet.”

“We might be looking for someone with a deep-rooted abandonment issue.”

“One who identifies with the child.”

“Or maybe the baby crying interfered with his enjoyment of watching the babysitter bleed out?”

“Well, either way, caring for the child would be psychological torture for Laurie.”

“Reid. Look at that.”

“She’s got several missed calls and a few texts from social networking sites.”

“‘What’s with the photo? Halloween isn’t for months’.”

“Speak, boy wonder, behold my might.”

“Garcia, the latest victim Laurie Burgin was writing something on the internet last night. Can you figure out what it was?”

“Yeah. I was just tweeting myself. Uno momento.”

She tweets? Damn. I love this woman.

“Oh, God. Reid.”

“She managed to take a picture of the unsub before she died.”

Oh shit.

“Can’t really make it out.”

“I can tell you more. Laurie’s account was active two hours after that photo was posted.”

“And continued posting status updates after she died.”

Shit. That dude is fucking sick.

“‘Feeling faint at heart.’”

“‘All alone and too scared to cry.’”

“All right, this isn’t good. He’s mocking his victims now.”

“He sat here tweeting while Laurie bled to death.”

“All right, baby girl, listen. I need you to go through Laurie’s accounts. See who was following her and see who was messaging back.”

“On it.”

“All right, let’s get out of here, let’s get back to Hotch.”

“We got a photo and we got a profile.”

“Thank you, Garcia.”

“We’re looking for a while male in his early 20s.”

“And because he’s stalking his victims, we believe that he either works out of his house or a part-time job.”

“This unsub strikes in the home rather than the outside where he could more easily abduct his victims.”

“Now, this tells us that his social skills are most likely lacking and he may not have the confidence to talk to women.”

“His confidence with killing, however, is growing. He’s gone from hesitant strikes in the victim’s home to painting the walls with blood.”

“Our unsub is developing a taste for the kill. And his victims share similar features and backgrounds.”

“And we believe that they represent someone whom the unsub thinks has wronged him and he’s taking out his rage on them.”

“Because the unsub shows signs of one neat aspect and started killing suddenly and effectively with no break, we believe he was recently incarcerated or institutionalized.”

“Look at men who got out a month or so ago. Their records will show a history of violence, anger toward women and/or symbols of authority.”

“We need to warn all young women to be hypervigilant, especially in their online acquaintances, but also with service workers, maintenance staff, and deliverymen.”

Hey! Assholes, don’t make fun of my superheroes!

“No, but tell them to double-check IDs, call dispatch before they let anybody inside.”“Panic is inevitable, but we still need to keep everyone informed. Uniformed officers are posting warnings across campuses.”

“Now, since the Jenkins family found Laurie online, we believe the unsub may be using similar methods …”

“Profiles, job postings, anything that gives a little too much information that the unsub could use to hunt his victims.”

“And time’s not on our side. We think that he’s already got his next victim in his sights.”

“The account tracks back to an email address he created yesterday morning, IP address leads to a public terminal. That’s where the trail ends.”

“What about the Jenkins house?”

“He was tweeting with her prior to the assault.”

“The unsub hacked into the Jenkins’ Wi-Fi network.”

“Pretty smart for a guy who’s been locked up.”

“Yeah, he has gotten good at covering his tracks. How are you doing on a list of criminal records and releases?”

“Oh, right, that. Okay. I searched local college students, which is a lot, and I’m a masochist, so I went ahead and included military personnel because San Diego has a big naval and marine presence.”

“Combine those with those two pools and he’s swimming in criminal infractions.”

“All right, filter out sexual assault and lewd behavior.”

“Filtering at the speed of light, sir.”

Someone give her writers all the awards.

“And what about background financials on the victims? Is there any evidence of jobs being performed under the table?”

“Actually, in all cases there were personal checks deposited from several accounts, most under $100.”

So babysitting isn’t that financially beneficial.

“All right, send a list of account holders, and, Seaver, when you get them, start making phone calls.”

“What am I looking for?”

Another brain? Because you’re looking at babysitters, activate those neurons.

“Any victims who might have worked as babysitters.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shit. Fucking Strauss is sticking her nose in everything. Fuck.

“We’ve delivered the profile and the locals are canvassing the area. Did you call for a field update?”

“How’s that?”

Wait. So now he has to run an assessment on himself? Isn’t that against protocol?

“My orders were to assess the team.”

“Is that an order?”

“Ma’am, with all due respect, we’ve got four women dead and we’ll probably have another one by the morning.”

“She’s relentless.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Did he get another babysitter?”

You bet your ass he did.

“Who’s that?”

“They were locked in here all night?”

“I’ll meet you guys inside.”

So he locked the mom and the baby in the beddroom while he killed the babysitter and daddy? Fuck.

And now he’s just the cutest little puppy thing ever comforting that lady and being the most amazing hunky thing ever.

“Hello, Amy. My name’s Derek Morgan. I’m with the FBI. I understand you’ve been through a great ordeal. I’d just like to ask you a few questions if that’s okay.”

Oh my cutie polite puppy.

“Did you happen to see the man who came in your home?”

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

“Did you hear anything while you were locked inside?”

“Jake suffered multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. The sitter, Lily, got the brunt of it.”

“She could be the one he’s been after all along.”

Wasn’t that the whole point of this? He hates brunette babysitters?

“I don’t know. This guy’s meticulous. He plans everything out.”

“Then why didn’t he know the Ellisons were returning?”

“I think he did. I mean, the unsub was watching the house. He knew that they came home, but he just didn’t care. He adapted.”

“He went after the biggest threat first. He eliminated Jake in order to gain control over Lily and Amy.”

“There are two initial points of attack, one in the hallway outside the nursery and the other one here. Yet, both bodies ended up together.”

“Look at the way they’re posed, directly looking at each other.”

“He wanted them to watch each other die.”

“I think it’s more than that. This change in behavior could be the piece that we’re missing.”

“This guy knew the Ellisons were home, but he struck anyway. He could have taken out the entire family, but he chose to spare the mother and the child. Why?”

“With the Jenkins, the unsub actually fed the baby. Here, he spared the mother and locked her in a room with her son. It’s likely he’s protecting the children.”

“The addition of Jake Ellison caused the unsub to change his methodology.”

“For the first time he posed the bodies, and he’s also sexually violated one of the victims.”

“Okay, we have a father posed to look at a dying babysitter and a mother and child protected upstairs. That’s a pretty clear message.”

“Garcia, search for local women who died in their early 30s and they’re survived by a husband and at least one son. Go back 10-15 years. Cross that with new marriage licenses filled by surviving husbands.”

“The unsub’s always been troubled, Garcia, so look for youthful offenders who would have fit into the sociopathic triad.”

“Okay, I’ve got a few.”

“What about …”

“Here’s one. Greg Phinney, Chula Vista.”

“He was put into juvie when he was thirteen for … threatening his stepmom with a knife.”

“What do we know about the stepmother?”

“Kate Jones, aka the second Mrs. Phinney. Married Greg’s father a year after Greg’s mother was killed in a car accident. Greg was 11 at the time.”

“Mr. Phinney died four weeks ago.”

“Is there any evidence that Kate worked in the Phinney home before the mother’s death?”

“Oh, the plot solidifies. Kate cited additional income as caregiver on her tax returns when she was a college student. Payments trace back to the Phinneys.”

“Kate filed numerous reports against Greg for violent behavior, experimentation on animals. Greg’s father finally put the kibosh on things when he was seventeen, had him institutionalized.”

“Greg was released two weeks ago.”

“Just before the killings started.”

“Garcia, where’s Greg Phinney now?”

“Yeah, that’s a good question. Oh, dear …”

What?

“Greg Phinney, FBI. Open the door!”

“He’s not in here.”

Captain Hot and OBvious.

“The bedroom’s clear.”

“Baby girl, can you tell me why Greg Phinney’s laptop has an employee login screen?”

“Well, lover, I have been doing some digging.”

“Did you know that he’s been working part-time as a data entry clerk at the San Diego Register?”

“If he was in an institution, where did he get the time to find a job?”

“Uh, he didn’t even have to look. This job is part of his work-release program. And twenty hours of internet privileges will go a long way.”

“That’s how he finds his victims. He browses the classifieds. Did he have access tos the customers’ personal information?”

“Oh, honey, he entered it.”

“That must be Kate Phinney.”

“Well, he’s obviously built up the confidence to confront her.”

“Garcia.’

“Reading your mind. Calling the others.”

I love those two.

“Greg’s not at home, so he’s probably already at Karen’s house.”

“Kate’s the object of his hostility. He’s gonna take his time.”

“Let’s light ‘em up. I’m sure he knows we’re coming.”

“Dave, take some uniforms and find the back door. I’m gonna try to get inside and talk to him.”

“You think that’s gonna work?”

“I don’t think Kate gets out of this any other way.”

Oh boy, what are they gonna do now?

“Greg Phinney, this is Agent Aaron Hotchner. I need to talk to you about your demands so you can let Kate go.”

So he’s a serial killer without demands? Well, that’s weird.

Wait. He’s blaming Kate in all of this? Why?

“What has she done?”

“Greg, I think this has more to do with your dad than it is about Kate.”

“Your dad put you away.”

“Greg, I need to ask you a very important question. Do you want to live?”

Well, that’s seriously worrying.

“I think you do. And if so, you need to let me in the house. Otherwise I can’t guarantee that you’re gonna walk out of there.”

“Seaver, I want you to come in with me. Leave your firearm here.”

“Be compassionate and sympathetic to him. Let him tell you how Kate betrayed him and how much you understand his devastation.”

Heh, he’s pissed he brought in Seaver. But he can smooth his way into anything, can’t you, Hotch?

“I know, but I thought if we talked inside we could work this out ourselves.”

“No guns.”

No guns? Have you lost your marbles?

“As long as you’ve got a gun, if one of the agents outside has a clear shot, he’ll take it.”

Sneaky Rossi.

“I don’t have a line of sight.”

“Tell me what you want Greg.”

“Don’t you really want Kate to apologize for making your dad forget your mom?”

“Unless the next words out of your mouth are ‘I’m sorry’, I don’t want to hear anything else from you.”

WHOA!

“I understand, Greg. I do.”

“She took care of you. You trusted her. And then she betrayed you as soon as your mother was gone.”

Spider-Rossi! (Flexibility and stuff)

“It must have crushed you when Kate married your dad.”

“How did it make you feel, Greg?”

“You felt betrayed, didn’t you, Greg?”

“Ask her the question, Greg. Go ahead. Ask her.”

Wait. So this whole fucking thing was about him being in love with his babysitter-turned-stepmom? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?

No. Fucking. Way!

“Bring in backup.”

“No. I had to be aggressive towards you in order to gain Greg’s trust. None of this is your fault.”

Aw, that’s nice of you, b;ondie.

“Greg has always been troubled. Losing his mother and then his father made him even more unstable. Sometimes we do everything right and we still lose. Greg was a sociopath and there’s nothing you could have done to change that.”

“Good work, agent.”

“Hey. Nice job, kid.”

I love Rossi so fucking much!

Adrienne Rich: “Every journey into the past is complicated by delusions, false memories, false namings of real events.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

“Why, uh, why the interest in the well-being of my team?”

“What kind of concerns?”

“What’s going on?”

So Erin has problems and she needs to go away? Finally.

Heyo! So this episode had everything! Humor, sarecasm, banter, cutie patooties making me smile, and then that whole bit iwth the unsub being a total nutcase. Just what the Dr. Spencer Reid ordered XD I have faith in this show again XD

Alrighty, I gotta go finish up the reviews for this season and get cracking on seven (holy shit, where has time gone?)

Thank you so much for the ever-surprising support!

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