#god i've forgotten how to even tag writing anymore...

[sesamestreep]

Crozier/Fitzjames, fake amnesia

from this list of reverse tropes for fic writers. i told @firstelevens I wasn’t sure I had it in me to write fic for these two and then I went and washed my hair and while I did that, this idea popped into my head fully formed and I was bound by honor to write it down. Also it’s the first thing my brain has wanted to write in like two months, so I took that as a good sign?? Anyway, here’s…something. Kind of a Parks and Rec AU?? but also not in any serious way? It’s like…what if these dudes from The Terror worked in local government or whatever… don’t worry about logistics, I mostly wanted to write Blanky and Crozier being best friends and also talk about sobriety feelings a bunch. AND THEN I DID. only fits the prompt if you squint super hard but, regardless, please enjoy… on ao3 because why not

“So, you feel ready to go back to work tomorrow?”

Francis removes his gaze with considerable effort from the perfect red orb that is the sun sinking steadily under the horizon line across the lake and shifts it reluctantly back to Tom, who’s sitting back in his chair with his booted foot propped up on a milk crate that he got from God knows where. The sight of the boot that encases the lower half of his left leg does push a wave of guilty bile up the back of his throat but he’s already been told that if he apologizes for causing Tom to have need of it one more time, he’ll be drowned in the aforementioned lake, so he resists. Tom knows Francis is sorry about what happened and he’s chosen to forgive him, even if Francis still thinks it’s a stupid choice, second only to him befriending Francis in the first place all those years ago. Francis doesn’t know where he himself would have ended up if that hadn’t happened, though, so it all comes out in the wash he supposes.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Francis says, tracing a hairline fracture in his coffee mug with his thumbnail just for something to do. “If I take any more time off, I’ll just never go back, so it’s now or never, really.”

“Attaboy,” Tom says before taking a long, thoughtful drink from his own mug. Out of solidarity, or maybe sensitivity, he hadn’t had anything to drink tonight either, despite Francis’s assurances that it wouldn’t bother him and might even be a good idea, just for him to get used to it. It’s not like he could reasonably expect to go the rest of his life without ever seeing alcohol again. He’d seen four different ads for light beer alone this afternoon while watching reruns of ‘Bones’ on the couch and imagining every possible way his first day back in the office after rehab could go wrong and that hadn’t sent him into a tailspin, so he’d probably survive watching his best friend drink in his presence. Still, Tom had chosen to just drink decaf coffee with him after dinner like the ancient relics they are, because he is, without a doubt, the best person Francis has ever known. “You talk to anybody about it? I mean, besides me…”

“What, you mean like a therapist? Of course. I’ve got, what, six of them now, for Christ’s sake!”

“No, I mean, from the office. Have you talked to anyone about coming back?”

“Well, John, obviously.”

“I suppose you’d have to, yeah,” Tom says, running a ponderous hand over his chin. “Anything interesting from that quarter?”

“Just about what you’d expect,” Francis says, trying to be generous. John had been kind enough to let him keep his job, after all, despite how bad things got in the end, but Francis’s issues with the man remain, even with his newfound sobriety. Francis had sent him a long, downright obsequious email apologizing for the damage he’d done with his drunken theatrics both over the years and in the very recent past and explained in detail all the ways he was going to do better in the future, while expressing gratitude for the unprecedented amount of grace everyone, but particularly John, had shown him during this stressful time. It was, in no uncertain terms, the most embarrassing thing Francis has ever had to do, and he has, in his life, proposed to the same woman three separate times with absolutely no success, so it’s not like he’s lacking in options for that top spot.

John is, thankfully, the sort of man who likes to breeze past unpleasantness wherever he can and is also, more importantly, a deeply entrenched bureaucrat who’d just as soon do no work as do even a little work and therefore could not be bothered to hire a replacement for Francis. In fact, if he had to guess, John was probably clever enough to frame it as some sort of protection against a discrimination lawsuit somewhere down the line, despite the fact that several things Francis did at the staff Christmas party right before hitting rock bottom were definitely fireable offenses. John’s unflappable dedication to the status quo has worked in Francis’s favor for once, and while he certainly doesn’t deserve the break, he’s going to take it where he can get it on the off chance it never happens again.

“And the staff? Your team, I mean.”

“I got coffee with a few of them individually, just to clear the air and apologize, so that if anyone wanted to take a swing at me, they could do it outside of work,” Francis says, scuffing his shoe against the porch.

“Well, that’s considerate of you. Any of them try it?”

“No. The cowards,” Francis scoffs, which makes Tom laugh. “Jopson and Edward both seemed like they might be sick at the prospect of anyone in charge actually deigning to apologize to them, which was…humbling, to say the least. Then I got an extremely nervous monologue from Harry about the history and relative efficacy of Alcoholics Anonymous, which I think was his way of saying we’re square. And Silna told me if I tried to meet up with her outside of work hours again, she’d block my number and quit without notice, so...”

“She’s got the right of it,” Tom says, with a crooked grin.

“Yeah, that was my favorite of the lot,” Francis replies. “We’ll have a team meeting tomorrow and we’ll get someone in from HR so everyone can talk about feelings, God help us, but I think it might be okay. Which I could not have predicted when all this started, but here we are.”

“I could have,” Tom says. “You’ve made plenty of mistakes, I grant you, but you’ve also done right by these people in a lot of ways. They’re not going to forget that in a hurry. They’re a loyal bunch.”

Francis nods, looking out over the water again. The pinks and golds of the sunset a few moments ago have already faded into purples and blues as night creeps in. The nocturnal chorus of frogs croaking and insects trilling is rising in the nearby woods. He’s already said his piece about how absurd it is that they’re sitting comfortably outside on the porch after dinner—with jackets on and a fire going, sure, but still—and it’s only the beginning of March. Tom doesn’t need to hear any more ranting about global warming right now; it’s no fair repayment of his generosity. What Francis really should do is head for home soon and let his friend have some peace and quiet. He could use some of that himself, but he somehow doubts that he’ll get much rest once he’s home for the evening. At least he can panic about tomorrow properly there, though, by himself.

“Speaking of throwing punches,” Tom says, carefully, after they’ve been quiet a moment, “have you spoken to James at all?”

Francis winces with what feels like his entire body. “I haven’t had the chance,” he says, as lightly as he can manage.

It isn’t precisely true. If he found the time to contact everyone else who’d been affected by his spectacular fall from grace during his leave of absence, he could have found the time to reach out to James too, but he hadn’t. The apology he owes James Fitzjames is too big for an email, which he’d, in a truly cowardly fashion, gotten away with for almost everyone else, and the presumption and humiliation of asking for any of his free time as he’d done with some of his subordinates was a bridge too far. Besides, if they’d met up at a coffee shop to talk things out, Francis has no doubt James would have ordered his drink with oat milk or stevia instead of sugar or mentioned a cleanse he was on and Francis would have rolled his eyes and said something awful and then he probably would have had to go to rehab all over again, which would have defeated the point. Francis has been told by outside observers—professionals in the field, for what it’s worth—that he’s making progress, but he’s even more sure that he’s still, at his core, a miserable old bastard. He’s just less miserable than he was before, by a small margin. Unfortunately, he’s not any less old, though. In fact, he’s older, but that’s beside the point.

“You’ll have to face him sooner or later,” Tom says, not quite gently but not as bullying as he could be either.

“I know,” Francis says, covering his face with his hands. “I’ll do it tomorrow. I mean, if anyone’s entitled to an in-person apology, it’s James, surely.”

“After you punched him in front of everyone at the Christmas party and verbally berated him? Yeah, I think something more than a text message might be in order.”

“You accepted an apology text,” Francis says, scowling into his mug. “And I broke your leg. You needed surgery and everything. I don’t even think I broke James’s nose.”

“Only because your aim sucks when you’re wasted,” Tom replies, unbothered. “Gave him quite the shiner, though, if you want to compare wounds.”

Francis sighs. “I already said I’d talk to him. You have my word.”

“What am I? Your bloody father?”

“No, and I like you a great deal better for it.”

“Good, then what do I need your word for?”

“I was just trying to convey my sincerity.”

“I don’t doubt your sincerity, Francis. Never have. It’s everyone else you need to convince.”

“I don’t know what to say to James,” Francis says, into his hands. “I mean, with you at least, we’ve known each other for ages. We can bounce back from quite a lot, it turns out. James, he’s—I’ve never known how to talk to him in the first place. Now I’ve got to do it sober? I don’t know where to start.”

“How about, ‘James, I’m sorry for trying to knock your lights out with an audience present while I was drunk off my ass on the company dime’ to start?”

Francis closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, letting the shame wash over him like a wave and then, more importantly, letting it recede like waves do. He sighs loudly and shakes his head.

“You know, I’ve always regretted I wasn’t the sort of drunk who forgets what he does when he’s wasted. Feels like it might be easier, ultimately. Like, I could say, ‘oh, sorry for whatever I might have done to you, James. The trouble is I don’t remember any of it, but I’m sure it’s nothing I would have done sober, all the same.’”

“Feigning amnesia?” Tom barks, laughing and looking at him sideways. “What’s that? The thirteenth step?”

“Leave me alone,” Francis replies, waving him off but laughing himself despite his best efforts. “I’ve done a lot of owning up to things lately. Can’t I keep one petty grievance for myself?”

“You could probably get away with it, if you’d left it as a petty grievance rather than escalating to violence. And your resistance to dealing with James should tell you making amends there is your highest priority. Discomfort is a good thing here, a signal you’re heading in the right direction. If it were all easy, everyone would do it, you know.”

“That’s lovely, Tom. Will you be cross-stitching any of these aphorisms onto pillows to remind me to stay the course, or shall I just memorize them for when times get tough?”

“Fuck off, you dusty old prick,” Tom laughs. “Hey, what about this? ‘James, I’m ever so sorry for getting plastered and calling you out in front of everyone and then attempting to rearrange your pretty face with my fist! I do think some of the blame lies in you being so pretty and in me having some unresolved issues around my masculinity and my self-esteem, all of which you can blame on my waste of a father figure growing up, but in this case, I suppose I have to shoulder some of the responsibility for my actions myself. Forgive me?’”

“There’s no one else on earth who could get away with saying even half those things to me, you know,” Francis says, even as his blood doesn’t boil or even heat in the slightest hearing them. It rushes to his face instead, no doubt resulting in a fierce blush that the gathering darkness mercifully hides from view.

“I earned it the hard way, my friend,” Tom says, patting his boot.

“That you did,” Francis says, and rises from his seat. “I’d better be going, then. Much to do, after all: apologies to draft, laundry to fold, worst case scenarios to spin out.”

Tom gets up with effort, clunky and inelegant in his boot, but not so proud as to decline Francis’s hand when it’s offered. “I wasn’t trying to scare you off,” he says once he’s vertical.

“You didn’t. It’s like I said, I’ve a lot to do before the big day.”

Tom nods and, after a moment of deliberation, puts a hand on Francis’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, you know.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Francis replies, shifting away from the praise. “More of a bad man trying to be better.”

Tom gives him a long look at that and then shakes his head, smiling. “All that work on yourself and you still don’t get it,” he says, not unkindly. “What else do you think a good man is?”

Francis doesn’t know, but he spends the whole ride home and the rest of the night thinking about it all the same.

*

Francis’s plan of attack, such as it even exists, takes form more easily than he could have predicted. Once he starts thinking about how best to approach James at work and make amends on that front, he finds he knows a lot more about the man than he originally thought. A few years working together, however contentiously, has been enough to pick up on each other’s habits and quirks well enough that Francis can reasonably predict when he’ll be able to get a moment of James’s time without anyone else around. The fact that he can do this and yet never thought to do it before under any other circumstances is the cause of another wave of shame that passes less quickly than Francis would like.

Francis arrives at the City Planner’s office just before 8:30 in the morning with the certainty that he won’t run into John—the man has many flaws but his dedication to never showing up to work any earlier than he absolutely needs to is not one of them, in Francis’s opinion—but that he will, in all likelihood, find James already there and more than likely already working. He also arrives with the materials for a bribe, should that prove necessary.

He’s so worked up, going through everything he’s planning to say one last time in his mind before he actually sees James, that he doesn’t think to knock on the outer door, which is sitting half-open anyway, and just barges in instead. It’s not a great start, he realizes a second after it’s too late to do anything else, and it’s made even worse by the fact that James is there, as expected, and he’s only partially in his shirt, which is not so expected. Francis stops and gapes for a moment with all the grace of someone who’s been tased.

“God, sorry,” he says, and tries to step back, only to collide with the door jamb. “I should’ve—”

“Francis, it’s—good morning, I—this isn’t—I’m the—I’m sorry,” James says, managing to sound crisp and self-possessed even when he’s stammering his way through an apology. “I don’t normally…do this…in the office, I mean.”

“No, of course not,” Francis says, behaving like a teenager in a romantic comedy for some reason and averting his eyes, even though there’s nothing to see. James was in the process of buttoning his shirt when he came in, so it’s really the sight of his clavicle that’s made Francis so uncomfortable. Was he always this much of a ninny? Is that why he started drinking, to cover it up? It’s the only explanation that makes any sense now.

“I went for a run this morning and I neglected to pack a shirt with my work clothes, so I had to use the spare I keep in my desk for emergencies.”

The old Francis (of several weeks and easily a thousand group sessions ago) would have rolled his eyes at any number of things in that small explanation: running to work, keeping a spare shirt in one’s desk, referring to anything related to fashion as an ‘emergency’ and meaning it. Now, he nods thoughtfully and tries to think of it all as part and parcel of what he respects and admires about James: his dedication and planning, his ability to anticipate and address future challenges. The fact that he looks nice in blue. Whatever. It turns out it’s easier to do than he imagined it would be.

“I don’t think you have a habit of undressing in the office for fun, James,” Francis says, instead of any of those nice things. “Don’t worry.”

“Right,” James says, lightly, even as his shoulders remain tense. He does up the last few buttons and his clavicle disappears under the taut poplin fabric of his dress shirt. “Well, what can I do for you, Francis?”

Francis has heard—and, in turn, mocked—James on any number of occasions start conversations with a smooth, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’, which is not an expression Francis himself has been treated to in a long time and for good reason. He doesn’t know why he thinks of it now, except that he’d take even a sarcastic reference to the pleasure of his company (of which there is none and never has been for James in particular, he thinks) over the idea that James should do anything for him, at this point.

“You’re training, then?” Francis asks, skirting gracelessly around the question James actually posed. “For another one of the what-do-ya-call-em’s? Not a marathon. The thing you did last year…?”

“The Ironman,” James suggests, looking slightly pained. “It’s a triathlon.”

“Yeah, that sounds right. Another one of those?”

“God, no,” James replies, nose wrinkling slightly before he seems to catch himself doing it and intentionally blanks his expression. “I’m not likely to do another one of those. I already have my bragging rights, after all. Today’s run was just for health.”

“Oh, sure,” Francis says, tapping a fingertip nervously against the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup. “I’m meant to be doing that now.”

“Running?” James asks, betraying some surprise, which is fair enough.

“Exercising. For my health. To keep me…”

“Fit?”

“Well, distracted,” Francis replies, with a shrug. “There seems to be some thought of it helping to keep me away from drink, though I’m not sure what the logic is there. But I’m meant to be thinking of something I’d enjoy, anyway.”

“Not running, then,” James says, brow crinkling like he’s giving the matter serious thought. James is a fixer by nature—and by profession, of course, being paid mostly to follow John around and make sure the grand promises that flow from his mouth actually happen somehow. He thrives with a problem to solve. If Francis were even marginally less stupid and less proud, he might have thought to come to James sooner. He’s nothing if not several very large problems wrapped in a trench coat. Or a wind breaker, in actuality. The point is, Francis could use all the fixing he can get his hands on.

“Not likely. Never enjoyed it, really. Hard on the ankles, I’ve found.”

“Yes, it can be quite stressful on the joints. You’ve got to take all sorts of precautions,” James says, in the tone he gets when he’s working his way up to a long treatise of some kind, but he stops abruptly and his face betrays that he’s seemingly caught himself. He clears his throat. “So, it’s not for everyone. I understand.”

“Yes, well, my sponsor was saying that I might try tennis or racquetball, but then I’d have to find a regular partner or group, and I’m not sure I have it in me.”

“There’s a club nearby, actually, and they could help you arrange—” James pauses and shakes his head, once again stopping himself from expounding on the different options available the way he normally would. It’s an uncharacteristic amount of restraint coming from James, who loves recommending things to other people almost as much as he loves the sound of his own voice. Francis sees some of his own handiwork in this new display of shame and feels the need to make amends even more keenly than before because of it. “Well, you can Google it, I imagine, and it would be faster than listening to me. It is, uh—it’s in Eagleton, however, so I suppose that won’t do.”

“No,” Francis replies, frowning. “Thanks all the same, though. I imagine I’ll end up doing water aerobics with the rest of the senior citizens at the community center and call it a day.”

“You’re not a—you’re barely fifty, Francis!”

“I’m fifty-two, actually.”

“Oh, well, in that case, I hope you have your affairs in order,” James gripes, as he messes with something entirely unnecessarily on his desk. Francis smiles at the strange comfort of annoying him, which should not be reassuring to him at all but he’s a messed up sort of fellow even on his best days. The smile grows when James clears his throat again and adds, like he can’t quite stop himself, “Swimming’s rather good for the joints, actually.”

“Swimming?” Francis asks.

“Yes, swimming. As in, laps…in a pool. Something else the community center offers, if you were interested. It’s solitary—meditative, even—and good exercise. In—that is, in case you were wondering.”

“If this is you trying to talk me into a triathlon, James—”

James sniffs, more performatively haughty than genuinely haughty, Francis suspects. “I’d never,” he says. “I was merely recommending an activity that you might enjoy more than water aerobics, and that might spare the elderly of our community from dealing your obvious personality disorder early in the morning, when those classes tend to be held.”

Francis, much to James’s surprise from the look on his face, laughs at that. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he says, while James continues to regard him like he’s wild animal exhibiting signs of rabies who’s suddenly appeared in his path, which is maybe a common occurrence in town, depending on who you ask. “Thank you.”

James nods, distracted. “Sure.”

“Well, I—I…listen, I didn’t come here to talk about exercise regimes, which I figure you could have guessed,” Francis says, in a rush, because anything less than a headlong dive into the subject they need to discuss will hurt much worse than just getting it over with, he suspects. “And I don’t want to presume anything about your life, but I also figure there’s a non-zero chance that you’re already familiar with the famous 12 step program, maybe just through cultural osmosis, and I don’t want to over explain any of it to you, but, well, there’s a pretty important part about identifying people you’ve wronged through your addiction and the resulting behavior and making direct amends to said try people and—”

“I’m familiar,” James interrupts, softly. “Not directly, of course, or, um, anything like that—I don’t want to detract—but—”

Francis waves him off. “No need to explain. I just—well, obviously, that list of people, for me, had to include you, because of what transpired between us at the end of last year and how I behaved. The things I said to you, then—how I’ve always spoken to you, really—and of course, I—God, I’m so sorry. It feels absurd to say out loud but I’m sorry for lashing out at you and hitting you, I should never have—”

“It’s fine, Francis,” James says, starchily. He’s got a nervous hand pressed to his ribcage, so intently that it’s almost shocking to look and see no actual knife sticking out from there, somehow. With that, it’s hard to believe the breeziness of his words. “Really, this isn’t necessary.”

“And I’m telling you it is,” Francis explains, as carefully as he can manage. “Maybe it isn’t for you, I don’t know, but it’s necessary for me. Do you—can you understand that?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” James says, after a deep breath. “Of course. Is there…more?”

“You tell me. Is there any other ways my drinking harmed you that I haven’t thought of?”

“No, I wasn’t—”

Francis holds up a hand to stop him. “That probably read as very sarcastic, given our…history, let’s say, but it was a genuine question. I think I’ve raked myself over the coals for every possible slight I can imagine but if there’s anything I did that I can address for you now, I’d have you tell me.”

“No, it’s fine, really,” James replies, shakily. “I only meant, I don’t really know what goes into all this. Is amends just an apology or is there more to it? I don’t need there to be, I was just curious. That’s all.”

“Well, you’re meant to endeavor to show you’ve changed your ways, I suppose. To indicate that you won’t be perpetuating the same harm in the future. Which, in this case, is tough, because…well, I mean, all I can give you is my word I won’t try to knock you out at work ever again.”

“Outside of work hours, however…” James muses, with a small, mirthless smile.

Francis winces, but otherwise doesn’t react. “I’ll never behave that way towards you again. On my honor, for whatever that’s worth.”

James folds his arms over his chest and looks down at the carpet, appearing like a sullen youth for a brief moment before he raises his gaze and becomes a grown man once more. Francis remembers when he’d shown up with John that first time, how he’d called James an infant to Tom when they finished their initial meeting with him about the town’s budget crisis all those years ago. Tom had laughed at him, wheezing ‘he’s a decade younger than us, if he’s anything, Francis. He’s our bloody peer now, and if you don’t see it, you’re cracked!’ Francis thought—still thinks—Tom is the one who’s cracked, in this case. James looked young, then; he looks young now, everywhere except the eyes, which contain a stormy sea’s worth of disappointment. Francis can be self-centered with the best of them but he knows he’s not the one who put that feeling there in the first place. He’s not that important. For the first time, however, he feels protective of the man in front of him because of it and takes it as his very solemn duty to never be the cause of his disappointment again, so long as it can be helped. All that and it’s not even 9 in the morning yet.

“It’s worth plenty,” James says, eventually, clearly just as uncomfortable with this much emotion so early in the day as Francis is and eager to be done with it. “Thank you, Francis.”

“Yes, well, I won’t take up any more of your time, I’ve been nuisance enough for one morning, but if there’s ever anything you want to discuss or clear up between us, my door’s always open. To you, that is. Well, to anyone, but just in case your particular welcome was unclear, I mean, you should—”

James sweeps a hand out wide in a graceful gesture like he’s literally clearing the air. “Understood,” he says, sincerely, “and appreciated.”

“Great,” Francis says, too cheerily and then winces again. “I mean, uh—right, I’ll just be going then.”

As he pivots back towards the door, the sloshing noise of the ice shifting in one of the cups he’d forgotten he was holding draws his attention. Christ, right. The whole point was—Francis really is starting to lose his mind. He contemplates just leaving anyway, like nothing’s amiss, but he’ll have to explain the two drinks to his team, absolutely none of whom will buy that the iced chai is for him. He’s gone on too many rants about how coffee shouldn’t be iced and tea only on certain occasions. He’s the type to drink hot, black coffee even on the most brutal summer days, though his sponsor did warn him that a lot of alcoholics do turn to sweets as a coping mechanism for replacing alcohol in their daily lives and not to be surprised if he found himself needing additional sweetener in his morning coffee as a result. Francis hadn’t credited it at the time, but he had found himself momentarily tempted at the coffee shop this morning by a sign advertising something called a ‘death by chocolate latte’ as the daily special before he’d gotten a hold of himself, so maybe there’s some truth to it. The point is, dragging this extra drink back to his office will be more humiliating than turning around and giving it to James like he originally planned, no matter how awkward it feels right now.

“Okay,” he says, turning back, “I promise this is the last thing and then I will let you get back to work. There’s, uh—it’s not a bribe, mind you, just an extension of the apology for what happened and for the fact that you’ll have to continue working with me for the foreseeable future and—you don’t have to forgive me, you don’t owe me that, I just thought—”

James looks at him, utterly perplexed, fingertips gently steepled on the top of the desk like he’d already been going back to whatever he was working on when Francis interrupted again. “What is it?” he asks, somehow still not betraying any annoyance at the interruption, hiding it well under an open tone of curiosity.

“The—this,” Francis finally spits out with considerable effort, holding the cup out towards James, rather than try to explain himself further. “It’s for you.”

“Oh,” James replies, with an expression like Francis is trying to hand him a live gerbil and not an upsettingly overpriced beverage like the ones he’s seen James drink on dozens of occasions. “I, uh—that’s really not necessary.”

“You must take it, James. Please. I said you’re not obligated to forgive me, I’m not trying to sway you, really. It just felt wrong to show up empty handed, after everything.”

“I understand, but, really—”

“You’re not on another one of your cleanses, are you? Giving up sugar or…calories before noon or something?” Francis ventures, imbuing his tone with more patience than he normally would, even though he still feels very little towards this thing in particular.

James is already so annoyingly healthy and brisk and handsome, it does take extraordinary amounts of patience to tolerate his talk of intermittent fasting and green juice with the goal of making himself even more annoyingly perfect. Surely, there’s got to be a limit to that sort of thing, but Francis doesn’t know; he’s on the opposite end of the spectrum it seems, having to re-learn the fundamentals of barely looking after himself in middle age without the aid of alcohol. It’s pretty grim, if he’s being honest. It really is no wonder that James has been so consistently earning the gold medal spot in the competitive sport of getting on Francis’s nerves, with that in mind.

His intentional gentleness does seem to pay off in this case, though, since James smiles at him in only mild embarrassment. “Uh, no, I’m not. I just—you’re not obliged to—”

“I know, but—listen, James, I already committed my penance by having to say the phrase ‘dirty chai’ with a straight face to a college student with a lip piercing at eight in the morning, okay? The damage is done. You might as well enjoy the spoils of my humiliation.”

James’s smile widens at that, looking for all the world like he can’t really stop himself. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that mental image might be worth more to me than the entirety of your apology.”

“No offense taken,” Francis says, finally succeeding in handing off the cup, slick with condensation by now, into James’s care. “I hope it will sustain you for a while yet.”

“Oh, it shall,” James says, placing the cup gingerly onto his desk.

“Right, well,” Francis replies, “that’s all, then. I’ll see you…later, I suppose.”

James nods. “We have a meeting set for Tuesday—tomorrow. It should be on your calendar. Thomas said he—”

“If Jopson says it’s there, it’s there.”

“Great,” James says, easily. “Until then.”

“Yes. ‘Til tomorrow.”

Mission completed, Francis turns once more towards the door and is only interrupted in leaving by the sound of James clearing his throat behind him. He pauses, and looks over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in question when he meets James’s eye.

“It’s only—forgive me if this is the wrong thing to say, under the circumstances,” James offers, fidgeting with the edge of the notepad lying open on his desk, “but you do—that is, you look well, Francis.”

Francis doesn’t allow himself the liberty of moving even an inch, not to fiddle with his collar or brush back his hair or otherwise indicate he gives so much as one singular damn about his appearance. “Do I?” he asks, tone purposely vague, like James has just told him the weather forecast and it’s only interesting to him in theory, really.

“Yes, very well,” James says, putting his hand flat on the desk very deliberately, like it was giving him away before. At what, who knows, but he’s got it under control now. “This change, it suits you.”

“Well, thank you, I guess.”

James now looks at his computer screen, absently. The next words he says might be something he was reading off of there, if they were anything else. “You look good, is what I meant.”

“How—?” Francis pauses, feeling immense pressure to say this right, somehow. “Sorry, but how would that be the wrong thing to say?”

“I wouldn’t want you to think, well—” James interrupts himself by laughing, just a little and rather joylessly. “It’s not that you didn’t look good before.”

“Oh, right,” Francis says, even as those words continue to make no sense to him in that particular order coming from this particular person. “Wait, you’re saying—I did?”

James meets his eye again, finally, but only to give him the most impatient, long-suffering look in human history. “Is it too much to hope that one of the twelve steps involves learning to take a compliment?” he asks, sounding depleted by the effort. “Because it is one of your most exhausting qualities that you can’t do so without endless interrogation first.”

“And it’s got a lot of competition,” Francis replies, feeling himself smile and choosing to do nothing to stop it, “what with all my other exhausting qualities.”

“You’re really only proving my point here, you know.”

“Thank you, James,” Francis says, dutifully. “It’s very kind of you to say. Better?”

“Much,” James sighs. “You’re showing remarkable improvement already.”

Francis leaves him, then, because to stay any longer would just be exposing himself to further ridicule and he’d absolutely deserve it, what with the stupid smile he now can’t seem to get rid of.

[inoreuct]

I've been lurking in the Zosan tag and I'm super in love with the snippets you've been posting! For a prompt, I really enjoy them being soft and taking care of each other after fights? Also love outsider POV if that seems fun to you.

wahshdhdhhs THANK YOU 😭 i’m having so much fun writing them and i had fun writing THIS :)) made it short and sweet and mostly from nami’s pov; soft but also they bicker because. when do they not. enjoy!

Nami huffed as she made her way to the galley, peckish after the battle. Sanji was probably there, but loathe as she was to admit it she’d feel a little bad to ask him to make something; that fight had taken a lot out of all of them, and she’d gotten off easy— The last she’d seen him he’d been wrapping his forearms with his shirt and trying to staunch the bleeding from several wicked slashes.

The door was cracked open when she got there. Strange. Sanji was meticulous about keeping it shut to keep Luffy out, but she supposed if he was to be lax at any time, it would be when he was injured. 

That was, until she heard the voices.

“Stop moving, shithead!”

“I’m not moving! The fuck are you—”

She peeked through into the kitchen and almost stopped breathing, hunger forgotten, fatigue banished, grin growing by the second.

“If you don’t stop fucking fidgeting it’s gonna leave a scar,” Zoro warned, tugging Sanji’s hand forward again and rolling his eyes at the cook’s dramatic sigh.

Sanji was perched on the dining table, one arm outstretched as Zoro shoved a needle threaded with fishing line through his skin. He tried to hide his wince at a particularly tender spot, shoulders jumping before they settled at Zoro’s soft sound of apology. Nami took a note at the back of her mind to get Luffy to befriend more doctors.

Still, looking at the arm that Zoro had already finished, the stitches were neater than Zoro would have done on himself; she’d seen the scars that he’d gotten from sewing himself up. They didn’t look like they’d had half this much care put into them.

“You’re lucky they aren’t that deep. The hell’d you go and do this for, shitty cook? You need your hands,” the swordsman mumbled, brows furrowing and actually sounding a little confused, and Nami simultaneously felt sorry for him and like she wanted to clobber the big idiot upside the head. 

“Ah, you know me,” Sanji sighed, slouching to the side dramatically but keeping his arm still. “Always the martyr—” Zoro levelled him with an unimpressed stare, cutting a stitch with a dry snip, and he faltered. “Well, I— I don’t know, marimo.” He shrugged, swallowing. His eyes were staring at something on the table. “I saw you there and just moved.”

Nami gathered her context clues and had to stop herself from pumping her fists. It was finally happening. The two idiots had been dancing around each other for ages; She and Usopp had a running bet on who would get their shit together first, but hell, at this point she didn’t even care who won.

Zoro sighed heavily, short and sharp, pushing Sanji’s skin together to finish off the last stitch. “Just— Don’t do it again.”

“The hell do you mean don’t do it again, you ingrate?!” Sanji squawked, outraged and hissing through his teeth when the fishing line was tightened. “I saved your life!”

“I would’ve been fine!”

“You would’ve been hurt—”

Zoro tossed the scissors and needle aside, brandishing a roll of gauze in Sanji’s face. “And what if you couldn’t cook anymore?!” 

“Well maybe, just maybe—” The cook snatched the gauze, gripping it in his fist with his eyes ablaze, “Really think about this, now— I care more about you than that, you moss-brained oaf.” He took a measured inhale, jaw working as he looked away. Nami was about to do a victory lap around the deck. “Good God, how long is it gonna take to get it through your thick skull…” 

“Curly-brow.” 

Sanji remained resolute, face turned to the side even as Zoro stepped closer.

“Oi, cook.”

He wound the gauze between his fingers, looking down.

“Sanji,” Zoro murmured. “Baby. Come here.”

Nami clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as coins. This was a thing. They were already a thing. Oh, Usopp was absolutely going to lose his shit. 

Sanji swallowed, unable to escape when Zoro had callused hands on his knees and was dipping down to nose at his cheek. “First you want me to stop moving, now you want me to—” He cut off when Zoro kissed him, simple and sweet, thumb rubbing circles over his kneecap. “…Mm. Right, yes, I suppose that’s… a valid reason.”

“Thank you.” Zoro set his jaw, looking up at Sanji earnestly. “I mean it, curls. I know how much cooking means to you. And you said...”

Nami watched as Sanji’s face softened, his hand coming up to cup the side of Zoro’s face. “Of course, mon chou.”

The swordsman chuckled low in his chest. “Did you just call me a cabbage?”

“Wh— No.”

“Yes, you did.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“Our navigator doesn’t just have maps. Found a French dictionary lying around.” 

Shit, she’d been wondering where that had gone. Green-haired bastard.

“Said navigator’s been here since five minutes ago.”

Double shit. 

Sanji whipped around with a scandalised noise as she gave up the act and stood in the doorway properly. “Nami!”

“I didn’t see anything!” she cackled, just barely sheepish, hands up in a gesture of peace as she turned and hightailed it out of there. The smart thing to do would be to blackmail the shit out of Zoro—

But she thought of how gently they’d treated each other, the looks in their eyes, and sighed. She’d let them have this.

(But getting her to admit that they were good for each other or that she was happy for them would be harder than pulling teeth, she’d make sure of that.) *

“Go get me a wet cloth, darling, there’s blood in your hair.”

“You think she’ll snitch?” Zoro asked, running the tap over a clean dishcloth and wringing it out before walking back.

Sanji hummed, non-committal and slightly amused. “Would you mind if she did?” he asked lightly, seemingly unbothered as he wiped at the red drying tacky in Zoro’s hairline from where he’d been whacked over the head.

The swordsman laughed under his breath. He could feel the tension in Sanji from the way he was sitting, spine too straight as he wrapped his arms around the cook’s waist, hipbones pressed into the table’s edge between his thighs. “…Not really, no.”

“Nothing to worry about, then,” Sanji said, cool and composed, but this time he didn’t bother hiding the relief in his smile. “Now.” He pursed his lips, scrubbing the rest of the blood out of Zoro’s eyebrow. “To the showers with you, and then bed.”

Zoro held up the gauze. “Still gotta wrap your stitches.”

Sanji rolled his eyes again, the corners crinkling as he smiled. “Fine. Wrap, shower, bed.”

“Mm,” Zoro hummed, pulling him close and leaning up for one last kiss. “Perfect.” 

fin.

[fairysluna]

aegon angst please im begging on my knees OLEASE OLEASE

this is perfect bc I've been planning on writing an angsty drabble based on this song for so long and i finally got the excuse lol. hope you like it!!🤍

Songfic #6

is it insensitive for me to say get your shit together? So I can love you.

PAIRING – Modern!Aegon II Targaryen x Reader.

TAGS – angst, hurt no comfort, alcohol consumption, cursing, mentions of cheating, established relationship, mentions of family issues. if something is missing let me know!!

You saw the clock hanging from the wall, biting your nails and sighing with despair. The feeling in your gut was giving you bad news, and the voice inside your head was trying to convince you to call him one more time with the fanciful idea of him picking up feeding your need to do it. You felt a hole in your belly where your stomach was supposed to be, and your body seemed to be unable to remain still in one place. 

4 am, and the last time you heard about Aegon was when he left the apartment and told you he would come back before midnight, for tomorrow he had a very important job interview early in the morning. Needless to say, he did not keep his word, and when the clock indicated that it was the middle of the night, you found yourself alone in the darkness of the living room, at the verge of tears produced by the worry and anger. Your cellphone remained quiet, no phone calls from him arrived. That only made you angrier, for he did not even think about letting you know whether he was alright or not; he did not even think how you had a sleepless night filled with pure distress due to the unavoidable concern. You called him at least twenty times during the night, and none of your calls were answered; you had already memorized his voice mail recording by heart. 

When the main door opened, your lost eyes found their way to the frame of it, and the first thing you saw was your boyfriend stumbling inside the living room; a green shirt ripped in the neck, leftovers of red lipstick on his neck, chin and cheeks, and sleepy eyes. You were already used to seeing that aspect on him, though you had naively believed that it would stop. But it never stopped. 

“Hello there, beauty,” he greeted you. He dragged his words as if his tongue was as heavy as a rock, holding his body against the door handle.

You pressed your lips in a thin line, you had the intention to scream at him, to yell at his face how much you hated him for doing this to you once again; but nothing would come out, your words would be stuck in the back of your throat, your mind too blurry with disappointment to even think in what to say; so you just stood up, grabbed your phone and left towards the room without uttering a sound. You heard how Aegon closed the door, and how he dragged his feet behind you as he followed you, but you did not even bother to turn around. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He asked, and your heart fell to your stomach as you stopped walking. Once you finally had the courage to turn around to face you looked at him with disdain, as if he was mocking you without shame by asking something so stupidly obvious that it was insulting. 

“It’s 4 am,” you spat, already breathing heavily. “It’s 4 am and you just got home… it’s Tuesday!”

“Oh, Gods, I’m sorry, love…” he muttered, trying to step closer to you but you stepped back, rejecting his touch. “Arryk just got a new job so we went to a bar downtown and celebrated for him.”

“And did you forget that later today you have a job interview?” You reminded him, fuming already with rage burning through your eyes. You were barely able to keep it together, your nose already itching as you saw Aegon widening in surprise by your words. He had forgotten, he always did. “I can’t fucking believe it.”

“Love, listen-” his hand tried to reach for you once again but you slapped it away from you. 

“No, this is enough, I won’t listen to your pathetic excuses anymore,” you shook your head and your eyes became watery once you noticed the marks of lipstick on his skin. “I’m so tired of being the only one trying to keep us afloat.” 

“That’s a lie…” He accused you, narrowing his eyes. 

“Is it?” You chuckled incredulously, “I’m the one paying the bills, working my ass off so you don’t feel pressure to find a stupid job, but all you do is drink and live as if you were still a fucking teenager!” You raised your voice, making him shrink in his position. He took a step back, looking at you teary eyed. That would always be enough for you to soften to him, but not this time. “You’ve told me multiple times how your grandfather would yell at you to do your shit so I tried to be empathic with you and give you time, but I just-” 

A sob interrupted your words, making you choke in your own sorrow as you covered your mouth and quickly looked away from him. You closed your eyes for an instant and you slightly shook your head, feeling your heart being torn apart by the impact of reality against what used to be a fairytale. A shake breath came from your lips as you wiped your tears away and looked back at Aegon, who was standing as if he was a scolded child waiting to receive his punishment.

Those lilac eyes of him made you remember the beginning of your relationship, before you truly figured Aegon out. The first stages of a relationship were always perfect, relaying on the rush of adrenaline and excitement that a new feeling would provide; but now that it’s been four years, all that magic had vanished… sadly, the love and devotion you had for him was still making your heart beat, which is why it was so hard for you to pronounce the following words,

“I can’t allow myself to love you anymore,” you struggled to say, the sobs that threatened to escape you were making you choke and gulp. “Why can’t you get your shit together? Why can’t you grow up and act like a fucking adult?”

“You know it’s hard for me,” he excused himself, but you sighed. 

“And you think it isn’t hard for me too? I stay awake every night you go out, scared to death. I have two jobs so we can keep this fucking apartment so you don’t go back and live with your parents. Because that’s how much I care about you.”

“And I love you for that.”

“Then fucking prove it to me!” You gave an exasperated yell, “Prove me that you love me! Because lately I feel like you’re saying all these things just because you’re used to them.”

“How?” He asked, “what do you want me to do?”

And there it is, the disappointment crossing your face once again. You could speak to him, scream and yell a bunch of words, but he would never listen. He would always disguise his lack of attention with questions like this, even when you had been screaming the answer to it ever since he stepped into the apartment. 

You did not respond to him; you just shook your head as you made your way to your bag. You grabbed your keys, your phone and your wallet. Aegon frowned after looking at that action, and he tried to follow you around but his feet felt so heavy that he only stumbled in his place. 

“Where are you going?” He demanded an answer, “what are you doing?”

Once again, silence was the answer to his question and his eyes filled with tears followed your frame until you stopped in the middle of the door frame of the room. 

“My love…” he whispered, already feeling himself being sobered up by the anguish he started to feel inside his chest. “Please, don’t. Not you too.”

“You’re losing me, Aegon,” you muttered, loud enough for him to see. “Be aware of that.”

Once you closed the door behind your back, Aegon broke into silent sobs and cries. He had underestimated your limits, stupidly believing that you would always be by his side. Now that he found himself alone in a room filled with memories, the only thing he was able to do was to regret.

GENERAL TAG LIST — @borikenlove @aemondsversion @jvpit3rs @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore @valeskafics @clairacassidy @aemondx @randomdragonfires @gothtargaryen @melsunshine @urmomsgirlfriend1 @jamespotterismydaddy

AEGON TAG LIST — @lovelykhaleesiii @ganymede-princess @xfancyuu @megatardisbaby

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Truly sorry people have forgotten the whole "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything" adage. But also that others are sending you the not so nice things that are being said. Like, that definitely kinda sucks too. Best to you and focusing on things that make you happy!

Oh god everyone's being so nice now I'm so embarrassed.

You're very kind dear. Well the people sending me stuff are only sending me nice things! At least on the main post! But then there will be comments or replies that complain about it - oh I don't like them anymore because they wrote BT, etc.

(Side note - BT stands for BuckTaylor so people using it for BuckTommy - dear GOD please stop. The ship names are confusing enough with y'all picking like ten of them. Please. I am smol and confuséd.)

So the people sending this stuff are well-intentioned. I only meant to explain why (among many other reasons) I won't listen to the (again, well-intentioned) people who say oh my gosh you're missing out on all the kind things people are saying on these other sites! I appreciate all that kindness, really I do and I'm so very lucky to have such enthusiasm and such love for my writing. But I would honestly rather miss out on some of it if it means that I'm protected from seeing the more spoiled or bad faith actors. I have seen very very little 'discourse' over this whole ship war that's sprung up and I'm glad for that, but part of how I've avoided it is by purposefully staying very much in my lane, not go looking through tags, and honestly even deeply limiting who I follow.

Honestly I don't let it usually bother me. 90% of people are so kind and lovely, and I know that the people being angry are not the majority. And I doubt that most of the people complaining even view it as all that deep, they're just venting because they're annoyed and being overly dramatic as we tend to be in fandom because acting overly dramatic is how we do everything around here (hell knows I do it too). I'm just really struggling in my 'real life' and having a bad day so it just kind of got to me, especially since my next three fics are BuddieTommy and I won't be publishing any Buddie until Halloween, and I was feeling kinda low like great, I'm gonna publish these and people will talk shit I guess. Not fun! I gotta say!

But I am and will be okay. I honestly did not expect my inbox to explode the way it just did when I vented in those tags. I, uh, don't expect people to care? that much? which sounds bad but I just mean that I don't expect people to pay all that much attention to me. So it's very sweet that people are sending me love and support.

Thank you for your kindness and thank you to everyone else. I really don't want this to be a Thing so I'm answering all other asks privately. Thank you dears.

[talaok]

I've dreamed of this | pt. X

Summary: You are a part of the BAU, and for the longest time you and Dr. Spencer Reid had been best of friends, even when it was clear to everyone else, and at times to you, that you should be more than that, and when something almost happens on a night out with the team, everything is destined to change.

This is a double pov story (each chapter will be alternated between y/n's and spencer's pov)

Chapter summary: idk man it's the last part what do you think happens

warnings: angst with happy ending

<if you want to be added to the tag-list comment or write to me>

previous part 

Spencer

He hadn't slept. At all.

How could he?

He had had everything, everything he ever wanted, needed, and then, in a heartbeat, it had all fled away.

She had.

He could still feel her, smell her, there, on his couch, on his bed, in his kitchen,

she was gone and had left everything behind, everything, except herself, except what he had fought for, and hoped for so long.

Spencer couldn't believe it at first.

She had said "I don't know if I can do this" and Spencer, as stupid as he was, though

no, she doesn't mean that

because that would be impossible,

because everything was fine just this morning,

but then she had kept going,

she kept talking, and as the realization hit, as she presented him with more and more reasons, more arguments he had felt himself slip away, the sounds coming out her mouth getting muffled as a ringing started in his ears.

She had left him,

because of Hotch

because they're friends,

because she can't lose him.

But he didn't understand,

he couldn't.

His mind was always slower around her, but now it seems it had come to a full stop.

He had done it,

He had finally grabbed the thread, the same one he had been running towards for what felt like ages, his legs tired and his mind full of doubts, of fear. He had grabbed it, and god had it felt good,

better than he could have ever imagined,

better than anything,

So good that all the effort he had put into it disappeared, flew away with the clouds as the sun finally shone.

He had grabbed it, and he thought that was it,

Spencer was never someone sure of himself, he felt nervous all the time, but he wasn't, for once, nervous about this.

For some reason, he had thought that he had done it, and there was nothing for him to worry about,

He had forgotten, as stupid as that was, that it was him holding the thread, 

and who, in their right mind would want that?

No one

He knew.

But he still tried to fight,

not hard enough, of course,

he could have begged her, he could have taken her hand off his mouth and told her the truth.

Told her that he loved her,

from the start,

that he had been waiting for her his whole life,

that he couldn't live without her,

that he loved her more than anything,

more than life.

But he hadn't,

and that was because a part of him, if not all of him, already knew this was gonna happen.

Subconsciously, he knew,

and maybe that's why he wasn't nervous,

because he knew there was no chance, that this was too good for someone like him, too perfect,

and Spencer wasn't used to perfect, what he was used to, was this,

was not being enough,

because he simply wasn't.

So the fight he had put up was simply a farce to let himself know he had at least tried,

so that when he replayed the scene in his head for the millionth time just like he was doing now, he could at least tell himself he had tried, but that, as he knew, there was nothing to do.

Because once again,

someone had walked away,

and he had stood there and watched.

__ __ __

He had thought about not going to work, but when he turned his head to the right and saw his clock say 6 am, he decided he needed to get out, because if he had to spend even a minute more in his bed, laying on sheets still soaked with her sent he was never gonna get up again.

He hadn't undressed so he had just slipped his shoes on and walked out.

He didn't want to stay there anymore.

Too many memories,

not bad ones,

that's the problem,

to much hope

too many broken dreams.

As he walked he thought about it, really thought about it, not of how hurt he was or of the pit in his stomach, no, he had thought about it as if he was a spectator, watching what had happened from the outside.

He was used to this, he used to do it all the time when he was little, pretend it wasn't him living his life, but that he was just watching it from the stands, so at least whatever happened to him was just a show, a nothing, and he didn't need to be hurt or sad, because it wasn't him feeling those things, but someone else.

So, as the wind breezed through his hair, he had come to the conclusion that he had just gone through a loop.

He had reached again the initial situation,

they were friends.

He and Y/n, friends, just friends, as they'd always been, as they were meant to be, according to her.

And he had done that before, so he knew he could be, friends, just like he knew he could spend the rest of his life pretending he didn't want more,

so much more.

He had done it, so he could do it.

He had also realized that on one thing, she had been right.

He didn't wanna lose her either,

and even though, in his eyes, there was no possibility he'll ever leave her, he realized, that the possibility that the opposite could happen, was well higher.

He was Spencer Reid after all.

He had never been anyone if not himself,

and for that, he had been cursed.

He had to look on the bright side,

She was still there, not nearly as he wanted her to, but there nonetheless, with him.

__ __ __

"Good morning sweety pies" Garcia entered the conference room, all shiny and smiley, and Spencer just wanted to melt into the floor"Ready for a new case?"

"Morning baby girl" Derek smirked "You know I'm always ready"

"right" she nodded, "then we should get to it"

"uh-" JJ interrupted "hotch isn't here yet"

"Oh shoot," Garcia noticed "do we wait?"

"he's probably on his way" Emily said 

"Alright," she said, setting the remote on the table as she and JJ started talking 

"hey what's up man" he felt Derek's hand on his shoulder "you look... weird"

If there was one thing he didn't wanna do, was have this conversation.

"No, I'm good"

Derek frowned

"Are these the same clothes you were wearing yesterday?"

Shit

He glanced at them "uh- yes, I was late"

"mh" Derek hummed, a grin creeping up his face "didn't get much sleep last night, huh playboy?"

Spencer now not only wanted to melt into the floor, but into the earth's crust.

"what, you can tell me" he elbowed him " or don't" he raised his eyebrows, not wanting to intrude too much

"Just don't party too hard, kid" he chuckled, and spencer forced a smile, as he tried to think of what to say besides - can you please stop talking?-

"sur-" he had settled on, but Hotch's voice interrupted him

"Good morning"

"Good morning sir we were waiting for you" Garcia informed him

"Uh, yeah, You should start without me I just have to-" he glanced around the room, his eyes finding Spencer's "Reid, can I talk to you in my office?"

His heart had never gotten back up from his stomach, so, as much as he was confused, this was nothing compared to what he was already feeling.

"Sure" he nodded, getting up awkwardly in the silence to follow the man out of the room.

"what do you have to talk to me about?" he asked as Hotch started towards his office

"I'll explain inside" he nodded, opening the door for him.

He stepped into it, and as much as he thought the pit in his stomach couldn't get any deeper,

it did.

He had stopped breathing

"hi" 

y/n's voice echoed in his mind as if it was distant, and not right in front of him, sitting on a chair in front of Hotch's desk.

He turned to his boss without noticing how his mouth was slightly gaped.

"take a seat" he gestured, as he closed the door behind him.

His mind was blank, just like all the colors together create black, all the thoughts coursing through his mind turned to nothing.

He set down,

next to her,

next to her

Hotch cleared his throat "ok," he looked between the two of them.

"what's going on?" he heard himself ask, 

he had talked without even realizing it.

"well-"

Hotch seemed nervous, and he never was.

He cleared his throat again " y/n told me"

He creased his brows, his heart beating so fast he was certain everyone could hear it

"w-what do you mean?" Spencer turned to y/n and then his boss again, so many questions in his eyes.

"she's told me about you two"

"us two?" he turned to her again, and this time, he saw her, really saw her.

She looked worried, nervous as she answered

"us, spencer" she explained thinly

"but-"

but us doesn't exist

"I told him the truth"

He frowned again,

He felt as if every inch of his body was on edge

"the truth?"

He noticed her eyes unfocusing a moment before coming back to his, so many emotions under them he felt like he couldn't properly see them.

"I told him I want to be with you 

I told him I've wanted to,

for a very long time"

She paused, and Spencer now noticed how her eyes were glistening.

"Spencer"

she said

"I told him that I love you"

Spencer stopped breathing.

every part of his body stopped.

even time stopped, as he stared at her.

Had she said that?

Had she really just said what he thought?

was he dreaming?

Was he dead?

" You both know of the bureau's policy" Hotch spoke, but he didn't really listen, his mind was frozen

"I have to admit this is not ideal, but I won't have one of my best agents leave just because of it" 

what?

"what?"

" I came here to resign from the FBI" She murmured

"you- you can't"

"She won't need to" Hotch said " This is not the first time the bureau will turn a blind eye. I can pull some strings "

He sighed

" I will allow this"

Spencer, once again, felt like he just died.

" Hotch" y/n exclaimed incredulously "are you- are you serious?"

He nodded solemnly 

"This, however, cannot interfere with your work, you will have to sleep in separate rooms when we're on a case, and I'll send you the paperwork you'll have to fill in for HR" He listed

"of course" y/n immediately agreed

Hotch looked between you, something looking like contentment flashing beneath his eyes

"but other than that, I'm happy for you" a hint of a smile emerged on his lips "I can't say this was much of a surprise"

"ok, I'll give you some time now, but we need you in the conference room in 5" he pointed at Spencer, before getting up to the door.

Spencer could only nod, and Hotch took it as a yes, and walked out.

The silence was so heavy Spencer felt crushed.

he turned to her, and she was already looking at him.

"you-" He started, getting interrupted

"I'm sorry"

she got up

"I'm so so sorry Spencer"

her voice was weak, like it was about to crack

"I-I was awful and I made a mistake, and I understand if you won't forgive me, I was stupid and cruel, but you have to know that everything I said- I meant it. I love you Spencer, and I hate myself for having done that to you"

She paused to take a breath as he stood up too.

"and-and I didn't mean to tell him about everything, I just came here to resign because I wanted to be with you, or at least try if you had been willing, but then he asked why and I told the truth because there I thought there was no point in hiding it anymore "

"I'm sorry" her voice was a whisper now

"I'm so sorry Spencer, I-I-"a tear rolled down his cheek.

He got in front of her

"y/n-" he wiped the tear away

"I'm sorry" she repeated

"y/n, I love you" he smiled, a soft chuckle fleeing his mouth "I-I I love you, and I'm not mad, I could never be mad"

"y/n the moment I saw you I had forgiven you"

she raised her head to meet his eyes.

"I love you too" she sniffled " I was scared, I was afraid of losing you but then- the moment I left your apartment I realized I couldn't go back to what it was before, I realized how much I wanted this"

He smiled, sheepishly, like a teenager, and she joined him.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he placed his hands on her waist, both of their bodies feeling made for each other.

"I love you" she smiled, standing on her toes to ghost his mouth

"I love you" he kissed her,

all the life came back to his body, as everything set into place.

He beamed as he leaned away

"y/n" he said "you have no idea how long I've dreamed of this"

*Thank you so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed this series, you're amazing. that said, you'll never catch me writing a series again lol, too much commitment I definitely don't have*

previous part 

taglist

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[fractured-shield]

WIP wednesday tag

thanks for the tag @honeybewrites! it isn't wednesday here anymore but in my defense today was a lot and also i'm only like an hour late

Rules: Pick a WIP. Post something about it. On a Wednesday. Or whenever

Here's part of a scene from ch2. The Alliance council's visiting soldiers, politicians, and scholars are quartered in the Palfrey and Hearth. There's rumors and gossip to be discussed, even after the tiring opening day of council. Idhren is trying to overthink himself into another panic attack in peace. Hal wants his captain to eat some fucking food and maybe not do that. High-lord Tanril is...well, he's kind of a lot. I don't really have a handle on how to write him yet but he's sure a personality.

cw: mild fighting and rowdy drunks, briefly mentioned and off-screen

“The effectiveness of this Alliance aside, it’s less relevant than we think in these times of peace, may they continue. Trade would continue by decree of each kingdom’s rulers with or without councillors to get all the details in place.”

“A fact for which I’m quite thankful,” Idhren admitted. “It eases the stress, doesn’t it?”

“A far easier job than a war council,” Tanril agreed. “I couldn’t imagine it. Ilgost’s internal conflict in recent years was enough to contend with. —I’d like to find the innkeeper to see if I can get a bit of a nightcap. Would either of you like a drink?”

“Ah—thank you, but I’m alright,” Idhren said as Hal shook his head.

Tanril stood, sending the chair grating back across the floor again. “Very well, then. I’ll see both of you gentlemen in the morning, I assume?”

After a few exchanged pleasantries—Idhren could tell Hal's patience was wearing thin—Ilgost's high lord left them be, making his way through the common room into the entrance hall in search of the innkeeper.

No sooner was he out of sight than Hal let his cheerful expression fall. “Gods, was that awkward.”

“He seemed nice enough,” Idhren said, taking note that the two other representatives from Ilgost still sat in the corner of the room in shared silence “A bit...intense? That’s the most I’ve ever spoken to him.”

“Even if he was being genuine—I know you’re tired of being interrogated about Maithyr like that.”

Idhren shrugged. “I've had worse.”

“Oh, I'm sure you have,” Hal snickered behind clasped hands as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “What was it that noble's brat from Lauthein asked you once? How did he word it, 'if he was as—’”

“Hal,” he complained in pretended offense, running a hand over his eyes. “Don't remind me, please.”

“Did you give the kid an answer, at least?”

“No,” came the reply, muffled behind his hands. “Gods, I don't know how anyone can get used to all the gossip of this work. I swear some of them like it.”

Before he could say any more, the sound of the inn's main door opening caught their attention.

“I didn't think anyone would be getting back this late,” Hal turned towards the entrance hall, leaning his arm on the chair’s back. “Do you think Rosmorn decided to come back tonight? I was sure she was staying in the city.”

Idhren listened as the sound of raised voices started up in the other room, his body already on edge like a tight lyre-string out of habit. He couldn't make out any of it, but it sounded like a few men had just come in.

He stood, one hand on his sword, and Hal followed a moment behind.

“—because it's not a tavern, you drunken fools, the innkeeper's gone to bed already. Go home, or at least get yourselves back on the streets—I'm not asking, I'll throw you out myself if you like!” It was Tanril’s voice. It seemed he hadn’t found the innkeeper after all.

He looked quickly around the room. Pendreth’s book lay forgotten in her lap, and she looked up with wide, nervous eyes. Drambor was already standing, hand on their own sword’s hilt.

As Idhren approached the darkened room, he heard the sound of a scuffle coming from inside. Someone’s boot connected with what sounded like a leg.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw Tanril shove three stumbling men back onto the doorstep. He took the door, relieved that the skirmish was seemingly resolved, and closed it behind them. He slid the latch bolt into place as Tanril cracked his knuckles and adjusted his ring.

“...Everything alright?”

“It was hardly a fight,” Tanril insisted. Fair enough, as he’d already caught his breath. “Just some drunkards who couldn’t tell the Palfrey from a cheap tavern and were looking for another drink. What the hell’s going on in Durnthain this year?”

In the low light, the high lord's jovial expression looked more serious, but he seemed somehow rejuvenated by the fight.

“I couldn't say,” Idhren answered demurely, letting his hand fall from his sword. “I'm relieved to see you weren't hurt, though.”

Tanril scoffed. “Hurt? Did you see them fall out the door? They were too drunk to stand.”

A flicker of a smile, barely visible in the dark. “It's a shame, I'm sure that had the opposite effect of that nightcap you wanted.”

Tanril paused, set a hand on the taller man’s arm. “A moment—”

He waited until Idhren turned back to face him, met his eyes as clearly as he could in the dark. “I may be in favor of my country’s involvement in your Alliance, but I’m sure you’re aware that belief isn’t absolute in Ilgost. I can’t speak ill of my own, with only suspicions as evidence, but—Ilgost’s civil wars aren’t as resolved as you may think. The house of high lords is split, and I’m afraid they begin to look for allies elsewhere.”

“Why are you telling me?” Idhren spoke cautiously, eyeing the bright doorway to the common room.

“Someone of your credentials seems likely to treat my worries with concern for my kingdom as well as his. And—you’re more familiar with the friends they seek than I am.”

He took half a step back, thankful that Tanril couldn’t see how he paled in the dark of the entrance hall. “You think the high lords seek a bargain with the Lochieru?”

“I don’t know what I think, just yet. But we’ve been in here long enough.”

He heard Tanril laughing behind him like he’d said nothing at all as he reentered the common room, blinking a bit in the light. Hal was a few steps away, near both Pendreth and Drambor: the young woman with her heavy book held across her chest with one hand, and her colleague with their hand on their sword hilt. It seemed to him like they were both trying to stand in front of the other in preparation for any threat.

“It was nothing,” he reassured them. “Just some men looking for another ale they didn't need.”

tagging @runner-owen @kaylinalexanderbooks @just-emis-blog @kaylinalexanderbooks and anyone else who wants to join!

[walkman-cat]

i’ve gotta know abt ur little guy orpheus alabaster whats his deal,,, i keep seeing ur little doodles and tags and feeling curriiooooosiityyyyyyyy

HI PIP!!

orpheus alabaster my BOY !! he's so silly <3 (also this is going to be a LONGGG post so it's under a cut) (he's my little guy i've got a lot to say about him)

He's like the city equivalent of a world-famous detective (one half of a detective agency working out of the attic of a curiosity/antique shop in the oldest part of the city)– he's a household name, and is known for taking on pretty much every case that he comes across (except, curiously, the biggest unsolved mystery the city has ever seen). Basically, Orph is the detective of the gentleman thief-detective dynamic and the watsonian narrator-detective dynamic (i love detectives <3)

He's observant, and will not rest until he's solved the case (to his detriment), and would risk his life if it meant saving the lives of others (to his detriment). He's got a terrible memory (so he writes everything down in one of his numerous notebooks) and he's not great with people (he's trying, somewhat. Cecil's usually the one who talks to clients). He's always down to work around the law/the watch (the city's law enforcement). He's very nosy (Cecil also is, they're perfect for each other).

He's also basically all those memes that are like "kinda gay to be a detective [etc etc]". While his partner (Cecil– they started the detective agency together!) has been pining over him since pretty much when they met (6 years before the story starts), Orpheus fell much harder and discovered this in the past year (he's having a Great Time. demiromantic king !!). They're so silly and devoted to each other (they call each other "Mr. Alabaster" and "Mr. Meyers" theyre sickening) and it's a whole Thing.

Also! Orph's the new incarnation of the forgotten/illegal/dead god of deceit and dreams (he's a detective and also the patron god of thieves and liars wbwbwb– this amuses me greatly). He's got a complicated relationship with his identity and personhood (which may have something to do with him taking on faces and personas at the drop of a hat) and isn't quite sure if he counts as something alive anymore.

Also to do with the fact that he's a kinda-not-really dead god, Orpheus isn't quite alive; he's a believable fascimile of something living, but he doesn't bleed when cut, he's cold to the touch, and sometimes Cecil can swear that he isn't breathing. He died not too long before he arrived in the city (and has the ligature marks on his neck to prove it) and came back, but even though he'd love to have come back wrong he came back exactly the same as he was before.

Here are some extra/funky facts about Orph:

he plays the piano!! he doesn't do it often for reasons he's never told Cecil but he's very good at it and has played for him in the past

he wanted to be a poet when he was younger, and still sometimes jots lines down in between all his other notes

his hands are perpetually inkstained, his fingertips are nearly all blackened from ink

the only times he's been truly excited for his clientele to be some of the city's richest are for hermes vetch heists. they're also the only times he's happy to have not solved the case (he's got a soft spot for the thief and misses him greatly)(he keeps reminiscing about heists to kit's face without knowing kit is hermes vetch and it's so funny to me)

he's mixed race (this isnt very important story wise, but it's important to me (also mixed race)) (so's kit)

he's non-binary!! (he/him enby times!!)

he's also a trans allegory for reasons i will not go into (they contain secretsssss)

he wouldn't like to say he has a favourite method of murder, but it's poisons. he likes to have an excuse to infodump and show off his knowledge of poisons

he probably would look real nice if he put any effort in to how he looks. he doesn't, so he looks like if a cat got drenched then blow-dried and rolled in ink

he hates having anything touching his neck, especially if they're wrapped around his neck. he will suffer and be cold if he has to be

the only times he'd overcome his need to put others before himself is when cecil (and to an extent kit/hermes vetch) is in danger (they're his best friends !!)

he often stares unblinkingly when thinking. it's a wee bit intimidating

his family is basically just matchsticks kelly (the guy who owns the antique shop who took him in), and cecil (later it'll also include kit), he doesn't talk about his family

he's known about cecil's sleeping habits and tendency to clamber over the rooftops for 6 years and still gets jumpscared by him clambering into his window in the dead of night

[thisfairytalegonebad]

Writing Meme: First Line Patterns

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (or however many you have) posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

Tagged by @zanarkandfayth, thank you so much - this is such a cool concept for a tag game and I was super excited to do it, but by the time I would've been free, I'd totally forgotten, lol. Really appreciate the tag <3

I considered my Love List project one of the "last 10" fics because it's the latest I updated, but I'm going to pick the opening line from the first chapter even though the chapters are technically all just oneshots - but I wanted to have at least one older thing in there since the other 8 are just going to be Whumptober which was written last October.

I also added a honorary +1 because I wanted to include something not FFXV and there's really only one fic I've written recently to which that applies, lol

Ignis brought his hand up to his face again to rub at his eyes for what must’ve been the third time within the past fifteen minutes. Gods, he was so tired, all he wanted was to lie down and get some sleep. if something comes on the way (we face it as one)

Prompto learns a lot of new things about his friends once they’re stuck practically in each other’s laps twenty-four hours a day. at first light

Noct isn’t quite sure how they ended up like this. Prompto’s his best friend and arguably the person he feels most comfortable discussing stuff with, but Noct’s famously terrible at talking about his feelings in any way, even to Prompto. Emptiness

The sight of Ravus crouching next to Ignis makes Gladio’s heart skip a beat. His hand itches to reach for his sword, but Ravus rises and stalks past him without a word. Bridal Carry

Prompto awakens to a world of pain. "What happened to me?"

Gladio is a protector, born and bred. "You'll have to go through me."

Gladio has had scars for as long as Noct can remember. Scars

“What the hell is up with you?” Gladio snaps when Ignis loses his footing and just barely avoids Gladio’s blade, for the third time. “If you’re not up for training, just say so! Better than letting yourself get cut in half by my sword.” Working to Exhaustion

Noct wakes up in darkness and blinding agony. Buried Alive

It would be a bit self-centered to say Ignis and Gladio were the ones who raised Noct. His mother passed away when Noctis was less than a year old, but he still has his father who loves him dearly. He had nannies, tutors, people who took care of him and made sure he was fed, clothed, and prepared to handle anything that was expected of a young prince. Neglect

Yuki frowns. if you're here, if i'm with you

Lmfao, there's a pattern here alright - 8 out of 11 start with a character's name. That's really interesting actually, I never noticed I was doing that! Unfortunately most of these were written very recently and a lot of them within the same month, so there's not much change to be observed here, but it was still neat to see that there is a pattern, even if it's an unconscious one.

This was super fun, thanks again fayth for the tag! Had a blast with this <3<3

Tagging: See, here's the thing... there's not all that many people I talk to anymore, and I'm not at all sure anymore who is and isn't a writer at this point, so I'm not going to tag anyone specifically. BUT! I really, really enjoy reading these because it IS super interesting, so if you want to do this, please do, and please please tag me in it so I can read it!

[bereft-of-frogs]

@aurorawest tagged me in 20 questions and I am doing them expediently to make up for all the other tag memes I've forgotten about (sorry)

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 91

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 807,565

3. What fandoms do you write for? Right now pretty exclusively Star Wars, but I had a solid MCU phase there, and have dabbled in Six of Crows, this show Into the Night (tiniest fandom I've ever written for, I think I make up about half of the fics in the tag even now), and I wrote exactly 3 Locked Tomb fics one time.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? 1. pain and other human sensations 2. bone and broth 3. like a tear on a cheek 4. never never quite touch anything 5. the undoing

(I'm starting to feel weird about those five because I...don't really think they represent my best work anymore but I also know due to a combination of luck and good timing (and unhinged persistence in one case), nothing else I write will ever touch them so...there they remain at the top perpetually...)

5. Do you respond to comments? I do! I try at least, during lulls in posting I'm usually not checking as much, and my current policy for the MCU fics is not to respond unless I feel like there's something productive to say.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I think it's a tie but one of them probably doesn't count. 1) apocalyptic appellations, also discussed below, basically ends with the darkest ending for one set of characters and 2) this one probably doesn't count because this isn't the last chronological scene, the narrative ends happily BUT because I chose to literal roll the dice and write the scenes out of order 'I feel like I'm borrowing all my time' ends on the angiest scene, which ironically got me stuck in a time loop because I'd get to the end in editing and be like 'hm. I'm sad now. Back to 1 to make myself feel better!'

Oh, also my first high republic fic - banishing the chill - ended PRETTY angsty if I do say so myself.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? This was really hard to pick because I feel like my MO is either to gently nudge characters back onto their canon plot, where terrible things happen, or leave them with even more trauma. Idk, I guess the dark ocean duology ended fairly well? There was a hug?? It only took like 40k to get there????? That counts maybe?????

8. Do you get hate on fics? Occasionally haha, I think I got a couple of the '#problematic' comments on old smut but it was more likely to be character hate mingled with hate comments? Which can be annoying like even with controversial characters I'm usually writing because I find something compelling about them, so it can be frustrating when people either flatten them down to 'they're the worst' or get mad at me for giving them motives other than 'cackling evil'.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Used to, sort of lost the ability to...

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? Once. apocalyptic appellations. And it is pretty crazy. God, I love this crossover. I didn't write a lot in 2022, but I really like what I did write. Almost certainly my final MCU fic, it really felt like I went out on a bang. Loki series crossed over with the tiniest fandom I've ever participated in, for the television show Into the Night. Into the Night is about an apocalypse where the sun is killing people (#sun's fucked up cinematic universe) and a small group of survivors circling the globe on an airliner. One of the main characters is a helicopter pilot named Sylvie, whom I LOVE, and for months after the Loki series premiered I'd do a bit of a double take on any sufficiently vague posts about that-other-Sylvie. But then I thought it would be kind of interesting if her name was perhaps just another thing she acquired from one of the many apocalypses she lived in...

For real, I really do love this crossover, and I'm glad it was my last MCU fic.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware of, lmk tho I guess!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Also not that I'm aware of!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? In a past life...yes. But that was a long time ago.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship? I feel like...I don't really 'ship'. Idk, I have the occasional ship I'm into for a brief moment, but I'm really a Gen person so ships don't really stick with me, I can't really name an 'all-time favorite' because it feels so dependent on mood/story...

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I did leave one series dangling in the MCU that I will never go back to finish and I do feel bad about that. Sryy...

16. What are your writing strengths? I feel like I get a lot of positive comments about tension building?

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I think I get too caught up in dialogue that I forget to describe what people are doing. Also repetition.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Eh, I probably wouldn't honestly, just keep it as like, narration. I'm not Tolstoy. My French is probably not good enough to write dialogue, I definitely don't speak any other languages well enough, and I don't personally thinks it adds to what I specifically write.

19. First fandom you wrote for? Ever, it was for something I don't want to admit to in the 90s, incoherent scribbles in a diary. Previous posting life was [redacted for teenage embarrassment]. Oldest fic on current account....is a crossover. I swear, I really don't usually write crossovers, but it was a kind of weird American Gods/Supernatural crossover. (I also NEVER wrote Supernatural fanfic, that was not the redacted one above, but I have always wanted to write this ONE Supernatural fic that's basically just about Dean learning to accept the inevitability of death through an exploration of death gods/afterlives. There are going to be footnotes. It will be so obnoxious but I WILL finish it some day.)

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? I couldn't pick just one but I have a lot of love/often reread: spare me over (also proof/comfort that I've often had an inverse relationship between *my* personal faves and what gets the most kudos/comments, this is one of my lower kudos'd MCU fics, but it's one of my favorites), dark underground // violent sky (I'm real proud of that twist), apocalyptic appellations (and I'll KEEP talking about it--), I feel like I'm borrowing all my time (my one and only time travel fic), always proud of longer things that are plot-heavy (dark ocean duology, alone amidst the ruins, the current fic I'm posting: the station)

I'm too awkward to tag others because even though I LOVE being tagged I'm convinced I'm bothering people, but as usual: open tag! you want to answer 20 questions, please answer 20 questions!

[impala1967dwinchester]

Dean Winchester: Miracle and Simon

Pairing: Dean W. x Wife!Reader Pov: Dean Warnings: Fluff, a little bit of angst, Dean, dogs, talk of infertility, sadness, overall fluff, comforting Dean, Sam is mention. Summary: Y/n and Dean learn after a long time of trying for children that Y/n is unable to bare a child. With this news, they decide to wait. When Dean comes across two very cute pups how can Dean pass it up? Word Count: 2.3k A/N: Written for band-psychos 1.5 followers writing bingo challenge. This is sad, but good at the same time. By the way, I have absolutely no clue what it's like to be told that I won't be able to have children, so what I may say may be wrong. Also, I'm sorry if this is something that affects you. Square: First Pet

Dean Winchester Master List

Main Master List

Tag list: @band--psycho @akshi8278 @deanswaywardgirl @hit-meup69 @doctorlilo @fofisstilinski @wonderfulworldofwinchester

Month, turned into years of trying for a baby. It was okay in the beginning, but it turned into constant disappointment. Not disappointed in Y/n or myself. Just overall disappointment in the situation.

How we had been stripped of the ability to have kids. Y/n being stripped of the chance of being the best mother I know she can be. I felt more hopeless, and helpless than I had in any other part of my life.

My darling wife unable to bare a child, unable to be the most gifted thing in life. Unable to become a mother. That day was horrific, She cried in my arms and spent the drive back home in silence.

She stayed away, she had moved back into her old room. Forcing everything that we had built to be crushed. She pushed everything and everyone away.

It was horrible, she wore her ring still. Years of marriage, years of trying. Years of our life being shut out. Being put behind a wall because she felt as if she wasn't enough, wasn't worth being with.

There were nights of course I'd try and make conversation with her, but it always ended in silence, or in me talking enough for the both of us.

The few months that she pushed me away were the hardest, hearing the loud sobs echo through the halls. Not hearing her voice at all was the worst of it all, not being able to see the bright smile that used to blossom on her face was horrible.

So many things that I wish that I could change for her, so many things that I wish that I could make better. Better for her, better for me, but most importantly better for our relationship.

Finally one night.

Hearing a soft knock on my door, even with it being ajar. "Dean.. Can I come in?" Y/n asked, barely poking her head into my, our room. I was still a little confused on that one.

"Of course honey," I said pulling the bedspread back so if she wished she could climb into bed with me. She walked in slowly, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

She wore an old shirt of mine, sleep shorts, and her slippers. She looked just like she has always looked comfortable, but the look on her face was a displacement of how she looked. Her voice was white, heavy purple and black circles under her eyes, her face even looked a little bit too skinny.

Y/n say slipping her slippers off before climbing to the bed with me. "Hey." She said timidly like, "Hey baby," I said. During the time she had taken to be by herself, I had done more than enough research about what happened when women learned that they were infertile.

How they need space, or how they didn't like to be touched, how they could have outbursts of many different emotions. It's been five months and now Y/n's back in our bed. I'm hesitant to touch her, I think she can tell.

"Let me first say that"

"I missed you"

We spoke at the same time, speaking at the same was something that we always tended to do... God to hear her voice was amazing, like cutting butter so smooth and calming. She was so perfect to me no matter what was going on outside of this moment right now.

I smiled, and Y/n smiled back at me. It wasn't a full smile, but it was true and halfway there. "Do you want me to go first?" I asked not wanting to push her if she wasn't fully comfortable with it.

But if she wasn't comfortable with it then she wouldn't have come to my... our room and sat down next to her husband. Right? 'Stop asking so many questions.'

"If you want to Dean." She said her voice starting to waver. She's going to start crying, start talking Dean.

"I'm going, to be honest with you here. I don't know what to say.' Smiling afterward, ' I... I want you to know that you aren't alone in this, I know now that you needed your space, I want you to know that no matter what you think I don't blame you at all, not once. Because I'll forever love you. I've also been reading a lot,' Y/n was smiling now, raising her eyebrows at my reading comment. 'Anything for you Y/n you know that, but regardless I've been doing some reading on this situation, how this may affect us, you and myself. I just want you to know that I'm here for you." I said finally shutting my mouth.

She didn't look like she was going to cry anymore. Y/n was smiling a bright tooth-grinning smile. "You know Dean even when you don't know what to say you always manage to say the right thing, every single fuckin' time," She said through her smile.

Is it weird to say, but I know when Y/n is at her most happy because she curses. She spouts out every single bad curse word there is known to man. Just to tell you how happy she truly is.

God, I missed her smile. You don't realize just how much you miss something or even need it until it stops coming into your life and then comes back into your life a bullet.

I reached out to touch her, but I'm still hesitant. Very hesitant she most definitely saw that. When I went to take my hand back to my lap, she reached out grabbing my hand.

She's so soft, and her hands god how I've forgotten how much smaller her hands are to mine. Look at her hands, look at that ring, still shiny and glistening under the light of our room. That ring I think is what brought her back to me, no scratch that I think our love for each other is brought her back to me.

I had been looking for weeks after Y/n finally came back. Everything needs to settle down before I can even prompt the question to her. I want her to feel safe, I don't her to feel pressured or like I might be trying to replace the idea of children.

I again dived in and did the research for my idea. Sam even helped me, helped me to try and find the right one for her and me. Sam knows a lot of things but he especially knows this about me. When I do something I do it all the way, no half-assing anything and that only becomes ten times more when Y/n is thrown into the situation.

Doing the best research I could with the help of my brother of course. I found the best thing, not something I necessarily like the idea of but anything to help Y/n.

Anything for her.

They passed my screen, and before I knew it I was scrolling back up to them. In the loud and bold letter, it read.

These two come together, a pit bull and a golden retriever. Price is free, just come and pick them up today.

It just clicked, you ever have those types of moments. Where you can feel deep down in your mind, and body. Gosh, I'm really starting to get more and more like Sam.

I shouldn't say that because honestly, that's how it was for me when I first met Y/n. But that is most definitely a story for another time. I jumped from my seat sending the library chair to slide and then fall against the tile floor.

"Are you okay?" I heard Y/n's sweet voice ringing from behind me. 'Shit I forgot' "Yeah I'm fine, I just remember that I forgot to grab something when I was out earlier," I said, turning jamming my phone in my back pocket, calmly walking over to her, and kissing her temple saying bye.

I rushed, driving down the gravel road that leads to home sweet home. If nobody knew what I was doing they'd probably all think I was trying to get away from a murder that I just committed.

The drive to pups was silent. I'd driven baby so many times alone, but this time it just felt different. My impala was the first one parked, a few people close behind me. I rushed up to the fairly older man. He looked over my shoulder, he huffed before waving the other people off.

"Now listen heree son, I'm given' you 2 pups for nothing, so I don't want to hear anything." He said stepping down the porch and walking in front of me to the red broke down barn.

"They're in here. All yours." He said pulling back the door and then walking back to his barn house. Pointing in a very general area, there were 2 pups as the old man called them. Curled up into each other, 'cute' I thought to myself.

'I've already been gone for too long, hurry up Dean.' I said to myself. "Do they respond to commands? Like come, or no?" I asked as I slouched down to the height or near height of them. He hummed and said a few things under his breath.

"Come here," I said gently, just like if I were talking to Y/n. I know that as husband and wife you're supposed to talk about things before you just go outright and do them, but I kind of figured that Y/n wouldn't have any cons to having some furry children. It would most definitely take her mind somewhere else for the moment.

Waking them up from their shallow sleep, they were both wary at first, but grow to be giving me kisses had me rolling around on the dirty ground.

"Come on son!" The old man said. I jumped up from the ground dusting my clothes off and whistling for the dog's attention. "Let's go" They followed us out of the barn and chased after each other. There was no need for a transaction seeing as he just wanted them gone.

I whistled again, both chasing each other and coming to a fast stop in front of me. I was hesitant to let these pups in my baby, but anything for my girl, for her happiness, anything for her.

Both jumping up and finding a comfy spot and laying down. I speed back home, I'd already been gone for much longer than I originally wanted.

I once again speed down the gravel road heading to my home sweet home. Parking in the garage caused the pups to raise their heads. That being the first time, at least they don't complain about my driving like Sam does. That's rather nice.

I opened the back door and let both of them slip out. Yes at that moment I had realized that I had in fact told nobody of my plans, and I also had nothing to give them food-wise.

Letting them into the bunker they seemed to feel at home, but the more odd thing was that they didn't seem to care about anything other than finding Y/n.

An odd moment, it's like Sam said years ago sometimes animals can sense evil, so why can't they sense happiness or even sadness. I wonder?

The two of them led their own ways to the door of our bedroom. "Sit," I said quietly. They looked at each other and sat down, well actually they laid down.

I knocked and then came in seeing at it was also my room. "When'd you get back?" Y/n's honey slick voiced asked. "Just a few moments ago, love...." There was a comfortable silence between us, but Y/n always knows.

"What are you hiding Winchester?" She asked, pulling the sheets from her body. 'No don't get out of bed' "I need you to stay in bed for this surprise if you will." I said gesturing her to lay back down. " Be ready okay?" I said opening the door,

There sat a golden retriever and a pit bull. I heard her gasp "Dean?!". Behind me I saw the two dogs slowly sit up fully, they looked over at me, then over at Y/n.

I nodded and whistled. The pitbull was the first one to reach Y/n his nose nudging her arm. "Dean?" I heard again, so I turned I was smiling, the dog has already made a way onto her lap. "We.. are.. you." Y/n was most definitely stumbling over her words.

"Yes, they're ours. I thought that if we y'know. We could find a way to take care of something. I think he likes you, baby." I said walking all the way into the room having the golden following close behind me. "Yeah and I think she likes you, Dean." She said, patting the pits head.

"They need names," I said nodding to let the golden know that it was okay for her to jump up on the bed. I want my bed to remember them too, cause my bed is memory foam.

"Miracle and Simon. What do you think." Y/n said resting her hand on top of the pits head. "Whos who?" I asked, Y/n pointed at the dog taking up most of my lap, "That's Miracle" then moving and pointing over the sleeping pup in her lap snoring "This, sweet boy is Simon." She said a single tear falling down her cheek.

"What's wrong honey?" I asked "I know that I didn't even ask you if this was okay," I said worrying as more tears fall down her soft warm-toned cheeks.

"Nothing is wrong Dean, I just remembered that I wanted to maybe name our son Simon when we finally got pregnant." She said, I wiped her stray tears and said, "We've got our son and daughter just in fur version. And being together is enough for me." Kissing her forehead. A whispered, "Thank you Deanie Beanie." I rolled my eyes and kissed her forehead again.

Completed on: 05/24/2021

Posted on 05/25/2021

[asexualzoro]

it's my birthday!

I'm 21 now!! i'm doing another Writing Summary for the year! Lew Writes Wrapped, if you will. so, if you'd like to get me a gift, consider reading and reviewing one of these, or reblogging this post!

and if it rhymes, it's true, but i hate poetry (Jan, 3k, TMA, oneshot)

The obligatory sex-repulsed ace Jon fic that every asexual TMA writer tries their hand at eventually.

This is without a doubt the most popular thing I wrote this year, which makes me laugh considering I remember disliking the way I ended it. Still, I appreciate the support a ton, esp bc I'd been sitting on the concept of this fic for months prior. TMA fandom rlly will see an ace Jon oneshot and go is anyone gonna shower that in kudos and not wait for an answer. Love that for you guys.

as long as you can remember (Mar, 3k, TMA, oneshot)

A short horror piece focusing on combining Annabelle's original plan to fill Martin with spiders and the amnesia-inducing effects of Salesa's camera, tied together with narration from MAG 195 in one awful time loop.

I had so much fun with this one!! I loved balancing the spider pinata, amnesiac camera, and typing the start to the ending through use of the statement and repeating the opening of the fic at the end. I also made a lot of ""Martin's"" dialogue mirror lines of his from important JM conversations in canon, and went so far as to research the body temperature of spiders for a line of prose about holding Martin's hand. I'm honestly super fond of this piece because of how much fun I had putting it together.

to be shaped by such strange things (May, 3k, TMA, oneshot)

A piece about how s1 Jon and Sasha are often depicted with glasses, yet NotSasha and late-series Jon are often not, and how losing the lenses through which you see the world really does mean losing a piece of yourself, even if it doesn't seem like it. Or, The Beholding fixes Jon's eyesight is a terrifying and devastating headcanon and I'm going to make that everyone else's problem.

I've needed glasses my entire life and I feel most of the plot points or acknowledgment I've seen about characters' glasses has involved making them not need or not wear them anymore. I'm rather fond of mine, though, and I wanted to write something that reflected that (n pun intended.) That piece is strange things, which I couldn't be happier with, honestly.

Lucid (adj.) (May, 3k, original, complete)

A journal-entry style horror piece about lucid dreaming, trouble sleeping, and the horror that is straddling a nightmare between them. A 'love' letter to the power of an over-active imagination.

I lucid dream IRL, so Lucid (adj.) was so interesting and entertaining to write. I barely ever write original, but I'm so glad I did--this wouldn't have worked any other way. I got to tear into and pick apart a very specific but real fear of mine, based on an actual nightmare I'd had about a month before writing this piece. I'm super fond of this one, so if you like slow-build psychological horror, I cannot recommend it enough!

on a cliche (July, 833, original, complete)

Two strangers meet in a cafe and discuss an age-old question. A piece about whether one would rather to have love and lost.

This might be my favorite thing that I wrote this year? Which is very funny considering that when I wrote it for class, I was sure it was going to be torn apart in critique. Making the setting appear dreamlike without completely tipping my hand was probably my favorite part of the piece. Out of everything on here, this is probably the most sweet/lighthearted thing I wrote/posted this year, so if my writing is normally too depressing for you, I recommend this piece.

my witness brings me into existence (Aug, 4k, TMA, oneshot)

A transcript-style fic about NotJon, and what happens when one lives in the world where they have been forgotten. Archivist Sasha and NotJon returned from the dead, taking place during MAG121. I've read every piece in the NotJon tag on AO3 that I could find and it shows, I think.

God I fucking love this piece. I wrote the first draft of it over discord entirely spur-of-the-moment to my friend @/daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaavid, believe it or not, sitting outside and being bitten my mosquitoes literally the whole time. I actually have most of the next parts of this fic sitting in my drafts, but I've been far too busy to finish them. It also has lovely art from @/macmonky, which I'm still enamored with. I really don't have a bad word to say about my witness, go check it out!

dead and undying (Sept, 7k, DSMP RP, complete multichap)

I spend far too much time thinking about Technoblade's execution and it shows. A fic about Techno not finding Tommy has hidden in his basement to escape exile and speedrunning Doomsday about it. If you like reading stories about stories or think the wither is a terrifying mob you should read this fic.

its my birthday which means i get to be cringe on main and you all have to let me. i really enjoyed writing this one! The execution and revival with the totem is some of the most fun body horror I've ever written, and this fic has very lovely art!

To finish out,

this year I didn't write quite as much as last year, but I also wasn't home all day in quarantine, so I'm alright with that! What I did write (and post--I have a lot of unfinished/unposted writing this year), I'm overwhelmingly happy with, after all! All in all, my posted writing for this year totaled up to 25,000 words!

Thank you, as always, to everyone for your continued support of my writing! Happy birthday to me, and thank you for reading!

(reblogs and/or birthday wishes much appreciated!)

[mrsbakashi]

GET TO KNOW ME - FIRST AND LAST CRUSH EDITION

so this is basically that trend where you have to show who your first crush and your current crush are and then tag a bunch of people to do the same. i won't tag anyone because i think all my friends already did it, but anyone who feels like doing please do and tag me 'cause i love talking about these things 💁🏻‍♀️

i was tagged by @jordyn-degas (and daaaaaaaaamn i forgot how much i loved aragorn) and @hiddenjutsu (i cracked when you said you THOUGHT you had a thing for himbos, because you definitely do 🤣🤣)

well, since this is a Naruto blog, i will do only naruto crushes.

♡ FIRST CRUSH:

so, the first time i watched naruto (only a few episodes right when they leave the village, before meeting zabuza) i was 11 AND a certain ninja had me feeling... things. guess who that was?

yes, kakashi. because i am and have always been super cliche and predictable.

BUT the first time i started naruto for real it was last october, and i tried to hold back my feelings for the love of my life (aka Kakashi), because i already knew he was too hot to handle, aaaaand the man who first got my heart (while i fought to not kneel before kakashi) was:

ugh, still have the hugest crush on zabuza - i mean, just look at him! and when he and Kakashi fight - shit, it was so hard for me, you know 💦💦💦💦. and like, i had already cried a few times in the show, but when zabuza and haku died i- oh god, my heart! still hurts to talk about it 😩 i was sobbing, i legit thought i was going to drop the show because it hurt so much lol but my friend kept me going, and i'm glad he did. but that changed me as a person, and i've never been the same. i wish haku and zabuza had lived, so in my head they're alive and a happy family (also in my head zabuza also adopted kimimaro when he found him right before leaving the village and they're now one big happy family). you can't fight me.

ALSO, FUN FACT: i hadn't read/written fanfiction IN YEARS before going through zabuza's tag on tumblr and accidentally finding this story by @millenialfanfictionaddiction and then i just couldn't stop anymore. i had forgotten how amazing fanfiction can be, so i began reading it non-stop and then was like "oh yeah, i should write some", so she's the one to blame. and also her story is soo good! i reread it from time to time and it's still 😘🤌👩‍🍳

yes, i just did two crushes for my first crush and rambled a lot, i'm sorry!

♡ CURRENT CRUSH:

i'll give you a whole batch of fresh baked cookies if you guess who that is. lol

yeah... i know. like i said, cliche and predictable. me trying to hold back lasted literally so little. he's just... the man of my life. *sighs*

like i know i thirst over a lot of the characters (i just have a lot of love to give ok?) but kakashi will always be my #1, it's not even fair.

✧ but, anyway, because i can't shut up, my first real crush outside naruto was captain hook from the 2003 peter pan love action. (the things jason isaacs did to a shy 9 years old 🤫) i used to watch the scene where he first appears over and over and over again. i'm preeeeetty sure it kick-started my puberty. my friend's at school "oh peter is so cute!" and me "yeah, totally...". and my current crush outside naruto is eddie munson. sorry. i love them weirdos. i'll put a picture of them just because.

[linz33y]

Fic Writer Review

@veraynes-blog, you tagged me in this months ago, and I kept telling myself I would fill it out once I got back into posting on AO3. Welp, nature is healing and apparently so is my brain, because that time is now 😁

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

27

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

110,947

3. How many fandoms have you written for?

Published to AO3? 5.

Counting my WIPs? 10.

4. Top 5 fics by kudos?

You've Got a Funny Way of Making Friends (Good Omens)

One of a Million (Good Omens)

Sleeping Arrangements (Doctor Who)

Might I Tempt You? (Good Omens)

Long Time, No See (Good Omens)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why/why not?

Doesn't matter if it's a single word, an emoji smash, or paragraphs of text: if I ever *don't* respond to a comment, please assume AO3 borked and didn't notify me, or I'm dead. Seriously, the immediate serotonin boost I get from seeing a comment notification makes me so, so excited that I have to share some of that joy with a response. I also try to leave comments on other people's fics as often as possible. Gotta pay the love forward <3

6. A fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I don't normally write angst, but this Doctor Who drabble probably fits the bill. (I swear the rest of that drabble series is fluff and humor! 😅)

7. Do you write crossovers?

I don't currently have any published, but I swear to god @veraynes-blog, I have not forgotten about that Hannibal/Venom crossover one-shot that we've discussed on-and-off over the last year. I am determined to finish editing it one of these days 😁🙏

8. Ever received hate on a fic?

No, thank god.

9. Do you write smut?

I wish I could write smut, but alas, it is outside of my wheelhouse.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of.

11. Ever had a fic translated?

Yes, a couple of my Doctor Who fics have been translated! In fact, AO3 user Clara1998 read the translated version of The Locksmith, and wrote a follow up: 一个The Locksmith的续写 (roughly, A Continuation of the Locksmith). I had to paste it line by line into google translate to read it, but it made me very happy :')

In case anyone wanted to know, my transformative works policy is in my profile on AO3, and I welcome anyone to translate my fics as long as you link back to the original.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Closest thing I've done to a collab was the Masterversary Big Bang, with @mushigo-palm-spores illustrating my fic, Saxon and Jones.

13. All time fav ship?

Oh lord, it changes so often that it's impossible to answer this. Although I will say that I have a special place in my heart for Ineffable Husbands, seeing as the Good Omens series is responsible for my first post on AO3. When season 2 comes out, they'll probably be my fave again for a time 😊.

14. WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I can't think of one? If I want to finish a fic, it lives in my head until I figure out how to execute it, or until I decide I don't want to finish it anymore, at which point it wouldn't fit this category.

15. Writing strengths?

Humor and snappy dialogue. The first draft of my fics are basically screen plays: 90% dialogue, 10% screen direction. Then I spent the next several drafts slamming my head against my keyboard, attempting to fill in the actual scenes.

16. Writing weaknesses?

I definitely struggle with writing serious, emotional scenes. (For someone who finds herself in a puddle of tears near constantly, I am horrible at actually putting ernest expression into words 😂)

17. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

I'm pretty sure I've only ever written made-up alien dialogue, but I'm not against it. However, I'd have to narrow the language options down based on whether or not I know a fluent speaker who could help with translations.

Although, now that I think about it, even though it's not technically fic, @mushigo-palm-spores did help me with the German in this Ace Attorney comic I made a while back. Only the best for Franziska Von Karma <3

18. First fandom you wrote for?

Good Omens was the first that I actually published fic for.

19. What’s your fav fic you’ve written so far?

Unsuprisingly, it's my most recent. So, backstory: the pandemic made it really, really, really hard to write anything that I didn't immediately scrap in a bout of frustration. It's also the reason I have twice as many fandoms with WIPs than I do with published fics lol. It wasn't until around this past July that I got the idea for a little Fullmetal Alchemist multi-chap. It refused to give up on me, even after the first draft collected dust for a few months, and I finally finished editing/started posting chapters last week. Not only did it feel like a massive accomplishment (like, I actually finished! a thing! for the first time in like! a year!!), but I also got such a lovely comment on the first chapter that I cried. I've re-read that comment every day since, and it's been a huge motivator to keep on writing :')

There are still two more chapters that I'll post in the next week or two, but here's the first half of What's Yours is Mine (and What's Mine is Mine) ^_^

20. Tag!

@echospool (but I know you're still recovering from Nano, so no pressure) and anyone else that wants to fill this out <3

[hughiecampbelle]

Temporary (Bonnie Gold Oneshot)

((PEAKY BLINDERS SEASON 5 SPOILERS))

Character/s: Bonnie

Word Count: 1,033

Requested: anon

Prompt/s: Patchwork, Safety Pin

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @myriadimagines @lilyswritings @encounterthepast @writerdream22 @death-of-a-mermaid @lotsoffandomrecs @woahitslucyylu @obsessedunicorn24 @thedarkqueenofavalon @fangirlsarah16 @theshelbyclan @creativemayhems @soleil-dor @thegirlwithoutaname87 @fifty-shadesof-tommyshelby @riana-jannat

A/N: This turned out a lot darker than I anticipated, but also what's new, y’know? Idk why, but I've been struggling with this so much. I absolutely love the concept, and even wrote an entirely different oneshot, I guess I'm just feeling insecure about my writing. None of it feels right. Nonetheless, I don't think writing a third version would help lol. I hope you like this and I hope it's not as awful as I feel it is!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💖💜

Summary: The only thing keeping you going is Bonnie 💕

Gif Credit: @bills-skarsgards :)

FIC MASTERLIST PART ONE. / PART TWO. / PART THREE.

WANNA BE ADDED TO THE TAG LIST?

WANNA REQUEST A FIC?

Mud caked feet. Bleeding, torn soles pricked by thorns, by the hard ground, wounds full, choking on soil, on maggots, infection an old friend. Mother nature, in her infinite wisdom, had never been so unforgiving. Ruthless. Demonic. Nails broken, falling one by one in a gruesome attempt to lead you back to a home burning at the stake, discarded along the path of sharp turns, blurry edges. Screaming leaves rustling in the wind, crying out, threatening to fall, to leave you, just as the world fell from under you, as the sun solemnly set. Not out of her own will, her own power. The dark of the night draped over you, the wind biting, starved, the stars nothing but a mockery, finding solace in your pain. Your golden boy, with his sweet summer air, gone. Alone. Again.

Time itself an afterthought. Days and nights meant nothing. All you could do was run. Directionless. Heartless. Cold blooded. A voice between the trees, in the shadows, hummed in the twisted tunes of the crickets when they hushed you to sleep: give up. What more was there? A life cut short. Sliced. Diced. Fucking decapitated. Hung on a cross to atone for their sins. The worst kind of ending. Give up, give in, let go. Lay amongst the woods and wait. Decompose. To be picked apart until you were nothing but a pile of bones. Pray to any god who listened with compassion. Make it quick, painless, at the least dignified. Erase those dark eyes so scared, so knowing, staring you down.

He shouldn't have known where you were, he shouldn't have been able to see you in your hidden place, but he did. He always did. One word. An urge, and edge, in his silence. Run. Before things got bad, he meant. Before the gun struck him again, before they dragged him and tied him, your golden boy made only of blood. Before he hung by his wrists. Before your worst nightmare came true. Before your death. Inescapable. Run. To safety. To somewhere else. Away. Quickly, now. It would have been easy, effortless, even bliss, but he put up a fight every single day. It was who he was. You wouldn't go easy, either. Instead, you walk now, with a limp, with aches you'll never rid yourself of. The safety pin pricking your finger, drawing blood, ironic, really. A ring, in its own right. Engagement. Bent to make the shape. He needed you so much in that moment there was no time to wait, to think. Over the fire, your linens drying, blowing in the breeze, the warmth of him wrapped around you when you say it, when you say yes. Your golden boy, fiancé, all yours, and you, his. A vow, when the time came, for a real ring, a real wedding, a real life together. The world was perfect when it was only the two of you, though.

All you had left of him, the red across your palm.

You knew the life he was chasing, the dream, the want not to be forgotten. Playing toy soldier with people like that, it was dangerous. You thought it'd get him hurt, make your golden boy a patchwork of plastic bits and pieces until there was nothing left of his sweetness, like the rest of them. Temporary, he promised. It hadn't been a lie, but the words he spoke, he found hard to believe as they cut his tongue. The uncertainty dripping in his tone. Hand on your cheek, cupping your face, holding you together. Undeserving of him, his kindness, generosity, his dreams. The things he chased, the things that lived in all his stories. His voice, a lullaby. You were alone. No one by your side, not even your shadow. Forgotten by blood, by those who promised they'd never leave, discarded in the gutter. With him, you had a place to call home and a person to come home to. Your Bonnie, baby faced, naïve, too loving for his own good, head lost in the clouds. Always would be the first thing you noticed about him. The last, too. High above the world, in life and death. Excited, proud in his own shy way. Kissing his face tenderly after every match in the ring, hoping that would cure those black and blue bruises. Even now, a part of you resisted the want to turn back, to spend your future with him the way you intended.

The good in you. The good in this world. Lost. Murdered. The shell around you growing thicker, stronger, emotionless. Regret on the tip of your tongue, in the tears you cried, the sobs you tried to quiet, as if all the bad that ever followed you, your genetic default, putting him in harms way. You weren't sure how long it'd been. Weeks. Months. Lifetimes. Found. Dragged. Hushed, cooed, the way someone would a baby. Blank. A bed. Bandages. Around your legs, feet, smaller around your finger. His ring pried from your cold hands, thrown into the abyss. Men and women in white, missing their angel wings, their halos, their clouds. Each careful, quiet, preventing anymore pain. Speaking softly, incoherently. Not a word from your own mouth. Nothing left to say. In and out, from this world into the next. Never a sign of him, though. Not a whisper, a hint, he was simply gone. Awake. Asleep. You planned, plotted. Those men, the singing, the chanting, Billy's Boys. You'd find them, whoever they were, whatever they were. You'd make them pay the way he had. Take the light from their eyes without a moment of hesitation. Put them through what they put him through. Make them repent. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing would, not until you tracked them down, until your golden boy, with his big dreams and grand promises, could rest easy knowing they lay in shallow graves.

Even now, your mind and body healing, the need to hunt gnawing away, none if it could stop the anticipation, the wanting, to see him standing there, in the doorway, his grin lopsided in just the right places. Once again, this time with certainty, promising all of this would only be temporary.

[terrainofheartfelt]

on the topic of the way serena sees herself in relation to the narrative gossip girl pushes for her, the way she sees blair in relation to the narrative gossip girl pushes on her is very… hmm. there was a time earlier on in the show where it felt like serena truly saw blair - in all her complexities and contradictions - but along the way it came to feel like she wasn’t perceiving the actual, in the moment blair, as much as the “role” of blair written by gossip girl herself. idk, thinking about the way serena accuses dan of not seeing the real blair but rather the blair he wrote for his novel, i actually kind of feel like that’s what serena was doing to a certain extent - looking at blair and seeing the version of her that gossip girl invented.

ohhhh absolutely, yeah. I agree with you, anon.

I've talked about this before, I don't think in my ask tag though. That one of the fundamental, foundational aspects of the original thesis of the show was Blair & Serena's love for each other. They were each other's family. They raised each other. And when you look at 1x04: that's the friendship. Serena pull Blair into the light because she's not even aware that the light is on her to begin with.

and it is so fucking TRAGIC that the show let go of that friendship. I don't know if they just took it for granted, in a like, "yeah we're a few seasons in, so everybody knows they're friends," but it's like they stopped trying to write them? In favor of the two characters' romantic pairings? Like, sometimes in season 5, it feels like: do they even like each other? because the Blair and Serena of seasons past, they didn't let anything break them, and I have a hard time believing that Blair and Dan falling for each other would set that friendship crumbling. only it isn't that friendship anymore.

and, god, I hate to quote chip wiskers on this blog, but he says something in season 3 to serena like: "this isn't high school anymore, you can't just say you hate each other and then make up on the Met steps at lunch the next day" meaning, to keep a friendship alive into adulthood, you can't take it granted. but sadly, prophetically, that seems to be what happens.

as for the dan & novel of it all, you reminded me of @vanderwoodlings amazing fic steal my reflection, which is multi-pov of how the people in dan's life react to reading Inside, and I've never forgotten what she wrote to me in the comments (and thanks to ao3 I never have to!) which is: "the nature of love is that it is truth" and dan writing her in a heightened and fictionalized version, sure, but there's an inherent undercurrent of he sees blair for all that she is, and he loves all of her, so that's the version of her that's in the book. And of course, let us not forget: "not in spite of who you are, but because of it." & "Dan loves me for me."

[willymywonkers]

The Factory (5/5)

Summary: It's been a few weeks since the Factory tour, and Maude is much happier than she ever was. Charlie comes over, and tells her about his experience with Willy. She finds that he rejected Willy's offer. However, she gets a surprise visit from a familiar stranger.

A/N: the final chapter baby!!! I know it's this series was short, but I promise I will still be posting other stories with Maude and Willy, I've just got some major school shit to work out. My Masterlist should be up tomorrow.

Tagged: @holdmeicant @wonkasmissstarshine

It was a mid February day, and things seemed to be getting better for the Buckets. Harry Bucket had gotten a new job, with much better pay, and Grandpa Joe was much better.

Maude was back in school teaching. Charlie couldn't be happier to see her face again.

Maude even started a class teaching kids the chemistry behind making candy. She loved hanging out with the kids, but there was something missing in her life.

Despite being much cheerful, she couldn't get her mind off Will. She noticed Wonka's sales had been dropping. The newspaper began spreading rumors about him, but, of course, they weren't true.

The soft buzz from her door distracted her from her thoughts. Maude smiled, already knowing who it was.

Charlie smiled back at her, wiping the snow off his boots.

"Hello, Charlie." Maude chuckled, inviting him in.

"Hello, Ms. Figgle. Here, I got some extra tips from shoe shining, and I wanted to split this with you." Charlie handed her a Wonka bar from his pocket.

Maude smiled, taking the candy bar. "How thoughtful of you, dear."

She took a piece, but it didn't taste the same. It had a bitter taste, but it wasn't the chocolate. Chewing on the candy suddenly made Maude's good mood shift to a guilty feeling.

"This doesn't taste right." Maude said. The candy didn't have its velvety texture like it used to.

Charlie took a bite of the bar, and agreed.

"Did something happen with you and Will on the trip?" Maude asked, slightly concerned.

"Well, Mr. Wonka offered to give me his entire factory, but he wouldn't let me ever see my family again." Charlie explained.

Maude looked, slightly confused. "Really?"

"Yeah. I thought he was really nice at first. I guess he only cares about himself." Charlie sighed, disappointed.

Maude sighed, just as disappointed.

"Did he ever mention me? At all?" She asked.

"No, I don't think so." Charlie replied.

Maude's heart began to break. Of course, this was expected. She didn't expect Willy to remember her, and how she was his biggest influence in his life.

The cold sad guilt started to consume her once again.

Willy Wonka found himself in an odd situation. Ever since Charlie turned down his offer to live with him, he had been feeling odd. He felt guilty somehow.

This feeling greatly affected his chocolate sales, and he just didn't know why.

Childhood memories started coming back to him. It drove him nuts. He remembered the constant bullying. How he was an outcast to the other children.

Wired Willy is what the kids called him. They would pebbles at his house, taunting him.

God, how he hated his childhood. Willy sat his desk. His mind was clouded, and he could barely focus on his work.

"Check out loser Willy." The kids shouted. "He's like a turtle, slow and cowardly."

Willy couldn't stand it. He was so helpless. He remembered the kids pushing him to the ground and kicking him hard in the stomach.

He gulped hard. It was hard to make him cry, but those memories were enough to push Willy to his limit.

"Hey ASSHATS." A young girl cursed. "Leave him alone or I'll dissect you lot."

Willy remembered the appearance of a girl with messy pigtails and dirt on her face.

She threw some dead things at the kids, and all the kids ran off, terrified of the girl.

Willy wasn't terrified. In fact, the young girl was his savior. He remembered how she loved to chew gum.

"Maude." Will whispered. He felt upset saying her name out loud. She wasn't around anymore, and he hadn't spoken to her in years.

He sat with his supposed 'therapist'.

"I just don't understand." Willy said. "Why am I thinking about her now? I should be over her."

The Oompa Loompa nodded, writing something down.

"I just feel like there's something missing." Willy said, thinking. "I've been feeling terrible, so the candy's terrible. So, how do I fix that?"

The Oompa Loompa shrugged.

Will sat up. "Maybe I'm feeling this way because of my past actions lead up to Charlie ejecting my offer, and I should see things from outside my own perspective." He smirked over at his 'therapist'. "Oh, you're good."

The next day, Willy took a trip into town, wearing all black, in hopes of finding Charlie. He parked his large flying glass elevator in the most convenient spot, and saw the boy shining shoes.

As the boy went on a bit of a break, Willy took a seat on the bench and flipped through the local newspaper, conveniently covering his face.

Charlie kneeled down, and began to work on Willy's shoes.

"I hear that guy, Wendell Walters." Willy began to speak.

"Willy Wonka?" Charlie corrected.

"Yeah, him. I hear his chocolate hasn't been doing well. It seemed to he's a bad egg who deserves it." Willy said.

"Yeah." Charlie agreed.

"Have you met him?" Willy asked.

"I did once. At first, I thought he was nice, but then he wasn't. He also has a funny haircut." Charlie replied, trying to antagonize Willy. He caught on from the moment he sat down.

Willy tossed the newspaper down. "I do not."

"Why are you here?" Charlie got up, and crossed his arms.

"I don't feel so hot." Willy snapped. He sighed, frustrated. "What helps you feel better when you feel down?"

"My family."

"Ew." Willy winced.

Charlie started to get slightly upset. "What do have against my family?"

"It's not your family. It's the idea of-" Willy seemed to struggle on the right word.

"Parents?"

"That." Willy sighed. "And, something else."

"And, what's that?" Charlie asked. "Whatever it is, you should face what's troubling you. My teacher tells me that."

"Well, that sounds like a bunch of baloney." Willy scoffed.

"It's not. She's very smart." Charlie said.

"Then, maybe she should help me." Willy said, sarcastically. Then, he thought for a second. "Actually, that's not a bad idea. Do you think you could show me to her?"

Charlie nodded. "Sure."

Willy smiled wide. "That's great! You know, I actually have trans-"

He ran into the glass elevator face first. "I should really be careful to where I park this thing."

Willy walked into the elevator, with Charlie following behind. He pressed a single button, and they were off.

Maude was in her bedroom, playing the violin. Her fingers danced over the strings as the bow shifted back and forth, playing a calming tune. The smoothness of the instrument brought her temporary peace.

It had been a while since she touched the instrument, since she only played it when she was particularly sad. However, in this moment, she felt contentment.

It did hurt her knowing that Will completely forgotten about her, but she wasn't going to let that guilt follow her into the bright future.

Maude heard a soft knock at the door. She placed the instrument down, walking out of her bedroom.

It was Charlie, of course.

"Hello, dear." Maude smiled.

"Ms. Figgle, there's someone I want you to meet." Charlie said.

Behind him was a stunned Willy Wonka. He gulped hard, nervously smiling at Maude.

She stood there, baffled. "Come in." She spoke softly, gesturing the boys in.

Willy nodded, putting his coat and hat down.

The three of them sat in the living room. A silence consumed the room, as Will and Maude stared at each other for a few minutes.

"Hi Willy." Maude said, finally. "How are you?"

Willy smiled, slightly. "Hey Maude. I'm fine."

"Would you like some tea?" She asked.

He nodded. "Absolutely."

Maude drifted off to the kitchen. After a few minutes, she came back with tea and cookies.

Charlie looked over to Willy, and nodded.

"Ms. Figgle, do you know where the restroom is?" Charlie asked.

"Down the hall, and to the left." Maude said. Her eyes were still locked with Willy's.

Charlie took this opportunity to leave the two adults alone.

"So, you're a teacher now?" Willy reached for his tea.

"Yes, but I teach the science of candy making." Maude said, grabbing a cookie.

"That's great." He smiled. "You know, candy making does require a lot of smarts."

She chuckled. "Yeah."

Willy's smile slightly faded as he looked down at his tea. "Say, uh, would you ever want to get back into candy making again?"

She smiled, chuckling again. "Well, I would. I loved working with you in the factory."

"You did?" His puppy dog eyes were too much to bear.

Maude nodded. "Of course."

His smile soon faded. "Would you ever forgive me, Maude?"

"For what?" She asked confused.

"For coming between you and Ron. I know how much you loved him, and I just got so jealous that I pushed you away." Willy looked down at his tea, stirring it slowly.

Tears poured softly down Maude's cheek. "That's not true, Will."

Willy looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"Ron pulled me away from you." She sniffed. "I didn't love him."

"You didn't?" Willy repeated.

"No." She scoffed. "I loved you."

His eyes widened. He clenched his gloved hands, and gulped. "R-really?"

Maude nodded, wiping off any tears with a piece of paper tissue.

He leaned over to her. His gloved hand hovering over her wet cheek. Will placed a soft kiss on her quivering lips. Maude gave into the kiss, gently.

They pulled away after a minute or so.

Will cleared his throat, and chuckled, slightly.

Maude smiled, holding his hands in hers. She placed her head against Will's chest. Willy embraced the hug, holding Maude in his arms.

"I think I loved you too, Maude." He said. "Do you think you'd still might wanna live with me in the factory?"

She chuckled. "Only if Charlie says yes."

Behind her, Charlie was smiling brightly at the two.

"Charlie?" Willy Wonka began. "Would you and your family like to live in the factory with me?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes, of course."

He hugged both Maude and Willy.

Finally, it became clear to Willy about what he was missing.

This became the start of something beautiful.