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‘ttpd is such a dark intense album covering such heavy themes’ you would not last an hour in any non pop genre of music
#it’s literally just regular level as far as music goes I’m sorry#but like I’ve also waited 15 years for her to do this so#even on second listen all I notice is the production it doesn’t get any darker lyrically it’s just regular Taylor to me#but really good. grown. mature. with all the expertise of all her previous albums put together#ttpd#the tortured poets department#taylor swift#people really be trying to sterilise her content like. you guys are fighting a losing battle music is meant to be cathartic
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taylor’s worst sin MUSICALLY is putting the best songs on the deluxe edition because from the bottom of my heart what the FUCK was that???????
#taylor swift#the tortured poets department#jack antonoff when i catch you jack antonoff#get AWAY from her#they’re not doing anything interesting together anymore#like i was listening to the regular version and it was like this is goddamn elevator music#like god this might be worse than midnights even#the only songs that stuck out to me were loml and the smallest man who ever lived#i can do it with a broken heart was pretty fun and i did like the florence feature#but daddy i love him is quite literally one of her worst songs ever i’m so serious#not just bc it’s about ratty healy it’s so bad#i was giving the album maybe a 6.5/10 then i got to the 2am tracks#with loml and tsmwel rating a lot higher but still#but god aaron CARRIED these 2am tracks#the theme is still there but it’s like a completely different album it’s so much better#why is it like this????#who’s idea was this????#bc the main album kinda sucks#jack antonoff ur dead to me#i need relisten and get some sleep before i have a ranking#bc rn i do think the 3am tracks did fall off a get a little dreary towards the end#anyway it’s 3am i need to go to bed#ellie chats
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i have been freaking the fuck out since sunday
#i’m a bartender & every one of my regulars is asking about the album#also wore my eras hoodie yesterday & i had so many great convos with people about taylor#of all ages backgrounds gender vibe everything. everyone either was a fan#or respected her#even if they didn’t like her and had really lovely open convos with me#it’s so lovely to see so much love for taylor it makes me so happy#the tortured poets department
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pretty boy
pairing: spencer reid x reader
summary: spencer walks in one day with a new look. you handle it pretty well.
a/n: im in the opposite of a writing slump right now (will prob fall into a writing slump right after i say this) probably because im procrastinating on essays for school and i can only write when im meant to be doing work. but tiny little fluffy spencer one shots are very good for the soul right now. i think it's my way of healing from my hotch fic
wc: 1.8k
warning(s): one slightly sexual joke from emily. all fluff
You usually don’t get to the office this early, but you don’t exactly have a choice. The BAU’s last couple cases have all run one after another, barely leaving you any time in the office, and now you’re paying for it.
You’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through and not nearly enough time to do it all—if you’re lucky, you’ll be writing reports for a few days straight. If you’re not, you’ll be putting in some overtime.
“This is the most focused I’ve ever seen you this early,” Derek comments.
You shake your head with a sigh. “These reports are government mandated torture.”
He chuckles, and he nods at Emily as she walks over to her desk. “Are you this busy?”
She shakes her head. “I’ve still got a report to get through, but nothing that bad.”
“I get it,” you say wryly. “You’re all more organized than me. Just don’t come to me asking to go out tonight—you know I can’t say no.”
“But don’t shots taste better when you’re supposed to be doing work?” Derek asks, and you roll your eyes with a laugh.
“Not when I’ve got this much work I’m supposed to be doing.”
You hear the elevator ding and glance up—Spencer’s walking through and fixing his tie. You look back down at your report as you greet him.
“Hey, Spence,” you call. “Why’re you late?”
“I’m not late,” he says, and you can see him checking his watch out of your peripherals. “I’m two minutes and thirty-three seconds early.”
“Really?” you muse. “I guess I’m just so used to you being here before me.”
“You can’t judge my timeliness on yours when you’ve been here for an hour already,” Spencer says.
You frown, tapping your pen against the paper. “How do you know?”
“You’re settled in already. Your coat’s on your chair, your stack of unfinished files is smaller than it was last time we were in the office, your coffee isn’t steaming, and your mug has a chipped handle—when they were put away last night, that one was set in the front, so you’d have to be here early to get it.”
“Touche,” you murmur. You’re not sure why you ever ask your team of profilers how they know something.
“You also look like you don’t want to be here,” he comments. “That’s pretty typical of agents who have to be here before their regular hours.”
You chuckle and tilt your head in admission. You don’t really want to be here, especially running on so few hours of sleep.
“Why aren’t you as early as usual?” Emily asks.
“My neighbor knocked on my door this morning to ask me for something,” Spencer says. “It threw off my whole routine. I picked the wrong tie, I couldn’t pack my bag properly, and I had to toast my bagel for two minutes instead of three and a half to make it out in time.”
“How terrible,” Derek says with mock austerity.
“It is terrible!” he exclaims. “It’s scientifically proven that a morning routine makes you happier, more energized, and ready to seize the day—carpe diem.” Spencer sets his bag on the floor next to his desk and looks at everyone else with a smile. “Did you know that phrase was actually coined by the Roman poet Horace in his Odes? It comes from the first book out of four in the eleventh poem—the full phrase in Latin is carpe diem, quam mini—”
“How was your bagel?” Emily asks to interrupt him, and he pauses.
“It was good,” he says. “Could’ve been toastier.”
You look up, a teasing remark on the edge of your tongue, but the words die in your throat when you actually see him.
Spencer’s started combing a hand through his hair to fix it—must have been another part of his affected morning routine—his lips set in a pout as he tries to see his reflection in his dark monitor. He always looks good, even without trying, but now—
“You’re wearing glasses,” you say dumbly.
“My contacts dried out,” he grumbles, still focused on his hair. “We got home so late last night I forgot to put them in their solution, and I had no time to fix them because my neighbor messed up my whole morning.”
You nod, still unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Are you gonna keep wearing them?”
“I don’t know. Contacts are better for cases because I’m not worried about them falling off or fogging up, but I usually sleep on the jet on the way back, and sleeping with contacts in isn’t good.” He smiles a bit as he fully turns to you, seemingly satisfied with his hair. “It reduces the amount of oxygen that gets to your cornea, which damages the cornea’s surface and makes it harder to regenerate new cells. Sleeping with contacts actually makes you six to eight times more likely to get an eye infection.”
You nod again, your brain still not quite working at full power. You always love listening to Spencer’s fact dumps—it gives you a lot of material to impress your non-BAU friends with on the side, and you’re eternally thankful for that—but right now, you seriously cannot focus.
You’d never really thought about him in glasses, but that’s probably a good thing if this is how it makes you feel.
You were valedictorian as an undergrad, and you received stellar feedback from your professors during your masters program. You’re an excellent profiler, a valued member of the BAU, and you’re a goddamn FBI agent.
And yet you can’t find a single thought in your head because your coworker showed up to work wearing glasses.
He’s still rambling about other common causes of eye infection and how nobody seems to take them as seriously as they should, when Derek, not even trying to hide his grin at your turmoil, speaks up.
“Reid. Wanna cool it a bit?”
Spencer’s eyes dart over to him for a moment before he stops. “Uh— sorry.” He frowns as he looks back at you. “Why do you ask? Do you not like them?”
“No,” you blurt out, and you shake your head a multitude of times. “No. They look great. You look great. They’re—” You dig your nails hard into your palm as you try your hardest to smile like normal, and this time you nod. “They’re good, Spence.”
“Thanks.” Spencer does that little smile-nod combo of his, and he pushes his glasses back into place with his thumb by the bottom of the frames. “That’s nice to know I’ve got another option.”
You thank whatever god may be out there that Hotch and Penelope are busy in their offices and JJ is busy with some other case, because you think you would die if anyone else saw you like this.
“Hey, Reid,” Emily says, also not doing a very good job of hiding her amusement. You hate your team sometimes. “They’re almost out of sugar in the breakroom. If you want coffee the way you like it this morning, you should probably get in there.”
“What?” Spencer shoots up, his brows already furrowing into a frown. “That— that’s ridiculous. I can’t mess up my morning any more.”
“You’d better get in there, then,” she remarks.
“We’re an entire office of agents running on coffee,” Spencer complains as he starts walking. “How are we almost out of sugar?”
“Because half of ‘em drink it black,” Derek says, and Spencer shakes his head with a sigh as he leaves.
“That’s ridiculous.”
You bury your head in your hands the moment he’s gone and Derek laughs. “I wish I could’ve gotten that on video.”
“Don’t talk to me,” you groan. “It is not fair of him to walk in like that.”
“And that is why I call him pretty boy.”
“He needs them to see,” Emily says with amusement as she leans against the side of your desk. “You just can’t control yourself.”
“I need to transfer offices,” you say, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”
“You should ask him out!” Derek encourages. “He’d probably say yes.”
“Absolutely not,” you insist. “I doubt he likes me like that. A— and even if he does, that’s the last thing either of us need right now.”
“I don’t know,” Emily muses. “It looks like you clearly need something.”
You let out a frustrated noise as you screw your eyes shut. “I’m doomed.”
You hear Spencer say your name, and when you look over at him, one hand still pressed against your head, you see he’s got two cups of coffee in his hands. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you say weakly. “I’m great. Why?”
“I got you one too,” he says, holding one of the mugs out to you. “The one you have is probably cold by now, and it looks like you need an extra kick to get through all those reports.”
“Thanks, Spence. That’s sweet.” He nods as you take the proffered mug, and you swear your cheeks are as warm as the coffee. He is really testing your strength today.
“You— you have a lot,” he says, and you huff a dry laugh and nod. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic. I could take half of them if you want?”
Your grip tightens on the mug and you can feel Derek’s eyes on you. “I couldn’t make you do that, Spence.”
“You’re not!” Spencer exclaims. “I can get through mine really quickly—we worked together for almost the whole last case so I can do all of that anyways.”
“...You’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?”
“I’m sure,” he nods. “Besides, I offered. I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to.”
And god damn him, because he nudges his glasses back into place again, pushes a strand of loose hair back into place. You’re dying over here.
You set the mug of coffee on your desk and pick up the top half of your pile. “All yours, Spence.”
He takes the bottom half and smiles at you, and you smile back before he walks back to his desk. You are dying over here.
“Let me know how I can pay you back,” you say, and he shakes his head.
“You don’t need to pay me back.”
“Really?”
Spencer nods. “I mean, Morgan invited us all out on the jet last night, and I don’t think I can do it alone. If you can get out of the office in time, I don’t have to. I think that's enough of a payback.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll be there.”
He smiles again and nods, then he picks up a pen and focuses in. You turn back to your desk, your face burning.
“What was that about him not liking you like that?” Derek says.
“Quiet!” you whisper-yell, swatting him with the pile of files in your hand. “He might hear you!”
“He’s not hearing anything while he’s focused on that,” he says. “That just means you can ogle him more.”
You groan again, letting your forehead fall into your palm. “I’m pathetic.”
“I think you’re right.” Emily chuckles as she stands up. “You are doomed.”
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fluff#x reader#sadie writes
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viii. leave me on red
frankie morales x f!reader | chapter eight of i like the way you
best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.
warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut - phone/text/video sex. angst. dont hate the jo.
word count: 3.6k
an: the hugest thanks to @thetriumphantpanda for not getting mad at me for doing this to them.
You decided it in the minutes after he left, you were going to tell him.
Back pressed to the door, head resting, eyes closed. Tears stinging in the edges, burning. Your breath all strained and difficult—that is, until it decided what it wished to be, anyway.
Then, it shifted, transformed. It morphing into a sob that rumbles and cracks, shaking its way through you until your knees plead to crumble to the floor.
Because you had wanted to chase after him. Even ring him. Beg him to come back.
It wasn’t until you climbed back into bed, letting the scent of him wash over you, did you commit to the idea.
That’s when you begin rehearsing it, letting it move from rolling around your skull to dripping from your tongue. You did so as you made food, as you did chores. Perfecting it, choosing words so cautiously and carefully, swapping them out, practising it until it becomes a thing typed into a piece of your soul.
I’m in love with you Frankie. I have been for a while.
You don’t expect it to rival the greatest poets, and won’t find a place amongst the greatest scripts to ever be. It won’t be a speech that’ll be copied and used in film. But it’ll matter.
It will be meaningful.
It’ll have weight and carry truth—and you suppose, when all is said and done—that’s what will matter. It’ll be out there, free, existing—swirling between the two of you instead of caged inside of your chest.
Once you’ve spoken it, it should calm the storm inside of you; should quiet the choppy waves that collide within you, each one attempting to do more than knock you off your feet, but grasp you by the ankles and drag you under.
Confessing it, should do a lot of things. But that doesn’t bring you any comfort right now. If anything, it makes you feel sick, feeling only thorny anguish which keeps you up at night.
Never before had you been thankful for booking vacation time.
A chance to be, to sit around your home and pretend you don’t want to find a way to get to him, tell him it all now, let it unspool, even with no hope of it being the same as it ever was.
Because you could lose him. Ruin it all. Taint the one thing you cherish above all else.
It’s why you turn it over. Letting it worm its way from a box of doubts to a fully-fledged car crash you replay over and over as you lay in bed, fingers twitching, chest tightening, jaw clenching.
It’s only on the third day since you had made the decision, that you decide to share your plan with another soul.
Doing so over the phone—only one name came to mind. As soon as she answered and you spilt, you were greeted with only a joyous tone, it all full of pride. Your friend who is all knowledgable and wise, being nothing short of a cheerleader. Saw it coming, she tells you, been waiting for you to wake up and smell the coffee. You bite your inner cheek, doing so until copper swirls around spit, because you’ve known too (something you want to tell her). You’d been carrying it around for longer than realisation had been bestowed on her.
It’s easier not to say it. Swallowing it, letting it die in a pit of stomach acid, where other things you never say go to erode.
“Any advice?” you’d asked.
“Just be honest.”
On day four, you had gnawed the skin from your lip. It's sore, practically pulsing. It has its own heartbeat from how raw it feels.
Your nerves beginning to get the better of you, swarming and piercing, pecking away at your earlier confidence—stinging it with doubts, ones which spread, all poisonous, swelling out until it’s all you can feel.
His texts help.
One day I’ll get you back up in a heli. Only if I can sit between your legs like last time. Can sit anywhere you want, baby.
You’re not sure how it’s possible that miles away he can make your day better and your pussy clench around nothing all at once. Your body missing him—just as much as your head, heart and soul. Thighs pressing together, all your earlier thoughts popping like bubbles as you read his words over, and over, and over. A whimper grows in the back of your throat, hammering on the back of your teeth to be released.
Flicking your eyes up, you catch your appearance in the mirror.
The way your skin is just lightly sheened with the droplets from your shower—having been in a rush to reply than dry yourself. So much so, the air tinged with the scent of your shampoo and body wash. It’s thick, and heavy, your skin warming under the effect of his words making it more prominent, evident.
Smirking, you slide your hand until it undoes the robe of your dressing gown—letting it gape, the cool air brushing over once warm skin, until it pebbles, the peaks of your nipples hardening as you take a breath, and snap. There, immortalised, you stand—positioning your phone, ensuring the camera cuts off your eyes, beginning at the base of your nose, capturing the white of your teeth against your bottom lip, the white robe hanging, parted, framing the bare skin under it.
And you don’t think, you just send.
No caption, no message.
Just the sound of the whoosh as your heart hammers, beats, and thumps in the milliseconds it takes before you see the speech bubble of his reply.
Fuck, baby. Wish you were here.
Bending down to kneeling, you shimmy the fabric from your shoulders—pooling it in the creases of your elbows. Positioning yourself so your hand can be seen perfectly between your thighs, keeping yourself hidden, just a fraction. You ensure your breasts are on show, arm shifting to push them closer together, before you smirk—no, you think. Shifting your expression to a smile, a little one, which grows bigger and larger just as you click the shoot button.
It begins, a slow-motion capture of your disrobe, of you seating yourself down on the floor in front of your mirror, taking instruction through his texts—positioning yourself like a doll. The last being on your rear, soles flat to your carpet, thighs spread, head back as your neck elongates.
You’ve never felt more beautiful, even exposed. Eyes don’t linger on the things you usually pick apart first thing in the morning, before you dress for another day, and they don’t linger on the parts you catch in the corner of your eyes before you shower. You just see radiance, shadow-kissed skin that is being bowed to through a screen.
Fuck you’re gorgeous. Can see how wet you are. You need me, baby? Always, Frankie.
Your finger sliding along your inner thigh, tips brushing over before parting your folds. It won’t be enough, he’s ruined you—made it impossible not to wish for him, crave those thick, long fingers that both keep things hovering in the air and you hovering over space, time and existence.
“Frankie,” you moan, to no one but you.
Curling, sinking deeper until—
Can I call you?
You don’t reply, you just call. The distinct sound of a request to video echoes around the room as you slow your ministrations, a low whimper escaping as he connects, as his face fills the screen that's cast to the side, his own view of your ceiling.
He says your name, quiet, more questioning. Your trembling hand moves, picking it up as the other remains buried deep inside you, lifting your phone, giving him a view, a taste, a sight.
“Tell me what to do,” you whine.
Watching him as he drinks as much of you in as he can, commits you to memory, skates his eyes over every pixel, not wanting to miss a single one, before he clears his throat, before he carries you in his phone to his bed.
Licking your lips, you release a breathy sigh—one that begins in the depths of your stomach, rising up and fluttering out. Almost carrying a moan as you find that spot inside of you, the one which makes you boneless, thighs threatening to tremble.
“You want me to keep my fingers—“
“Faster,” Frankie stammers, “Want you to move those perfect fingers a little faster for me. Think you can do that?”
Nodding, you roll your lips, heat washing out over you, gripping the phone tightly.
“Fuck, baby. Y’know how good you look right now?”
You heave out his name. It building, fanning out over nerves that tingle at the edges of you—making your fingers curl, heel of your palm catching the swollen bundle of nerves that makes the sound of what you’re doing that much louder, filthier, more obscene.
And you fucking love it.
Love all of this.
Love him—
“Wish I could bury my face between your legs—“
“—oh, shit—“
“—y’like the sound of that, querida?”
Your eyes flick to the screen, staring at him—a pang in your chest flooding outwards, it mixing with how much you wish he was here, desperate for it, half-wanting to beg him to get his ass over here and make a mess of you in front of your mirror.
“Touch yourself,” you say instead.
Swallowing back the rest, letting your head fall back, obscuring him from view as you slow your movements, teasing, edging yourself as your core twists, and electricity thunders in your veins.
“Want—fuck—wanna come with you.”
“Alright baby,” he says—as if it’s the most normal thing, as though anything the two of you are doing is normal. “Let’s do this together.”
You hope it’s not the only time he’ll say that to you.
Days drag when you clock watch. Hours take even longer.
It’s a thing you know, but you can’t help but do so all the same. Each time you check, you hope it’s closer to the time. The one marked in your calendar, the one which has been making you both nervous and elated all week.
It had only been when you stopped tidying, stopped moving things from one counter to the other, did you spot it—eyes land on it and never leave.
You're not even sure when he left it behind, but your eyes linger on the corduroy jacket near your door. It’s moss-green, hanging, growing in the corner of your eye and borrowing more of your attention than it should. You’re sure it grows vines, ones which tap on your shoulder when you’re able to forget it’s there, only to make you look over, and spot it all over again.
The worst thing about it, it looks like it's supposed to be there. As though the hook you had expertly hung, (correction: hammered a nail in and hoped for the best) was always meant to hang his things, be dedicated to it.
In truth, he acts like he’s supposed to be here.
Fitting, even if you’d never made a place for him outside of being his friend. Now, you see the outline of him, perfect cut out, a drawer which could host the bolts and bits from his pockets, the shelf which he could place his eccentric collection of DVDs from the sleepless nights during storms.
You suppose it’s why it continues to catch your eyes, your gaze lingering on it—knowing, without brushing your fingers against it or burying your nose into it, that it smells like it. That, in its own way, is spreading out that calming effect he has.
One you need now more than ever.
Hand wrapping around the handle of the knife, chopping, preparing. Eyes studying the recipe that is ingrained in you, one you could do with a timer and your eyes closed, but you need to stare at it, to read the handwritten notes and pretend for a second it’s not something you used to make for him all the time.
Before the rule, the one he made you agree to because you’d asked something from him.
Now, you just snort. Adding the ingredients to the pot, turning the heat down, as a soft simmer begins before you wipe your hands down on your towel. Because in time, you’d broken all of them, both for one another and for yourselves.
And that had to mean something. Had to be more than a coincidence or something that just was. It had to be underpinned by unsaid words and swirling emotions neither of you feel equipped to handle, yet feel more prominently than you know what to do with.
You make more of an effort in your clothes. Not for him, for you. A thrill sparks through you when you catch sight of yourself when you pass a mirror, catch yourself in the reflection of a window, your television. Because you look like someone who could confess your feelings, let your adoration be known. You feel like someone who will do it, can do it—a confidence which has been coming and going since you’d decided.
It’s only when you lay it all out (the glasses, the plates and the cutlery), does a stitch begin to appear in your carefully thought-out plan. One that digs, the needle-sharp, pointed, aiming to prick and make you bleed, smear across perfection and make it ruin. A thing you put off, able to argue with it, point out its stupidity.
Tonight could be the last time you see him.
Maybe, this thing the two of you had was all he had wanted—all he’d needed. Not an overbearing amount of emotions he can’t handle or begin to understand.
A thought you try to squash, shove down deep inside.
That is, until the bigger hand pushes the smaller one on, and it begins to create a hole inside your chest. It forming based on that earlier thought. That dread, that worry and concern which has been thickening in the back of your head for weeks now. Now, it's grown out of the walls you kept it behind. It widens with each passing minute until it’s close to an hour and it’s practically a sinkhole. It taking everything it can with it—happiness, courage, laughs and the smiles. Vanishing them, wiping them clean like they never existed, as every bit of wanted you had felt, was painfully plucked from you, tweezed until you were back to that horrid place you were before all of this began.
Except now, you felt too much. Unsure if you’re able to put a cork in it, trap it under just want him to be happy and content at being friends.
A sob escapes, just a little one.
But, it’s enough to widen the door. Allowing more of them to bubble up and appear, climbing forcibly up your chest as though they’ve been building a ladder and plotting their escape for the last few minutes.
Each rolling out, freeing, bursting into the air. Your body racked with them, trembling, shaking.
Your hand finds refuge on the counter, stabilising you, keeping you from falling into the hole of your own making. And your thumb brushes porcelain, the neatly displayed food you’d spent hours on, a declaration all on its own.
A—see, I broke the rules too, Morales—except, he hasn’t come. Hasn’t arrived.
Maybe he’d known. Maybe he’d decided that it was all too much, standing you up easier—you supposed it was much harder to face the person you’d been best friends with and break her heart to her face.
But, your Frankie would never do that. Except he isn’t yours, not really.
Even less so as time ticks far past running late into the zone of stood up.
And you feel dumb, stupid. A gnawing sensation growing in the place your love had once been, it twisting, tainting, painting everything it can in ruin and staining it in the disappointment you never thought he’d make you feel.
“Fuck,” you choke out, hand clasping your face.
Fresh tears, acidic and thick, hammer down onto your cheeks like a downpour. Layering on top of one another, blurring your vision, making your chest feel both heavier and lighter all at once.
Grabbing your phone, you don’t even think—unlocking it, finding the contact and clicking Message.
Are you free for a drink?
You should consider it, go to bed, wake up tomorrow and bury your feelings in something healthier like yoga or a walk—but you send it. Discarding your phone across the counter, it clattering, catching on the plate as you bury your face in your hands.
Tears, hot and thick—running down your wrists—not doing enough to numb you as you let them fall. Disbelief doubles as hope is swallowed whole, your throat filling with sobs you feel forced to let spill—etching their way into the silence, fracturing it, cracking what should be laughter, but is instead loneliness.
It’s why you’re thankful they reply with a yes, giving it no more thought as you blow out the candle in the centre of the table, ending the night before it even began.
Frankie wakes to darkness.
It’s a comfort, the way it blankets him, allows the little shadows to rest easy against the ceiling from his open curtains—it is all soothing, relaxing. It even almost allowed him to curl back into the comfort of his sofa. His blanket—the one you bought him—cast over the lower part of his legs.
Then he remembers.
Eyes widening, blinking furiously as he throws his legs from the sofa, hand grabbing—making all sorts of noise on his coffee table—until his phone screen illuminates and he sees the time.
Late it spells.
It all a blaze, just in the form of numbers.
Fucking late it bellows.
Disorientation wraps around him as he shoves himself up to stand, fingers tugging at his curls until he imagines they’re more frizz than defined. Not even thinking—just grabbing. Phone, keys. Shoes barely on his feet as he yanks open his own door.
Calling you.
It rings. And it rings. Each unanswered drone of it doing something to the fragility of his heart. Making it quake, crackle at the edges.
All week, he’d done nothing but think of you. Think of holding you, burying himself close against you, not even asking you to shed layers, but rather just lying with him. Take in the weight of you that he finds all but a comfort.
I love you, he had planned to whisper. Mark it against your neck, just under your ear. Write it against your lips if you let him. Burn it anywhere else until you’re nothing but tattooed in praise and adoration.
“Pick up, baby,” he mumbles.
Ringing you again in the car.
The drive over tense, silent—the occasional dial tone echoing around the bed of his truck. His knuckles whiten at each red light, shoulders practically under his ears when he pulls onto your street. Something knotting, all horrible, riddled with vines and sharpness that cut into him with each breath he takes.
He’s not sure if he should be worried or thankful your car is in the drive—because the house is plunged into darkness. His boots clatter against your wooden steps, hammering on the short porch as he cracks his knuckles against the door.
Its echo, comes back to him—able to travel around in the silence and come back with an answer.
You’re not here.
But he knocks again, and again. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes, something clenched around his stomach, tightening and tightening as your name falls, all pleading, an edge to it that he hadn’t known was possible. But then, he hadn’t known he could begin splitting down the middle, the seams coming undone, his own might and willing not able to keep him together as the realisation he’d fucked up the one good thing he had.
The one good thing he didn’t even really have, too cowardly to tell you—too fearful that you’d stare at him blankly and tell him you don’t feel the same.
Because he’s been drowning in it, in this, in you, for so long, he knows how to just about keep his head from going under. He had been sure he could do it for longer, could stem his feelings, push them down. Until, you slept against him, fitting perfectly.
Until he woke with his arm draped over your waist, your leg tangled in his, staring at him with wonder and awe as you traced your name on his back.
He should have told you then it was the best thing he’s ever woken up to. A sight he had only dreamt of, but never imagined could even be true.
Pushing your key into the door, he’s greeted by darkness. It hovering its hand to him, welcoming him, even if the cold chill of the place was more than unsettling. He wanders, feet almost dragging, half hoping to find you sat in the dark, because at least then he could begin to make it up to you.
You’re not.
Moving through to your kitchen, all set to pass through to your bedroom, when something makes his eyes pull to your table, and he sees it.
Eyes landing on the set-up, from the plates to the glasses, to the orange dish in the centre—and his heart drops to his feet. It landed with a squelch, a thud which vibrates through him to the tips of him.
You made him food.
You broke a rule. You broke the rule.
His eyes beginning to well up, stinging, until one falls.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
Letting his hand run down his face, staring at his favourite meal—unable to unsee how congealed it was, how long it’s been sat there, existing, waiting.
“Fuck.”
an: forgive me 😘
CHAPTER NINE ->
#frankie morales x reader#francisco morales x reader#francisco morales smut#Frankie morales x reader smut#frankie morales x f!reader#frankie morales x you#jo: iltwy#triple frontier x reader#francisco morales fanfiction#triple frontier fanfiction#pedro pascal characters#francisco catfish morales x reader#catfish morales x reader#frankie morales smut#triple frontier smut#frankie morales x f!reader smut#pedrostories
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Karasuno in a Fitting Room
Hi. I work in a fitting room. I hate it. Don’t work in a fitting room. But lemme tell you how I think Karasuno would act in a fitting room. For sillies and funnies.
Daichi
A very polite boy!
Who has no idea what he is doing!
Someone please help him
Oh wait that’s my job…
He constantly calls for help
“Do you have this in a bigger size? What other colors do you have? What's the return policy on these? Does another store have it?”
Like bro please chill out with the questions other people need help 😭😭
He’s a model customer tho
Brings out the clothes, says please and thank you, and makes very nice conversation
He would be a regular that I’d make friends with
Sugawara
Oikawa called him Mr. Refreshing and hE WAS SO RIGHT
What is it about him that makes him such a good customer?
Is it his pretty face? Is it his easygoing smile? His politeness? Or is it something innate? Why do I feel like everything will be all right with him around?
Idk what it is but he’s making my day 🤷♀️
He’s the type to show his outfit and ask “How does this look on me?”
Quick story, a customer once asked me what I thought of the purple pants he was planning to buy and I described them as "swanky"
I think he was intimidated by that because his response was "wow, I have never heard that word before" 😂😂 and he left the pants
Sugawara would not be intimidated by me calling his outfit swanky
Also lowkey does my job if I have to walk away or turn my back
“Oh yeah, just go right in! You can set what you don’t want on the counter.”
Suga please it’s my job you don’t have to do this
Asahi
“Hello, welcome in!” “Oh, hello!”
Very apologetic customer
“I’m sorry to disturb you but could you help me with this?”
Omg yes of course I’ll help you don’t apologize for needing help that’s what I’m here for
Actually listens when I ask him to bring his clothes out when he’s done
Lemme know if anyone is ever bothering you hun cuz I can call security to have them kicked out
Apologizes when he brings his clothes out 😭
“I’m so sorry to add more to your workload…”
Tbh you don’t have to apologize when you bring clothes back…
“…I can just put these back where I found them?”
On second thought, you’re an angel and I’ll love you forever Asahi
I wish all customers like Asahi a very pleasant evening and a pat on the head
Nishinoya
s i g h
I love you Noya, I really do
But I know for a fact that he’d be a MENACE in the fitting rooms
He’s just so loud?? For no reason????
Bro what are you yelling in the fitting room for??? There’s only a mirror and a bench in there???????
He’s like that random kid in the school hallway that screams for no reason
He doesn’t sound like he’s in distress tho?? so I don’t call security yet
Also, he sometimes shops in the kids section I KNOW HE DOES HAHAHA
No shame Noya, I shop in the kids section too
The adults section doesn't have pikachu hoodies
I bet he grabbed one too
Tbh he’d be funny enough where I can excuse his loudness
He brings his clothes out (none of it folded and no hangers) and says:
“Sorry about that, my friend sent me a pic of a dog he saw and I got excited.”
Understandable king, have a nice day
I tell my coworkers about the weird customer who was screaming about a dog and we all agree he was very relatable
Tanaka
“Hi, welcome in!” “Heya! Thanks!”
This guy looks intimidating. He probably won't bring his clothes out
He comes out dressed in nice jeans and a dark polo shirt
"Can I ask for your opinion? I'm going on a date later today and I wanna dress nicely but I don't know what I'm doing."
Oh...
Yeah of course, I'll help you out. Is it more formal or casual?
Actually a really chill and cool dude!
So respectful too
He asks for opinions on each outfit
"I need a woman's opinion. What do girls like best on a man?"
Uhh, personally I’m a huge fan of poet shirts and thigh highs but we don’t sell those
"Are you sure this looks good?" "Yes! The color really suits you."
Brings his rejected outfits to me and says:
"Thanks for all your help. I feel like a new man with these clothes!"
Man, you are so very welcome! I hope the date goes well!
Ennoshita
He is power walking for some reason??
“Hi, welcome in!” “Hellothankyou.”
Why is he talking so fast? Are you okay dude??
Leaves and tries on multiple things
Bro does not know his size so he’s gotta try everything
The more clothes he brings in, the deeper I feel my stomach sink
Until…
“Uh, I’ll just take these back where I found them. I need to get another size anyway.”
omgomgomgomg
Wait you dropped this king 👑
I don’t even care if they’re on the right hanger or not
This must be an angel sent to provide me relief from the other bozos in this store
He leaves too quickly for me to tell him to have a nice day
Kinoshita
Karasuno has very polite boys who were raised right so I have complete faith in them
Although I do draw the line of kindness somewhere
Take Kinoshita for example
He does everything right: greets me back, says thank you, brings his clothes out, and he even has a good smile
It goes downhill once he returns his clothes
Cuz he’s trying to be helpful by folding the clothes at my counter but…
He’s not doing it right 😬😬
K-Kinoshita please, I appreciate what you’re doing but you’re doing it wrong and I’m just gonna have to redo it and it’s a little embarrassing to watch please just stop
“Um, thank you, have a good one!”
My smile says I’m dying inside
Narita
“Hello, welcome in!” *nods as a greeting*
Quiet and respectful. I like him already
He’s not gonna try on a lot, just what he needs
In and out in no time
“Thank you, have a good one!”
I wish more people were like Narita
Kageyama
Ummmm he’s okay, comes off a little rude
Just waltzes right in without greeting
“Hi, welcome in!” “…”
Ok buddy
He's just very focused lol
He's a quick changer, love that about him
Oof wait I can see him competing with Hinata to see who changes faster
UGH THATD BE THE WORST
They would leave a huge mess and make so much noise
I might call security on them lol
They’re the teenagers in Target everyone warns you about
Anyway, back to Kageyama
He’s a polite lad so he brings the clothes out but they’re either on the wrong hanger or just bunched up in his hands
I’ll take it. Great effort Kageyama! 👍
Hinata
✨THE PERFECT CUSTOMER✨
he’s so nice and friendly, I would love for Hinata to visit my fitting room
“Hi, welcome in!” “Hello! Thank you!”
He’d make easy conversation, workers love him instantly
Such a nice smile!!!
And so polite!!!!!!
Truly an anomaly in this store
He’s really quick with changing too, he wastes no time
My carrot top son, I love him so much
He probably knows his exact size and everything
Also shops in the kids section LOL
Unproblematic, friendly, AND HE BRINGS THE CLOTHES OUT WHEN HES DONE
“I’m sorry. I tried to hang them myself but I had no idea how.”
Baby it is okay, your effort is appreciated please know that I love you
I only tell the customers I like to have a nice day and Hinata would get one every time
“Thank you! Have a nice day!” “Thank you, you too!”
Tsukishima
I feel like Tsukishima is self-aware enough to realize his personality would not survive working retail lol
One customer would be rude and he’d clap back instantly and get fired cuz they’d complain about him
So he’s unproblematic when he’s at a store
Asshole to everyone but customer service workers
Treat others how you want to be treated kinda guy
Probably hates trying on clothes cuz he never finds anything that fits
At least he’s respectful
“Thank you, have a nice day!” “Thank you.”
Yamaguchi
“Hello, welcome in!” “Oh, um, thank you.”
Nice and good boi!
Also doesn’t find anything in his size but he’ll ask
I’d actually do my job and help him look LOL
He probably tries to go outside his comfort zone but he’s having a hard time
“Are you sure this looks okay?” “Of course! But how do you feel in it?”
I tend to do that a lot with customers like Yams
Wear what you feel good in!
That just a lil tip for yall 😘
He brings out all the clothes but they’re backwards lol
“Thank you. I hope you like your outfit!” “Thank you, you too!”
Oops uhhhh, I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that
Kiyoko
“Hi, welcome in!” “Hello.”
A…a natural beauty…
I can’t look at her…it’s too much….
Queen slays with every outfit she tries on
She keeps admiring the skirts and shorts but she never tries them on??
Wonder why
“Did you need help finding that skirt in another size?” “Oh… No. Thank you though.”
Despite absolutely nailing every outfit and catching the attention of just about every other patron in the store, she returns all the clothes.
“I’m sorry. Nothing seemed to suit me. Thank you for all your help.”
Wh…what???
Girl everything suited you. Whaddaya mean!?!?
I know you wanted to try that skirt on! It would look so good!!
But hey, idk her story, I just work in the fitting room
“You’re welcome. Please have a nice day!”
I wonder if she’ll every come back for that skirt…
Yachi
Another very apologetic customer
No one needs to apologize this much guys 😭
“I’m so sorry for making a mess!”
You haven’t made any kind of mess! Please calm down!
She’s also pretty quick with changing
She comes out after with all the clothes…folded and hung perfectly??? What is this witchcraft????
I bet she’s worked retail before
She holds up two different shirts and says “Um, can I ask for your opinion on these two? Which do you prefer?”
She’s very clearly a little wound up so maybe some light conversation will loosen her
“I like the one on the right…” it’s not the truth but it leads to a conversation and she starts to relax more
“Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful!” “It’s no trouble at all. Enjoy the rest of your day!” “Thank you! You do as well!”
I think I just made a new friend :)
#haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons#karasuno#sawamura daichi#sugawara koushi#asahi azumane#nishinoya yuu#tanaka ryuunosuke#ennoshita chikara#kinoshita hisashi#narita kazuhito#kageyama tobio#hinata shoyo#tsukishima kei#yamaguchi tadashi#kiyoko shimizu#yachi hitoka
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[“My girlfriend (I’ll call her Rachel) and I have been riding the same bus to the Metro station together nearly every weekday morning for the last two years. After a few weeks, all the commuters on the bus start to look familiar. You begin to notice who travels with whom. You start to give people secret nicknames (Franklin Planner Guy, Park Service Guy, Beautiful Woman, Vancouver Boy). Pretty soon you start noticing each other around town, start saying hi at the farmers’ market. You don’t know each other’s names, but if someone disappears from their regular bus for more than a few days, you begin to wonder if they’re okay, if they’ve moved or changed jobs. It’s an odd sort of community.
Rachel and I wondered sometimes if our fellow workers had nicknames for us, too. What would we call ourselves? Dress Alike Girls? We’ve committed the Ultimate Lesbian Sin—dressing alike—on more than one occasion. We have totally dissimilar clothing tastes, but an unfortunate affinity for the same colors, so we’ve been known to show up at each other’s houses in the morning to find one of us wearing tailored silk khakis, black pumps, and a dark blouse—that would be Rachel—and the other (that would be me) in khaki shorts, black sneakers, and a dark blue T-shirt. Embarrassing. We finally decided that our bus gang would call us Jointed at the Hip Girls. We’d sit at the back of the bus, hold hands sometimes, whisper. We didn’t need to wear T-shirts that said “Dyke.”
But we didn’t actually think about it very much either. We felt safe enough in our little bus world to be “straight acting” (ha ha).
And one morning, when we were standing on the platform at the Metro station, one of our bus buddies approached. She’s tall, light-skinned African-American woman with a penchant for outfits that Rachel admires, and we had wondered if she were family; she had that look about her. She apologized for interrupting and said, I just wanted to tell you guys that it’s so nice to see you in the mornings. I looked at Rachel, a little puzzled. I mean, the woman continued, You both just look really happy when you’re together, you sort of glow.
I started to blush. My ears got very, very hot.
Umm, I umm, I said.
Rachel was more composed (although she was blushing too). She thanked the woman graciously, and asked her name. Kara, she told us. I actually ran into Kara the other day at the grocery store, and we rode the bus home together. I found out that she’s a poet and a sculptor, and she lives three blocks from me. I told her I was writing about her in an essay I was doing for an anthology. She laughed and said, Oh, because of that thing I did that morning?, and chatted for a few more minutes. I don’t remember the rest of that conversation either, really. After all this time, is it possible that I’m still traumatized at the thought of coming out?”]
kanani kauka, from freedom rings, from a woman like that: lesbian and bisexual writers tell their coming out stories, 2000
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LOVE YOU TO THE MOON, AND TO SATURN…
hi, my name is mady and i love love 🤍
NOT A MINOR! she/her, filo, enfj, swiftie, loz enthusiast, resident evil lover! touya tdrk defence lawyer, togachako nation! jean havoc’s (human) girlfriend, atsushi nakajima’s wife 🐚
i write for bsd, bnha, fma, and loz ☁️
currently writing because i’m heartbroken, recovering from the end of a long relationship. but i find comfort in the fictional worlds i love. if you do as well, come stay a while 🤍
✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚
please leave song requests or just regular requests! though i am admittedly slow at responding, i love to chat 💌
- i write mostly angst and some smut. everything is inspired by a song! 💿
- 700 event - now closed ❄️
- my personal blog: @cascadeoceanwavesblue 💭
my masterlists 🐰
- bungo stray dogs
- my hero academia
- i am currently having problems with updating my masterlists! so if you are looking for a certain fic please contact me through my inbox 🪞
my personal favourites 🦢
- the alchemy: edward elric x reader
- how did it end?: touya tdrk x reader
- three part touya series: bnha ending spoilers
- wildest dreams: touya tdrk x reader
- snow on the beach: atsushi n. x reader
- the tortured poets department: bsd various x reader
- slut!: chuuya nakahara x reader
- so american: eijiro kirishima x reader 
- illict affairs: odasaku x reader
- me yapping! fma, bsd, and a talk about morality
- currently listening to: seven 🎧💿🤍
WITH MY CALAMITOUS LOVE AND INSURMOUNTABLE GRIEF…
🤍💿🛸☁️🐚🌫️💌 🤍💿🛸☁️🐚🌫️💌💿🛸☁️🐚
#bsd chuuya#bsd dazai#bungou stray dogs#bungou stray dogs dazai#bsd x reader#bsd fanart#bungo stray dogs x reader#bungo stray dogs dazai#bungo stray dogs fanart#bungo stray dogs manga#mha manga spoilers#my hero academy fanfiction#mha todoroki#bnha kirishima
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Thank you for the tag @strandnreyes @emsprovisions @orchidscript
@lemonlyman-dotcom @nisbanisba @whatsintheboxmh and @alrightbuckaroo 🧡
In Poet Fic, Carlos has some news for his old friend:
“I’m engaged,” he tells her outright.
She’s selecting a paper cup for her Americano, struggling to decide between a small or a regular, and barely glances at him.
“Sure. I figured it was something like that,” she ho-hums, picking up two identical regular cups. Iris never did like small talk, and Carlos thinks she appreciates him getting to the point. Deciding, for reasons unseeable to Carlos, that the cup in her right hand is the best option, Iris winks at him and says, “Michelle said you were all loved up.”
He thinks back. The last contact he had with Michelle was her leaving drinks at the honky-tonk, her last day with Station 126. He and TK hadn’t been an official couple for very long and were all over each other. They stared into each other’s eyes, got very handsy, goofed around on the dancefloor. They were the couple that everyone probably found pretty annoying because they were so into each other and wouldn’t shut up. It’s not any different now really, but everyone is used to it.
At one point, TK went to the bathroom (alone, not for a hookup, but for a genuine pee) and Michelle and Carlos found themselves at the bar at the same time.
“How’s Iris doing?” Carlos asked her quietly.
“You know, I think she’s doing pretty well,” Michelle told him, “This combination of meds seems to be making a difference. We had a conversation yesterday and she seemed very clear.” She nudged his arm. “Seriously, thank you. I don’t know where we’d be right now without your medical ins-”
“Oh, sure,” Carlos said, not even thinking about it, really, and what it meant. “As long as she needs it, it’s hers.”
He didn’t fathom that what’d he said to Michelle might not be true forever. Even if she does still need it, she can’t have it anymore.
Open tag and tags below!:
@anactualcaseofthetruth @sapphic--kiwi @ironheartwriter
@fifthrideroftheapocalypse @nancys-braids @butchreyes
@literateowl @kiwichaeng @eclectic-sassycoweyes
@pimento-playing-hopscotch @carlos-tk @three-drink-amy
@tellmegoodbye @herefortarlos @sugdenlovesdingle
@honeybee-taskforce @theghostofashton @freneticfloetry
@chicgeekgirl89 @sanjuwrites @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut
@alrightbuckaroo @liminalmemories21 @heartstringsduet
@never-blooms @ladytessa74 @rmd-writes @welcometololaland
@lightningboltreader @goodways @bonheur-cafe @reyesstrand
@paperstorm - if you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜
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For any fandom(s): 12, 15, 16, 19, 23! 💌
As always, you spoil me! 💌
12. Compliment someone else in your fandom
GOD I HAVE TOO MANY FRIENDS TO COMPLIMENT
@beezonia comes up with the coolest AUs and designs. I’m always blown away by their Pokémon team compositions — they’re spot on to the point I consider it its own form of character analysis!
@purplecatghostposts is the genius who showed up out of the blue and took us all by surprise with their amazing prose. Soap, reminder that the reference to Copycat in consider the spare legally binds you to pay for my therapy.
@trishacollins is single-handedly remediating to the lack of platonic bedsharing between the cousins and I can’t thank her enough! She’s also one of the chillest and most approachable people I know.
@luckychatons is our favourite entrepunpurr and constantly lifts our mood with the cutest, most joy-filled sketches! Patting her OCs on the back because they sure need it.
@graythegreyt is such an awesome artist you’d almost forget they’re also one hell of a poet who wields mythological references like Odysseus wields his bow. Did you know they wrote me a poem inspired by God Games? I think everyone should know they wrote me a poem inspired by God Games.
@hartwign is a talented translator and draws hair like no one else. Seriously. I want to run my hands through the cousins’ hair and nestle in there forever.
@phieillydinyia is the picture of dedication! Can’t recommend Candle In The Wind enough, it’s a roleswap rewrite of the Miraculous movie that includes the songs. How cool is that. Thank you for your regular comments on my fics, they always make my day!
@alexandriaellisart words cannot express how much I love your depiction of Feligami. Your writing has made me tear up so many times! AND YOUR ART LOOKS SO SOFT AND COLOURFUL. What a double threat!
@faiirygrahamdevanily we need more fics about the Sentiplot as a metaphor for othering experiences and you’re doing God’s… I mean, Duusu’s work with yours!
@bbutterflies did you know your piece for Sentitwin Week is the best characterisation I’ve ever seen of Felix? This is what people mean when they say a picture is worth a thousand words. And of course your Adrino is always brilliant!
@bittersweetresilience not only are you an extraordinary writer, but you’re constantly looking for new ways to express your love. Always GIFing and weaving and canonising tags and making AMVs and running zines… I can’t wait to see what you do next!
And there’s so many more people I’m forgetting! To say nothing of my friends outside the Miraculous bubble! People are amazing!!! 💖
15. The character that always makes you smile
At the end of the day, it’s all about Clive. He’s been my muse for nearly 15 years! 💙🕊️
16 was answered here! 💖
19. Your current fandom(s)
Professor Layton, forever and always. I can’t wait to share my Big Bang fic and the amazing art that I was blessed with! 💙💛
RWBY, even if I’m lurking more than participating… I love love love love RWBY, yet it doesn’t strike my creative and analytical chords the way Miraculous does. Sometimes you just need to let yourself be swept into a story, you know? Although, it did teach me a couple of writing tricks I’ve used for other fandoms!
EPIC! Wisdom Saga coming soon! 🩵🦉 It makes my little mythology nerd heart supremely happy. The music is a banger and you can feel the knowledge and passion of all the people involved in this project. Jorge in particular is always so excited to share his progress, engaging with creators, explaining his musical choices in a fun and pedagogical way… And the lyrics! It’s free real estate for a fanfic author looking for inspiration and/or titles!
I’d love to start Monte-Cristoposting like I’ve been Cyranoposting and Draculaposting, but I’m afraid of spoilers so for now I’m just screaming in your DMs. As you know. I’m also slowly getting into Honkai: Star Rail, and I’d like to pick up Pokémon Black and White again because a N character study would look great on my AO3 resume.
And of course, Miraculous! 💚💜❤️ It’s the most creative I’ve been in years and it’s all thanks to these sad beautiful silly genius kids. Heart emoji, peacock emoji, sob emoji, etc.
23 was answered here!
Thanks for the ask! 🖤🪶
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fortnight-f.odair
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a/n: yes, i am a swifty- sorry not sorry lmao. I was thinking of doing a story for every track but we'll see how that ends up lol.
intended for fem!reader
summary: based off of fortnight by taylor swift
pairings: finnick odair x fem!reader
warnings: regular hg topics, finnick's backstory, talk of being taken by the capital, talk of cheating, death, no happy ending
the tortured poets department masterlist
I was supposed to be sent away
But they forgot to come and get me
I was a functioning alcoholic
'Til nobody noticed my new aesthetic
All of this to say, I hope you're okay
But you're the reason
And no one here's to blame
But what about your quiet treason?
It had been 10 years since Finnick had seen you. He was in the victor's village. He was a victor.
He cried himself to sleep every night thinking about you. His girl.
Yes, you two were only 14 when he left, but he loved you all the same. Your soft smiles, good humour and eternal kindness. Every touch from one of the capitalites made him sick to his stomach, he was supposed to be for you. He had wanted to marry you, even when he was a young boy. He knew that you were it for him.
And for a fortnight there we were forever running
'Til you sometimes ask about the weather
Now you're in my backyard turned into good neighbours
Your wife waters flowers, I wanna kill her
But, upon his joining of District 13, he saw you with your husband. James. You two were perfect. You were headstrong and he was supportive. He laughed at nothing other than your witty jokes. You essentially only smiled at him. Finnick felt sick to his stomach.
He wanted your husband dead. Finnick had not waited a decade to find out that you loved someone else. He saw every smile, every beauty mark, everything about you. He bet James didn’t even know that your childhood dream was to become a vet and take care of the wildlife creatures in District 4. James was slimy in Finnick’s opinion. He was handsy with you, constantly touching you inappropriately, truthfully, it was disgusting. He could see you becoming visibly uncomfortable but staying quiet.
He stayed quiet too.
All my mornings are Mondays stuck in an endless February
I took the miracle move on drug, the effects were temporary
And I love you, it's ruining my life
I love you, it's ruining my life
I touched you for only a fortnight
I touched you, but I touched you
He decided to try and move on, try to forget you. Then you were taken, taken during a failed mission to get Peeta back.
When they got you back, you were like a rabid animal. You screamed and screamed for him.
For Finnick.
And for a fortnight there we were forever running
'Til you sometimes ask about the weather
Now you're in my backyard, turned into good neighbours
Your wife waters flowers, I wanna kill her
And for a fortnight there we were together running
'Til you sometimes come and tug my sweater
Now you're at the mailbox turned into good neighbours
My husband is cheating, I wanna kill him
James discarded you, favouring a new girl who’d come in. Finnick nursed you back to health, helping you remember everything. He even told you about James’s cheating. You seemed unsurprised.
“He’s cheating on you,” Finnick admitted. “I’m so sorry.”
You just shrugged, pulling your knees to your chest. “I know.”
“What?” He questioned.
“He’s been cheating his entire time. It’s ok with me, I don’t love James,” you whispered.
“Then why did you marry him?” He asked, genuinely in disbelief.
“You never came home,” You shrugged.
His heart stopped. You still loved him. You still wanted him.
“I’m here now,” he smiled and you smiled back.
“Good,” you pressed your lips to his. “I’m here now too.”
He smiled and kissed you again.
I love you, it's ruining my life
I love you, it's ruining my life
I touched you for only a fortnight
I touched you, I touched you
I love you, it's ruining my life
I love you, it's ruining my life
I touched you for only a fortnight
I touched you, I touched you
Then came getting to the capital. Finnick went with them, he was back-up to make sure everything went well. It had only been a fortnight since you’d gotten together, but it was the happiest two weeks of either of your lives.
Thought of calling ya, but you won't pick up
'Nother fortnight lost in America
Move to Florida, buy the car you want (Car you want)
But it won't start up 'til you touch, touch, touch me
Thought of calling ya, but you won't pick up
'Nother fortnight lost in America
Move to Florida, buy the car you want
But it won't start up 'til I touch, touch, touch you
He never came home. You only had him for a fortnight. Yet, he died happy, his last thoughts of your beautiful face. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the tortured poets department masterlist
#thg finnick#finnick#finnick imagine#finnick odair#finnick odair fluff#finnick odair imagine#finnick odair x reader#finnick x reader#hunger games finnick#finnick x you#taylor swift#the eras tour#tay tay#swifties#the tortured poets department#tpdds
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Red Knight Chapter 4 - Team Up
DP x DC | Dead on Main
Jason Todd encounters one Danny Fenton in the streets of Gotham and suddenly he's thrown into a world of ghosts and monsters. Will he embrace this life? Or will it just end up with him dead again?
Read on AO3 | Beginning | < Prev | Next >
--
Jason ended up at Danny’s place for a second time. After picking up his dropped bodega snacks (Takis and a six pack of Dr. Pepper) Danny pulled Jason out of the pavement and ushered him up the block and into the apartment Jason already knew was his.
Jason sat on the worn out sofa, hands folded. Danny appraised him from the kitchen, mouth full of Takis. “So what you’re gonna need most is some gear.”
Danny leaned over to a side wall and stuck his hand through it. He must have triggered a switch of some kind because a moment later an armory panel flipped around, revealing a rack of strange gadgetry haphazardly stacked on top of one another. Most of it looked similar in design to the belt Jason had found on Danny’s desk.
Danny rummaged for a second before he pulled out a canister and tossed it to Jason. Jason caught it and turned it over in his hands. “A thermos?”
“Your most important tool in ghost hunting. You use this to capture ghosts.”
Jason scoffed. “Why would I want to capture them?”
“You have any luck killing them?” Danny gave him a sideways glance.
Jason pursed his lips. Obviously he hadn’t. All his fights had ended in some variation of mutual retreat.
“Thought not. So— thermos. I trap them in there till I release them back in the Ghost Zone.”
“Ghost Zone?”
“The Infinite Realms. Aforementioned realm of the dead, if we’re being reductive. Where they live. Or after-live. Same thing.” Danny cracked a soda and held it out to Jason, offering. Jason shook his head, and Danny continued, “Since you don’t have a portal, you can drop your full thermoses off with me.”
“You do have a portal?”
Danny tilted his head for a moment, considering. “Not exactly. Next up— weapons.”
Not exactly. Another half answer. Jason swallowed any notions of follow up questions, and not just because he could still feel bruises forming on his skin from where Danny’s hits had landed (seriously when was the last time someone had actually left a mark on him?)
“All of this stuff was designed to work against ghosts, even for regular humans using it.” Danny gestured to the makeshift armory. “But the way you shoot ecto blasts out of your regular guns has me wondering— you might be able to enhance some of this stuff too.”
Danny pulled out a pair of clunky metal bracelets. “Take these for example. In theory these were designed to imitate a ghosts power of invisibility. They do a decent job of optic camouflage but it’s hardly the real thing.” He tossed them over and Jason snatched them out of the air. “I bet if you try them it will work all the way.”
Jason clicked the cuffs around his wrists, wary. Nothing happened. “Now what?”
“Do what you do when you use your guns.”
Jason concentrated a moment, clenching his muscles and feeling stupid. He must have been making a weird face because Danny chuckled.
Jason glowered at him. “This is dumb. I don’t have superpowers.”
“You do have ghost powers though. I think you’re trying too hard. Being invisible isn’t like firing something out, it’s like pulling something back, if that makes sense.”
“Not at all,” Jason grumbled.
Danny snorted. “I’m not a poet, cut me some slack. Just try again.”
Jason looked up to give Danny another glare, but he was surprised again at the casual intensity with which Danny looked back at him. Jason hadn’t noticed that he’d been avoiding looking Danny in the eyes and now he remembered why. He felt small under those eyes. Cornered like a feral cat. He wanted to-
“Oh!” Danny exclaimed as his eyes lost their direct focus. Jason looked down at himself and was met with a shifting shimmer of nothingness. Invisible. He felt a soft hum of energy from the cuffs that matched the hum of energy within him. He kept his concentration a moment longer before releasing it like a held breath.
“It works!” Danny smiled triumphantly.
Jason grunted in the affirmative, twisting the cuff on his wrist.
“Did you make all these?” Jason gestured to the cuffs and other gadgets.
“Oh, yeah. Some are based on my parents’ designs, but everything here I built.”
“Why? Why make all this?”
Danny shrugged. “Old habits. I’ll pack you a goodie bag of anything that might be useful. Most of it is pretty self explanatory.”
Old habits. Another dodge but Danny turned and started digging through the closet before Jason could ask more. Who has a habit of building weapons when you clearly don’t need them?
A minute later Danny dropped a duffel bag brimming with all sorts of odds and ends on the coffee table in front of Jason. It must have been hundreds of dollars worth of gear. It felt like some kind of con, or a trick. This kind of assistance didn’t come for free.
“Why are you helping me?” Jason asked it like an accusation.
“I told you. Because I can.”
Jason stared with narrowed eyes, unsatisfied.
Danny paused. Rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “It was coincidence that I sensed you that first night. When you got up closer I realized you were like me. We’re a pretty rare thing, and it’s not an easy life. Half life. Whatever.”
“But why help me. Half ghost or not, what if I was a serial killer? Or a pedo?”
“Or a crime lord?” Danny raised a pointed eyebrow. Jason kept his face at a trained neutral. “I’ve been in Gotham long enough to know the Red Hood’s reputation.”
Jason didn’t know whether or not he felt relieved by that.
Danny sat down on the couch next to Jason. Didn’t look at him. He fiddled with his fingers for a moment before he let them curl into a fist.
“For people like us… I know sometimes you don’t get the luxury of being the good guy. Sometimes you have to be exactly the monster they think you are.”
Jason stared at Danny’s hands. He’d seen a peek of the monster Danny could be. And playing with these so-called powers that Danny was teasing out of him felt like walking a tightrope across the Lazarus pit. But hearing Danny admit that he wasn’t some saint, he could accept that Danny really was trying to help him.
Jason picked up a pair of what looked like gaudy high-tech earrings from the duffel. “So with these I can make the ghosts stop attacking me?”
Danny was about to answer when the room went cold. Jason saw Danny’s breath. His smile fell.
“Shit.” Danny’s eyes snapped to Jason, serious now. “Ready for a crash course? Strap up. They’re here.”
Danny scanned the room like a predator. Jason saw nothing.
“Who’s here?” he said, grabbing miscellany from the bag (was that just a baseball bat painted green?) and clipping whatever would fit in his holsters. Goosebumps rose on Jason’s arms as the chill settled deeper. What’s here may have been a better question.
Danny didn’t look back at him, still scanning corners. “Okay short version: Gotham is super cursed right? A curse like this only happens to places when ghosts stick around too long. The ghost and the place become part of each other, kinda. They’re a different flavor than ghosts like those rats who come and go. As you can imagine the curse ghosts here have dug their heels in pretty deep. And I uh… asked them to leave.”
The lights flickered and went dark. Jason didn’t dare breathe. “And how did that go?” he whispered.
“Not great.”
Then an abomination unlike any of the ghosts Jason had faced yet phased through the living room wall. It had way too many legs and a mouth that opened too wide and a hulking animalistic form that seemed to ooze inky darkness.
“Super rude of you to crash my place when I have company over,” Danny quipped toward the beast.
Then a beam of green light pelted the thing in its side. An instant later Danny had vaulted the couch and jumped at it fists blazing.
Guess they were doing this.
Danny’s fighting style shifted completely from before. When he’d fought Jason it had been full of flourish, more dodging than attack, a cat playing with its prey. Now he was like a wolf, vicious and decisive, aiming directly for weak spots.
A blast of green energy from Danny’s palm to what Jason assumed was the creature’s head sent a glob of goop splatting to the wall behind it.
“Aw man that’s definitely going to leave a stain,” Danny huffed as the creature lashed back with a slippery-sharp leg-appendage.
The creature swung in a wide arc. Jason ducked and rolled, ending up behind it. He reached into the duffel if ghost gear for something that would work against it and pulled out… some kind of metallic medieval looking whip? What the shit was he supposed to do with this?
The curse ghost let out a gurgling roar as Danny punched what must have been its jaw. Heck. Jason might as well try. He flailed the flail at one of the thing’s rear legs. The ends of the whip immediately got stuck in the thick goop of it. The ghost didn’t even seem to notice as it tossed Danny to the ceiling.
Screw that. He abandoned the whip and pulled a pistol out, focusing his energy and letting a blast rip. It stung a hole in the curse ghost’s side. It spun around, attention shifted. Maybe that wasn’t a good thing.
Quicker than a pile of angry goo had any right to be it whipped its tail around and this time Jason didn’t duck fast enough. It caught him in the side and sent him crashing through the coffee table. Worse, his pistol went flying.
“Quit wrecking my house!” Danny shouted as he launched off the ceiling, elbow down on the ghost like a pro wrestler. They tumbled into the desk with a squelch. It gave Jason enough of a breath to notice the sword under the couch. Sure, why not.
He grabbed it by the hilt and reflexively focused his energy through it. The sword responded as he pulled it out from under the couch, glowing with energy that flickered like wicked green flames. He cracked a smile. Okay now they were getting somewhere.
He scrambled to his feet. Danny wrestled with the beast on the other side of the couch.
“Hey black licorice how do you like this?” He swung the sword two handed through the same leg that had eaten the whip. It cut clean through with a satisfying schlick. That chunk of goo slopped to the floor.
“Nice!” Danny beamed as he kicked the thing off of him with both feet. Jason swelled with golden pride.
He fell into muscle memory, relying on his old training. He didn’t let himself think too hard about the origins of the techniques and instead just relishing the feeling of the blade cutting through the ghost monster, slowly backing it into a corner with the aid of Danny’s blasts.
As if the beast sensed the jaws of the snare closing it lashed out one final time. It swatted Danny from the air and pinned him under a massive paw, nearly swallowing him whole. Jason froze, a shot of ice cold panic in his veins. The sword was cool and all but If Danny went down for real he was royally fucked.
“Thermos!” Danny croaked out from beneath the mound of goo.
Jason fumbled for the canister. He wasted precious moments fiddling with the cap and looking for an on switch.
“How the hell do I work this?” He barked back at Danny.
“Just hit the button!!”
His thumb found the switch then he barely managed to keep his grip as a beam of light shot out of the canister, hit the beast and sucked it up like a vacuum in the span of three seconds flat.
The lights flickered back on. Danny got up, brushed the lingering goo off his shirt, and flopped down on the torn up couch.
“Good job.”
What the hell.
Jason sat down on the couch next to Danny. “These things-“ he started, taking a moment to flick the black goo off his sword and calm the tremor in his hand, “They’re just running around Gotham attacking people?”
“Not directly. The curse ghosts aren’t like regular ghosts. They don’t attack humans. They don’t need to. These guys cause malice and chaos just with their rancid vibes alone, and then they feed off of the misery they cause. They’ve been in crime alley since before it was crime alley. In a way they are crime alley.”
“But they attack you,” Jason pressed him with a look.
“I shot first,” Danny sighed, “But I couldn’t just let them be.”
“Why not?” Jason pressed further. Danny wasn’t from here. He had no connection to Gotham, no reason to risk himself to protect it.
Danny hesitated. “It’s what I do. Ever since the accident. I protect people from ghosts.”
Jason supposed that reasoning made just about the same amount of sense as any of the justifications he’d heard from the other spandex-wearing dumbasses he knew. Himself included. Which now posed him with a dilemma.
It seemed so obvious that Gotham was cursed. Jason could swallow the supernatural explanation with ease. But that meant he had been fighting a losing battle this whole time. And not just him— Bruce and the rest too. Even if he ignored the curse ghosts and went back to fighting his own battles, he’d do it with the knowledge that he’d be treating a symptom, not the cause.
Dealing with ghosts night after night had been a nuisance but they hadn’t caused real damage. Not like what Danny described these curse ghosts doing, and not like what he’d just seen. He though of the dark shadows he’d seen in his peripherals ever since he’d started noticing the ghosts. They felt the same as the beast they’d just fought. He couldn’t ignore them now, the same way he couldn’t ignore the regular ghosts. Dammit.
“I want in.”
“What?” Danny asked, a note of surprise in his voice, and also a hint of delight. Jason ground his teeth together. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this.
“This is my home. These guys are fucking with it. I’m not about to just let them carry on.”
“So you’re not going to go after them alone?”
Jason shook his head no. Danny smiled.
“And you’ll let me give you the tools you’ll need?”
Jason nodded. Danny smiled wider.
“And you’ll actually call me if you run into trouble?”
Jason wasn’t stupid. The half-destroyed apartment was enough proof that he’d be toast if he tried to take down even one of those curse ghosts alone. Plus now he could begrudgingly and with absolute certainty admit that fighting with Danny was much better than fighting against him.
Jason sighed, loudly. “Yes, dammit.”
Danny beamed. “You’re hired.”
Next >
#dpxdc#dp x dc#dc x dp#danny phantom#jason todd#dead on main#dead on main ship#danny x jason#dp x dc fanfic#dp#fanfic#red knight fic
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My Little Poet by Thingssicant | G | 1861 Louis is a librarian and someone keeps ruining his books
don't be shy, i'm your guy by winterPearls | nr | 4658 "...Harry wondered if this pixie of a boy with crinkles by his long lashed eyes had a personality as addictive and loud as his laugh that reverberated around the otherwise silent library..." or AU where Harry is a cute librarian that really likes one of the boys that is a regular and he just wants to talk to him but he's shy and it's cute honestly i just suck at summarizing
Just Jump by jaerie | E | 9748 Finally, after years of suffering alone, the insurance plan at Harry's new job covered omega heat services. As a grown omega adult, it finally felt like the right time to try it out. And, since taking an entire week of heat leave would really put him behind at work, using a service to shorten it seemed like a responsible decision. At least that’s how he rationalized it. He was nervous about his decision but it was too late. The doorbell rang. “Hi!” The alpha said again and Harry took the hand he offered and shook it firmly. “I’m Louis from Omega Services. It’s nice to meet you.”
Record Your Fate (and Write Me In) by LadyLondonderry | T | 13012 Harry is the Archivist, it's his job to record what happens in the universe. He's only a few days into the job when things take an odd turn. Suddenly, the small blue eyed boy seems more important than writing about crowning dignitaries.
If the Surface Begs You Home by QuickedWeen | T | 17752 Harry is a mermaid from the underwater kingdom of Mercadia who is a little too fascinated by life above the surface. He's kicked out of his home after he winds up pregnant, and has to figure out how to make his way in the world. Louis is the darling of the small neighbouring seaside village who came home after university to take over their local library, and can't seem to stay away from the mysterious pregnant mermaid his friends introduce him to.
Checking Them Out?: How To Use Your Library Science Degree To Get an Alpha by InsightfulInsomniac | E | 19965 When a flirty, attractive alpha patron checks out an entire shelf of literature on omega behavior and omega rights, Harry can’t help but wonder why the man is so interested — is he a really attentive partner, or is he just a creep? It doesn’t help that this alpha visits weekly to exchange his books… and that he smells absolutely divine. Whether he likes it or not, Harry has a crush.
The Library Universe [Series] by allwaswell16 | E | 33825 Harry Styles has a great life. He’s a children’s librarian at the New York Public Library, he’s got wonderful friends, and he loves cooking, green tea, yoga, and his collection of bow ties. He doesn’t mind that his life seems a little structured, maybe even a little boring. But when Louis Tomlinson joins the library staff as the new Installation Coordinator, things become a lot less predictable. Louis gets under his skin right from the start, bossing Harry around, making noise during story time, and eating the last cupcake in the staff lounge. Louis may be almost offensively attractive, but Harry will not be succumbing to Louis Tomlinson’s charms, even if the rest of the library staff have.
i was yours (i wish you were mine) by staybeautiful | E | 56283 “Harry Styles!” His name rang out clear through the city streets. He turned quickly back to the bar, startled by his own name and startled by the voice that called him. Standing in the doorway to the bar, back lit and glowing slightly was Louis. Not an eighteen year old apparition dressed in the same low slung blue jeans and t-shirt with swooping bangs that was always the image in his mind. No, he was Louis now. or Ten years ago Harry dropped his best friend and high school boyfriend off at the train station and never saw him again. Now, he's twenty seven, living in NYC, and dreadfully unlucky in love. He can't stop wistfully thinking of Louis promising that they'd see each other again in ten years time. A chance meeting outside a bar has them tumbling head first into a summer of music, milkshakes, and maybe each other.
Through Eerie Chaos by MediaWhore | G | 102104 For as long as anyone can remember, Old Hillsbridge Manor has always been believed to be haunted. Everyone in the village agrees and keeps a respectful, fearful, distance. New in town after a bad breakup and an internship that led to disappointment rather than a permanent job, Harry Styles figures taking pictures of the decrepit building could be a great new creative project. Or at least a much-needed distraction while he searches for a job and crashes at his parents’ new house. No one warned him about the apparitions though; about the music, the laughter, the people who flicker and vanish when you call after them, the echoes of a past that should be long gone… Harry has never believed in spirits but even he can admit that there’s something weird going on. What starts as mere curiosity evolves into a full-blown investigation and soon enough, Harry finds himself making friends with an aristocrat from the 1920s and struggling with finding the best way to tell him that he’s dead. The Ghost Hunter AU where Niall lives to prove ghosts are real, Zayn is a skeptical librarian and Harry gets caught up in a century-old mystery and catches feeling in the process.
#librarians#Thingssicant#my little poet#don't be shy i'm your guy#winterPearls#just jump#jaerie#Record Your Fate (and Write Me In)#ladylondonderry#If the Surface Begs You Home#quickedween#Checking Them Out?: How To Use Your Library Science Degree To Get an Alpha#InsightfulInsomniac#The Library Universe [Series]#allwaswell16#i was yours (i wish you were mine)#staybeautiful#Through Eerie Chaos#mediawhore
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61. “I love you. I’m completely and utterly in love with you. Please don’t get married.”
83. “It’s always been you.”
Could you write something with these 2 please?❤️ with Dean Winchester Please !!!!
~ 𝑼𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 ~
Dean Winchester x GN!Reader
Warnings: SFW, Cheating(?), Crashing a wedding, Kisses, Self doubt, Unspoken feelings, Feelings come out
Mentions: Reader is a hunter™, Reader is getting married, Reader has they/them pronouns, Mentions Sam
An: Hey babes! Taking some requests for inspo <3 this is for my Dean babes ;) I'll be bringing some NSFW soon, don't worry. Hope you enjoy this little drabble <3
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You were gonna get married. You weren't as excited as you thought you'd be. All the white seems to feel like shades of gray and every smile seems to just barely meet the eyes.
You'd been a hunter for a long time. Finally, you decided to take a break. That break turned into a year and then another...and now you were getting ready for your wedding.
Your lover wasn't a bad choice. They were just...it all felt too mundane for you. It doesn't help that you have the Winchesters to compare to.
Dean Winchester...you'd fallen for him a long time ago.
When you were hunting with the Winchesters, you became a regular trustful partner.
You and Dean had something, you slept together, and feelings were there but...you didn't think Dean wanted the same thing you did. You wanted to be his, his only at that. But you couldn't blame him if he wasn't ready or he just didn't want that. A lot of hunters don't commit because of the job.
You kept in contact with the Winchesters but definitely don't see them as often as you'd like.
They were here...amongst all the gray shades, were the two of them. You were almost sure Dean was probably flirting with some woman at the event and Sam was nursing a glass of champagne, probably sitting off in the corner.
But your assumptions were wrong, little to your knowledge...
Dean was nursing a glass of strong liquor and Sam was giving him that look. "Don't look at me like that, Sammy.." he sighed and Sam didn't budge "Yeah? Then how about telling them how you feel before you lose the chance" Sam encourages, he knows Dean's true feelings. It was written all over him when they received that wedding invite.
"They found someone else, Sam...this is their life. It's what they want-" "And what if it's not? What if this is all they think they can get? Because they don't have you"
Sam was almost always too logical for Dean. He also knew Dean far too well...
Dean lets out a frustrated groan "Fine, but if this shit hits the fan, drinks are definitely on you. I'm gonna fucking need it..."
You sighed softly as you sat down in the chair in your dressing room. Then you hear the door open, you quickly turn and notice Dean standing there.
"Dean, what are you doing?" You ask curiously, more happy to see him than you wish to admit. "Did you pick the lock?" You held back a chuckle, Dean rubbed the back of his neck "Knocking seemed awkward..."
Silence fell for a moment before Dean sighed and spoke up. "Listen, you can take this however and hell, you can even punch me after if it makes you feel better but...Sammy's got me in here like some poet" he said with a small ironic laugh.
"Sweetheart, there's no easy way to tell you this and I don't wanna ruin your day-"
You interrupt him as you look at him with curiosity and maybe a bit of hope "You're rambling, Dee" you say softly.
Dean sighs, hearing you call him that again only furthered his resolve. "Right...sweetheart, I love you, I've always loved you, I mean- Hell, it's always been you...I may not be able to stop you from getting married if this is what you want." He wets his lips as he runs a hand through his hair "But if it isn't, then I promise, I will be what you want. I'll be your boyfriend, I'll be whatever you want from me but I just need to have you in my life. It hasn't been the same without you around...maybe Sammy misses you too because he's got me inspired and shit to come in here" he laughs but you can tell it's nervous and not cocky.
"I'm sorry- I'm rambling, I shouldn't be-" Dean was cut off again as you smash your lips against his. He stumbles and takes a second to process before kissing you back. One of his arms around your waist and the other tucked into the back of your hair as he holds you closer than ever.
When you finally needed a breath, you pulled away. "Damn you, Dee! Couldn't have said this like a year ago" you tease but there's some seriousness to your words. Dean can't help but chuckle and smirk "I'm sorry, sweetheart, the real crime here is you invited me and there's no pie at this wedding" he says softly as he cups your cheek and caresses it with his thumb. You can't help but laugh at how not serious he is at times.
You sigh as you lean into his touch "What am I supposed to do now?"
Dean looks at you as he smiles "Well...I've never crashed a wedding before. Could be fun-" you playfully hit his chest and he chuckles. "My poor fiance, I shouldn't have even done this" you said softly, some self doubt starting to creep in. Dean kisses your forehead "Hey, it's not your fault. Our lives are fucking insane, what's a little more to the pile?" He smirks.
"Why the hell did I have to fall for you" you tease with a small chuckle and Dean smirks "It's not your fault, babe. I have that effect-"
You cut him off with another kiss. He doesn't hesitate to respond to it.
You did feel bad for your lover but...it'd be a disservice to both of you if you were only comfortable with your marriage...never thought you'd be ruining your own wedding with Dean Winchester.
Yet, you've never been happier.
#fanfic writer#my writing#reader insert#gender neutral insert#supernatural x reader#supernatural x you#supernatural fanfiction#supernatural#dean winchester#sam and dean#dean x you#dean x reader#supernatural fluff#dean fluff#mentions sam winchester#fluff#sfw#supernatural fandom#requests open#ask response
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Do you have any tma fic recs?
I am kissing your hand, thank you so much for asking. Let me go take a look through my AO3 bookmarks and see what I still remember reading
Here's some The Magnus Archives fics I like! Some Jonmartin fics, regular fics, and a little Gerrymichael section because I like that
Okay, so first of all, this is my favourite The Magnus Archives fic of all time. I cannot recommend it enough. It has entirely rewired my brain, I have not been the same since I read this. I cried multiple times:
Resigned, Though Not to Fate by inkfingers_mcgee
Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
“You’re really suggesting this,” Martin says, voice pulled thin.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“You would- actually do it?”
“I would.”
“With me.”
“Yes, Martin.”
“Why?” Because love is blind, says something cliché and cruel in the pit of his gut. Christ, he never was much of a poet, was he?
Or,
When Jon asks Martin to Quit the Archives with him, Martin says yes. Things don't go as planned. In the Scottish Highlands, they hurt, and they heal.
(Re-written as of 22-12-27; see chapter 9 for more info.)
T | Words: 145,746 | Chapters: 9/9
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And there's also these good ones I've enjoyed:
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a deeply annoying child by ajkal2
No Archive Warnings Apply, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, blink-and-you-miss-it Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, BUT NO SLASH WHILE ANYONE IS A CHILD
Jon is hiding under the desk.
----
There's a child in the Archives, who shouldn't be there.
G | Words: 9,631 | Chapters: 1/1
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rituals by doomcountry
No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Martin is the first person to knock on the Archivist's door since it arrived, fully, into its little waiting temple. The Archivist saw him coming from down the hall, but decides to feign interest when the knob turns, and Martin—still a little bit smaller, a little more translucent than before—stands uncertainly just outside the room.
T | Words: 8,492 | Chapters: 1/1
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Head in the Lion's Mouth by renwhit
Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Danny Stoker & Tim Stoker, Danny Stoker & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Danny Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Past Tim Stoker/Sasha James, Danny Stoker & Helen Richardson, Danny Stoker & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Danny Stoker & Melanie King, Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain & Danny Stoker
He fell into a deep bow, smiling the whole while. “I’m the ringmaster, of course.”
“Is that skin— Is it yours?” Old wood groaned as the Archivist shifted his weight. “Originally.”
“It is!” the ringmaster said as he swooped back upright. “Nikola decided I wore it well, so she let me keep it. Why do you ask?”
The Archivist gave him another once-over. “You just… you look familiar. Like someone I know.”
On relearning, reconnecting, and redefining.
M | Words: 157,240 | Chapters: 17/17
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Reflection by LazuliQuetzal
No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Emma (The Magnus Archives)
Jonathan Sims, researcher at the Magnus Institute, is seeing a ghost. Of himself.
Of course, it’s not really him, no matter what secrets it knows, or how many arguments it brings up. So if it tells him to do something?
Obviously, he’ll be doing the exact opposite.
(AKA: Jon is an idiot, past and future, but somewhere along the way it all cancels out.)
(Expect general spoilers for S4 and specifically, MAG 158.)
T | Words: 51,527 | Chapters: 10/10
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Out There, Somewhere by Artyphex
No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
"I'm sorry, you were found alone."
Jon survived the apocalypse and now will go to the end of this new, unfamiliar world to find Martin again.
T | Words: 54,080 | Chapters: 8/8
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Clutching Daffodils by Gemi
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight.
It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs.
He always liked the idea of it.
And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.
NR | Words: 7,624 | Chapters: 1/1
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Beastly Behaviour by Prim_the_Amazing
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
“You need to learn a lesson,” she says, and there’s blood speckling her lips now. She’s overstraining herself. He needs to stop her, calm her down. “And until you learn it you will suffer, just like you’ve made me suffer.”
“Mum, I think you need to--”
It turns out that when his father had called his mother a witch, he had meant more than Martin realized.
NR | Words: 73,226 | Chapters: 28/28
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dustsceawung by callmearcturus
No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Martin had always been favored by the summer courts, and moving up north to the little village of Lacuna is a difficult adjustment. It's rainy and lonely and everyone seems to have a strange, distant relationship with the local faerie court.
However: there is a strange man in a cloak who walks past Martin's remote little cottage every few days.
However: there is a moth that keeps getting stuck in Martin's house during the rain.
These events are not as disconnected as they first appear.
M | Words: 38,269 | Chapters: 8/8
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Gerrymichael fics I like:
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Break Me Like A Pattern by TheLibraryBat
Graphic Depictions Of Violence,,Gerard Keay & Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley
The year is 2011. Michael Shelley is living his life in circles, blissfully unaware of the betrayal that awaits him in the summer. Gertrude Robinson has plans to enact and plans to destroy. Emma Harvey is hiding a book in the dark place at the back of a cupboard.
When Gerard Keay walks into the Magnus Institute - two years sooner than he was meant to - everything changes.
This is an (eventual) Archivist Michael AU, exploring how certain events might have played out, had one key player been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
M | Words: 215,291 | Chapters: 40/40
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This entire series is so good, all 4 works in it:
As One Door Closes by dramatispersonae
Words: 64,859 | Works: 4
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Choke Chain by dramatispersonae
Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/The Distortion
Things Gertrude Robinson possesses: decades of experience killing, containing, and otherwise thwarting supernatural beings, an uncompromising drive to destroy the Rituals and the people who would see them completed, Gerry's loyalty. Things Gertrude Robinson apparently also possesses: a monster on a magic leash.
NR | Words: 14,814 | Chapters: 1/1
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Echo Chamber by orphan_account
Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
“Look, if you’re another, uh, avatar of a horrible eldritch demon god come to assassinate me in a spooky manner, could you get it over with quickly? I haven’t eaten all morning and I’m starving.”
The thing that calls itself Michael stares.
“And this sandwich cost most of my weekly salary,” Gerry adds after a belated moment.
T | Words: 21,439 | Chapters: 1/1
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Please Don’t Eat the Flowers by Sloane
Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion, Razor/Wendy, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Instead of retiring to open a book shop, Gerry ends up working at a flower shop run by American lesbians in London. This leads to a brush with the Distortion, who just wants to buy some lilies, the Magnus Institute finding out he’s still alive, and... well, a normal life was never really in the cards for the likes of Gerard Keay, was it?
Oh, and those lesbians who run the flower shop? There’s more to them than meets the eye—bad Beholding pun intended.
(No knowledge of Maniac Mansion required; I take lots of liberties to slot it into TMA’s universe. UNDER MAJOR REVISIONS. Please see last chapter if you’re a new/returning reader for details..)
M | Words: 77,314 | Chapters: 33/?
#i haven't read THAT many tma fics sadly! but these are still plenty. i picked out my fsvourites from what i have read#the magnus archives#tma#jonmartin#gerrymichael#doorkeay#ask#fic rec#fic recs
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Heya! Can you do Dark Choco Cookie and Cotton Cookie child?
So I originally misread Cotton as Cotton Candy (especially since not everyone includes the Cookie part of the name), and I’m not doing Dark Choco/Cotton, so Dark Choco/Cotton Candy it is
Anyways, this is Bubble Choco Cookie
So Bubble Choco here is somewhere in his teens, and he’s an avid poet. However he does not want anyone to read his poems, and will make sure you don’t touch his poetry journal. They’re mostly edgy or sad and they aren’t the best, but it’s how he expresses himself. He’ll just pull out his journal and pencil at random times and start writing
When he was younger, he used to be a lot more cheerful and bubbly, but as he entered his teen years, he started to act more rebellious and “dark”. He never quite gave up his fashion sense though, with his main changes just being that he wears some darker shades
He is also very fond of chocolate, specifically the aerated kind
Okay I’m gonna be honest, I don’t have much for him other than the poet angle. I just kind of decided to finally start drawing him
I also recognize that he has very little of Dark Choco in his character, as well as design, but that’s in part because of the way I envisioned this ship. For one thing, it’s in Ovenbreak so no Dark Cacao Kingdom here, Dark Choco probably just lives with Cotton Candy, and also, it’s a wholesome ship, their kid doesn’t need that much angst. And he’s a poet instead of a fighter, and if he doesn’t want to fight, I don’t see any reason for Dark Choco to teach him; Cotton Candy doesn’t seem to live in an area that requires much sword fighting or the like
Anyways, on to design stuff
So Bubble Choco is based on aerated chocolate, since it’s like a really light chocolate, and cotton candy is also light (I’m talking weight btw). Also, I’ve eaten this kind of chocolate before (I quite enjoy Aero bars), and I quite like it
I think another name I was considering was Air Choco, since it’s closer to the actual name of the ingredient, but Bubble Choco works better as a name
Aerated chocolate:
So as I said earlier, I kind of made him for the sake of making him and doing more of these, so there wasn’t a super big amount of thought out into him. I do still like how he turned out though
All I really had to go on initially was the poet angle (I didn’t even reread my old notes), and I wasn’t really sure where to go with his personality until I started tweaking his expression. He was also originally going to be a girl but somewhere in development I decided “eh, why not have him be a boy?” and there you have it
I also knew I wanted him to have black poofy hair with things in it. It was originally more of a curved line in between the ends, but I changed it when I looked at Cotton Candy’s hair more. Though I kind of wish I had kept it now. There was also an old concept I mad ages ago that also had that hair, but it was longer. Don’t know why it’s this current length
After doing the hair, I wasn’t really sure what to do with the outfit, and I kind of just made something up as I went. He’s got the poofy ends of his jacket because of the whole “bubble” thing. I wanted to give him more poofy stuff
His colors are brown and light green become the Aero bars I usually see are regular chocolate (brown) and mint (light green). The pink was added to there’d be a little more color variation
As for the thing in his eye, it’s because of Cotton Candy’s heart eyes and me liking to put stuff in the eyes in place of that. Bubble Choco’s eye thing is supposed to be a sort of reference to Dark Choco with his star, though I didn’t bother to curve it out. And as I realize now, the eye I chose is also his missing eye and the star eye of the SoD. I’d like to claim that was intentional, but it wasn’t
And anyways yeah, there you have it. Bubble Choco. Don’t really have much else to say other than I hope you enjoyed him
#finally another fankid made#and I’m also realizing there’s a few I haven’t released because I either never got around to finishing the desc#or I was meandering on saying they were finished and haven’t done their sketches#but they’re complete enough for me to skim over them when I scroll#eh I’ll deal with those another time#cookie run#cookie run ovenbreak#dark choco cookie#cotton candy cookie#fankid#fanchild#cookie run oc#bubble choco cookie#my ocs#my art#requests#answers
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