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unseededtoast · 8 months

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Take My Hand | Spencer Reid x F! Reader

Part Two to I Stayed There

Inspired by “Right Where You Left Me” by Taylor Swift

Summary: In which almost a decade later unlikely paths cross again, with little time to make big decisions. What once was broken can be mended, and the past can be forgiven. Frozen hearts can be reignited and destined souls can become one again. But only if given the chance.

Cross posted on Wattpad and AO3 and here is my masterlist!

wc: 10.3k

warnings: a lot of angst, pining, men begging on their knees, emotional turmoil

a/n: howdy folks, back at it again with part two. I want to thank everyone for the overwhelming support on part one, and I really hope part two lives up to your expectations. It got a little lengthy, but I hope you all enjoy it. And as always, thank you so very much for taking the time to read my stories, I appreciate each and every one of you.

"I knew if I told you that there was someone else that you wouldn't push the issue. I knew you loved me too much to interfere with my happiness. I used your own love against you and I am so sorry." He sniffles and pushes tears from his eyes.

His words feel like someone has punched you square in the stomach. Spencer had never found anyone else, he just wanted to protect you. He loved you too much to let you be harmed. Realizing his actions were done out of pure love, and not betrayal, a sob bubbles up from your chest.

Years upon years you had spent every night in envy of the other woman who was receiving Spencer's love. Months had been dedicated to wondering what you could've done differently to keep him from leaving. Countless weeks spent in agonizing misery, mourning and yearning for the love of your life.

Eight years, eleven months, and twenty-eight days. That's how much time has passed since Spencer had walked out, and every day that passes and another day is added to the count, his heart grows heavier.

Sure, he's able to get up in the mornings and do his job thoroughly, but the joy life once had has faded. He's become jaded, and everyone has noticed. They've all just accepted that it's who he is now. He no longer tries to go out of his way to inquire about his teammates and their lives, he stopped practicing his magic tricks when there was downtime. Instead, he keeps to himself for the most part. The only time the team really hears from him is when there's an active case.

The first year or so the team had given him some grace, they understood how badly the break up had affected him; they assumed he'd bounce back eventually, but more and more time passed with no indication of returning to his former self.

And after a while they stopped trying to set him up with dates, they quit teasing him about being disinterested in getting back out there. Spencer had never told them exactly what happened, but after they stopped, he suspected Derek filled in the blanks for them.

Truthfully, the rest of the team had taken pity on him; they understood all too well why he had initiated the breakup. But even with their knowledge and insight, they are still saddened by what Spencer has become, and they wish every day that his old personality will resurface. But until that day comes, if it ever does, they will remain supportive from a distance with which he is comfortable with.

"You ready for the next case?" Derek asks Spencer as he stirs the sugar into his coffee. Spencer stares at the rising steam before answering.

"Yeah, I'm ready." He replies and grabs the cup, following Derek to the briefing room where JJ and the rest are awaiting them.

Spencer takes his usual spot and listens to JJ explain the case. It's a local case, a wife gone missing in the middle of the day yesterday. From the photos, it looks like it could've been a burglary gone bad. Spencer zones out a little while JJ is explaining, instead focusing on his coffee, which he wishes he would've put more sugar into. After JJ has completed the brief, the team heads out to start working, and like usual, Spencer is tasked with the geographical profile.

Derek works alongside him under the order of Hotch while the rest go explore leads. The two of them work silently and efficiently, singling out places of interest to investigate and narrowing down a perimeter for officers to search.

"What do you think about it?" Derek breaks the silence, earning a sigh from Spencer. He steps away from the board and crosses his arms, studying what they have so far.

"I think it's weird that nothing of value was really missing, just the wife. You'd think if it were a burglary gone bad the unsub would've taken something else." Spencer's eyes dance across the crime scene photos, mind working a hundred miles a minute to make sense of this.

"Well maybe it wasn't a burglary." Derek says, eyes trained on a photo of the husband who reported his wife missing.

"Maybe not." Spencer agrees, and the two of them delve back into the work.

-----

You stir your tea around in your cup, settling on the couch for some morning television before you start your day. There's a laundry list of things you need to get done, only you lack the necessary motivation to get started on it all. Your hand finds the remote and turns the volume up, the woman on the screen piquing your interest and distracting you from your responsibilities.

"Mrs. Greene was reported missing late last night by her husband. At this time, her whereabouts are still unknown, and the authorities urge you to contact them if you have any information." The news reporter speaks with clarity and urgency. A photo of the missing woman pops onto the screen, but you don't recognize her. You hope they find her alive, but you know cases like this usually don't end well.

Thinking about what might have happened to the woman, your mind drifts to Spencer, and you wonder how he would approach the case. Would he immediately suspect the husband? Or would he hold off on judgment until he got the facts straight? Running your hand over his blanket, you wish he was here to talk about it.

Though it's been almost nine years at this point, there isn't a day that goes by that you don't think of him. You hope he's doing well, you hope he's found happiness. And at this point, you even think he might have a family of his own. But you try not to dwell on that thought too long, for it still makes you sick to your stomach to imagine him having a family with anyone other than you.

Of course, you could always ask Derek, but you think that a part of you would prefer not to know. Because if you don't know for sure, then there's always a chance that you're wrong. In order to stay functional you need the plausible deniability. While you want him to be happy, and you want him to live his life to the fullest, his absence is still very prominent and noticeable to you.

After you finish your tea, you place your cup on the white tablecloth adorning the dining room table, red stain having faded to pink from time and wear. And while the stain may fade, you know for a fact your memory about that morning will always be in your mind. And if the stain wasn't enough of a reminder, the scars on the bottoms of your feet are. It still hurts to step a certain way after all this time, the glass had embedded itself deeply into your skin, causing lasting damage.

Once you get ready for the day, you embark on the errands you have to run. A small part inside of you is excited about this new journey; it'll be like a fresh start and you think that's exactly what you need. You don't really want to move away, you love this city, but it houses memories that will forever hold you prisoner if you let them; and you've let them for the past nine years. The other part of you, the part that still clings to Spencer, is suffering and it makes this decision ten times harder. The guilt slowly, but surely, eats away at you with each step you take down the street but you try to convince yourself that this is the right move to be making.

Ignoring your emotional turmoil, you walk into the leasing agent's building and find her office easily, having already been here once last week to start the process of relisting the apartment. She welcomes you in and explains the paperwork as you sit across from her. The agent tells you where to sign and when you will need to be out of the apartment once you've submitted the paperwork. She said that since Spencer had taken his name off the lease years ago, that this process is a hundred times easier since there's no permission needed from him anymore. It's a bittersweet statement you realize.

You take the papers from the agent's office and tell her that you'll be back soon with everything signed. She had wanted you to fill everything out right there, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. After all, this apartment holds so much sentimental value and the thought of it being someone else's makes your heart ache. You'll have to build yourself up to sign them, once you've fully convinced yourself that this is the right thing to do. And you know that once you sign those papers, the tiny part of Spencer you still have, will be yours no longer.

After the leasing agent's office, you take a trip to a moving company to get a quote on how much it would cost to move your things from Virginia to Colorado. The price they gave you was a little steeper than you had hoped for, but you thank them nonetheless and try to figure out how to foot that bill while also finding a new place to live. There are a few places in your sights, but you had yet to decide on one.

You return to your apartment after you had completed the last few errands on your list, dropping the stack of papers onto the dining table and unloading the groceries you had picked up on your way back home. The sun had started to set and so you turned on a few lamps and lit a candle, wanting to try to soothe your anxieties after today and have a relaxing evening.

A glass of wine finds its way into your hand after dinner, you kick your feet up on the coffee table and sip while staring at the screen in front of you. They're running another story on the missing woman, but it seems they have more details. Intrigued, you turn the volume up.

"Authorities are now saying that the scene looks like it could have been a robbery gone bad. Informants on the scene noted that there were signs of a struggle inside the residence. If you noticed any suspicious activity, contact the sheriff's office immediately." The reporter switches to a different story, and you change the channel, wanting to know more about the missing woman. And you know there's always one channel that seems to be ahead of the news.

The reporter is a fiery blonde-haired lady who makes her opinions well-known to the public. And you know her persona is probably partially to generate views and interest value, but you can't deny that she's able to get insider information quicker than the traditional news channels. Sure enough, the woman's face is on the center of the screen, and she's going on about Mrs. Greene's disappearance in a very animated manner.

"You're telling me that a husband reports his wife missing hours after he was aware of her absence? He knew that she was gone since at least the afternoon, and he didn't report it to police until almost the next day? Not only that, but there's been a disturbance in the house! From the photos I've seen so far, the ottoman in the living room was knocked over, the coffee table was shattered, and the dining room chairs were all sorts of disheveled. And to top it all off, I've got someone on the scene there, and they just told us that police are reporting a positive luminol test. There was blood on the scene that's been cleaned up. Now I'm no expert, but I think that certainly casts suspicion on Mr. Greene." Her voice drones on and on about her theory that Mr. Greene was most definitely involved in the disappearance of his wife, but something about the details is oddly familiar, you just can't quite put your finger on it.

You go to bed that night trying to recall why those details sound so familiar. Tossing and turning, you struggle to pinpoint where you've heard something like that before and it's beginning to drive you insane. The plots of movies and shows run through your mind, trying to piece things together, but to no avail. You eventually drift off to sleep, and for the first night in nine years, your dreams are full of something other than Spencer; your mind finally has something compelling enough to mull over to distract you from the cold, empty spot beside you.

The morning comes and your hand ghosts over the spot next to you, like it does every morning. You had hoped that by now your unconscious would understand that he's not here to hold close in the morning anymore, but you wake up the same way every day; full of sorrow and longing. With a sigh, you push yourself out of bed, the air feeling crisp against your skin. What you wouldn't give for five minutes of Spencer's warmth.

Your morning routine comes and goes, and you find yourself staring at a stack of cardboard boxes, waiting to be filled. Hands on your hips, you look around at everything that needs to be packed. Things are either coming with you, or they're being returned to their rightful owner. You still had no idea how you're going to get everything back to Spencer, but you figure you'll work it out when the time comes. For now, you'll start boxing things up.

With a box beside you, your heart constricts as you reach for a stack of Spencer's books to be put away indefinitely. The empty shelf is reflective of the emptiness in your soul, and you're not sure if it'll ever fill back in. Truthfully, you don't know what could possibly mend the brokenness as your heart only has one desire.

You pack up two bookcases before you're unable to handle it anymore. With each empty shelf the reality sets in more and more; he's not coming back here. Your Spencer isn't going to knock on the door and come back to you. You turn your head to look at the door, not sure what you're expecting, but your eyes land on his coat that still hangs from the rack. It lost its signature Spencer scent about three years ago, but you don't have it in you to take it down, not yet at least.

You're keenly aware that eventually you'll have to pack up the stained tablecloth, Spencer's clothes that remain in the dressers, his favorite blanket, and give them away forever, never to be seen or touched by you again. Then all you'll have left of him are the memories, and after all this time some of them have already faded entirely. You're no longer able to remember many of the small moments shared together, you can't recall how his lips felt against your forehead as he bid you goodbye in the mornings before work. You fear that in another nine years you won't remember anything except his name and the moment he walked out of the door.

You fold the top of the box down and slide it across the room to join the others. When you return to the shelf to assess what size box you need next, your eyes land on a very specific book. It's one you had recommended to Spencer. You told him it was a compelling story and though it's not a literary classic, he should give it a try and broaden his horizons. Of course, it took you a week to finish it and it took him a casual afternoon.

The details of the book flood your mind and you realize why the disappearance of Mrs. Greene seemed so familiar. Your hands open the book and flip through the pages, finding exactly what you were looking for. In a frenzy, your eyes scan over the words and they grow wide with realization. Either this is one of the biggest delusions you've convinced yourself of, or you might just be onto something.

You reread the words over and over again, wrestling with yourself about whether this is worthy of submitting a tip. From the perspective of an investigator, it may seem absolutely ridiculous. I mean after all, you're using a piece of fiction to explain a real-life situation. But a small voice in the back of your head reminds you of something Spencer had said several times,

"Sometimes what seems like an insignificant detail ends up cracking the case."

Youwrestle with what to do, placing the book on the coffee table and pacing around, the television providing low background noise as your mind goes through different reasonings. You stop pacing around once you see a familiar blonde-haired woman on the screen, her FBI credentials hanging from her blazer pocket.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, you turn the volume up and listen to her intently. She announces that the BAU is actively working the case and that they hope to find Mrs. Greene soon. She also implores the public for any information. Your phone on the dining room table seems to call your name, and before you can think through what you're doing, the phone is ringing.

"What's up sweet thing?" Derek's voice greets you through the phone. You trust that even if your speculation is wildly ridiculous that he won't make fun of you. You explain to him your theory but he cuts you off in the middle of your sentence.

"Come by the office in the morning and explain it to the team. It might just be something." He asks, and you sigh.

"Derek I don't-" You begin making your excuse of why you can't go to their office, but he cuts you off for a second time.

"He won't be there, just come on by." Before you can get another word in, he hangs the phone up. It seems you have no choice, really.

Anxiety blooms within you, you haven't been to the BAU office in a decade. And the last time you were there was under much better and happier circumstances. But if Derek promised Spencer wouldn't be there, you figure it's worth going if your theory can help find Mrs. Greene. You just hope that the others don't bring him up in any capacity; you don't think you could handle hearing how happy he is with her while you suffer every single day without him.

-----

Nine years. It's been nine years today since Spencer left you. He stares up at the ceiling when his eyes open in the morning, heavy with sleep. There's an uncomfortable emptiness within him, fueled by his thoughts of what today signifies. He's sure the only thing he'll be able to do is replay that fateful night over and over again in his mind today, he's not sure how he's going to stay focused on the case.

Eventually, he gets himself out of bed and begins his morning routine. He buttons his shirt, puts a tie on, and shrugs a sweater overtop. Spencer stares at himself in the mirror, his reflection showing him the grim reality that is the dark circles under his eyes and his unkempt hair. His eyes trail down to see that his tie is crooked, and his fingers fix it; but he can never fix it like you used to.

Breakfasts don't seem to be as tasty as the ones you made, heading off to work without a goodbye kiss gives him no ambition for the day, and there's nothing to look forward to after he's off the clock for you aren't eagerly awaiting his return with a smile on your face. In the nine years that have passed, the vibrant world has devolved into grayscale.

The clock on the wall tells him he still has two hours before he's supposed to be in. Derek told him to take a few hours this morning, he knows how hard today was bound to be for Spencer, and he was right. But Spencer is restless, he knows if he stays in this apartment for another hour and a half that he's going to let his mind take him to sorrowful places; and that's sure to affect the team dynamic.

After three years, Derek had confronted Spencer. He said that while he understands the pain, that Spencer can't let it affect his job performance. And that if he did, there's a chance he'd have to be let go. So after that day, Spencer made an effort to keep up his appearances and performance. He couldn't bear to lose you and the job. If he lost the job then it means he left you for nothing. It had to be for something, for something good and meaningful.

Spencer ties his shoelaces and finds his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder. The team isn't expecting him for a while, but he's got nothing better to do and he doesn't want to be left alone with his thoughts any longer than he has to. And surely the team won't mind him coming in sooner than scheduled, besides there's just something about this case that seems so oddly familiar to him.

-----

The elevator door dings and you find yourself in front of familiar doors, the FBI logo cleanly shining on the glass doors into the BAU's office space. Readjusting the bag on your shoulder, you go to open the doors to find lots of agents buzzing about, carrying folders and talking to others. You're really just looking for one agent in particular, but you can't seem to find him. Feeling anxious about being here, you contemplate just turning around and going back home. As you go to make your quick escape, you hear Derek's voice behind you.

"There she is!" He says and you swear you can hear the smile on his face. His arm wraps around your shoulders, bringing you in for a brief hug. So much for your escape plan. You plaster the best smile that you can manage on your face and return his hug, his embrace is familiar and warm.

"Here I am." You say, nerves twisting your stomach around. Derek leads you through the craziness of the bullpen into a smaller room, where people are already waiting. You recognize the blonde from the TV, and you remember Garcia and Hotch, but you don't know who the dark haired lady is, nor the older man. But you're thankful that there's one missing agent from the table. Feeling like you're under heavy scrutiny, you give everyone a polite smile and wait for Derek to take the lead like you know he will.

After a few moments of silence, Derek claps his hands together to gain everyone's attention and then introduces you to the team. Once again, you give your politest smile and listen to Derek explain why you're here. The team all looks to you with interest, and you pull the book from the bag on your shoulder.

"So, I know this may sound silly, but I couldn't help but notice all the similarities, just from what I've gathered from the news. If you look where I put the bookmarks, you'll see what I mean." You tell them in rushed words, anxious to see their reactions, expecting ridicule.

"Gone Girl, huh?" The older man Derek introduced as Rossi questions, leaning in closer to the book to read the marked pages. You nod, chewing on your bottom lip as their eyes scan the pages.

"It is oddly similar. The picture frames on the mantle, the ottoman, the blood in the kitchen. I wonder if there are more similarities that we just haven't noticed." The dark-haired woman, Emily, speaks up first. Her words of interest makes it feel like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders, they're not going to ridicule you after all. In fact, it seems like they may be entertaining the idea.

While you're engrossed in the team's blooming discussion about what this might mean, you hadn't heard the door to the room open, and you hadn't noticed who stepped through that door. No, your attention is solely on the lively debate about what the team's next step should be. Emily thinks that this might be a path worth pursuing, but Rossi urges her to keep an open mind. It's not until the discussion has died down, and the team all thanks you for coming in, do you turn to leave. Immediately your eyes land on his tall frame, standing right in the doorway.

Spencer is standing right in front of you.

It feels like the air has been kicked out of your lungs, your limbs feel like they've turned to jelly. The blood in your veins turns to ice and you're frozen to the floor. Ringing sounds off in your ears, unable to hear anything around you. The only thing you can focus on is his honeyed eyes staring right back into yours. It's like the rest of the world has dissolved, and he is the only thing that remains.

In his eyes you can see your Spencer, you remember so clearly the first time his eyes met yours, and how you were enamored from the very beginning. The first time you laid eyes on him you felt your heart race and you just knew you had to go up to him and say something, or else you'd regret it. You remember how soft spoken and polite he was, and how he stumbled over his words when he asked you on your first date. His hazel eyes dazzled under the warm lights that night and you knew you were hooked. His eyes hold so many precious memories, and they all flash right after another in your mind, even the memories that had faded with time come back.

Derek's hand on your elbow knocks you out of your trance and you realize then that the whole team is staring at the two of you, but you don't care. You come back to your senses and look over Spencer, taking note of how his hair is longer, curlier, and how his tie is still crooked. He's even grown out his facial hair a little. He looks so much like the Spencer you knew but nothing alike at the same time. This Spencer looks tired, worn down, and just plainly miserable. It deeply pains you to see him in such a condition.

He licks his lips and opens his mouth to say something, but he stays silent. You see his hands clench beside him and your face flushes with heat, your eyes begin to sting, and you feel like it's becoming harder to breathe.

"Come on, I'll walk you out." Derek says into your ear and he gently tugs you towards the door, where your eyes stay locked onto Spencer as you follow Derek. Spencer takes a step to the side to let you and Derek out of the room, and your arm just barely brushes against his, sending a tingling feeling throughout your body. You feel a tear drip down your cheek, and you swear you can see tears in his eyes too.

Derek gets you down to the parking lot where your car awaits you and he opens the door for you and helps you in. He can tell that you're going through something. You haven't said a word, you have a far away look in your eye, and you're crying without bothering to wipe away the tears. It's almost like you're in shock, and in a way, you are.

"He wasn't supposed to be here for another hour, I'm sorry. If I had known I would've just come over or something." Derek apologizes, but you shake your head, slowly coming back to reality.

"It's not your fault, Derek. Maybe this was the universe's way of letting me say goodbye, get some closure." You speak, voice hoarse. Derek's eyebrows furrow together,

"What do you mean?" He asks, not understanding what your words imply. He'll never admit it to you, but he's concerned about how you're going to handle this run-in. From experience, he knows that you're likely to spiral after this, and that's the last thing he wants for you. After all the progress you've made lately and your personality finally beginning to come back, he fears this may cause a relapse of sorts.

"I'm moving to Colorado." You tell him for the first time. His mouth falls agape in surprise.

-----

After Derek comes back into the office from seeing you out, he can tell that the atmosphere has changed in the room. Glances are being thrown Spencer's way, and Spencer looks more pale than usual, like he had just seen a ghost. He's lost in his own mind, oblivious to the looks everyone is giving him.

"Let's head to the scene one more time to see if this theory holds up. Morgan, Reid, you can meet us there." Hotch announces and stands from the table, the rest of the team following closely behind. Once everyone has dispersed, Derek sits across from Spencer.

"You okay?" He asks, not knowing where Spencer is at mentally. His watery eyes glance from the tabletop to Derek, and he swallows hard.

"Today is the nine year anniversary of when I left." He says, and Derek's heart breaks for the two of you. Sure, it would've been hard on any given day for the two of you to see each other, but on a day with so much significance? It has to be gut wrenching. And to put the cherry on top, Derek knows the news he has to break to Spencer.

"Listen man. She told me something before she left and I think you should know." Derek's hand finds its way to Spencer's shoulder.

"What is it?" Spencer's mind is running through dozens of scenarios, trying to predict what you possibly could've said. Derek lips his lips and sighs,

"She told me she's moving to Colorado." Spencer feels as if the entire world has stopped spinning.

"What? When?" His voice is breathy and desperate. He has to know where you're going, when you're going, and why. He can't stand the thought of you being out there alone without being able to make sure you're okay. Derek's hand squeezes Spencer's shoulder, trying to comfort him.

"She said within the next few weeks, but she's got some loose ends to tie up here first." Spencer nods, understanding he still has some time to figure out how to approach this situation. He can't see anything clearly right now, for his mind is self-destructing from the thought of losing you for good.

"Maybe I can find a way to delay her trip somehow, or find out where she's going and set up some sort of periodic welfare check. Or maybe I set up a fake social media profile to follow her and make sure she's still okay." Spencer begins rattling off different ways he can make sure that you'll be okay if he can't be there. And he's well aware that his suggestions sound like borderline stalking, but he doesn't care, his love for you knows no boundaries and he would go to the ends of the Earth to make sure you're okay.

He needs to know that you are okay, no matter how many miles are put between the two of you. If he can't know that you're okay then he doesn't know what he's going to do; he even considers relocating to a field office out in Colorado just in case you need help.

"I've watched the two of you destroy yourselves over the past nine years. Neither of you have actually been able to recover, and you know it. She still thinks that you're with another woman. You're still in love with her, and now it's time to make your decision on whether you can let her go or not." Derek's voice speaks reason into Spencer's racing mind and he realizes that Derek is right. He's got a decision to make, and he has to make it soon.

-----

Rain patters against the window, providing some white noise for you while you tape the top of a box down. At this point, you've managed to pack up all of Spencer's books and every bookcase now sits barren. You swear the absence of his books causes the apartment to drop a few degrees, it feels empty and lifeless. You told the leasing agent that you would be by in the morning to drop off the paperwork, finally gaining the courage to sign them last night.

It had taken you about ten days after seeing Spencer before you could push yourself to sign them. A tiny part of you was still clinging to hope that he would come by. But he didn't. And he's not going to, you have to remind yourself. Constantly you have to remind yourself that you were able to see him one last time, and that's going to have to be enough closure, for it's all you're going to receive. But still, you can't help but feel the hole in your soul ache with desire for him.

Standing in the middle of an almost barren apartment, you're haunted by memories of happier days. You can remember the first time you and Spencer had walked through the front door, excited for your future together. Little by little, the two of you decorated and furnished the apartment to make it your own private haven where the two of you could seek refuge in each other.

Your hands find Spencer's blanket draped over the back of the couch, and you hold it close one last time, trying to commit the feeling to memory. It lost Spencer's scent long, long ago, but you still cherish it. After you've made peace with it, you fold it and place it in the bottom of a box, and go to the bedroom. Pulling out drawers of the dresser, Spencer's clothes are still neatly folded, just as he had left them. His clothes find their place on top of the blanket, and soon enough, the drawers are empty and more boxes are taped shut.

Evening comes around and you zip up a familiar dress, ready to spend one last night in a familiar restaurant. Today would've been your twelfth anniversary. Just like every year, you had made a very specific reservation, only this year will be the last. Applying mascara to your eyelashes, you give yourself one last look in the mirror. You can still see the young woman you once were in your reflection.

Your phone buzzing on the counter tears your gaze away from the mirror. You see that Derek is trying to call you, and so you pick up without a second thought.

"Hey sweet thing, what are you doing tonight? How about you come over and we have a farewell drink?" He offers and you smile at his generosity, knowing that any other day you would've taken him up on it.

"Sorry Derek, I can't tonight. I've got a reservation." You tell him, knowing that he will understand what you mean. He doesn't keep track of the days like you do, but he's familiar with your annual tradition.

"Okay, another night then, enjoy yourself." His voice is warm as he hangs up the phone. You're grateful that Derek has been a reliable friend throughout the years, and you know you're going to miss him when you move. Of course you'll make the effort to stay in contact, it just won't be the same as having him nearby.

The waitress shows you to your seat and you order the same wine you get every year. It doesn't matter if your tastes have changed, that's not the point. By now the rain is coming down harder, and you can't help but wonder if the Earth is mourning the end of things like you are. Your lipstick leaves faint marks around the rim of the glass and you stare at the empty chair in front of you.

Each year, you try your best to remember what it was like when Spencer was here, but each year your memory becomes more and more hazy on the details. Until one year you couldn't even remember what color tie he was wearing. Instead, all you can recall is the way he made you feel. You intend to drag this dinner out as long as you possibly can, knowing once you leave here that it's just one more piece of Spencer you've had to say farewell to for the final time.

There's a couple sitting at the table next to you, sharing smiles and clinking their glasses together. You try not to stare, but they remind you so much of who you used to be. The woman's eyes have a hopeful spark in them, hopelessly in love with the man who sits across from her who is obviously just as in love with her. When the waitress comes around to ask if you need anything else, you ask if you can pay for their tab.

An hour later, you're swirling around the remnants of wine in your glass. You had finished dinner and consumed enough wine for the night, so now you're just stalling. You can't yet pry yourself up from this spot, still clinging dearly to this part of Spencer you still have. Once you stand up, it'll make this reality all too real, and you can't face it quite yet. So you give yourself a few more minutes to mourn the way you need to and to make your peace here.

You hear the front door open, but your sights are set outside the window, watching the rain pelt the sidewalk. There's some sort of rushed conversation happening by the hostess' stand, but you can't make out the words, not that you're trying to anyways. The couple that you paid for gets up and leaves the restaurant, and that gains your attention. You offer them a weak smile as they giddily exit the restaurant; their happiness only emphasizes your sorrows.

Before you can turn back to resume watching the rain, someone stands in front of you. Your eyes trail up the person's body, only to find Spencer in front of you, hair wet from the rain, hands occupied with a bouquet of pastel-colored tulips. Your heart drops into your stomach and you have to blink a few times to make sure that he's actually real and standing right in front of you.

"Spencer." His name falls from your mouth effortlessly and breathily, shocked to see him here. He licks his lips and looks over you once before meeting your eyes, a familiar look within them.

-----

Spencer paces around his apartment, hair disheveled from raking nervous fingers through it. His mind has been consumed with nothing except for you since he saw you at the BAU. Derek's words keep repeating themselves in his head,

"She still thinks that you're with another woman...make your decision on whether you can let her go or not."

He knows his time is running out and yet he's conflicted as to what is the right thing to do. The logical and rational part of him is quick to remind himself that he left for a reason, for your safety. The photographs in the unsub's room flash before his eyes, vividly reminding him of what kind of danger his presence puts you in.

But the aching in his chest yearns for your touch, to hear your laugh. For years he's been able to make sure that you're taken care of from a distance. Some years he would anonymously send tulips to your apartment, and other times he would pay the leasing agent half of your rent so it would be one less thing for you to worry about. Of course, it had taken some convincing to ensure the agent would keep his donations a secret, and as far as he knows the agent kept good on the agreement.

Nervously, Spencer bites the skin around his nails, a battle of reason and emotion waging itself inside his mind. He turns to pace again, but this time his eyes catch a picture that sits on a side table. It's a small photo, taken in the early days of your relationship. Spencer picks up the picture that he's committed to memory, seeing the bright smile on your face, your eyes wrinkles at the sides from happiness, his lips pressed to your cheek and his arms around your waist.

His mind morphs his own body into another man. And now he's seeing that man's arms around your waist, another man's lips on your cheek, and it's almost enough to bring Spencer to his knees. Abandoning the photo, he moves quickly to put his shoes on with newfound purpose.

He's made his decision.

With rushed movements, Spencer makes his way to the florist he frequents for your flowers. It's a race against the clock, he only has five minutes to spare and he hopes that the florist is still there. The rain makes it hard to see the road, it slows traffic and the anxiety bubbles up in his chest.

With one minute to spare, Spencer enters the florist to see the sweet older lady packing up for the day. His entrance startles her, and she jumps.

"Spencer?" She questions, knowing he's not due back for another month at least. He nods his head frantically,

"Yes ma'am, sorry to come by like this but I'm hoping you can help me." He swallows hard, heart pounding in his chest from the adrenaline flowing in his veins. The woman sees his distraught demeanor and gives him a small smile. Of course she'll help him. After all, Spencer is one of her favorite customers; he always leaves her generous tips.

After fifteen minutes, the florist has constructed a beautiful arrangement with all of your favorite colors, tied up with a bow around the stems.

"Good luck." The florist gives him a knowing smile, and he thanks her before rushing over to your apartment. Spencer's fingers tap anxiously on the steering wheel and his chest heaves with nervousness.

He parks his car along the curb and hops out, practically running into the building. There's a small line for the elevators, and he doesn't have time for that. Not when a lifetime with you is at stake. He takes the stairs at record speed and takes a moment to compose himself once he stands at the door.

With a rush of courage, he knocks on the door and waits to hear your footsteps. But instead he's met with silence. He knocks again, a little harder this time and waits. He's met with silence again. Fearing the worst, he digs his phone out of his pocket and calls Derek, who answers on the third ring.

"Listen she isn't here. I'm at the apartment and she's gone. Did she leave already?" Spencer's voice cracks as he asks the dreaded question, but he needs to know. If Derek tells him that you've left, he won't hesitate to take the first flight to Colorado to find you.

"No, she didn't move yet. I called her earlier, she has a reservation. Remember the restaurant you two went to for your first date?" Spencer rushes out a thank you before hanging up, knowing exactly the restaurant. How could he forget?

You were wearing the most beautiful dress that complimented your body well, your hair was loose around your shoulders, and your eyes held the depths of your love. He knew from that exact moment that he would never find a love like yours again.

He parks and haphazardly shoves his keys into his pockets, instead taking care to handle your flowers with the utmost care. His heart thumps heavily in his chest with each step he takes towards the front door.

He runs a hand through his hair as he approaches the hostess stand, and his words come out very rushed. He asks if there's a woman here matching your description, but the hostess is hesitant to answer. He begs her to tell him, insisting that you'll be here waiting for him. The hostess glances between him and the flowers in his hand before nodding and pointing to where you are.

Spencer swallows hard and thanks her, eyes scanning the dimly lit restaurant for you. A couple laughing gains his attention and he can't help but look. And he's thankful he did, for you're sitting right across from them, a sad smile on your face and sorrow in your eyes.

His feet carry him over to you before he can process what he's doing. As if time moves in slow motion, he watches your eyes move up his body before landing on his face. Your eyes grow wide, your jaw goes slack.

He only hopes that you'll listen to what he has to say.

-----

"What are you doing here?" You ask, eyeballing the flowers in his hand; they're oddly reminiscent of the ones you receive on your doorstep every few months.

Of course, he's probably here to meet his girlfriend, or fiancée, or perhaps even wife. A mixture of nausea and confusion hit you like a brick wall but you try your best to maintain your composure while you feel like your insides are melting. Spencer takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours and he finally speaks to you.

"Without you and your love, your touch, your warmth, life is entirely meaningless. Ever since I made the biggest mistake of my life, every day has been like walking through hell. There hasn't been a single day that's gone by that I didn't wish to have you back in my arms or to spend just one more evening with you. And I know this doesn't make up for any of it and I am undeserving of your forgiveness. But, I couldn't let you go without letting you know that I've never stopped loving you." His voice cracks with his confession, and a lone tear rolls down his cheek.

His words sends chills down your spine. What he said just doesn't make any sense. Hadn't he left for someone else? Or perhaps he did and he left her as well, or maybe they're still together and he's just doing this to break your heart one last time. You're conflicted with what you should be thinking and feeling. You had waited for this day for nine years, and now that it's here it doesn't make sense.

"But what about her?" You finally muster up the courage to ask, knowing very well that his answer could break your heart. Spencer shakes his head,

"There was never anyone else." His words sting. Had he left because he fell out of love? Or perhaps he grew bored of you and used a newfound love as an excuse for an easy departure.

The more he speaks, the less you understand. Your eyebrows draw close together in pure confusion, your head shakes and your eyes move from him to the flowers in his hand, another mystery about this situation.

"But you said that you had fallen in love with someone else." You point out, desperately needing some explanation to all of this. Spencer nods his head with a solemn expression.

Instead of answering, he digs some cash out of his pocket and throws it on the table before extending his hand to you, to help you from your seat. The gesture sends your heart soaring, having missed the simplest of touches from him. And no matter how confused you are, you've missed him too much to pass this up. He helps you out of the seat and guides you to the front door with a hand on the small of your back.

A familiar fire within you blooms, one that could only be ignited by Spencer's touch. And with just the slightest contact with him, you feel your frozen heart begin to warm.

Thankfully it appears the rain has stopped, for now at least. The two of you walk slowly beside one another towards the parking lot, something that was once so familiar seems so foreign now. After a few steps you hear Spencer suck in a breath,

"I owe you an explanation." His voice is even, but you can hear his apprehension. You swallow your nerves and agree, wanting to hear every last word he has to say.

-----

By the time you both arrive at the apartment, the sun has fully set and the wind carries a bitter chill with it, piercing through the fabric of your dress. The tension is palpable between the two of you on the elevator ride up, your arms brushing against each other with every little movement.

Your hands tremble as you unlock the door, nervous about being so close to him and what he may tell you. The two of you step through the door and for the first time you see how empty it is, boxes stacked on top of each other throughout the apartment.

Turning around, you watch as Spencer takes in the scene of what his former home now is. Guilt washes over you, but you stay quiet, unsure of what to say. Once he's taken in the apartment, his full attention turns back towards you, his eyes flickering between you and the flowers.

"These are for you." His voice is soft as he hands the flowers to you. You take them, fingers brushing against his as you do.

"Did you- were you the one sending me flowers?" You see the familiar color combinations and arrangement style as the ones you've received off and on for nine years. You had never expected Spencer was the one sending these to you, you had always assumed it was Derek trying to brighten your day. And you had always wondered how Derek knew what your favorite flowers were, but you chalked it up to his profiling skills.

A smile small appears on Spencer's face and he nods. Your heart swells with emotion as it hits you that maybe some of what he said is true, maybe he never has stopped loving you. Not prepared to face all of that just yet, you turn and find a vase to put the flowers in, thankful you hadn't packed them up yet and let them decorate the kitchen counter.

Silence washes over the two of you, but it's short lived as Spencer clears his throat and pulls out a chair at the dining room table. You join him and your blood runs cold as you realize you're sitting in the same places as that day he left. Spencer starts picking at the skin around his nails, opening and closing his mouth as if he can't find the words he's looking for. But you've waited nine years so what's a few more minutes?

"The case I came back from was one of the worst we've ever seen, even to this day." He starts and you nod, leaning forward to soak in every word.

"The unsub had printed out pictures of you hanging from his walls along with the rest of the team. He had a plan to torture each and every one of us, and he was going to use you to hurt me. He had plans to torture you to death." He continues, voice wavering towards the end. Your eyes are glued to Spencer's face as he speaks, never having heard the details of that last case. Derek would never tell you.

"Oh, Spencer." You whisper, wanting so desperately to reach out and comfort him but respecting that he might not want your touch. His eyes glance up to yours, and you see his jaw tense.

"I knew then that my job puts you in too much danger. It was clear that while you were with me that you could be a target for anyone who wanted to get back at us. I couldn't let that happen, I couldn't let someone hurt you because of me." Tears spill down his face and he bites his bottom lip to try and keep his composure. You feel your own lip start to quiver, but you hold it together.

"And I knew if I told you that there was someone else that you wouldn't push the issue. I knew you loved me too much to interfere with my happiness. I used your own love against you and I am so sorry." He sniffles and pushes tears from his eyes.

The two of you cry together, and while you want to be angry because he had lied, you only find yourself feeling overjoyed that he's back; that he wants you back and never fell in love with another. And now knowing that he was still showing his love for you by sending you flowers solidifies that what he's telling you is factual. You only wonder what else he's done that you're unaware of.

Spencer's love runs deep, that much you do know. You're keenly aware that if he went through the trouble of sending you flowers that he was also likely up to other things. But you're okay not knowing, as far as you're concerned, you're just happy he's here.

"I'm so sorry." He cries out again, moving out of his chair and getting on his knees in front of you. You wipe tears from your eyes so you can see him clearly, his glistening eyes beautifully reflecting the light as he envelopes your hands in his.

"I will spend every second of every day earning your love back if that's what it takes. I cannot bear to live this life without you any more, I will do whatever it takes. I love you with every fiber of my being, and I will love you for as many days as there are stars in the sky. As long as the sun rises in the morning and sets every night I will continue to love you. You're the one that completes my soul, you're the one who my heart beats for." Spencer pours his heart out to you as he grips your hands tightly and looks into the depths of your eyes. Your lip trembles as tears continue to stream down your face, unable to contain your overflowing love for the man who kneels in front of you.

Taking your hands back from his, your fingertips graze the soft skin of his cheeks. The familiar warmth brings a smile to your face, one that you never would have thought would come back. You hold the sides of his face, so that you can look at him, really look at him.

His parted lips are wet from tears, his face blushed from crying. Even while he cries on the floor in front of you, he's still the most beautiful man you've ever seen. Unable to hold yourself back, you bring his face to yours and your lips reunite.

It's like the two of you were made for each other, and feeling his lips on yours is like falling back into a familiar rhythm. Spencer stands from the floor and brings you up from your seat, one of his hands wrapping around your waist while the other holds your cheek, bringing you impossibly closer to him.

Your frozen heart warms with a heat long forgotten, and when your lungs burn for air, you pull away and rest your forehead against his. The two of you catch your breath, each unable to keep your hands off of one another. Your eyes meet and you can see the love he holds for you plainly.

This is your Spencer, and he finally came back home. After all these years he finally came back to the place where he left you, the place you had stayed.

-----

"Is that the last one?" You ask, placing books neatly on a shelf. It was a no-brainer that after Spencer came back that you weren't going to move. With him here, there's no place you'd rather be. And so after you had halted your plans, you and Spencer began repiecing your life together.

Turns out, a lot happens in nine years and the two of you spend every moment possible catching up on lost time together. He tells you about some of the most memorable cases, and you tell him about how you made it through in one piece. You both agreed not to spare each other any details, and have agreed to work through whatever issues arise one step at a time and with honesty. And you made Spencer promise that no matter what happens at work, that the two of you will talk and plan together; there's no more running, except for towards each other.

"I think there's one more." He says, showing you the book in his hand before he slides it in the open spot on the shelf. It's the copy of Gone Girl that you had brought into the BAU. Spencer had told you that your theory ended up being right. They found Mrs. Greene as she was staging her alleged kidnapping getaway. And while it wasn't your favorite book, it has a special place in your heart now; without it there's a chance you and Spencer never would have crossed paths again.

You feel Spencer's hands wrap around your waist from behind as he comes back from the shelf, and he hugs you tightly against him, burying his head in the curve of your neck and gently kissing you. Showing affection at every given opportunity has been Spencer's modus operandi. After having lived so long without you, he never wants to stop touching you, or kissing you, or showing you love in any way that he can.

Your eyes flutter shut, soaking in all the love he gives you, placing your hands atop of his and just letting yourself be held by him. Even the smallest moments are cherished now, for you understand their true value.

"I love you." He whispers into your ear before letting you go, and a smile makes its way onto your face while your cheeks heat. Even after nine years he's still able to make you blush like a highschooler with a crush.

"And I love you more." You say, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before moving to pack up the empty boxes that are scattered everywhere.

The two of you stand in the front doorway of your apartment, looking at how everything has come together. Spencer's books are back on their shelves, his blanket is draped over the back of the couch, his clothes back in the dresser, and he's right beside of you. Like it should have always been. Your eyes find one last thing to get rid of alongside the boxes.

Walking over to the dining room table, you rip the stained tablecloth off and crumple it in your hands. This tablecloth holds too many bad, heartbreaking memories to keep it in the place where you two are rebuilding your lives together. Without a second thought, you toss the tablecloth into the trash and you're relieved. Only a short time ago you dreaded the thought of getting rid of it, but now you can't stand the thought of keeping it.

Now it's as if a new light and a fresh breath of life has been given to the apartment. For so long it was representative of all that you had lost, but now it shows you how much you've gained and how far you've come, both of you. Rays of bright sunshine filter in through the sheer curtains, and you take in a deep breath, soul full, content, and at peace.

"We really did it." You breathe out quietly.

"There's only one more thing I can think of that would really make this all come together." Spencer speaks up, and you scrunch your eyebrows together, not seeing anything that you two had forgotten. As you turn to him, you see him kneeling down in front of you on one knee, a small velvet box in his hand.

Your mouth falls open as he opens the box, revealing the most perfect ring you've ever seen. Spencer has a wide smile on his face and a hopeful glint in his eyes.

"My life will never be complete without you by my side, there's nobody on this Earth that can even begin to compare. When I look inside my heart, I can only see you. May I have the honor to take your hand in marriage, will you make me the luckiest man in the world and marry me?" He asks and you nod your head enthusiastically before he can finish the question. Rushing up from the ground, Spencer envelopes you in a hug, lifting your feet off the ground and spinning you around.

As your feet make contact with the ground again, he takes your hand and slides the ring onto your finger. It's a perfect fit. Tears of elation well up in your eyes, and you pull Spencer in for a kiss that's full of love, desire, and passion for him. You both smile into the kiss and only break away to confess your undying love for each other.

"Spencer Reid, you are the love of my life." You say with tears of happiness rolling down your cheek, a wide smile on your face.

"And future Mrs. Reid, you are the reason I wake up every morning, you are the breath in my lungs, and you are the love of my life." He brings you in for another kiss, and you know that you're going to spend every day for the rest of your lives together. No force of man, nor nature, can drive you apart for the love shared between you two runs deep, your souls intertwined with one another for the rest of eternity.

Looking down at the shiny gemstone on your finger, you feel the once fragmented pieces of your heart tie themselves back together, the million pieces seemingly repairable after all. With a smile on your face, you can't wait to marry your soulmate and you're hopeful and grateful for the life you will share together.

- -

Taglist: @spenciesprincess @reedmurdock

#spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #derek morgan #dr spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #taylor swift #taylor swift inspired

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thomas-the-goat-of-satan · 3 months

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it's funnier when they fight in French. and Diary, you'd think a girl whose mama died in childbirth; whose daddy gave her away to a mean old auntie, who beat her, cause no one said she couldn't, who died in a fire but came back by the blood magic of two demons, well you'd think that girl wouldn't know what funny was. but you'd be Wrong, diary. and if I told you, dumb diary, that that same girl was being raised to kill like her demon parents did; to take two souls a day so she could stay in the same Flat Chested, hair-less Crotched, Fourteen Year Old Baby Doll Body, as her mind and spirit turn nineteen. twenty. twenty five. sixty three. three huuundred fifty eight, you Dumb, Dumb Diary, I bet you'd say to anyone who would listen, "fun? Fuuun???? how does she even get up in the morning??" well. let me tell you something, you stuck up, flower covered, three dollar fancy Fuckin' paper diary: I'm doin' just fine. and how do I know that? 'cause the first man I killed called me the devil, and the last boy I killed, the last boy I'll Ever love in this world. called me an Angel. so that means I'm on the right path! and that means there's soooo much more fun out there to have. I'm just gettin' started.

#anyway anyway anyway.#interview with the vampire #claudia #show #cloey talks iwtv #mine

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slowestlap · 3 months

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After parting with Bradley Scanes following four years together at Red Bull, Verstappen is now working with Rupert Manwaring, who had been Carlos Sainz’s long-serving trainer. Sainz and Manwaring started working together eight years ago when Sainz was at Toro Rosso (now RB).

“We had an exceptional time together,” said Sainz. “We felt it was time to move on. Our lives were becoming different, and him living in the UK and me being more in Italy and Spain, I felt like it was time to change paths. I’m sure Max is going to enjoy the time with him.” Verstappen said it had been “nice” working with Manwaring given his F1 experience, saying he “knows what is needed.”

Verstappen noted managing sickness as being particularly important, as illness becomes inevitable with so much traveling throughout a season. Last year in Saudi Arabia, he came down with a bug that made Red Bull question whether he’d be fit for the race weekend. He only missed media day in the end.

“Everyone gets sick once a year at least,” Verstappen said. “You really try to minimize that, you try to be on top of things, and you know that when you go to certain countries, you know what you have to do to be careful not to be sick or whatever. Jet lag, traveling, it’s really about being well-rested.”

Even at 26, Verstappen is already implementing changes in his approach. “It may sound a bit weird, but I’m not 18 anymore,” Verstappen said. “At 18, you can do whatever you want, even the day before (the race)! Slowly, that is changing as well. I already start feeling that. But I’m sure we’ll come up with good plans on what to do.”

[...]

Verstappen, the overwhelming favorite to win a fourth title in 2024 and, one presumes, the majority of the 24 races, said he wanted to “make it as fun as possible” between races and find downtime away from his duties.

“Twenty-four races is a lot, and not only just the race weekend itself,” Verstappen said. “When we get back, there’s a lot of commitments. You have to get back to the factory as well to prepare with sim days, which almost takes a month as well in your schedule already alone.

“(I’m) just trying to make the best of it. Everyone knows I’m not a fan of it. But I don’t decide the calendar.”

How F1 drivers and teams are preparing for 24 races in 2024, the longest-ever season | Luke Smith, the Athletic | 26 February 2024

#max verstappen #rupert manwaring #bahrain gp #mp #quotes #articles #welcome to the getting old club!!#they really don't tell ya how young the pains starts #i used to think it's gonna hit when i'm middle aged but boom #then you're in your mid twenties and need 7+ hours of sleep to function properly #but if you sleep in a slightly wrong position your neck is fcked and back hurts #it's cold outside and it makes your joints slow #get a fever and can barely get out of bed #i thought i had more time before it all hits 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

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kiwanopie · 2 years

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ran across this picture of pro!hero shinsou and immediately died of brainrot. part time college professor shinsou x bimbo!reader [if you think this is ooc then maybe you should just kiss me on the lips then.] suggestive

Seeing your face in full for the first time is already enough to twist his stomachs in knots. Fold it over itself a few times until it’s tightened in a neat little hitch, and his lungs the pretty bow on top the moment her mouth opens. Plump lips that kiss each word on its way out and nearly leaves him envious. His brain barely registers what’s actually been said until he’s taking a moment to revise.

And then he short circuits.

“Are you interested in having sex?”

Shinsou stands there a little stiller than he should as his student stares up at him curiously, doe eyes blinking expectantly at the older man as the cool training ground air dries out his slightly gaped mouth and his brain buffers at the reality of things.

You breathe in a little briskly before nodding again, looking away briefly like you’re chiding herself. “Oh, sorry,” You redouble. “Are you interested in having sex with me?”

This is his reality right now.

Shinsou Hitoshi is not a religious man, a spiritual man, sure; but he has never been quite so comfortable with the idea of god’s and otherworldly forces - so powerful that they foresee the outcome of his and the lives around him. He doesn’t like the thought of greater powers or deities of any kind. Invisible men that pull his strings or any leveraged omnipotence that could disrupt the equilibrium of reality or nature. He believes in Then and Now, and any paths he may take in the latter are his choice and his doing. His fate will always be in his hands.

….Although - He stares at that familiar soft tawny now softened by the evening sun. Exposed shoulders veiled by dark thickets of bouncing curls and about eight months of over the shoulder glances and lingering stares that are apparently being cashed in right before him. Even a man so dead set on his ideals might have to reconsider at an opportunity like this. Maybe there is a big man in the sky. Maybe he’s been watching him piss away his love life for the past twenty seven years and decided that this was the time to knock him on his ass about it. Maybe this is a gift?

Maybe this is a test.

There’s a long second he spends blowing out empty air before his voice can seep into the atmosphere.

“Wha-…You’re… seriously asking me this?” And he can’t tell if he means that out of disbelief or genuine curiosity.

You must take it as the latter, because you nod so genuinely - so cutely. That his teeth instinctively start to grind against each other. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenient way to ask. You’re usually really busy outside of our training bumps and I doubt your assistant would take me seriously if I made an appointment for this reason.”

“It’s also…” And he almost feels like the weird one for saying this. “…Wildly inappropriate.”

“Oh...” You pause, and for a moment he expects you to finally tune into how bizarre this situation really is.

Until you’re hitting him with another curveball. “Rejecting me would also be fine then, Sensei.”

That makes him openly grimace - throw his head back a bit and remind himself that: No, that isn’t the worst thing you’ve said since this conversation started. And yes, rejecting you was always a valid option. You say it so cooly that he’s almost afraid that you’re indifferent about the whole thing to begin with. Which begs the question:

“What’s this about?” Shinsou furrows.

You finally move your gaze from him to an empty corner of the wall as you fidgets on your feet a few tense seconds, wrapping your arms around yourself with a short hesitant shrug of your shoulders and pout in a way that can only be described as troublesome.

“I’ve… I can’t put all of my focus on climbing up the ranks anymore. Or on studying… or on anything else for that matter,” You start shyly. “All I’ve been thinking about for the past few months is you.”

The more you continue the closer he gets to self-destructing. “To be fair, I thought I admired your skill and resolve. - Which I do. It’s just… I like the sound of your voice and how it sounds when you talk to me. And the way you handle us trainees, and me whenever I mess up. I like the way your fingers feel on my leotard.”

The fact that he can see you riling yourself up at the thought of him, redistribute the weight on your feet like you’re looking for friction - His mouth doesn’t know whether to dry or salivate and for his sake he hopes his suit is thick enough to hide the bulge that’s steadily forming.

“All I can think of is having sex with you, Sensei.” You say truthfully. “And at least if you reject me then the humiliation of that’ll-“

“I’m not gonna reject you.” And the way your eyes light up makes his lungs feel near to bursting. Seriously, have you seen you? What chump would be so out of his mind to pass up something like this?

But he steps in a little closer, enough to get a whiff of oat and honey, and finely scrubbed in sugars. It’s an ego trip to see you start to fluster a bit. Although he’s sure he’s not faring any better.

You’re bathing in his attention. “But _____ - Sweetheart, it sounds like you just have feelings for me.” Shinsou exhales a little breathlessly. “A regular confession would’ve done just fine, and we could’ve gotten to the good parts later.”

“I feel the same way about you, y’know?” He pinches one of your cheeks. “‘Have for a while, actually,”

You simper. “You have?”

He nods with a warm hum. You’d purr in his hands if you could. “And now that everything’s out in the open, don’t you feel a little better? ‘Can finally think straight, huh?”

“No, now I wanna do it even more.”

Ah,

He pats your cheeks a few times as he raises his back to look over at the rest of your fellow classmates, flashes an innocent little lazy smile toward the field as he looks out for any wandering eyes and prays that that overhead bell is close to ringing.

Shinsou finds a secure grip on your jaw when the coast is clear. “Okay,” His smile sharpens. “That’s okay. - Hey, how about you try and make it through this bump and if you can do that; I’ll sneak into the ladies locker room and fuck you stupid. How’s that sound?”

The way your lips form into a pout by the force of his grip nearly has him pulling you forward to press his against them. “S’good, shensei. Thawnk yew!”

#there are some physical descriptors in this unfortunately #i was very much in my own world while writing this #shinsou hitoshi x y/n #shinsou hitoshi x reader #hitoshi shinso x y/n #hitoshi san #mha shinsou #my hero academia shinsou #bnha shinsou #shinsou x reader #shinsou smut #bnha x reader #bnha #bnha shinso hitoshi #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha x reader

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intoxicated-chan · 6 months

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𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐫…

Summary ➳ You are a street rat in Gondor, after the rise of soldiers patrolling the streets, you become desperate for coin and meet the man you attempt to steal from.

(A/n) ➳ I would consider this a series but not really a storyline/story. It’s more like headcanons/scenarios because I have a lot of them.

You guys can check out the masterlister for this if you wanna request something!!

Word Count ➳ 1.2k

Content Warnings ➳ Gender Neutral Reader, Reader’s age is eight, stealing, mentions of starving, violence, mentions of death…

Series’ Masterlist

Thirteen Years Before LOTR: Fellowship of the Ring - Reader’s age is eight - Boromir’s age is twenty seven - Faramir’s age is twenty three -

You were part of a misfit group in Gondor, causing trouble wherever you all went. And you all had one thing in common, all of you were unwanted by your families. It’s what kept you all together, made you believe you were your own family.

You all got away with various crimes, and being the youngest of the family, you listened, learned, and paid attention to whatever they did. You knew your way around Gondor like the back of your hand, well… Almost all of Gondor.

But it was like a flip was switched. Suddenly soldiers patrolled the streets, it didn’t matter the hours. The citizens spoke of how they cannot wait to get rid of the thieves plaguing their homes. You watched as the thieves were dragged off.

You were scared, and they all saw it. They reassured you that it wouldn’t happen to them and they would be with you, forever.

Yet one-by-one everyone started getting picked off, getting into trouble that was certain to be their demise, or getting into fights that they could not win. It was until you were the only one left. If you continued and followed in their steps, you would surely end up like them.

So you tried to stray off the path that they all followed, but being on the poor side of Gondor meant you had to do it to live.

You went back to stealing, getting into fights over food or even housing… You weren’t proud of yourself but hey, you were still breathing. That’s when you got over your head. You heard there was a high price on any of the soldier’s swords. No way someone would dare to try but you were willing.

It was late at night when you found two soldiers alone, chatting and the younger one was drinking at the older one’s request. When the younger one went inside, believing he forgot something, the other seemed to follow, leaving their swords behind.

Maybe you could take both, get paid double. You would be set for a long time if you used the money wisely.

You slowly made your way to the swords, grabbing the hilt of one and reaching for the other. You were suddenly pulled away by the shoulder while the sword in your hand was taken back. You were met by the eyes of the older one.

One would say he looked angry, but it seemed like he was more frustrated than angry.

“What’s ?” He kept a soft grip on your shoulder, letting you run if you pleased. But you were scared, unsure if he was going to use the sword to strike you down. “What is a little child doing playing with dangerous weapons?”

“I-I didn’t mean to sir, I promise!” You begged.

“It’s alright.” He smiled, setting the sword against the wall. “But you shouldn’t go touching stranger’s belongings, if I was someone else, they might not have been so kind.” He warned you, releasing your shoulder. “What is your name, child?”

“(Y/n).”

“Well (Y/n).” He searched through his pouch and tossed you a couple of coins. “Here, go and get warm. There’s a tavern that would take a single coin for a week. It gets very cold in Gondor around this time.” He took the swords, sheathing one and with his back turned to you. “Take care (Y/n), I hope you will not find trouble.” And he enters the tavern, following the younger one.

“Did something happen?” Faramir asked, taking the sword when it was handed to him.

“It was just a child.”

It was strange for a stranger to have an effect on you. You tried to live by his words for the next couple of weeks, anything to keep you from straying on the road you were on. But you were down to two coins left, two weeks, and the weather wasn’t getting any warmer.

People stay inside to keep warm, and when people stay inside, there is no work to be done.

You were starving, you could buy just for the day from the two coins or use the coins for the shelter given to you. You would say the hunger clouded your judgment, and the cost for the soldier’s swords was still in the air.

You swiftly maneuvered around the boxes blocking the street, you looked through alleyways for any soldier leaving their weapons unattended, unaware of another soldier following you from afar.

But as far as you could search without looking suspicious, none decided to leave their swords, not even from a moment. They all desperately searched for warmth.

Your last resort was to steal from the very few vendors still open, all you needed to do was distract, snatch, and then run back to the tavern. You made sure to calculate a route that would surely lose the vendor.

You pulled the cloak tighter around your frame, hood up and head down, you walked to the vendor asking questions and picking out what you wanted. While they were busy, you grabbed the largest piece of bread dashed away.

“Hey!” The vendor shouted. The soldier ran after you but made no promise to the vendor, the vendor believed that the soldier would drag you back to them.

You made cuts through the alley, jumping over boxes and did your best to speed past soldiers without looking suspicious, but it’s difficult when you’re being chased. Your lungs burned as your legs felt heavy, it seemed that the cold weather didn’t like you and slowed you down.

When you cut into another alley, you tripped another box. You let out a cry, falling to the stone cold ground. As you dragged yourself to the bread, it was taken from you and you were thrown over someone’s shoulders.

“Let me go!” You demanded, struggling against his hold.

“No one is going to help a thief.” You remembered that voice, just barely.

“S-Sir?!”

“Quiet down.” He ordered you, rushing deeper through the alleyways until it was a dead end, he finally let you down yet still kept the bread in his hands. “Did I not say to keep out of trouble?”

“You hoped that I wouldn’t get into trouble.” You retorted, reaching for the bread only for him to pull. You reached for it again but he held it over your head. You weren’t going to even try to jump. “What do you want from me? Who are you?!”

He quickly hushed you, covering your mouth with his gloved hand. “I’m Boromir.” Your heart dropped. “You are young, you shouldn’t be out here without your parents but from what I’ve seen, you don’t have any… How long have you been alone, little one?”

He stepped closer to you, his arm coming down, and handed you the bread. His hands were caring, especially when they took your hands to hold the bread.

You sniffled and held the bread close to your chest, you broke down crying. You felt his arms come around your body, kneeling to meet your level. He rubbed your back as you cried into his shoulder. “It’s alright, little one.” His thumb swipes away a tear. “I’ll take care of you now, you’re safe.”

#divider by cafekitsune #x reader #x gender neutral reader #boromir #boromir x reader #faramir #lotr x y/n #lotr x you #lotr x reader #lotr #lord of the rings x y/n #lord of the rings x you #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings #boromir x you

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myemuisemo · 2 months

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With April showers, Letters from Watson brings us the first installment of The Sign of the Four, a prospect that makes me quake. When I was a tot of eight years, reading the library's copy of The Boy's Sherlock Holmes with a creeping sense of guilt because I was not at that time (and have not been at any time before or since) a boy, I found The Sign of the Four... long. Very long. I was obviously too young for the concepts, even though I could make sense of the words. (That sums up a lot of my reading in that era.)

I'm also reeling from last week's "The Man with the Watches," an utter tragedy of "be gay, do crime."

What's striking me this time -- what with the introduction of Holmes' cocaine use and also the watch deduction that raises a wince and a shudder from anyone who remembers that BBC Sherlock happened -- is how Watson is being positioned (and I don't mean "positioned in the path of which bullet," though apparently he got hit by more than one while in India).

Cocaine

Watson is progressive! His objections to cocaine sound so mild to us in the twenty-first century, but in 1890, scientific opinion was just barely starting to turn away from seeing cocaine as a wonder drug. It was used for local anesthesia as well as for general pep. Queen Victoria drank Vin Mariani, a wine fortified with cocaine, and so did the Pope. Coca Cola contained cocaine until 1906. Sigmund Freud was a vocal proponent of cocaine for improving mood and performance, until he botched an operation in the early 1890s while high.

A couple hair-raising reads on this topic are Cocaine: The Victorian Wonder Drug and A Cure for (Anything) that Ails You: Cocaine in Victorian Medicine.

So Holmes' original audience would have seen him as an up-to-date scientist using a socially approved means of moderating his mood. His shooting up a 7% solution of cocaine is about equivalent to a 21st century person taking nutritional supplements that are meant to boost brain power.

After all the "say no to drugs" education in the American school system, that's so hard for me to get my brain around, but there we are. Holmes is doing something no more troubling than pouring a glass of whiskey and much more scientific.

Watson, therefore, can be read either as being right at the edge of shifting scientific opinion or as being a fussbudget.

Tinge it with romanticism

I'm firmly Team Watson when Holmes starts criticizing A Study in Scarlet:

He shook his head sadly. “I glanced over it,” said he. “Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.”

The reader is being positioned here to view with contempt the exact features of the work that we probably enjoyed. Poor Watson!

Is it possible that some reviewers commented on the melodrama of the Lucy portions? Yes, and it'd be a valid point. Nonetheless, having experienced a good many math classes, I think the fifth proposition of Euclid might be improved by a rom--

wait.

Doyle, you magnificent bastard.

Flatland: A Romance in Many Dimensions was published in 1884. It wasn't a huge success, but it seems likely Doyle could have known it, and it did, in fact, mention a love story in a discussion of angles. Back when I read it in college (because if you "liked math," someone would inevitably give you a copy of Flatland), I missed the social satire but appreciated the geometry.

Watson is canonically an effective popular writer, and I refuse to denigrate him for that.

The Watch

First, Holmes substantially invents forensic science with his monographs on tobacco and on callouses.

Then we learn that Watson is a second son, which fits with his his training for a profession and choosing the army to help make his way.

Watson was not on great terms with his brother before his brother's death. Holmes doesn't explicitly deduce this, but it's there to be deduced. Holmes knew Watson's father was long dead, which could have come up in any number of casual ways. Holmes had no idea that Watson had a brother, so Watson:

Didn't mention the brother in any context, ever.

Didn't set up any framed daguerreotypes from his childhood nor any modern photos made with the collodion process. Having a posed family photo would have been so completely normal, as would being sent new photos by family members.

Never interrupted his routine to visit his brother while living with Holmes.

Did not attend his brother's funeral (unless it took place while Holmes was away) and did not wear a black armband for mourning in Holmes' presence. Neglecting mourning for a relative would have been a sign of serious estrangement.

Holmes is possessed of some level of tact in not expanding on this topic.

Watson is also nobody's fool: he knows there are ways to fool a mark with apparently miraculous knowledge.

The question in my mind is this: did Watson deliberately distract Holmes from asking what was the subject of the telegram?

#sherlock holmes #letters from watson

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 2 months

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In A Week’s Time - Part 2: Elliott x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Contains: Breast worship

You were sweating, your back aching as you hauled a wheelbarrow around the dirt paths on your farm. The damn thing was full once more of melons ripe and ready to be dropped off in the bin by your home for selling, all in great quality as well as quantity. You had already put aside a few for the town, both as gifts and for selling to Pierre so the town could enjoy the fresh produce. You could already see the big check in your mailbox soon for just the melons alone.

You had managed to lug the wheelbarrow to the bin and started to carefully put the melons in one by one until you found yourself scratching at the iron, no melons left inside. You pulled your phone out from your back pocket and noted the time, 10:40. You would have to halt the harvesting process to go down to Pierre's to get more melon seeds, and that would take away a good hour or so. You still had to take care of the animals before night came.

You looked back at the wheelbarrow and shrugged. You could do another round of piling melons into it and dropping them off at the shipping box and you could go down to Pierre's.

With a groan - both from you and the aging wheelbarrow - you had managed to turn it around the shipping box and back down the dirt path you had made with the damned thing, through the large field of blueberries that would be ready to harvest soon and past the small patches of peppers and tomatoes growing on their sticks to the emptying melon fields you had dug up a little over a week ago.

You took out the little vine shears and snipped off the melon from the vibrant green of the stem. Hauling up the dense melon up and lowering it into the cavity of the wheelbarrow, you felt your lips tug down with your stomach.

It wasn't the same without Elliott by your side. He had swore to himself that he would be there to help you harvest and bring items to the shipping bins with you, to go run to Pierre's shops with a few crates of produce to sell and buy more seeds for you to plant (as well as buying you a bouquet of fresh flowers every time he went there). You missed him terribly, you couldn't wait for him to tell you all about his trip, about how many different people he had met over his journey, about the fans and aspiring writers, about the cities. You especially couldn't wait to hear about what he had to say about Zuzu City and how much it had changed since you left a few years ago.

Twelve melons, thirteen melons, fourteen melons...

You barely got any sleep over the week he had been gone, he was going to be returning later tonight. You had thought about completely skipping the luau tomorrow so Elliott could rest up and relax after such a long trip. You spent countless nights staring at his spot on the bed, his side completely cold and absent of any life. Your cat had even missed Elliott, pawing at his pillow, sitting at the counter where Elliott normally leaned on in the morning to drink his coffee and scratch at the kitty's head, sleep under Elliott's writing chair or nudge the pen cup that hadn't been used all week.

But he was coming back today!

At that thought, a fire was set in your gut, your body spiking up in energy and excitement as you loaded more melons onto the wheelbarrow.

Twenty-six melons, twenty-seven melons, twenty-eight melons.

You had eventually gotten to the maximum of fifty-five melons, all "gold star quality according to Pierre." You had gripped the old handles, leather cracked and peeling apart (you really needed to order a new wheelbarrow, maybe even a small tractor for the farm now that you started to think about it. You hauled the wheelbarrow to the dirt path between the crops and pushed, your arms on fire for a spilt second before giving in to the constant strain of everyday farming. Your feet dug into the dirt, the wheels cutting through the soaked earth as you pushed harder and faster until you finally cleared the wall of blueberry plants to right in front of your house. You turned around and dragged the wheelbarrow behind you, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand which you just realized had dirt on it, you came to a stop right in front of the shipping bin that was already starting to look packed. You hauled open the top of the bin and started to place every melon inside, being careful not to damage any of the produce.

As you were about halfway done with the contents inside of the wheelbarrow, you had stopped. Your body halted to a complete stop, you were frozen in place. Your instincts built up from fighting in the mines had kicked in.

Someone, or something, was watching you.

You cursed to yourself that you had left your sword on the porch, propped up with your fishing pole, milk bucket and shears.

Slowly, you turned your head towards the greenhouse and slowly around back towards the barn and coop to the south, but found nothing suspicious. What could be out this early? No slimes, no shadow people, no insects or bats flying about. Maybe just some big bug?

You turned the other way towards the entrance of your farm, but you stopped at the gates.

There was a figure down the road, coming to you from the bus stop.

A figure that looked so familiar.

Hope shot right through you, excitement filled every pore in your body as you dropped the wheelbarrow and raced towards the gates.

You launched yourself at the gates and unclocked them just as he settled his luggage on the ground.

"Hello, my radiance," he purred. A fresh bouquet of gladiolus flowers and roses, bright and firey like the season of summer, was held in his hands, outstretched towards you. "I've missed you terribly."

You pulled at the farm's gate and stilled at the open space. You both were staring at each other, no sure what to do or what to say or how to say it. You both stared at each other, dumb-founded smiles on your faces. You were only brought out of it by your kitty brushing up against your legs, meowing cutely at you as it trotted over to Elliott to greet him the same way, purring as its tail curled around his slender legs.

You instinctively reached out for his luggage that trailed behind him, maybe even for the carry-on bag slung over his shoulders, but Elliott didn't allow you, instead, plopping the bouquet of fresh flowers in your hands, tutting you about overworking yourself as he walked towards the house. The cat followed him on his heels, a bounce in its step. You followed them both to the farmhouse and had even opened the door for Elliott had he lugged his bag up the few stairs.

"How has the farm been, dearest?" he asked, slipping the carry-on bag off of his shoulders and placing it on the floor.

"A wreck without you," you exhaled, walking into the open kitchen and placing the bouquet of flowers on the countertop.

You had dug through the cabinets under the counters for the glass vase you had purchased on a whim upon moving here years ago. It was something to spruce up the once old and cramped farmhouse but you ended up never using it until you and Elliott started dating. He would buy you flowers every time you both had a date.

"Is that so?"

"Mhm. Couldn't sleep at all without you," you hummed as you filled the vase with water. "Missed you terribly, waited by the mailbox until the mail came. I still have all of your letters and poems you sent me on my end table. I would read them every night before trying to get some sleep."

You slid the flowers into the icy cold water.

You felt Elliott's lanky hands settle on your hips, fingers gripping your shirt to pull you back so his chest and stomach were flush against your back. He leaned his head down and hummed in your ear, nosing away the locks of hair that had flung themselves out of the ponytail you had tied earlier.

"I could barely sleep either. Countless nights spent awake, looking over pictures of you, dreaming of your beautiful voice, wanting your soft lips against my own, hands interlocked. I've missed your wonderous face so, I dreamed only of it, of your lovely smile, harmonious laughter."

He dipped his head down to kiss at your neck softly, humming as you exhaled.

"Elliott," you crooned.

"Ah ah, we still have work to do. I assume you still have melons to prep for selling? Seeds to buy and sow?"

"Sadly," you sighed, already dreading having to replant dozens of spots of melons.

You still needed to haul back maybe another three or four more wheelbarrows full of the damned things.

"Why don't you go get the seeds from Pierre's? I'll tend to the harvest and prep the land while you're gone. You need a break, my love, you've been hunched over all day."

"What about you?" You turned to face him in his hold, your back now pressed against the lip of the counter and your chest against his. "You've been out on the road for a week and then some, dealing with people, cities. The drive back must've been awfully long."

"I'll be fine, my love. I've been itching to get back at the routine. We'll rest when we're done."

"Are you saying you won't want to attend the luau tomorrow?"

"We can, it would just mean we can't," he hesitated slightly, "have as much excitement tonight."

At his suggestion, you threw up your brows in surprise. A blush had smattered your cheeks with blazing heat.

"Is that so?"

"Indeed, but, ah, those plans would have to wait, yes?" He placed another gentle kiss on you, this time on your lips. "Let us run along, now. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can have our share of fun."

With sweaty clothes now a sloppy pile at the bottom of the laundry basket and hair fluffy and dry, you stood in front of the mirror sitting on top of your long dresser. You had a dollop of cold, creamy moisturizer on the tips of your fingers, slowly applying it to the length of both arms and what was left had been smothered onto your neck and upper chest. Massaging it in, you saw Elliott creep up behind you in the mirror in front of you. Your husband wrapped his arms around the curves of your waist, hands clasping against your belly button, dragging you closer to him so your nude back was against his naked front. He hummed in your ear, placing his nose against the crooks of your neck, pressing light kissing down the curve to your shoulder with a soft hum.

"Hello Elliott," you giggled, capping the lotion bottle.

"Hello (Y/n)," he murmured in your ear. "You look lovely in that top."

You glanced at yourselves in the mirror, an amused smirk plastered itself on your lips. You were not wearing a top, only a simple black bra. Black leggings sat covering your lace underwear, you were still barefoot.

"I'm not wearing a top Elliott. Only a bra."

"And it's quite ravishing on you if I must say." He leaned even closer to your ear, nipping at your earlobe. "And I love how I know what lies beneath its coverage."

He grasped at the silky pads of your bra and squeezed gently. A slight chill ran up your spine, a dainty smile on your lips now.

He always knew what to say to make you smile and blush like you were still a schoolgirl.

"You know, Elliott," you hummed - Elliott had busied himself with going back to kiss at your shoulder and the side of your neck - "we could go down to the saloon? To celebrate you being back in Pelican Town? My treat, yeah?"

"You spoil me, my starlight."

"Only if you want to. I don't know how you're feeling, but I'm in the mood for Gus' new shipment of alcohol from Grampleton. Caroline told me the melon wine is really good when I went to go for seeds at Pierre's. And Kent said he had a new beer in stock for people to try out. He said he liked it a lot."

"That wine sounds delicious, but not as delicious as you."

His hands lightly covering your belly button pushed into your stomach, pulling you closer to him. He swung you around to face him, your breasts pressed against his chest and he nudged you towards the bed until the back of your knees hit the soft mattress. Your butt had hit the soft blankets, surrounded by the plush flannel throws that had not been folded yet and would most likely not be folded until tomorrow.

Elliott had pursued, however, coming closer and closer until your back was flush against the flat surface of the bed. He hovered over you, one knee between you parted legs and the other was outstretched with his foot against the floor to stabilize himself as to not fall on you.

His hair was tucked behind his ears, but still hung out just a bit over his shoulders. His gaze was dreamy, warm, loveable, filling you with the desire for his care and touch.

He had slowly dipped his head down and pressed his lips to yours. A sweet, simple kiss was what it looked like on the surface, but Elliott's level of romance and his sway with words and emotions made it feel like so much more than what it was. He pulled away to show a faint blush over his tanned cheeks, showing off the light freckles on his nose just a bit more than usual.

You were left longing for another kiss, a soft whine leaving your slightly parted lips. You wanted more, you craved more. More kisses from him, more love from him.

Sensing your desire and growing need for him, Elliott had leaned down once more and reconnected your lips into an even more passionate kiss. Your chest pushed out just a touch at the kiss, a soft intake through your nose. Elliott's hands came up to wrap themselves around your wrists. Squeezing gently, just enough to have your fingers flexing, he pushed harder into the kiss.

Lips melded together, saliva had been swapped, noses brushing against one another with each connected kiss. You purred into the kiss, gasping as Elliott's sharp teeth had sunk into your bottom lip just a bit, enough to cause a sharp little sting, not biting down hard enough to draw blood. Your bare toes curled at the affection, your breathing because somewhat labored, Elliott had taken his lips away from yours to kiss at the exposed skin of your neck. Not satisfied with how much room he had to work with, he had let go of one of your hands to snag gently at your hair to tug at your locks just enough to pull the crown of your skull back and reveal more of your precious throat to him. Cool kisses pressed against heated skin, soft groans from your husband were blowing against the columns of your tensed throat. His teeth skimmed over the sensitive skin of your bobbing throat, threatening to take a bite of you. Your breath hitched when he nipped at you.

His hands released your hair and wrist for a brief moment, opting to snag at your bra and unhook it adeptly, tossing it to the side, allowing it lay rumpled on the pillows.

With your bare breasts exposed, Elliott cupped both of them with his lanky hands, agile fingers wrapping around the rosebuds of your nipples. Fingertips gently pressed together, squeezing your nipples ever so slightly. A small spike of pain erupted from both, a small cry left your swollen lips, your head pressing against the flannel sheets and throws cushioning your head and body. Elliott ducked his head down, lips immediately going to your right breast. He at first pressed light kisses around the curve of your breast before he had started to nip at the sensitive skin. He was still massaging your breasts, fingers still pinching at your nipples as your lower back arched off of the bed. You could feel his erection contained by his pants rub up against your knees and thighs.

Elliott growled lightly against your skin, humming in delight as you writhed underneath him. Soft pleas for him to continue escaped from your lips to which he gave in, you could feel his growing smirk ghost against your breasts.

Once he had deemed your right breast to be marked up enough with marks, he had moved to the left. Kissing, sucking, nipping, gently sinking his teeth in to not draw blood but leave a mark. He did it all until it had matched your right one, all while still playing with your sensitive nipples and massaging your aching breasts.

It felt amazing how he spoiled you with massages and touches and kisses. Like a gift from Yoba themself.

Elliott had trailed a kiss from between your breasts down to your stomach. He had removed his grasping hands from your breasts back to your wrists to pin them back onto the bed just as he had started to give love to your lower torso. Every scar was kissed lightly, lips brushing over them lightly like feathers. Every light and dark scar got love from him. The bandages you had placed not too long ago from a trip in the mines had got even lighter affection, but not any less. He murmured his apologies against them, about how you had gotten hurt without him there to aide you. He even kissed where he remembered you having some scars, both from your rambunctious past and from your times in the mines and on the farm. Like the one you had on your hip where the scythe had cut you open just a bit. The scar had faded thanks to Maru's tips on aftercare, but Elliott still remembered seeing the scar when you two were dating. The fact that he remembered and still gave tender love to the area was sweet.

You whined softly, missing his lips on yours.

As if reading he had been reading your mind, he had slowly made his way back up your center, between your breasts, up the columns of your neck back to your lips. As if starved himself, he had kissed you with a fiery passion, more than he had before. Growling into the cavity of your mouth, you had whimpered once more at the playful nipping at your lower lip.

Your lips acted in one movement, melding together like molten metals, working perfectly in harmony. Kisses with Elliott were never dull, love with Elliott was never bland. He was always full of a passionate energy that never stopped. He groaned again into your mouth, feeling your knees brush up against the erection pressing against the zipper of his trousers. You were teasing him, but you knew you would wait until tomorrow to do anything else. After all, you couldn't go limping around the luau tomorrow, especially in front of the governor. And you knew, you knew damn well, that Elliott would be standing there, smirking like a cheeky twat knowing full and well why you were limping as you would have to falsely explain how you must have hurt yourself farming (though, it would only fool a few of the residents as the rest would know instantly what had happened if they were to glance at the marks on your neck). You just had to not stir that pot, and you would get to enjoy the luau without limping everywhere with your legs tucked under you as to not fall over.

Elliott had pulled away for a brief moment, looking down at you from the curtains of thick auburn hair. Green eyes had glazed over, hazy but alert to your being below him. Sweat had covered his neck and bare chest, deliciously highlighting his body. A blush had fired up your cheeks, you had the lewd thought of tasting him just as he had tasted you, kissing and lightly lapping at his body. Just the thought had you drooling underneath him.

"Do you still want to continue? We may miss out on that wine Caroline had told you about," Elliott murmured above you.

"We can continue this afterwards," you hummed

#stardew valley #elliott x reader #elliott x farmer

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spacemonkeysalsa · 25 days

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Appetites

(Angst and fluff and smut)

It's been five years since the Vampire Ascendant Astarion helped save Baldur's Gate. He has everything he ever wanted, and he's miserable.

Isolde is nobody, and has nothing. When given the option to become a vampire spawn, her response gives Astarion a moment of pause; “No. Thank you. I think I’ll just die.”

Read Chapter One on Ao3

Read Chapter Two on Ao3

Read Chapter Three on Ao3

Read Chapter Four on Ao3

Read Chapter Five on Ao3

Read Chapter Six on Ao3

Read Chapter Seven on Ao3

Read Chapter Eight on Ao3

or read Chapter Eight below the cut

He really should have a contingency plan beyond just killing everyone who was an inconvenience, but it was just such a historically effective strategy—or, it had been so far. It wasn’t until Astarion was buttoning up his waistcoat over Rhapsody and approaching the entryway that he realized he ought to have asked how many flaming fists had come. If it was just one, or two, then they probably wouldn’t be missed, but many more than that and it seemed likely that even more would come looking. His body count for the last twenty four hours was not conducive to a low profile. He just wasn’t entirely sure what else to do. He’d try bribing them first, of course, but indiscriminate slaughter as a contingency plan was looking riskier every time he resorted to it. In addition, it had only taken them a few hours to track him down. Had he left a trail?

Then, to his discomfort, he saw it was only one flaming fist, but it was Rion.

She leaned against the banister in the entryway, arms crossed, eyes examining the portraiture, unimpressed. Her fist uniform and warhammer didn’t quite fit the aesthetic, but she looked as comfortable as an honored guest, not at all intimidated but the luxurious surroundings.

Shit. Bribery wasn’t an option, she wouldn’t go for it. Killing her wasn’t a good option, Jahiera would be devastated, and murderous. Blackmail? Threats? Coercion? No. Not yet. First, charm.

“Rion! I’m always saying you’re welcome here, never thought you’d take me up on the offer,” Astarion slid up against the banister next to her, to observe the portrait as well. It was one that had been hanging there for decades. He didn’t know the figure within and always found it tasteless, but hadn’t gotten around to ridding himself of it yet. “I was rather starting to think you didn’t like me.”

“This isn’t a social call.”

“Pity. I like socializing, not sure I can be much help with anything else. But let’s give it a try, what can I do for you?”

She took a long moment to respond, and he tried to read her expression. Her breath was a little shallow, her jaw clenched. She seemed upset, but not as guarded as he would have thought. Maybe she wasn’t here to ask him about any bodies just yet, but he couldn’t think what else it could be. Surely, this had to be about the dead noblemen. “My mother trusts you.”

Astarion hadn’t expected that, and couldn’t hold back a scoff. “Oh, dear. Give her more credit than that.”

“No. She does,” Rion did sound a little disappointed. “She didn’t, for a long time, but things have changed.”

“She thinks I’m on the path to redemption?” Astarion tried to force a tone of chiding, but it turned too vicious and he found himself dissatisfied with his own performance.

“More like everyone else is on the path to damnation, but you’ve been there long enough to slow down and have some perspective,” Rion shrugged.

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it just,” Rion rolled her eyes and looked away from the portrait but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m saying this because I have to ask you some questions, but I don’t expect the truth from you.” This rather blunt declaration was punctuated with a frown that lingered as she added, “I’ll accept lies, for now, because I honestly don’t know what else to do. And I have to come back with something. But. If there’s some kind of trouble, the kind my uniform can only complicate, maybe consider that the High Harper is still your ally, in spite of everything.” Now she was guarded, but just a touch and just for a moment.

Then it dawned on Astarion that this strange attitude from her might not have anything to do with him. Rion had always been too idealistic for her own good.

It had to be difficult, being a flaming fist and believing in something. He couldn't relate to either experience, but he could imagine.

He spared a moment to pity her before he nodded his assent. Whatever her dilemma, it seemed he would benefit from it.

“Baron Horrold has gone missing, and one of his rivals Baron De Cloyo and his wife were murdered last night.”

“Oh! How very shocking, and tragic,” Astarion thought he actually managed to express something as close to genuine surprise as he ever had before, but Rion wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t even noting his response. She didn’t care.

“The corpses aren’t talking, but the living are. A lot. According to Horrold’s people, he was meant to come here last night.”

“He did,” Astarion decided he might as well tell a half truth rather than a full lie, “just before sunset. We discussed business until about midnight and he left.”

“Midnight?”

“Yes. My majordomo has gone walkabout. But, you could ask the groom what time exactly he was able to see them off. I’m sure I was at rest by that point.”

“Alright.” Rion’s response was far from enthusiastic. “That gives me a timeline. Thank you.”

“Timeline? For how long he’s been missing?”

“His wife believes he’s dead also. Or, she’s insisting he must be. At first, I thought it could just be a way to throw suspicion off of him for the De Cloyo's deaths. But, she wants to use a scroll of true resurrection that the family has in their vault to bring him back. We have three days to find the body first. Waste not.”

Even in the moment, Astarion was impressed by his own ability not to appear affected by this information. He hoped. He also appreciated how quickly he came to a conclusion about it and actually made a plan. Find it. Steal it. “I may be wealthy and powerful, but a scroll of true resurrection waiting in the wings to bring you back to life?” It was easy to laugh and for it to sound like genuine mirth. It was just so absurd, “Why—gossip travels fast, but I imagine half the patriars won’t even know he was gone!” He gave in to the urge to giggle again, feeling moisture at the corners of his eyes, “That’s real privilege for you. I’m terribly jealous.”

“Would that even work on you?” Rion raised an eyebrow at him.

“I— yes ,” he cleared his throat, “I mean. In the sense that I think if you killed me now and used one, it would be like nothing happened. But any greater utility than that timed out long ago.” He hadn’t actually looked into it too deeply, because everything he’d heard confirmed his bleak beliefs.

He remembered vividly, the long passed day he learned that he’d been a spawn for too long. A scroll of true resurrection could theoretically offer a route back to freedom and mortality. An escape from undeath, if used one on a spawn that was still new enough.

Astarion hadn’t been new enough for a long time.

Of course, much later, that skeleton had hung around handing them out for a deep discount, but in Astarion’s case it had never come up. “Even then though, maybe not.” He shrugged, “I guess I don’t actually have any idea. Now that you ask. And the opportunity to find out passed by. I certainly like to think your mother and our other allies would’ve brought me back, when we were overflowing with access to that magic for practically nothing. But, I made a serious effort not to die in the first place. I’m well aware that people don’t go around saving my kind. Quite the opposite. We die and everyone agrees; it's for the best.”

Rion didn’t say anything to that. Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed like he’d struck a cord. Or, maybe she was having a totally unrelated conversation with herself inside her own mind. She finally nodded, with a somewhat self-conscious look on her face when she caught him staring at her. “All right. I’ll just pop in and have a word with your groom on the way out.”

“Tah,” Astarion offered lazily. He watched her walk out, arms crossed and rhapsody biting into his wrist through the fabric. If he’d had to guess, and he supposed he did because it was rather important to have a theory, he’d say that Rion knew full well he was lying and that either he knew the Baron was dead, or knew something about his disappearance. She probably didn’t think he’d killed him, outright. But, she didn’t exactly seem troubled by his death. The scroll of true resurrection could be responsible for that apathy, but he wasn’t sure that was the only thing. What she’d said about Jaheira stuck him, even as he found himself following after her. Confide in the High Harper that he needed help? That seemed to be what she was implying.

But, Rion was wrong. Jahiera wouldn’t just help him for the hell of it. And he didn’t need help. Everything was fine. Some people were dead. A scroll of true resurrection needed to be stolen so one of those dead people couldn’t tell everyone how they died. These were problems, indeed, but he hardly needed to employ the righteous scrutiny or aid of a folk hero to solve them.

He could handle this.

Jahiera might trust him, and that trust might be enabled by sentiment or senility. But that trust would only go so far. Covering up a murder was far beyond the pale and he was a little surprised Rion would be so careless as to say anything at all. Somewhere, deep down, she had to know that he wasn’t a reformed murderer and never would be.

But that wasn’t what Astarion found himself pondering as he hit the streets of Bladur’s Gate, under the blazing sun. He wasn’t ready to plan a heist, or to work out what was going on with Rion and her mother and the whole of the flaming fist. His feet carried him, somewhat without his intention, towards the House of Grief.

Where the fuck was his majordomo?

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 astarion #astarion #bg3 astarion #ascended astarion #appetites #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic

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thevenuscross · 4 months

Text

composure; prologue

masterlist | next chapter

warnings: lowkey the brother is annoying in some parts, thats all tbh

word count: 2.1k

authors note: the prologue was supposed to be shorter lol, d1 yapper over here y’all.

prologue

The sounds of chatter from your eldest brother and the sounds of clatter from shoes on royal tile warped in and out of your ears. It was like you were drowning, only hearing one syllable to waves crashing you deeper and deeper. There was nothing more frustrating than when your brother began his anxious rambles, where there’s no end to it because his arrogant mind cannot be aware of others' sensitivity to the matter. He wasn’t aware of how you were trying so hard not to spin around and lash out on him; to finally scold him for good after all these years. Let him know how his rambles never helped.

You took a deep breath. In and out. Clasping your hands together in front of you, you started to count numbers in your head.

It was just…you wished he could shush his overwhelming thoughts that trembled your body in fits during these kinds of situations. But never would you let your unwanted thoughts leave your lips. You will continue to conceal them in the back of your mind like you always have and always will. If there was anyone who would conceal their own worries from the ever-growing rumors of war, it was you. You who kept your head high.

Besides, his maid was providing him with reasonable explanations for his rambles. Something you were extremely grateful for.

“If this is such an emergency for them, why must they let us run across the castle grounds to reach the common? They are lucky we were not busy.”

“Sir, if I may, no one expected for them to call upon you in such haste,” His maid said in exasperation as he tried to keep up with everyone’s pace, “We were only notified of this minutes ago.”

“Maybe you should’ve warned us quicker but no, the minute you reached the botanicals, you and my sister’s maid, both decided to dally in a story of the rumors of war instead of outright saying it was urgent.”

Your brother’s maid tried to usher an explanation, probably a reason why he and your maid started with the rumors, but, typical of your brother, he scoffed, shaking his head. “By now we've already known a war is on breach. You did not need to give us a backstory on such.”

“Yes, your Highness, but you must know—“

Tempted to roll your eyes and scoff too, you squeezed your hands. You had enough of this one-sided conversation. With the commons room only ten more steps in front, you relished in pretending to let the waves tumble in your head. The voices behind you faltered and the muffled silence filled you with tranquility. Not uttering a single word, you swiftly opened the oak doors where it was lined with gold. Returning your hands back in front of you, you bowed forward to your parents where they stood, facing each other, their own conversation falling short.

“Mother, father.” You addressed, grateful they still bowed their heads to you.

It didn’t take long for your brother to spill his thoughts onto them. “Will our army be sent to the cliffside on Jackson? Or is the war finally commencing?”

Always in your life had you let your brother do the questioning, the disobeying, the defiance. . Even if your own longed to unravel that side of you. Deep down, you know questioning your parents will not be considered lightly. They had already set the future paths for you and your brother where he will be the one crowned in ruling this kingdom. And you…you couldn’t exactly realize where your life was heading. In all of your twenty-eight years of living, you only knew manners and skills they believed fit right in case they wanted you to be a future queen.

Though your parents weren’t known to be direct with you.

“There is no war in this kingdom. Or will a war happen in the many centuries to come. The conflict between us and the neighboring kingdom will be solved within months. You of all people should not be conflicted with the lies of the rumor.”

Your brother squinted his eyes in disbelief, “Then why are our maids sharing tales of rumors of the supposed war? Do you believe so little in us to come to your call because we are older? Cross I will be if it is just simple news.”

Waves were crashing upon you again. You hid the shakes of your hands by squeezing them tight together. It was an upside to staying silent for most of your life as it made you invisible to most eyes wherever you were. Your sight scattered across the room to catch something that will hold your attention for a couple of minutes and that’s when you saw them. The both of them like statues, patiently waiting for your parents to address them.

Two knights in the room and you were the only one looking at them now.

They wore high quality silver armor, their entire body hidden by the weight of it. Their shoulders aligned perfectly with the other as their chest was buffed. A steel sword rested on their leather scabbards, a shield with the kingdom’s design being held by their left hand. Their helms of silver covered every part of their face, the only thing you can see if they were closer was their visor. You were glad you couldn’t exactly see if they caught you observing them and if they knew, they did nothing of the sort to let you know.

“Listen to your father.” Your mother’s strict tone broke your observance. Her pointed glare quieted your brother, allowing him to stand beside you and listen. “There is no war and there will be no war on these lands. Do you understand?”

You peeked at your brother. He was biting the inside of his cheeks. At first, he opened his mouth but let those unanswered questions down his throat. His fingers anxiously started to tap against his thigh in a scattered pattern. When tense silence gathered in the room, your father exhaled deeply and moved away from your mother’s side and closer to where the knights were. Your brother’s eyes widened slightly but he stayed quiet.

Once your father reached the knights, his eyes met yours then your brother’s. “We’ve noticed the crime has increased due to the…lies spread across the kingdom. As people grow relentless with royalty, me and your mother decided it was best for both of you to have personal guards.”

You didn’t notice your brother glancing over at you.

“These knights are one of the best under the royal regiment. With great skill in sword, they will grant you protection. Your guard must follow you everywhere, even if you think you might not need it.”

You wanted to scrunch your face in, a flicker of annoyance rumbling inside of you. Flocks of questions crept into your throat, your lips being the gate to keep them locked. This is what you were trained to do since birth. Keep quiet in your defiances, keep your composure in your impulsiveness. Biting the edge of your tongue and gulping your questions down and allowing your brother to remark.

It’s too late now to change.

Though for a couple of minutes, your brother did not speak. His eyes were glued to the guards. His tapping increased in pace before he shut his eyes and clasped onto his hands to stop the taps.

“If you want another body to follow us like some street dog then so be it but I know why the two of you did this.”

“Brother,” you grumbled out as he shrugged his shoulders.

“Forgive me or not but you know I am right.”

You and your brother caught each other’s glance and you saw a swarm of pleas. You couldn’t hear how he whispered a please to you. Or how defeated he was when you turned back to face your parents.

“Mother, father, forgive me, but if a war will not happen in our kingdom then why the personal knights. And if the crime is increasing because of the crippling fear of war-“

“There is no war!” Your father bellowed, face contorted. His shout rocked your brother into a whimpering boy, cowering and head low, eyes shut. Slowly, his tapping was back on the side of his thigh. “What will it take to get through your stubbornness?!” The roughness in his voice, the added texture of anger, it all made the room fall to a deathly tremble.

Your brother started in a hushed croak “Father,”

“Enough.”

Your brother bit his words so your parents could carry on. With frustration quipped, their introductions of the two knights were kept short to both.

The guard to the left, slightly taller from the one on the right, was your brother’s. Trained under the royal regiment for ten years where he earned the ranking of Grand Cross, the highest of all rankings. It was an honor to be a personal knight for a royal, but to you, it seemed like a detriment. Always on the watch, always on patrol.

Seemed treacherous.

His guard bowed with his shield and fist over his heart. Your brother eyed him but soon bowed his head as well.

You prayed for his guard.

But you couldn’t pray for yourself.

It was easy for you to stay hidden and stay polite with others because you barely were around people. Either in your room honing the skills set or visiting the town square or the botanicals alone, only calling your maid when you needed her. Your life was centered on keeping your composure.

Now he, your new personal guard, must follow you around, must watch over you, must not let anything get to you. You couldn’t help but want to push and deny any access to anyone watching you.

Though one must not allow such impulsions.

Angsty to be face to face in front of him, you gripped your hands. You couldn’t remember when he was in front of you or when his introduction was over for him. Or when you remembered when your body had a mind of its own and that it remembered how to properly greet someone. He only bowed with his head, shield to his heart.

He stared at you with eyes like a hawk. Through his visor, you saw the darkness in his eyes, the color hidden. If he’s like this, you may need to visit the town square less and less, more hidden in your room.

To your surprise, he hasn’t uttered the words of a knight, where one was grateful to serve for you, protect you. He just stood and soon enough, you wanted to stay in your bedroom for months on end. It was okay if he was only here for a pay raise.

It would ease the notion that he wasn’t into this job.

You formed a tight smile, “Thank you, Sir.”

One must never lose their composure. No matter the situation they are brought upon. That is how one should rule for their people, even if that one will never be the ruler.

It nerved you how he kept five paces behind you like he was supposed to. Or how he hasn't spoken a single word to you even though it was only you two in the halls. He wasn’t like your maid who tried to start a conversation with you, either if it was personal or something simple. She couldn’t bear an awkward silence like he did.

Upon reaching your bedroom, ready to twist the knob and enter, you hesitated. Secretly, you glimpsed at him from the side. You noticed how his shoulders were too tight and how he would slightly shift from one side to the other. Though, you weren’t worried about his awkward stance—you were more worried about how far these protocols went.

Standing there for a minute and racking your brain to ask him a question, your thoughts froze when his eyesight shifted to look at you directly.

“Are you gonna ask me something?” He uttered, muffled. A peep of irk in his tone. You spotted a slight accent but couldn’t decipher where it would be.

You battled with yourself on not asking him if his mother ever taught him respect or if he ever went through knight training.

You stood straighter than before and gripped the knob of your door tighter.

“Where would you be posted if I entered my room?”

He didn’t move. “Outside.” He stated it so obvious, you couldn’t help but to bite your tongue in hope you can swallow your words instead of chewing him out.

“Okay.”

The both of you gazed at one another for a couple seconds before you turned your knob and opened your door. Bowing to him so you wouldn’t show your hindrance, you then turned away.

“Good day, Sir.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

taglist: @mermaidgirl30

(if u wanna be added, just tell me!)

#joel miller masterlist #joel the last of us #joel x reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #knight joel miller #idk how to write medieval people #tlou masterlist #joel tlou #this brother is such a character #joel miller x you

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insurrection-writes · 10 months

Text

SINCERELY | TVD

"i would live this life a thousands more times just to meet you."

"i wouldn't."

ONE.

a/n: thoughts and suggestions always welcome, I thrive off picking others brains and mashing ideas together. enjoy part one.

PART : ONE TWO THREE …

Dark.

Cold.

Sort of like what Mauve thought death would be like. Not like the Christians explained it, it definitely was not a white paradise in the sky or a burning pit in the midst of the earth. Instead, a nothing filled void, no sounds, no movement. Seemingly cramped for something she assumed stretched on forever in every direction, an infinite loop.

She always imagined that, after death, she would just cease to exist. That's what made the most sense to her. Nothing magical. No God to relay and judge her "sins", or some wonderful white world she would meet every person ever lost in her time on earth.That was not ever a possibility in her mind.

She understand, theoretically, that her brain was just firing neurons, electrons, electricity, the only reason she had thoughts or a consciousness was because of evolution and the growth through time.

If those electrons stopped, she would stop. Her consciousness gone forever and she would just, be gone.

That's what she hoped for, at least. To just, not exist. To rid her mind of every memory, every pain, to no longer feel. Anything. Nothing.

Mauve took her own life on October 17th. A few old pain pills from a car accident and some cheap Vodka, she wished to go in her sleep, without a mess for anyone to clean, just a used body bag and possibly a plot in the ground.

She spent the day writing a note, cuddling her dogs and left the television on in the bedroom, watching the show Bones as she took the pills down with vodka from the freezer, thirteen separate pulls to swallow all twenty-eight pills. She had laughed at the show as she began to tire, allowing herself to finally roll over and hug a pillow to her chest, her dog lay curled in the bend of her knees, and she shut her eyes.

Only to open them to this void.

It worked, she thought.

So why, after death, was she still here?

Time didn't seem to pass. She had no concept of how long she could have possibly been in this void. She couldn't see her arms or legs, couldn't move herself. It was just, her thoughts. Her mind. The thing she tried to kill, still seemingly alive.

Suddenly, it flashed. The void. It was moving. More like a pulse. Light steadily thrumming and moving to a beat she did not want to begin to understand. It started taking shape. A room, with a old, stained wood bedroom set. Old wood stained to a dark color forming the bed frame, night stands, dressers and desk. It seemed cozy.

Then it paused.

The whole void erupted in a bright white light, for what seemed like possibly forever, yet no time at all.

Once it the light blinked out of existence, she saw her body again. She was back.

The second thing she noticed, was that she was in that same room.

Examining her limbs and torso, she was whole again.

She spent the next few moments exploring, figuring out pretty quickly that she was not only in a room, but a pretty decent sized home in the middle of the woods. She walked out the front door, met with a small gravel path to a fence, backed by woods that she could not enter. An invisible barrier blocking her from going further.

She had traded the void for another imprisonment. A house with food that replaced its self and grass that never grew.

The first year of apparent imprisonment, Mauve spent writing letters. Every day. Tracking her time by writing out her thoughts on the apparent never ending stationary on the raggedy old wooden desk that creaked with every shift of her wrist. Shoving the letters into the little slide out drawer.

Only for them to disappear day after day. Every day. She had no clue where they went, or even if they did go anywhere. Just that they'd be gone the next day.

After about four hundred and seventy-two days, she almost gave up. She wished for the void again, almost.

472,

I still feel stupid, writing letters to an imaginary person, when in reality, I am the only person who will ever sees these things.

I've run out room for tally's on the wall in the kitchen, I had to start a new one in the dinning room. That's the one of only thing that sticks here in the house. The things I make and display. Everything else, well, loops.

It's day four-hundred and seventy two.

It's been a year and 107 days.

Time seems irrelevant.

Spending my time unwisely would have sent past me into a spiral, yet here, it soothes me.

Studying things I never thought of before, learning of native plants to different regions. Things outside of the house don't seem to loop as well as the things inside.

Last night, I came across a book on plants in Virginia, I am certain that this hobby has a scientific name of some kind. Not that I could google it to find out.

These bushes drawn in the book are the same that wrap around the fence line. They're called Sweetspires. I am not totally sure if this means I am in Virginia, but my gut says I am.

I spent the morning in the garden. My tomatoes are almost ready to harvest, as well as the green beans. That sounds so dumb to be excited about, I know, but it's a fun hobby. It makes the passage of time tolerable.

Maybe I'll stop writing. See if anything changes. Maybe if I change my routine, I'll see something different. I don't know.

The longer I am here, the more I start to think I should try again. Maybe it'll stick this time.

Probably not.

Sincerely, Mauve

#elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaleson imagine #klaus mikaelson #klaus mikealson fanfiction #niklaus mikaelson #elijah mikealson x reader #tvd elijah #damon salvarote #tvd damon #stefan salvatore #tvd stefan #soulmates #soulmate!au

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copperbadge · 1 year

Text

Tarot Predictions for 2023

Rather than a long post with a bunch of images, I thought I’d consolidate the posts from last night and drop it all here. Given everything, I’m pleased at how coherent I was, even if mostly what I remember is thinking “This is dark.”

The theme of this year is dual, immense effort and the necessity of collaboration; not an easy year but a productive one. The ongoing message was that a lot of hard work and endurance is required. I am choosing to believe this means “hold on as long as you can because something good is coming” because otherwise yes, it’s a dark reading for the year.

What this struggle might entail I wasn’t sure, but if we skip forward (or rather, bring a portion of the reading backwards) to the segment known as the Wall, which is the barrier to happiness, there might be some answers. The problem that requires the hard work seems to be a struggle to master something -- the ability to adapt, though it’s more complicated than that.

One of the reasons I didn’t go in-depth during the initial reading is that there’s something eerie, and I didn’t want to deal with it just then. The Wall is seven cards, and the first card is fine, eight of coins, that’s about taking a path to mastery. The next three cards are, very improbably, in sequence: The Fool, the Magician, the Priestess. The Fool is either card 22 or 0 of the Major Arcana, depending, but either way it precedes the Magician and the Priestess, who are cards one and two. On the surface, this suggests moving from immaturity to wisdom or from subservience to power, much as the eight of coins does, but I would like to also posit that represents the renewing of a cycle. It’s not just that one needs endurance to get through the year but that during the course of the year some kind of cycle will complete itself and reset to the start. What that is, I don’t know. It may be economic -- we may actually hit the “roaring twenties” this year -- or it may be political. It does not seem...great.

There appears to have been, recently, a surge of nostalgia during the pandemic, which the cards say is leading a lot of what’s going on culturally. A lot of the “hard work” is tied up in dealing with this...emotional subjectivity. Think of it like having to look after a drunk acquaintance who is being maudlin. Not really what you want to be doing and you don’t know them that well but for the next few hours you’re their entire emotional support network.

However, just that knowledge can be helpful, because there is a payoff for perseverance. Don’t give in to heightened emotions or destructive impulses, don’t make irrational decisions and a major catastrophe (implied to be economic) can be avoided. I’ve rarely seen a reading where something was so conditional, where a disaster is possible but also avoidable. Usually the readings are more along the lines of “oh, that disaster’s definitely coming, here’s how to cope.” This is more like "if you don’t panic, nothing will get broken.”

The year will start off well, with progress, particularly technological breakthroughs, early in the year. As spring begins, however, there’s a serious cultural clash, tied into several just-beginning power struggles. One major power struggle will be resolved, positively, by the end of the year; I said I’d come back to read a little more about that, but I’m still having trouble identifying it. It seems to involve a startup (a powerful, ambitious person with some kind of initiative) and a resolution to do with emotional balance, but that’s all I’m seeing. Here, too, there’s a theme of completion, of cycles coming to an end and renewing.

In late spring there’s a lot of upheaval, but of the back-and-forth variety more than the sudden cataclysm. This will last through summer -- not pleasant, but it will offer a lot of insight along the way. Autumn will be a time of reconciliation or rebalancing, which itself might not be entirely peaceful in nature. Last night I wasn’t pleased that the year didn’t seem to come to a neat end within the reading, but I think that’s because there’s a strong "ending” at the end of summer. Autumn is recovery time but as far as the cards are concerned the “year” ends there. I might actually have to do another reading if I want to know about winter 2023. Or winter 2023 might just be blessedly quiet after the rest of the year.

It will be very tempting to try to cope with this year via escapism. There’s no value judgement placed on the idea of mental escape; it sounds like it’s being suggested as a possible coping mechanism. But calm and skill, not denial, are key to coming through unscathed.

Speaking of escapism, in terms of fandom-specific predictions, there are two forces in opposition to each other in the coming year, scarcity and stability. It will be a good year for fandom, with a lot of interesting new canons, but as with any influx of fannish activity there’s a higher rate of wank. You can have plenty of content or you can have stable low-drama content but not both at once.

There will be a major discussion of fandom in the media (seems like a safe bet) but it will be more positive than usual this time around.

There will be a transition in fandom, possibly a huge new fandom or a cultural shift somehow. If a new fandom, possibly something very artsy and weird like Pushing Daisies or a return to the gently-supernatural genre shows of the 90s like Strange Luck and Early Edition.

There will be a general swing towards positive shows and positive fannish content -- not that there’s necessarily a lack of it now, but it’s what will be in demand, cheerful stories with happy or hopeful messages.

Either a new canon concerning travel or speed (racing, possibly) or a new genre of fanfic -- the travelogue fanfic, perhaps.

Fandom-wise, the general idea seems to be tragedy, ambition, drama, creativity all as normal -- seems like a pretty standard year in fandom, keeping on as we always have, changing as needed.

Anyway, that’s the more expanded and also more condensed version of last night’s reading for 2023. I guess we’ll check back in April and see if I did better than last year!

#tarot #predictions #2023

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waytooinvested · 1 month

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Forgotten, Not Forgiven - Chapter 8

Still reeling from finding out the truth herself, Lena suddenly finds herself in the midst of an odd role reversal in which she knows that Kara is Supergirl, but Kara no longer has any idea she has ever been more than an ordinary human. And what’s more, Lena has no choice but to keep the truth from her for her own protection…

Rift era reconciliation/fix-it fic, starts out kind of on the angsty side but there will be more fluff down the line.

This and previous chapters are also on AO3

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Lena did her best to swipe a hand over her sweaty brow while clutching two full cups of iced coffee. It was hot. Unseasonably so for so early in the year, and made worse by the fact that the coffee cart was out in the full blaze of the sun, no handy tree or parasol in sight to offer shade.

She thought longingly of her crisp, air conditioned office, but made no move to head in that direction.

After they had bumped into each other here before work for the second time in two days, Kara and Lena had, without discussing the matter, taken to waiting for each other every morning, then walking together until the paths to their respective work places diverged. Sometimes that meant one or other of them would be standing here for fifteen minutes for the sake of an eight minute walk, but Lena didn’t mind. Starting the morning with Kara had become part of her routine.

She told herself that it was mostly just nice to have an excuse to be outside and take in some vitamin D before shutting herself away in her office all day, but if that had been true she could have started doing this at any time and hadn’t. She was here for Kara.

Kara, who was late.

The spiced pumpkin cinnamon iced latte Lena had bought her was sweating through its paper cup, the ice melting rapidly into the coffee as the minutes ticked by. Today of all days she really needed to see Kara, but if she didn’t arrive soon, she was going to have to-

‘Sorry sorry sorry! Gah, I am so late, I can’t believe you waited for me all this time! There was a power cut in my apartment last night and my alarm clock reset itself, I only just woke up’.

Lena smiled back at a slightly dishevelled Kara, the long wait instantly insignificant as she handed over the drink.

‘That’s alright, I haven’t been here that long’.

Lie.

‘Having an alarm clock that relies on mains power is asking for trouble though’.

‘You are so right, I know, I just always worry that batteries would run down and I wouldn’t notice’.

‘No problem, I’ll make you something a little more reliable. Can’t have tardiness getting in the way of National City’s best reporter getting her scoop’.

Kara grimaced, picking at the lid of her cup without taking a sip.

‘My Who Wore it Best? scoop you mean? Yeah, I think the world will be fine waiting an extra twenty minutes for that.’

‘Seriously? Andrea still has you on the fashion beat?’

‘Yep. I think she’s punishing me for how much we butted heads when she first arrived. Sorry, I shouldn’t be saying this to you, I know Andrea’s your friend. I’m sure she’s a great business woman, it’s just… ever since I started Catco was about getting the truth out there. Sure there was always the lighter stuff too, but we were reporting real stories with integrity and making a difference, and I loved that about my job. With Andrea it’s all about getting more hits, even if that means publishing a load of sensationalist clickbait and pop quizzes’.

Kara looked so utterly dejected as she spoke that Lena felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Of course she knew already what Andrea was doing to Catco, it had been the entire point of choosing her to sell it to. Removing the truth and integrity from her journalistic endeavours had been the perfect revenge on Kara for her own lack of it when it had come to their personal relationship, and yet now she found it wasn’t as satisfying as she had expected it to be. In fact, with Kara no longer aware of what she had done to deserve it, and the up close and personal view of just how completely Andrea had changed things in so short a time, Lena almost wished she could take it back...

‘Maybe once she’s been there a little longer things will settle down and she’ll find more of a balance? It isn’t easy to keep an organisation like Catco turning a profit on hard hitting journalism alone, I found that out myself when I was in charge, and James and I clashed about it a few times in the beginning. But we found our way eventually, right?’

‘Yeah, I guess that’s true. Maybe I just got spoiled getting to work with my best friend every day. I know you needed the money and I don’t blame you for selling up, but I miss you being there’.

‘I miss it too’.

It was nothing more than a meaningless platitude – the response she had to give in order to maintain the bond that Kara believed they had as part of getting her memories back, but it also rang truer than Lena cared to admit. She wasn’t sorry that she had sold Catco (though maybe just a little bit sorry that it had been to Andrea) – the whole acquisition had only ever been for Kara’s sake, and after she’d found out about her lie she couldn’t continue to pour so much of her capital into a place she could no longer bear to set foot in. But all the same, this playing pretend with a version of Kara that seemed so much like the one she had once believed to be real brought home how happy she had been back then, and how hollow her life had felt since they stopped speaking.

‘Do you want me to have a word with Andrea? She really is wasting your talents keeping you tied to fashion’.

She made the offer without quite thinking through exactly how uncomfortable (and in all likelihood both personally revealing and entirely pointless) that conversation would be, but luckily she wasn’t going to have to find out. Kara winced at the idea and shook her head very firmly.

‘Oh god, no please don’t! Thank you, but I’d feel like way too much like a little kid asking her mommy to tell the teacher to stop picking on her. No, it’s fine really, I’m just venting. I guess I’m just frustrated that I feel like I’m not doing anything to help people anymore. Maybe I need to volunteer at a soup kitchen or something’.

And there it was. The perfect opening, dropped unlooked for into her lap like a gift, and Lena knew she had to take it. She smiled brightly, pushing away the unaccountable reluctance that rose up along with the words she needed to say next. Probably just nerves.

‘That’s not a bad idea, but actually there’s something you could do to really help me, if you think you’d be interested’.

‘Yes of course, anything! What do you need?’

‘There’s a side project I’ve been working on for a while now. It uses a particular type of soothing stimulation to interact with the brain of a subject in order to help them overcome trauma or other mental blocks. It’s entirely none invasive, and in theory it could have applications for treating a whole host of conditions far more effectively than medication. I’m hoping in time it will be used alongside therapy to help everyone from war veterans to refugees to people with mental health disorders and dementia’.

This was not exactly a lie. Lena was hopeful that with agreement from the DEO to use their technology, the Q-wave device could be adapted to do exactly what she had just told Kara it would do. It just wasn’t the primary purpose.

‘That sounds amazing Lena! Wow, you could help so many people with something like this. Thousands’.

‘Hundreds of thousands, I hope. But before we can get to that stage… I need a test subject. I was wondering whether you might be willing to be my guinea pig? It would require repeated sessions over a number of weeks, maybe even longer, but I thought after the trial if all goes well you could write an article about it, including your own personal experience of using the technology. That way you’d get something out of it to show Andrea, and we could spread the word to the people who might need it’.

‘Oh… Well of course I’d love to help and I will absolutely write the article, but are you sure I’m the right fit for the clinical trial? You said it’s to help people with trauma, and that’s not exactly me’.

Lena choked on a sip of coffee. Of all the objections she had thought Kara might have around this, her own lack of trauma was not one of them.

‘Kara, a few weeks ago you were kidnapped by a gang and kept in an induced coma for a week’.

Kara shrugged, like it was the sort of mundane annoyance that happened all the time and barely worth mentioning.

‘Okay yeah, point taken, but it wasn’t nearly as big a deal as that makes it sound. I just don’t want to deny the opportunity to someone who could benefit so much more from what you’re doing – it’s not like I’m a soldier or a refugee or anything’.

But of course, that’s exactly what she was. What Kara Zor El was. A refugee who had come further than almost any other on the planet in search of safety, and yet when she got here she had started protecting the people of Earth, rather than seeking protection from them. Despite all the ways they seemed so different, that was one of the commonalities Lena could see between Kara Danvers and Supergirl. They were both so focused on others, so hopeful and positive in so many ways, that it was easy to just blithely accept statements like ‘I don’t have any trauma’ as objective fact. But even before Lena had found out who Kara really was, she had known that wasn’t true.

They had even talked about it, sometimes.

Usually it had been very late at night, when the world felt quiet and somehow not as real as it did during the day, and alone on Lena’s balcony, or in Kara’s loft with only the dim glow of the muted tv screen to light their faces, they had found a way to open up about things they would usually gloss over or make light of.

On those nights they had exchanged stories of being lonely orphans trying to find their feet in new families with strange expectations, and despite the difference in their ages when it had happened and the vastly different type of home they had ended up in in, they had found more common ground than otherwise. It had been one of the things that had made Lena trust Kara so completely. She had understood, when so few people ever could. Even now she knew that what Kara had told her must have been significantly edited to avoid mentioning the fact that her first family had been from another planet, she didn’t believe – couldn’t believe – that the essence of what they had shared on those occasions had been a lie.

It made her wish – fleetingly, pointlessly – that they were sitting cross legged on Kara’s living room floor in the dark right now, a bottle of wine half finished between them and empty take out containers littering the table along with whatever boardgame they hadn’t yet put away. If they had been, maybe Kara wouldn’t be shrugging off her experiences as ‘not a big deal’. Maybe Lena would admit how she really felt about the years of deception, and the fallout after she discovered the truth. Maybe they would be able to talk openly about all of it, and maybe, in that space if in no other, they would have found a way to make it right again for real.

But the sun was bright in the sky, there was a crowd of other office workers around them waiting to cross the road, and it was no time for tear-stained confessions. So Lena shrugged away the painful past that hung invisibly around them like the folds of the cape Kara no longer wore, and took the statement at face value.

‘Well, in any case, at this stage of research it will be useful to repeat the trial with people who have had all sorts of different life experiences, traumatic or otherwise. And honestly, I’d find it very reassuring to have my first subject be a friend…’

A brightly painted truck drove past them, chimes optimistically jingling out a slightly distorted rendition of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ despite the early hour, and it gave Lena an idea that might just go down better for both of them than pushing the trauma angle.

‘… I can offer you post-session ice cream, if that sweetens the deal at all?’

It must have been the right choice because Kara grinned, a tension that hadn’t obviously been there until it was gone dissolving from her posture.

‘Of course I’ll do it if you’re sure you want me, that’s not even a question! And you don’t have to bribe me with ice cream, I’m not six’.

But her eyes were still following the truck as it disappeared around the corner, undermining her protestation somewhat and making Lena smile despite herself.

‘Okay, so… no ice cream?’

‘Oh no, I will TAKE the ice cream. I just meant you don’t have to make it worth my while. I’m happy to do it just because it’s helping you’.

In a now-rare gesture of physical affection, Kara looped her arm through Lena’s and gave it a little squeeze. Lena didn’t squeeze back, but she didn’t try to find an excuse to let go either, and they continued to walk arm in arm as they took the turning that would lead them towards L-Corp.

‘Good, because I have been having the biggest craving for Cherry Garcia, and that suggestion was mostly just an excuse for me to get some guilt free sugar. Everyone knows it doesn’t count if you’re eating ice cream with a clinical trial participant’.

‘Really? Huh, I never heard of that loophole before’.

‘Of course. It’s one of the first things they teach you during undergraduate research methods classes: the pitfalls of sampling bias, linear and logistic regression analysis, and the inviolable rule of ice cream after you scan someone’s brain’.

Kara actually laughed aloud at that, and tried (unsuccessfully) to do a little ‘darn it’ arm pump without sloshing her drink, ending up with pumpkin-scented coffee running down her hand.

‘If I’d known that maybe I’d have gone into scientific research rather than journalism! All we get is pizza when we have to stay late for a breaking news event’.

‘Oh, I think there’s room for pizza and ice cream in your life’.

‘There definitely is. Maybe even with a side order of potstickers’.

‘An interesting combination’.

Kara shook the excess liquid off her hand before wiping it off on her thigh and grinning.

‘You know me, I like to live life by the seat of my pants’.

#supercorp #kara danvers #supergirl #lena luthor #If you enjoy it consider leaving me a comment on AO3?#my fic #supercorp fanfic #supergirl fanfiction #kara x lena #multi chapter fic #Forgotten Not Forgiven

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