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demie90s · 8 days ago

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Winter Smoke

Paige Bueckers x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Paige is home for winter break. No practices, no pressure—just family dinners, small town snow, and that one girl who’s always been around.

Genre: SMUT. WLW, slow burn, emotional tension, questioning sexuality, winter break setting, pothead x athlete, domestic vibes, closeted yearning

Warnings: Weed use, internalized confusion, soft flirtation, light physical intimacy (touching, closeness, implied attraction), emotional vulnerability, questioning identity

Word Count: ~ 4.1k

Winter break had the same rhythm every year: Paige came home, parents hosted dinner, folks laughed too loud in the living room, and I minded my business from the basement.

I didn’t mind her being around. We weren’t close—just the kind of familiar that comes from small towns and mutual obligations. Her dad and mine coached together in high school, so technically we’d “known each other forever,” but we’d never really talked. Not like that.

She played ball. I played the system.

They wanted us to be friends, though. My dad always hinting about it, asking me to tutor her in something she didn’t need help with just to get us in the same room. Her mom dropping comments like, “You should bring Paige on one of those study trips you go on, maybe it’ll rub off.”

As if intelligence was contagious.

Didn’t matter. I was too far gone into my own world now. I had my weed, my theories, my books, my silence. I wasn’t even mad about my dad pushing me into academia instead of ball anymore—he got over it. He saw what I did with it. I finished high school early, left with an associate’s before I could legally drink, and now I’m 21 working on a master’s degree while barely blinking. A little weed wasn’t going to be the scandal that ruined me.

So when they pulled up again this winter—her whole family—I didn’t blink.

I was in the basement, like usual. Hoodie on. Socks mismatched. Blunt lit. Some quiet instrumental R&B bleeding out the Bluetooth speaker. I was reading an abstract on cognitive reinforcement while simultaneously plotting which chips I was going to eat next.

And then the door opened. I didn’t look up right away. I already knew. Paige.

“Your mom said you were down here,” she said casually, a soft thud as she dropped down onto the other end of the couch.

“Clearly,” I murmured, barely lifting my eyes from the page. “She send you to babysit me or something?”

“Nah. I just wanted to get out of there. It’s a lot.”

I hummed. “Yeah. That house too full of opinions.”

She laughed lightly, then went quiet. I could feel her eyes scanning the room—my scattered notebooks, the rolling tray, the cloud of sweet smoke hanging heavy in the air.

She leaned back, legs stretched long across the carpet, and asked, “Is that your study routine or your spiritual practice?”

“Both.”

That got a laugh out of her. I liked the way she laughed. It was light, not forced, and just dry enough to tell me she wasn’t as straight as she tried to act.

“You ever try it?” I asked.

She glanced over. “What?”

I tapped the blunt between my fingers. “This. You off-season now, right?”

She tilted her head like she was thinking. “I mean… I’ve been around it. Never really did it.”

“Now’s the perfect time. No games, no drug tests, no interviews. Just you and the void.”

She looked at me, a little too long, and I knew then she was considering it.

“You don’t gotta impress me,” I said. “But you curious. I see it.”

Her eyes narrowed, amused. “You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re narrating a Netflix show no one’s ready for.”

I smirked, slow. “That’s ‘cause they’re not.”

Eventually, she took it. Sloppy first inhale, a cough, another laugh. She settled into the feeling quicker than I thought. And then came the real problem—we started talking. Like really talking.

I don’t even remember what cracked it. Might’ve been a joke about her old baby photos upstairs or some memory we shared at a fourth-grade birthday party neither of us remembered happening until now. But the laughter settled into something thicker. Slower.

“People don’t really know how smart you are,” she said out of nowhere.

I blinked, caught off guard. “You stalking my résumé or something?”

“Nah, just… people talk. My mom brags about you to everyone. Said you had college credits before you had a prom.”

“That’s true. I skipped prom.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Cause I was gay and bored. And the DJ was trash.”

Her lips twitched like she didn’t know whether to laugh or process the information. “So you’re out?”

“Out? Baby, I was see-through.”

I stretched out further, dragging the blunt to my lips again. She was watching me now. Too closely. Her eyes darkened a little, the haze from the smoke mixing with the curiosity already crawling under her skin.

“And what about you?” I asked, soft. “You ever… explore?”

She didn’t answer immediately. But she didn’t break eye contact either.

“Not really,” she murmured. “Not in a real way.” I nodded. Said nothing. I didn’t need to press it.

She leaned closer. Just a little. Her hand brushed mine on the couch, slow like a test. I didn’t move. Just let the tension sit there.

“You ever think about what it’s like?” she asked quietly.

My eyes locked on hers, and for once, I didn’t say something witty. Didn’t joke. Just let my voice drop into something honest.

“All the time.” There was a pause.

“Can I… try something?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She leaned in. Lips brushed. Slow. Careful. She tasted like nerves and chapstick and a little leftover smoke. And when I deepened it—just slightly—she let out the softest sound I’ve ever heard from her.

That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Cause I knew who I was. On the surface? Calm. Chill. Smarter than I look and twice as calculated. On the inside? Horny. Starving. Ready to fall to my knees and make her forget her last name.

But I held it in. Barely.

Our kiss broke and she smiled, dazed. “That was…”

“Yeah.”

She laid her head on my shoulder. I felt her fingers graze the hem of my shirt. Not sexual. Just curious. But I was holding on by threads.

We’d been like that for a while now—somewhere between silence and casual conversation, like neither of us knew how to say, “Hey, are we gonna talk about the way we kissed and didn’t stop thinking about it for the last hour?”

We hadn’t moved from the couch. Weirdly enough, it held both of us just fine. Just enough room. Just enough quiet. Except now Paige was laying on top of me.

Her legs tangled between mine, her body pressed down in a way that didn’t feel innocent anymore. Head on my chest, one arm hooked lazily around my waist, like she’d done this a thousand times. Her eyes were closed, but she was still talking—something about childhood basketball trophies and how her little cousin found her old highlights on YouTube.

I could barely register a word. Because all I could think about was how her thigh was right there—pressed between mine. Not moving. But not still either.

And I was high. Which made it worse. I don’t get stupid when I’m high—I get hungry. And every slow exhale from her nose onto my collarbone was pushing me closer to losing it.

I bit my lip. She didn’t notice.

Her voice was soft. “He said I looked mean. Like, ‘Auntie, why you look so mad when you play?’ I was like, bro, that’s my face.”

I huffed out a breath. Tried to shift. Tried to be normal. But she moved with me—adjusted her leg without even opening her eyes, and suddenly her thigh dragged right over where I’d been trying not to feel too much.

I clenched my jaw. She still didn’t notice.

“I used to hate watching myself,” she murmured, voice low and gentle against my throat. “Now it’s kinda cool, seeing where I started. You ever feel like that? Like—”

“I have to move you,” I cut in, voice tighter than I meant.

She lifted her head a little, brows furrowed. “What? Why?”

I sat up slightly, forcing her off me and into her own seat like it didn’t hurt. Like it wasn’t killing me to put space between us.

“Are you alright?” she asked, concerned, leaning closer. I licked my lips slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I’m trying not to fuck you,” I said calmly. Deadass. Unapologetic.

She blinked once. Then again. And smiled. That slow, knowing smile.

“Oh,” she said, sitting up straighter. “That’s why.”

“Mhm.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“I did.”

“No, I mean earlier.”

“You were literally laying on me. I could barely breathe. You were talking about youth basketball and I was this close to snapping your waistband and licking your spine.”

She grinned wider, leaned in like she was about to say something smart, and kissed me instead. Not light. Not curious. Firm. Intentional. Her hand cupped my jaw while her mouth moved slow and deep over mine, and I was holding on by a damn thread.

Then she started licking my neck. Not just kissing—licking. Small, warm, deliberate strokes right beneath my ear, and then soft open-mouthed kisses trailing down to my collarbone. And I was still. Frozen.

Not because I didn’t want to touch her. But because I did. Because if I moved, I was going to flip her. Make her cry out. Make her feel every second of what I’d been holding in since she laid on me like that couch was neutral ground.

She sat in my lap now, straddling me fully, rocking just barely. Smirking.

“You good?” she asked in that fake innocent tone, head tilted, lips still swollen from kissing.

I looked at her. Stared. She thought she was winning. Thought she was in charge. But when she leaned in close again and whispered, “Yes…”—that was it.

Everything inside me snapped.

My hand wrapped around her waist and pulled her down flush. The soft gasp she let out told me all I needed to know. She didn’t expect me to take it that seriously.

I kissed her hard—like I was making up for every second I held back. My tongue slid into her mouth like I owned the space. My hands gripped her thighs, pulled her down tighter into me, and I felt the shift in her body—the sudden surrender. The way she melted under it.

“You thought you’d in charge?” I muttered between kisses. She tried to say something cocky. I swallowed it with another kiss.

“You laid on me like I wouldn’t do something about it.”

Her hips shifted. My fingers dug in. She moaned—soft, breathy, and fuck, I wanted more.

I kissed her jaw, her neck, the space just under her ear where she shivered like I found a secret. My voice dropped.

“Girl you got one chance to tell me to stop.”

She didn’t. Her hands gripped my shoulders. She leaned in again, kissed me like she was already gone.

I didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to. Paige had already told me everything I needed to hear—between her eyes, her breathing, her “yes,” the way her thighs clenched the second I kissed under her ear.

And I wasn’t about to waste that permission.

I flipped her slow. Nothing rough—just smooth and deliberate. Her back hit the cushions while I stayed above her, steady, calm, calculated. Her hands gripped my hoodie like she was holding herself together. That wouldn’t last long.

Then I was on her. Hands sliding up under her hoodie, fingertips dragging over bare skin, tugging fabric higher as I kissed down her neck. She lifted her arms, let me take it off, hair falling across her flushed face like some forbidden secret I wasn’t supposed to see.

But I was gonna see all of her. Every fucking inch.

No bra. Just her. Skin flushed pink, breathing shallow, chest rising. I stared. Just for a second. Just to memorize the shape of her. Then I dropped my mouth to her chest—tongue licking a slow circle around her nipple before pulling it into my mouth, gently, then harder, until she gasped and arched up.

My hands weren’t still either. One slid down, thumb dragging under the band of her sweatpants. I felt her tremble when I grazed the front of her, the heat, the way her body reacted instantly. My eyes were on hers the whole time.

I didn’t say anything. I just pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help me, quiet, legs parting slightly, thighs tense. No panties. She knew what she was doing. IM not mad at it.

She always looked so clean-cut. So composed. But here she was, laying back in my basement with nothing on from the waist down, wet and ready, thighs trembling, eyes locked on me like she didn’t know whether to speak or beg.

I dropped to my knees on the floor between the couch cushions. Didn’t rush. Just kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and firm. Then the other. Licked the softness just above where she needed it, blowing cool air across her pussy until she squirmed.

I didn’t tease her long. Not tonight.

I leaned in and kissed her there—deep, full tongue pressure, slow licks that flattened against her clit, then slid lower, tasting her. Her hips jumped immediately.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. I hummed against her. The vibrations made her moan. Then I really got to work.

My hands gripped her thighs and pulled her forward. I spread her wider, licking long and slow—up and down, circling, pausing only to suck her clit gently, then hard enough to make her back arch off the couch. She was losing it already, one hand tangled in my curls, the other gripping the pillow like it could ground her.

But I wasn’t done.

While I ate her, one hand slid back into my sweats—already soaked from how long I’d been holding it in. My fingers rubbed slow circles over my own clit, matching the rhythm of my mouth on hers. It made the pleasure sharper, more focused. Like I was feeding off her sounds.

She moaned louder. Her thighs started to tremble.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered, voice cracking.

I didn’t. I licked her like it was my purpose—slow but relentless. I flattened my tongue, sucked her clit again, then moved lower and slid my tongue inside her, moaning softly when she gasped and rolled her hips into my face. Her whole body tightened. She was close. Right there.

I pulled back just enough to say, “I want you to come on my mouth.”

She whimpered. “Fuck. I’m gonna—”

Her whole body jerked. Her legs shook around my shoulders. I didn’t stop—kept licking through it, softer now, coaxing it out of her, letting her ride it. She cried out, breathless, shaky, and her fingers pulled hard at my hair.

I stayed there until she twitched. Until she couldn’t take anymore. Until she pushed at me with a whimper and begged, “Wait—baby, stop—too much.”

I finally pulled back. Licked my lips. Looked at her. Wrecked. Flushed. Breathless. Still trembling.

I climbed back onto the couch beside her, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and leaned in to kiss her neck—tasting her skin, dragging my tongue up her throat slow and dirty.

“You taste so fucking good,” I whispered.

She blinked at me, dazed. “You’re high.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t eat you through the fucking floor.”

She laughed weakly, still breathless. And then her fingers slid between my legs.

“Ohhh…” I smiled, slow and wicked. “You trying to be grown?” She looked at me.

“Say yes again.”

She hadn’t even caught her breath yet, still folded into the couch cushions, legs slightly open, chest rising in soft uneven waves. Her skin glowed in the low light—pink from heat, kissed red around her chest and throat. And yet she still looked hungry.

Paige shifted, climbing into my lap like the tremble in her thighs didn’t exist. She pushed me back into the cushions and settled over me, straddling me fully, hands on either side of my neck, gaze low and steady. There was something new in her eyes. Bolder. Like now that she knew what my mouth could do, she wanted to see what her hands could make happen.

“You good?” I asked, low.

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” I raised a brow.

But she was already kissing me—hot, slow, and wet, tongue teasing mine like she wanted to reclaim her breath through me. Her hand slid under my hoodie, trailing along my ribs, my stomach. She tugged it up, impatient. I let her pull it off.

She looked down at me now, eyes scanning everything, like she was seeing me for the first time. Then her hands cupped my chest, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I sighed into the kiss, my back arching just a little.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered, voice husky.

I opened my mouth to respond, but she kissed down my neck before I could answer—slow and messy, lips dragging across my collarbone, then lower. Her tongue flicked over my nipple and my breath caught. She smiled against my skin.

“Oh, you like that.”

“Mhm,” I managed. “But don’t get cocky. You still shaky.”

She ignored that, kissing lower. Her hand slid between my legs, over my sweats, slow pressure that made me sigh and grind into her palm.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, surprised.

“Yeah. You. Did that.”

Paige hummed, dragging her fingers up and down through the fabric. Teasing. She didn’t rush. Didn’t try to prove anything. Just moved with confidence—like she’d been thinking about this longer than she admitted.

She tugged my sweats down, enough to get her hand in, and the moment her fingers slid through how wet I was, she moaned.

“Fuck.”

I grinned. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, dazed, like she forgot where she was. Her fingers rubbed slow circles over my clit while she kissed me again—deep and dirty, moaning into my mouth every time I twitched.

Then she slid one finger in. Then another. I grabbed her wrist on instinct, not to stop her, but to feel it. She started thrusting slow, her other hand gripping my thigh, and her breath got uneven again.

“You’re so fucking warm,” she whispered, looking down at where her fingers disappeared inside me. “I—I can’t—”

And then she froze. Her eyes fluttered. Her legs trembled.

“Oh my god.”

She gasped, sharp and loud, grinding down against me like she didn’t even mean to. Cumming. Again.

Right there. On top of me. Legs shaking, forehead pressed to mine, fingers still inside me but frozen. She whimpered, soft and stunned.

I bit my lip, smiling. “You were saying?”

“Shut up,” she panted.

“No, no, please,” I laughed breathlessly. “You were being in charge. Continue.”

She blinked down at me, red-faced. “I—I forgot what I was doing.”

I gripped her hips and started to move them. She moaned.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Let me help you remember.”

I guided her—slow grind, right over my thigh now, slick and sensitive, her hands on my chest for balance. I kept moving her, small circles, steady pressure, and watched her fall apart all over again.

“You think I needed more than this?” I muttered, voice low. “Just you on top of me, making all those sounds…”

“Stop talking,” she gasped, but her hips didn’t stop.

“I came already, Paige. You know that, right?” Her eyes widened.

“I came while I was eating you.” (Literally a dream of mine.. don’t mind me)

She whimpered, grinding harder. “Fuck…”

“And now you’re gonna come again. Because you turn me on that bad.”

She didn’t argue. She just shook. Collapsed into my neck and came again, softer this time. Just a long, trembling sigh, her breath hot against my throat, body loose and weak and completely undone.

And I held her. Smiling to myself. Because yeah—she tried to be in charge. But I had her. Every. Single. Time.

It was sometime past midnight when we finally pulled ourselves together—sweatpants back on, hoodies thrown over bodies still warm, limbs still a little shaky. We laughed too much in the bathroom while brushing our teeth, hands knocking into each other, grinning like two kids who knew they weren’t supposed to be doing what they just did.

She stayed.

Of course she stayed.

Now we were in my room, the lights dim, comforter kicked halfway off the bed. She laid on top of me, hoodie half-zipped, cheek pressed against my chest like it belonged there. Her thigh was tucked between mine again, but this time I wasn’t grinding—I was too tired. Too satisfied. My hand rested on her back, fingers tracing lazy lines along her spine while she talked soft and slow, her voice fading in and out like she was about to fall asleep mid-sentence.

“You sure I’m not crushing you?” she mumbled.

I rolled my eyes. “You weigh, like, five pounds more than me.”

“But I’m taller. Got broader shoulders.”

I slid my hand down to squeeze her ass. “You’re not heavy, Paige. I lift.”

She chuckled, sleep in her throat. “Okay, hot girl.”

We laid there like that for a while. Comfortable. Quiet. Her breath evened out, her body melted against mine. I didn’t move.

I didn’t want to.

Morning came like a slap to the ego. The sun peeked through my curtains just bright enough to hit Paige’s face. She scrunched up like a cat and rolled off me with a groan, taking the covers with her.

“Damn,” I muttered, dragging my hoodie down.

“Shut up,” she grumbled. “Your bed’s too comfortable. I didn’t wanna wake up.”

“You drooled on me.”

She blinked. “What?”

I smirked. “Right here.” I tapped my chest. “Dead center. Like a badge of honor.”

She covered her face, laughing into her sleeve.

We got dressed in a mess of mismatched clothes. My sweats, her hoodie. My bonnet that she definitely did not need but still tried on for jokes. I tossed her one of my oversized tees to wear under her jacket and she looked at herself in the mirror like she didn’t hate it.

“You good?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just don’t know how to walk out of here like I wasn’t literally—”

“Say it and I’ll drag you back in this bed.”

She bit her lip. “That’s not a threat.”

We made our way to the kitchen like two teenagers sneaking in past curfew—except it was 9 a.m., and both of my parents were already awake.

I should’ve known something was up the moment my mom turned from the stove with that look. That mom look. The one that says, “You think I don’t know, but I know.”

“Mornin’ girls,” she said sweetly, sliding pancakes onto a plate. “Y’all sleep good?”

Paige damn near tripped over the chair. I cleared my throat. “Yup. Great. Comfy.”

“Yeah,” Paige added too fast. “Really good. Slept really… peacefully.”

“Mhmm,” my mom replied, smirking. “Sure did look peaceful when I checked on you two. Cozy.”

I froze. “You what?”

“Oh relax. I didn’t open the door all the way. Just enough to see her head on your chest like a baby possum.”

Paige looked like she wanted the floor to eat her whole. And then came my father. He walked in holding his coffee like a championship trophy, grinning like he hit the lottery three times in one night.

“I knew it,” he said, loud as hell. “I told you, baby! Didn’t I say?”

He turned to my mom, eyes wide. “Didn’t I say, ‘Those two gone end up together. It’s only a matter of time’? Didn’t I say that?!”

“You said it,” my mom replied flatly, rolling her eyes.

My dad clapped his hands together once, loud and proud. “Welcome to the family, Bueckers!”

Paige’s eyes got so wide I thought she might pass out. I dropped my forehead to the table. “You’re embarrassing. Please stop.”

He ignored me completely, walking over to Paige and slapping her on the shoulder like he just drafted her to the Lakers. “I mean this girl right here—man! Best in the league. Smart. Focused. Got a crossover and a sense of humor.”

“She’s sitting right here,” I muttered.

He leaned in closer, whispering too loud to be subtle. “If you break her heart, I’m takin’ your jump shot. You hear me?”

Paige choked on her juice. My mom finally rescued us. “That’s enough, Mr. Hall of Fame. Go fix the screen door like you said you would.”

He walked off still talking. “Three for three! That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Three for three!”

I turned to Paige, deadpan. “You wanna run? Now’s your chance.”

She leaned over, bumped my shoulder, and whispered, “Actually… I’m kinda into it.”

I blinked. “Into what?”

She smirked. “Being yours.”

My heart did something stupid. Like real stupid.

But all I said was, “Better be. You drooled on me.”

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

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slashire · 1 month ago

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Tuesday

Summary: you accidentally grab at the same book as another, turns out it's the reason why you look forward to every tuesday. You and Spencer, after meeting, enjoy each other's space in the little bookstore, it escalates to him asking you out to dinner.

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn, a tiny trauma dump from spencer

WC: 2219

an: I'm working on part 3 of the black butler one, but I'm currently in between moving so Idk when I can post it! :(

The first time it happens, it's raining, light, misty rain, the kind that's more whisper than weather. The air smells faintly of damp pavement, crushed leaves, and the orange peel you tucked into your coat pocket on the walk over. You duck into the little bookstore nestled between a florist and a vintage clothing shop, your usual Tuesday sanctuary, and shake the rain from your sleeves as the door swings closed behind you with a soft, familiar chime. The sound feels like punctuation, a gentle full stop at the end of whatever outside noise you've left behind.

Inside, the bookstore hums in its quiet way, old jazz murmurs from a corner speaker, blending into the rustle of pages and the soft scuff of someone moving between stacks. The place is warm with the scent of old paper and wood polish, with something slightly citrusy you've never quite been able to identify. You follow the creaky wooden floorboards instinctively, stepping around a table stacked with faded Penguin Classics, past the fiction aisle, and into the back corner, where Psychology lives, tucked between political theory and poetry like some strange venn diagram of the human condition.

You reach for the book without thinking, Cognitive Development and Psychopathology. It's dense, unflinchingly clinical in parts, but you’ve been circling it for weeks. There's something in the way it weaves together early development, trauma theory, and behavior patterns that fascinates you, how it reads more like the anatomy of memory than an academic text.

And then, as your fingers touch the spine, another hand reaches for it at the exact same moment.

The contact is brief- cool fingertips brushing yours- but it's enough to make you glance up.

He's taller than you, but somehow he manages to take up less space than he should, like he's trying to shrink himself to fit the bookstores hush. His hair curls slightly from the humidity, soft and unbrushed in a way that suggests he might have run here through the rain without an umbrella. He wears a navy cardigan over a mismatched shirt and tie, the pattern of the tie slightly crooked. He looks surprised, blinking at you with warm, honey-colored eyes behind wire-framed glasses.

He pulls his hand back immediately.

“I-sorry. You go ahead,” he says, his voice low but clipped, as though he's used to recalibrating mid sentence. “I've read it before. Several times, actually. Though I find I never quite retain the same interpretation twice.”

You pause, glancing down at the book again and then back at him. “Sounds like memory reconsolidation.”

That makes his eyebrows lift, sharply, delightedly, as if you've just said the exact right thing on accident.

“Exactly. Yes. that's actually-well, it's the core of the problem, isn't it? That every time we retrieve a memory, we alter it. It's not like a file you open and close. It's more like…like clay. Always being reshaped. Dr. Vass even argues that therapy, at its best, is just carefully controlled memory destabilization. But of course, her sample sizes were too small and skewed toward outpatient populations, so..”

He trails off, blinking again. Then he lets out a breath and offers a shy, crooked smile. “Sorry. I ramble.”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “It's refreshing.”

He glances at you as if he's trying to determine whether you mean it. Then his smile deepens, just slightly.

“You have good taste,” he says.

“Likewise,” you reply, this time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh, something barely audible but genuine.

He offers you his hand, like the thought just occurred to him. “Spencer Reid.”

You shake it, noticing the precision in his grip, the careful way he measures touch like he's learned to be cautious with his presence in the world. You give him your name in return, and he repeats it softly, almost to himself, committing it to memory.

Something shifts then, something subtle. Like two books leaning gently into each other on a shelf, no longer strangers.

You think that will be it. But the next Tuesday, he's there.

You spot him first, seated in the philosophy aisle, one leg curled under the other on the faded armchair near the back. He's reading again, The Denial of Death by Becker, but looks up the moment you enter, as if he's been listening for the sound of your step.

“Hi.” he says, the word a little breathless, like he didn't realize he'd been holding any until just now.

That day, you talk about Carl Jung. The week after, it's Virginia Woolf. Once, your conversation spirals from Plato to neurolinguistics to the way children invent private languages and how that might intersect with trauma encoding. He speaks in long sentences, hands moving in rhythm with his thoughts, building out entire structures of ideas in the air like he's mapping galaxies. You never feel lost, though. He pulls you into the orbit of his mind with ease, always pausing to check if youre still with him, always listening as intently as he speaks.

He starts bringing you books, ones he thinks you'll like, secondhand copies with his thoughts scribbled in the margins. You bring pastries from the cafe down the block. On rainy weeks, he brings tea. It becomes a ritual. You become ritual.

Sometimes you sit in silence, reading side by side. Other times, the words don't stop until the shop closes and the clerk politely flicked the lights. The world outside shrinks into irrelevance when he's across from you, head tilted, brow furrowed in thought.

You learn how he cracks his knuckles when he's nervous. How he won't interrupt, but his eyes light up when he's holding back a thought. How he listens, really listens, with the kind of reverence that makes you feel like what you say matters, like it's being gently stored away somewhere sacred.

He tells you things you know he doesn't tell most people. That he's been called a genius, but he doesn't always feel like one. That he used to hate silence, but lately, he's been learning how to sit with it. That he never had a favorite place in D.C, not really, too transient, too loud, but this bookstore, he says one day, without looking up from his book, “feels like breathing again.”

You don't answer. You just smile and turn the page.

Five months after that first accidental brush of fingertips, he gives you a book.

He doesn't say anything. Just place’s it on the table between you. A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet, soft-edged and underlined. You open it without thinking, and a folded piece of paper falls out.

Your name is written on the front in careful, narrow handwriting.

Inside the note reads:

I've found a rhythm in these Tuesdays.

A stillness I didn't know I needed.

I used to believe connection was accidental.

Or infrequent.

But then I met you. And it didn't feel

Accidental at all.

I was wondering,

Would you like to have dinner with me?

No pressure.

Just one more conversation.

-Spencer

You sit back slowly, heart thudding in your chest, the soft sound of pages turning somewhere in the store now impossibly loud. When you look up, he's not pretending to read. He's watching you, quietly, hands folded in his lap, eyes full of uncertainty that doesn't match the brilliance of his mind.

You smile, small, certain, and hold up the note.

He straightens, blinking once.

“I'd love to,” you say.

The smile that breaks across his face isn't perfect. It's not suave or practiced or cinematic.

It's real.

And just like that, the story turns another page.

The dinner is set for the following friday. He chooses a quiet, tucked away place, of course he does, a little family-owned bistro with books stacked on its windowsills and flickering tea lights on each table. He texts you the address precisely, three days in advance, and follows up on Thursday to confirm with a slightly self conscious, “Still okay for tomorrow?”

You reply yes, and he sends a single reply back: looking forward to it. Very much.

The phrase plays on a loop in your head as you dress.

You arrive first. The table is already reserved, near the back, half-shielded by a tall shelf of antique hardcovers. You glance around at the soft lighting, the quiet music playing in the background. It doesn't surprise you that Spencer found this place. It feels like him: thoughtful, hidden in plain sight, full of depth and charm you only see when you slow down.

When he walks in, you spot him immediately.

There's something about the way he carries himself tonight, more upright than usual, but still with that signature nervous energy he never quite masks. He's wearing a dark sweater and blazer, and his hair is a little more carefully styled than usual, though it still curls loosely around his ears. His eyes land on you, and the second they do, his shoulders drop just a little, like he's been holding something in and finally remembers how to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, pulling out your chair for you, and then his own. “Im...Im really glad you came.”

“So am i,” you answer, and his lips tug into a smile that takes its time spreading, like it's blooming rather than appearing.

The conversation is easy. Of course it is. You talk about books at first, he asks if you've started The Body Keeps the Score, and when you say yes, he leans in, visibly excited, launching into a soft but passionate explanation of how somatic trauma therapy has reshaped the way we understand memory storage. He stops himself three times mid-ramble, apologizing with flushed cheeks and glancing down at his hands. You touch his wrist gently once, just to steady him. “I like listening to you,” you say, and he glances up at you like that's something he doesn't hear very often but wishes he did.

Over pasta and shared wine, the conversation deepens.

He tells you about his mom. He doesn't launch into it the way he does with literature or statistics, it's slower, careful, like unwrapping something delicate. He talks about her schizophrenia, about the sharpness of her mind before the illness settled in, about how he used to read her poetry and scientific papers out loud just to keep her anchored. You don't interrupt. You just let the quiet stretch when it needs to, holding space for the weight he's always carried.

“I used to think I had to fix everything,” he says, voice low. “That if I just knew enough- read enough, understand enough- i could make it all go away. But some things aren't puzzles. They Are…ongoing.” he pauses, then looks at you. “You make it feel okay to have some of those pieces still unresolved.”

You say his name then, softly, and his gaze flickers to yours with something unguarded, something that's not just gratitude but recognition. Like he sees something in you he didn't expect to find, but can't quite let go of now that he has.

You talk for hours, until your plates are cleared, until the wineglass between you is empty, until the candle burns low and the lights dim just a little more.

Outside, the air is cool and still. The rain has passed, leaving behind the shimmer of wet pavement and reflections in puddles. He walks you to your car without speaking at first, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. You match his pace naturally.

“I…don't really do this,” he says suddenly, stopping just before you reach your door. “Not just the dating thing. But the part where i…care this quickly.”

You feel something shift again, like the pause before a page turn.

“I haven't either,” you say. “But I do.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, the world shrinks to the narrow space between you. He doesn't lean in. He doesn't rush. He just looks at you, and it feels like a long-held breath finally being released.

“I'd like to see you again,” he says. “Outside the bookstore. Not that I don't love the bookstore- I do. But I'd like to know what your laugh sounds like in other places. What you look like in the morning light. What you think about on a Sunday when no one’s asking you questions.”

The words are so Spencer- half poetic, half exact, more honest than most people are allowed to be.

“I'd like that too.” you say.

And then he smiles, and it's the real one, the one that starts in his eyes and unfolds all the way through him, like he's not sure what's happening, only that it feels like something he doesn't want to stop.

He brushes your hand with his before he leaves. Just barely. But it's enough.

Enough to know this is only the beginning.

Enough to know the next chapter is already writing itself in quiet, deliberate ink.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #fanfic #fluff #vampiilure

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papayainsectorone · 17 days ago

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melodies of the past

summary: it starts with laughter at a piano and ends with a song written in silence. when you stumble upon charles’s secret notebook, melodies tied to memories you thought were forgotten, you uncover the feelings he could never say aloud. and in the space between notes, he learned how to speak them.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, emotionally unavailable!charles (past), grief / loss of a parent (mentioned), emotional repression & vulnerability, angst with comfort, reconciliation word count: 2.7k

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader a´s masterlist

It starts with laughter.

You’re both squeezed onto the narrow piano bench in Charles’s apartment, your fingers stumbling over the keys in a chaotic mess of mismatched notes and giggles. He’s patient—but smugly so—the way someone is when they know they’re better at something and can’t resist letting you know.

“No, no, mon amour, that is not a C,” he teases, leaning over your shoulder, chin practically on your collarbone. “That’s... something illegal.”

You elbow him, laughing. “It looked like a C!”

“Looked?” he echoes dramatically, tapping the sheet music in front of you. “You can’t even read this, can you?”

You roll your eyes. “I never said I could.”

He grins, breath warm on your neck. “So what you’re saying is, I’m dating a musical fraud.”

You laugh again and he kisses your shoulder. Light. Easy.

“Maybe I just need easier songs,” you say, playfully defensive. “Something more on my level.”

“There’s a beginner’s book on the shelf in the other room,” he says, motioning over his shoulder. “Left side. Somewhere between my dignity and your musical talent.”

You stick your tongue out at him, but hop up anyway, padding over to the shelf.

Your fingers trail along the spines. Some sheet music. A few music theory texts. One black notebook, thicker than the rest, wedged between a dusty anthology and a metronome. You recognize it vaguely he’s had it forever but never really looked closely.

You pull it free. The cover is worn. The pages inside… handwritten. Notes and bars drawn with care, some ink-smudged, some dog-eared.

But it’s the titles that stop you.

"24.03.21" "16.07.22" "30.10.23"

Just dates.

Until they aren’t.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you flip through the pages.

The first page you opened is dated 24.03.21. The ink is faint, almost rushed, like it had to get out of him before it hurt too much to hold.

You read the date again and your breath catches.

That was Monaco. The marina. The night you told him you loved him.

You’d both had wine, laughter still caught in the corners of your mouths. You’d said it softly, certain. Not a question, just a truth. And he hadn’t said it back. Not then.

You’d smiled anyway. Said it was fine. That you didn’t need him to say it. But you’d gone to bed with that silence echoing louder than you admitted, curled away from him under the same blanket.

But here it’s written in notes. Slow, aching ones. A melody that lingers in minor chords, like longing left unsaid. He remembered. He felt it. He just couldn’t say it.

You blink hard, flipping to the next one.

16.07.22.

Austria. A rare break inbetween races, a hotel too big for just the 2 of you but still too expensive for how much it really was. It had rained that night. He asked you to move in with him and you were happy.

You’d fallen asleep on his chest, his fingers tracing invisible circles across your spine.

You don’t realize he’s stopped playing behind you until you hear him shift on the bench.

“Find anything?” he asks lightly, voice still warm from the playfulness that filled the room just moments ago.

You step back into the room again, the notebook open in your hands.

He sees it instantly.

His posture changes—shoulders locking tight, eyes frozen. It’s like watching a shutter snap shut in real time.

“You weren’t supposed to open that,” he says, quieter now.

“I thought it was the beginner book,” you say, voice soft. “I didn’t mean to—”

Charles stands from the bench, one hand dragging through his hair. “It’s nothing. Just... old things.”

You look back down at the pages. “It’s not nothing.”

Silence swells in the space between you.

“You remember these nights,” you say. “Even the ones I thought you’d forgotten.”

He doesn’t answer.

You flip to the next page.

30.10.23. The chords are jagged, tight intervals, sharp rests, unresolved tension. Dissonant in a way that makes your skin prickle.

Mexico.

Your breath stutters.

The hotel room. The fight. His voice like glass—You knew what this was when we started.

You’d left. Not dramatically, just walked away. You thought he let you.

But here it is. A piece written in the early hours of morning. Lines like grief and guilt woven into the melody, aching in every unresolved note.

He didn’t let you leave. He didn’t know how to follow.

You close the notebook with slow, careful hands, like it might shatter if you're not gentle.

Behind you, he’s gone still.

You turn to him.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me what you felt back then?” Not a demand. Not bitterness. Just a quiet ache that’s waited too long for an answer.

Charles exhales long, shaky. The kind of breath someone takes before saying something they’ve buried for years.

He walks toward you, almost hesitant, like he’s stepping into something sacred.

“I didn’t think I could,” he says. “Not then.”

You don’t move. You just watch him.

He stops in front of you, his hand brushing against the edge of the piano. “It was easier to write it. I always thought… maybe that would be enough.”

“It wasn’t,” you say.

He nods. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just… understanding.

You slide over on the bench, silent invitation.

He sits beside you close, knees barely brushing, but enough to feel it.

You open the book again and flip through a few more pages.

He watches you read them. Then says, softly: “It got easier. With you.”

You glance at him.

He’s looking at the page, not at you, voice low. “Talking to you. About how I felt. I still couldn’t always say it out loud, but… it got easier. Eventually.”

“I could tell,” you whisper.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he needs something to hold onto.

“When we first got together,” he says, “I didn’t know how to be… soft. Not without feeling like I’d fall apart. I learned how to drive through grief. Through pressure. I didn’t know how to sit still with someone and let them see me not handling it.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

He continues, slower now. “When my dad died, I stopped crying after the first day. My brothers needed me to be okay. My mum… she never said it, but I knew she couldn’t afford to lose both of us. So I just... locked it all up. And when you showed up—bright and real and wanting the truth—I didn’t know how to give it.”

Your hand slips into his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

“I was always waiting for you to give up on me,” he admits. “And then you didn’t. And it scared the hell out of me.”

You turn toward him, fully now.

“I didn’t want perfect, Charles. I just wanted honest.”

He looks up at you. This time, he doesn't look away.

“And I wanted to be that for you. I am now,” he says. “But I thought if I started saying the real things, they’d come out wrong. Or ugly. Or… too much.”

You shift closer, resting your forehead gently against his temple. “Nothing you feel is too much.”

For a long time, neither of you moves. The notebook rests between you, pages fluttering slightly in the breeze from the open window. It smells like rain outside, like something washing clean.

You lift your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“Would you… play one of them for me?”

He blinks, like the question reaches somewhere he hadn’t expected. His gaze searches yours for a moment, quiet and tender then he nods. Just once.

He turns to the piano without a word, and you feel his body shift beside you. His hands lift slowly, stretching out his fingers, cracking the tension from his knuckles. That little breath he always takes before he plays—a silent centering—ghosts from his lips.

Then his fingers touch the keys.

The sound is soft at first. Not timid, but deliberate, each note like it’s being chosen, not just played. He moves with a kind of reverence, eyes narrowing in focus, brows knit. You can see the concentration ripple through him, the slight tension in his jaw, the tendons shifting in his forearms as his fingers curl and unfurl against the ivory.

There’s something intimate about watching him like this. Not just because the music is his but because this is how he speaks when he doesn’t have the words. You can hear it. Feel it. All the longing, all the unfinished sentences and second-guessed confessions, flowing out in sound.

He leans into a chord, letting it bloom before resolving it gently. His right foot presses the pedal, and you hear the sustain stretch the moment longer, like he doesn’t want to let go of it too soon.

You reach out slowly, fingers slipping over the denim of his thigh. Just resting there, grounding both of you.

He doesn’t flinch.

His breathing shifts—just slightly—like he’s more aware of your touch than he lets on. But he doesn’t stop playing. If anything, the music deepens, thickens. The notes wrap around you both like something lived-in. Like a memory you never knew you shared.

And then, finally, he lifts his hands.

The last note hums, and then dissolves.

You blink, and it’s only then you realize your cheeks are wet. You hadn’t noticed the tears.

He turns to look at you fully. Eyes searching, heart in his mouth.

“I love you,” he says, voice low, hoarse. “Chérie.”

It cracks something open in you.

You lean in, and he meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft at first. A brush of mouths, slow and trembling. But then his hands find your waist and yours move to his face and it deepens—hungry not in pace, but in meaning. Like two people relearning each other by heart. His palm cradles the back of your neck. Your fingers clutch his shirt.

He breathes your name against your lips, and you let out a sound that’s not quite a sob but not quite relief either.

There’s no rush. No frantic heat.

Just the unraveling of distance. The return.

He pulls you into his lap without breaking the kiss, your legs straddling the bench now. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling, hearts racing.

He pulls you closer into him, and you melt without resistance—your knees bracketing his hips now, the piano bench beneath you narrow and solid, but the world around you softening into a haze of breath and heartbeat.

His hands settle on your waist, steady and warm, like he’s grounding himself in the shape of you. You feel the tension leave him in waves, like every kiss he presses to your jaw, your cheek, your mouth, is another piece of armor set down.

“I love you,” he murmurs again—between kisses now, words caught on breath and lips. “Je t’aime, chérie… tellement.” I love you, darling… so much.

You nod against his mouth, your fingers in his hair, your whole body aching with the swell of it. “I love you, too. I always did.”

His hands slide beneath your shirt—slow, reverent. Not rushed. Like he’s learning the lines of you all over again. His thumbs trace the soft skin at your ribs, his lips never far from yours. When he kisses down your neck, it's with the kind of tenderness that says I missed you. I thought I’d never have this again.

You shift closer, noses brushing, and he laughs softly through his nose—shaky and sweet, like even now, he can’t quite believe you’re here, that this is real. His forehead presses against your shoulder, lips parted.

“I thought about this,” he says, voice low, raw. “Every time I played. Every time I wrote and couldn’t tell you. I imagined this. You. Here.”

You cup his face in both hands, guiding him back to you.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes close. Your kiss finds him again—deeper this time. Hungrier, but still so impossibly gentle. He slides his hands down, then up beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it with quiet care. His eyes meet yours for permission and when you nod, he breathes out shakily, like the trust of that moment is too much and exactly enough.

His hands don’t rush. They glide. Mapping the skin he’s memorized in dreams and sketches of memory. His mouth follows—trailing warmth from shoulder to chest, pausing over your heart like it’s something sacred.

“Tu es si belle,” he whispers, voice thick, almost reverent. “So beautiful I forget how to breathe.”

Your back arches under his touch, not in dramatics but surrender. His palms span your ribcage, grounding you. One thumb brushes the underside of your breast, hesitant, like even now he’s still in awe you’re letting him close again.

You help him undress. Not hurriedly, intimately. Fingertips ghost over his stomach, down his hips. He shivers at your touch, eyes fluttering closed as your lips press to the dip of his collarbone.

When you finally sink into his lap again, bare to each other now, the air feels charged—thick with memory and longing. The bench creaks quietly beneath your combined weight. His hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles as he looks at you like he’s seeing something celestial.

You kiss him again. Slow. Long. Your mouths move like you’re trying to memorize the shape of each other all over again.

When he slides into you, you both gasp. He cradles the back of your head, forehead against yours, lips brushing as you breathe each other in.

The rhythm starts unhurried. Like he’s learning you—every breath, every sound you make. His hands explore slowly down your back, over your hips, up to cup your face like he can’t decide what part of you he needs to hold most.

You whisper his name, and he moans softly in response—eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

“Say it again,” he pleads.

You do. Again. Again. Until he’s murmuring your name in return like prayer, like penance, like worship.

He presses kisses to your cheeks, your throat, the corner of your mouth. One hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling delicately, syncing with the slow roll of your hips. You gasp—his name a broken thing on your tongue—and he groans low in his chest.

“Mon amour… regarde-moi.” My love… look at me.

You do. And the look in his eyes nearly undoes you.

Not lust. Love.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “I’m not leaving.”

You both get messier after that—more desperate. The rhythm builds, hands clinging, mouths hungry. But even in the urgency, it’s gentle. Your nails rake his back; he bites your shoulder, gasping apologies against your skin. The words between you come out in bursts now: I love you.

Tu es à moi. You are mine Don’t stop. Je t’en supplie. I beg you

When it hits, it’s not sudden. It’s a slow swell—like the tide rolling in. You grip his shoulders as your body arcs into his, and he catches you, pressing your chest to his, moving through it together. You cry out, but he doesn’t hush you, he holds you tighter. Rides it out with you.

He follows moments after, groaning your name, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck. You feel it—his surrender. The way he shudders and clings, like if he could anchor himself inside you, he would.

After, you stay like that—tangled, breathless. The weight of him against you not heavy, just solid. Real.

He lifts his head after a while, brushing your damp hair back with fingers that still tremble.

“I love you,” he says again, just to say it. “Je t’aime plus que tout.” I love you more than anything

And you smile into his kiss.

“I know,” you whisper. “I feel it.”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another. Then another. And he smiles against your lips, eyes glassy, heart wide open.

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thestoryteller-thedreamer · 5 days ago

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Monstrosity spoilers (and a bit of a rant) below the cut

People have been talking a lot about this moment in particular:

Most of the conversation is about how Nya is wearing her original outfit and hairstyle, and how Kai still sees her as his little sister even though she's an excellent fighter and team mate as well. Which I completely see, and I don't think this is an invalid or wrong theory. It could totally fit in with everything else I'm about to say.

What struck me is that, though some of the ninja appear in their original designs, Cole, Nya, and Zane (and maybe Sensei Wu? he's been pretty consistent, though. The only real give away would be his 3D mouth) Jay and Lloyd both have their new designs. It's not consistent.

It seems to be a direct comparison to the Season 2 intro, with all of the characters standing together:

But again, there is a key difference in that Jay is in the wrong place.

So here are my three theories about this image.

1- Going off the idea that Jay and Kai were both in the Land of Monsters to start, Kai would have the clearest memory of Jay. Lloyd's hair is just snoopy enough in the Monstrosity image that it could be his original design in S2. Jay is the only one with the most notable redesigned appearance. Which could lead to the idea that the Land of Monsters is where Jay lost his memory, and Kai's own recollection was fading as well, which is why he could only remember the past versions of the other ninja, but still saw Jay as he's supposed to be.

2- Kai is trying to remember a simpler time. Though they went through a lot of terrible things even in just Seasons 1-2, it was still nothing compared to what they would eventually face. Season 2 was before any of them had died. The ninja would still potentially have been operating out of the idea that they were immortal and invincible. The shock of losing Zane and the vulnerability that followed hadn't hit them yet. So Kai is choosing to believe that his family is safe/ untouchable, choosing the idealized, more perfect version of them than what he's afraid of seeing (them hurt and he can't come to help).

3- None of the ninja have eyes in the image. Combined with the mixture of original designs and redesigns, and the changes in positions, I wonder if it wasn't the water that was somehow magical and could reflect a person's greatest desires, but if the creature waiting below could partially read minds? Like, its tentacle feelers searched through Kai's memories and pulled out fragments of his friends, pasting them into a mismatched collage.

It makes me wish that instead of a monster in the center of the lake, that the ninja were waiting at the bottom for Kai. Only, they were some sort of siren adjacent creature, and as soon as Kai was submerged, they would begin attacking him, forcing him to fight back against those he loves or die at their hands.

Imagine Kai's reaction, when he looks closer and recognizes the tiny differences. The way Kai scrunches his eyes closed so he won't see Lloyd's face turn blue as he suffocates him, and tries to block out the sounds of Nya's screams as he cuts into her. Repeating over and over to himself that it's not them, it's not them, it's not them, they are out there, waiting for him to come rescue them, as he lets Jay bleed out or waits for Zane's eyes to blink out or knocks Cole's skull in. But also doubting himself the whole time, because they've all been mind controlled/ turned evil before.

Don't get me wrong. What we got from Monstrosity was amazing. I adored every second of it. I'm just saying. If you want more angst, I've got it for you.

#ninjago #ninjago monstrosity #ninjago kai #monstrosity kai #ninjago nya #ninjago jay #ninjago lloyd #ninjago cole #ninjago zane #ninjago angst #Kai Angst

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robotsandramblings · 3 months ago

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i love Hunter more than any other Star Wars character BUT honestly? if i had the entirety of The Bad Batch (incl. Clone Wars arc) wiped from my memory and then you tried to describe Hunter to me, without actual images, i'd be rolling my eyes like "lol what a loser?? gtfoutta here"

and yet when you see it onscreen IT WORKS, IT ALL WORKS, IT FUCKING WORKS, EVERYTHING COMES TOGETHER, HE'S LITERALLY PERFECT??????

like idk i just,, Hunter-in-theory makes me giggle so much. he wears a bandana? he has a skull tattoo that covers HALF of his FACE?? WHODOESTHAT. frat boy, show offy personality? ooooh Mr. Too Cool For Guns, i bring a knife to a gun fight, so badass!!. and his mismatch Season 2 look, dear LORD. imagine someone trying to describe it to you and you've never seen this man or his armor before. you'd be like "did he covers his eyes with his silly lil bandana and then go blind dumpster diving for a new outfit???? i've seen 3 year olds pick out better outfits??"

but like i said. IT FUCKING WORKS. i love his bandana. and his face tattoo. and his knife tricks. and his S2 look most of all. i eat all that shit up. he's a whole meal. a goddamn buffet that just keeps on giving. om nom noms

#hunter #the bad batch #star wars

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diamondoffaith · 2 years ago

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EVER RED: THE THEORY (MASTERPOST)

This is a post compiling all the theories surrounding Ever Red from the Fragaria discord server

Last updated: Dec 2 2023

AMNESIA THEORY, THE TIMELINES

Fragaria's story is confirmed to be separated into two: The MVs and the voice dramas. This could imply two separate timelines. The 1st timeline is “ruined”, and the 2nd timeline (possibly the one for the MVs) acts as the present. In the Ever Red MV, there are lyrics highlighted in red, most of them pointing to them forgetting something.

This theory is unrelated from Ever Red, but the main point of the amnesia theory is that the knights don't remember their "original" selves, their current names and forms being a show of their connections to their lords (hence why Hangyon's name is only 2 letters off from Hangyodon for example).

These lyrics also point to something being forgotten (strawberry/fruit representing memories. Sweet and sour memories, a memory that ripens/develos as it is repressed)

But forgetting their old identities also means forgetting past events.

RIBBONS

The ribbons represent the pains of the past. In this part, Hallritt sings "Once the ribbon is tied, the knot marks are still there." Once pain is inflicted, the wounds and memories are still there.

The ribbon now ties everyone close to each other. The Red Bouquet will be there for Hallritt to help process his past, and make things right again (see next header).

I just want you to laugh, that's all I wish for Even if our memories are mismatched

Hallritt is now being covered by the ribbon, except for his eyes. He must face the truth of what he did.

HIDDEN AUDIO, "ELDRITCH HALLRITT"

Refer to this post to listen to the hidden audio. "Move. That dream… It was my fault." It was Hallritt's fault for the destruction of the 1st timeline. Around 3 minutes into the MV, there is a quick frame of this shadow version of Hallritt which me and the discord have named Eldritch Hallritt/Eldritt.

(isn't he so silly <3)

He was the "original" Hallritt from the 1st timeline, and a manifestation of the current Hallritt’s true feelings and repressed memories. He knows everything. He was the one who destroyed the 1st timeline, and is here to make sure the Hallritt of the current timeline doesn’t mess up.

But what was Hallritt's mistake in the first place?

SEEDS

SEEDS are the antagonists of Fragaria's story. They could be the original knights, as seeds come first before flowers/bouquets. One day, they took things too far, leading them to be banished and replaced by the Fragarians.

They might have once tricked Eldritt/The "original Hallritt" into joining them, which led to him ruining his contract with Hello Kitty, destroying the 1st timeline. Eldritt then reset the timeline into the current one, and is watching over the current Hallritt to not make the same mistake he did.

BONUS/MINI THEORIES

My friend Angel pointed out that "Fragaria Memories" sounds similar to "Fragmented Memories"

System Hallritt - Eldritt is an alter for Hallritt (+ is a protector or a gatekeeper) who wanted to prevent him from finding out the truth, but they can't run from it forever.

Bouquet leader doomed yaoi (I don't have a better name for this) - If Cielomort and Badobarm find out about Hallritt's secret, they could get angry and not trust him anymore. If this happens, the conflict could grow, repeating what happened in the 1st timeline that led to its destruction.

Hangyon and Chaco know - These two are suspicious. For Chaco, his title is "The detour dog with a hidden motive." The hidden motive could maybe have something to do with SEEDs. For Hangyon, if he knows what happened in the 1st timeline, that could be why he's close with Badobarm specifically. He watches him for any signs of the past repeating itself.

In a world that continues to change Only time will never come back Yet no one can take away our memories (EVER RED) I'll never forget them for eternity Living in memory No one can see it, but it'll never disappear Ever certain, ever red

#but thats just a theory. A FRAGRIA THEORY #this took so many of my braincells i swear if blue's song doesn't follow the amnesia pattern #fragaria memories #fragmem #red bouquet #ever red mv #fragaria memories theory #hallritt #merold #puruth #romarriche #rimicha #sanah

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sholiofic · 2 months ago

Note

I thought of a new prompt: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence with (you guessed it!) G'Kar and Londo? (again, no preference as to slash, preslash, gen – please go wild ❤️)

Ooooh yes, there are so many possibilities here! Let's have a slight canon-divergent AU of the hallway scene in 5x09: what if G'Kar got stabbed? (This may also turn up on AO3 eventually.)

The first thing Londo did as soon as they were safely back in his quarters -- G'Kar shepherding him in, closing the door behind them, checking the lock -- was pour himself a drink and toss down half of it.

His nerves were still jangling; he felt disconnected, jittery. Decades in the Centauri royal court had inured him to the ever-present threat of assassination attempts, or so he'd thought, and by now he had carried out more than one high-profile assassination himself. But knowing it in theory was not the same as watching a knife quivering point-first mere inches from his chest. And then it had done -- what?

"Do you want a drink?" he asked G'Kar.

There was no immediate answer. While Londo refilled his glass, G'Kar prowled around the room, looking into corners and checking the bedroom, all the while in a tense silence. He finally sank down in a chair with a soft sound, not a groan exactly, but it was more of a collapse than sitting down normally, and that was what finally made Londo really notice him, pulling out of his dazed reverie.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine," G'Kar said tersely. He adjusted himself a little, and Londo became aware that G'Kar was holding his arm stiffly against his chest. A jarring bolt of alarm went through him, chasing more of the cobwebs from his brain along with the bracing effect of the drink.

"You are hurt. They stabbed you." Londo set his glass down. "Let me see it."

"I've had worse," G'Kar muttered.

"Yes, you are a terrible and fierce Narn, I already know that. Let me see anyway."

He crouched in front of G'Kar and reached for the layers of leather and flexible plate guarding his torso. G'Kar, after a moment, moving more slowly than usual, batted his hands away and carefully unbuckled the various straps holding the sections in place. As his armor came away, it became clear that the knife had gone in at an angle under his arm, slipping between two plates. His loosely woven undershirt was saturated with blood.

"Great Maker, when were you going to mention this?"

"You are aware now, so consider it reported," G'Kar said with a flash of amusement in his mismatched eyes.

Londo found a small first-aid kit in the bathroom, and wet a hand towel in the sink. It turned out that with most of the blood wiped away, the blade had opened a long shallow cut against G'Kar's ribs. It didn't look too bad, particularly by Narn standards, but Londo noticed as he cleaned it that G'Kar was shivering.

"There was likely poison on the blade." There probably had been poison on the blade thrown at his chest, as well; Vole's swift collapse suggested it. He wrenched his mind away from that memory and its implications. "You should see a physician immediately."

"Call me paranoid," G'Kar said dryly, "but I doubt that's a good idea."

He was right, given the court intrigue swirling around them. Londo grasped for solutions. It was likely that the glancing blow, combined with G'Kar's Narn constitution, meant that he hadn't gotten a dangerous dose. But it was a hell of a risk to take.

"I believe you mentioned a drink," G'Kar said, in a pointed tone.

"Here, hold this." Londo pressed G'Kar's hand over the folded, bloody cloth, wiped his own bloody hands, and went to pour a glass of brivari. He paused and then fetched something else from a drawer.

"What is that?" G'Kar asked sharply when Londo tipped two of the capsules into the glass of brivari.

"It's ..." Londo grimaced. "It's a stimulant and neural cleanser to counteract the effects of overindulgence in drink. Don't look at me like that. It's useful. And most Centauri poisons used in the court affect the nervous system, so a mild neural enhancer will help you shake it off."

"It's safe for Narns?"

"I'm reasonably sure." At G'Kar's look, he clarified. "I brought it from Babylon 5, not here. Bought in the Zocalo. Usually anything unsafe for use by any of the common galactic races is labeled."

"I'm glad you're willing to trust my life to the labeling scruples of a random merchant in the Zocalo."

"And I'm glad you're willing to trust your life to your much-storied Narn healing abilities, but I'd like a little more insurance, myself!" Londo realized that he was starting to raise his voice, and reined himself in. He held out the glass. "I really do think it is safe for Narns. I would not give it to you otherwise. These are widely used by many species. Humans can use it as well."

It should not have pleased him, but it did, that G'Kar took the glass without further complaint and drank. Then he made a face. "You Centauri have the worst taste in alcohol."

"This is twenty-year-old brivari, kept at the perfect temperature for all of that time. Most never have a chance to taste such a thing."

"They are the lucky ones. It is terrible."

"Shut up and drink it."

"Sickly sweet. Syrupy."

"You have an opportunity few can enjoy, and of course you must complain constantly." Londo crouched beside G'Kar's chair and peeled the blood-sticky cloth carefully from the cut, which was still seeping sluggishly, although it had stopped bleeding for the most part. He pressed seal-strips to the cut and winced at the clammy, bloody fabric around it. "Would you like something else to wear?"

"I doubt if your Centauri fripperies would be more comfortable."

Londo brought a spare robe anyway. He draped it over G'Kar, who pulled it close like a blanket; he was half-drowsing on the arm of the chair, one hand lightly curled around the mostly empty glass of brivari.

"You are well enough?" Londo asked. "Do you want to sleep, or talk?" He was too agitated to sleep himself, but if G'Kar wished to fall asleep in the chair, or on the couch beside it, he could go read; it was not such a great matter.

"Talk," G'Kar said.

"Oh, good." Londo poured more brivari and dropped on the couch beside him. G'Kar twisted his body slightly, drawing himself up under the robe, turning to look at him. Londo was no great judge of Narn skin color, but G'Kar's looked better, more like his usual orange than the grayish tint earlier. "We may have a concerning situation here. Shall I lay out for you everything that happened earlier, after we were separated?"

"Yes," G'Kar said. He sipped at the dregs of the brivari, grimaced, and settled himself a little more comfortably on the arm of the chair, his shivering settling somewhat. "Let us talk of what happened after the wall dropped down. You said the knife spun around in front of you?"

"Yes! I do not know why. I can think of some explanations."

"I would hear them."

Londo waved a hand to dim the lights, and they talked into the night. G'Kar kept breathing, steady and slow, sometimes a bit sleepy, but answering him readily every time.

#babylon 5 #b5 #londo mollari #g'kar

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silentwonderlocks · 9 months ago

Text

Ambrosia's Kiss Pt. 2 - S.R x F!Reader.

A/n: I'm so happy to finally be updating this! it's been sitting in my drafts for waaay too long. The title card is made by me! Hopefully, everyone who comes across this story likes it! Feedback is always appreciated!

Summary: Spencer and the reader talk about the past while the case unfolds new information.

Warnings: mentions of violence, talks of deadly chemicals, typical criminal minds, use of Y/n, slow burn, use of nicknames, Spencer and Y/n denying feelings.

Words: 4.k+

Read part one here!

________________________________

Once the plane was up and gliding smoothly in the air, the team huddled, continuing their talk about the profile. What they could come up with now was that the unsub was the submissive type of killer. He used less aggressive ways to kill, and he went after low-risk victims as well, so he had a type. Where the bodies were placed, his comfort zone was huge. Both parks are at equal distances, about 20 minutes by car. But it wasn’t enough to go off of, so Hotch split up the team for when they landed. Spencer and Morgan would head to the most recent crime scene while Y/n and Emily would go to the morgue. Rossi and Hotch would talk to the grieving families for helpful information. For now, everyone was just reading over the file and enjoying the peace before the chaos.

Y/n sat in her window seat, the little table in front of her pulled down so she could rest her tablet. Next to the tablet was a notebook, filled with scribbled-down notes about previous cases and this one included. Some of the writing was theories of what kind of unsub they were dealing with and others were trying to figure out the meaning behind certain details. At the moment, she had daffodils, a black dress, poison, and red hair written down; those seemed to be the most essential details that caught her eye. Y/n was staring at the photo of Vanessa Garrett before she succumbed to her fate. A happy woman living life in her 20s, a bright young college student. On her way to becoming a full-time EMT, such a sad ending for a young woman. The agent sighs softly, shutting off her tablet, and rubs her eyes feeling the strain of the screen affect her. Y/n did this too often, getting caught up in past events. She needed to focus on the present so they could all catch this monster of a human. Swimming in her thoughts, she finally returns to reality when a hand grips her shoulder in a soft squeeze.

Y/n pulls her hands away from her face to turn towards the person touching her shoulder, she smiles when it’s Spencer. He looks at her, his eyebrows furrowed together like he’s analyzing her, a look of concern present.

“Is your head hurting, Dragonfly?” Spencer’s nickname for Y/n since he first saw the little pin in her hair. Only he didn’t start calling her that until after she wore it almost daily. There were only 20 days that he could remember her not wearing it, and it was usually because she forgot. The pin was a gift from her nephew and she considered it her good luck charm and believed it would keep her safe. Something Spencer didn’t understand entirely but he adored how she loved her family.

Y/n smiled at his question and slowly shook her head, then removed her bag from the seat next to her. Then pats it with her hand, and Spencer needs no other hints to take a seat by her.

“Not yet, Lucky.” is Her nickname for Spencer since he was always wearing mismatched socks and when she questioned him on why. When he told her that his grandma considered it good luck to wear different socks, well it stuck like glue. The only memory he had left of her before she passed away when he was younger.

Spencer’s face twists quickly into a bright smile then proceeds to rummage through his messenger bag like an excited child making Y/n snort fondly.

“What are you-” Her voice is cut off when suddenly, a big book of flowers is handed to her. The title is in medium-sized cursive letters saying: ‘Flowerpedia: The unofficial guide to a flower expert.’ There was watercolor art of petals floating on the cover, it was still in a near mint condition. This book was bought recently, there were still remnants of the price sticker on the bottom corner of the cover. She blinks a bit slightly confused, and the bright smile on Spencer’s face isn’t helping so she opens up the book skimming along the words.

Inside the book were all kinds of different facts and stories about flowers. There were four sections of the book, one of all the flowers in the world, their symbolism them, myths and figures associated with flowers, and lastly was the uses in full detail of each flower.

“You seemed to enjoy the little flower fact from earlier, so I thought you might enjoy this book! I already read through it and the section about the symbolism is fascinating. I had no idea that roses with different colors had significant meanings. Like red is for romance, yellow is companionship, and orange is for friendship” Spencer rambled on, his brown eyes sparkling as he spoke.

He was so proud of his gift, though part of it was out of spite. The thought of that bouquet on Y/n’s desk seemed to keep taunting him. If someone tried to date her, Spencer was sure Y/n would have told him about it. They almost told each other everything, and he knew Y/n was an avid book reader. Indeed that was better than a flower bouquet, right? Spencer had to pause in his thoughts, why was he trying to compete with a man he didn’t know existed? He never even asked her about it, so why should he care?

‘Besides that fact, Y/n is my friend and coworker nothing more..’ If that was true then why did his thoughts make his heart hurt?

“Wow Spencer, this is amazing. I love it~ So..is that lavender fact in here? Or was that Spencer-only knowledge?” Y/n’s sweet voice made Spencer regain focus, he chuckled softly at her comment.

“Oh! There are so many lavender facts in there, like here. It should be on page 256” Spencer doesn’t wait to grab the book from Y/n’s hand making her snort fondly once more. He begins to flip through pages until he reaches the designated number. Using his skinny finger, Spencer begins to underline the words speaking along.

“Lavandula angustifolia, most commonly known as Lavender is..” He pauses when he looks at Y/n. She wasn’t looking at him, she was just staring back at the tablet. Since the team huddle, Y/n seemed to be on edge slightly by the newest case. Spencer frowned and closed the book, placing it next to her tablet. Then he grabbed the tablet, slipping it into his messenger back, and that’s when he got a reaction.

“Hey! Spencer, I need that!”

“Not right now...what’s wrong?”

Y/n paused, her mouth was slightly open then she closed it. She took a moment before letting out a sigh and a frown. Her eyes were filled with caution but there was also the need for comfort that radiated from her.

“Do you ever have a bad feeling about a case?? Like you want it to go well, you want to believe that we’ll save the day right? I know, we don’t always but I hate having this feeling of…” Y/n trailed off having trouble finding the right words to say.

“False hope?” He answers and asks for her.

“Yes..not only that but this feeling that... Something will happen and we can’t stop it..”

Spencer stayed silent, he was never good at being the comforter. He needed it from others, although he had been through more than the other group members. Spencer still didn’t properly know how to act sometimes. He had been in her spot so many times, Spencer remembered he started thinking like that after Tobias Hankel, George Foyett, hell any case that threatened him or his team. He understood her concerns, yet he could never comfort himself like he wanted to do with her.

“I try not to think about the possibilities..” Spencer started before Y/n cut him off.

“Bullshit, you are always thinking, Lucky,” She says, not as an insult but more of a plea. Y/n wanted honest thoughts from him.

“Heh. I used to get those feelings and I still do from time to time. The idea of if we were doing more harm than good? If we were helping people even when we had to let the unsub go or they got away. If constantly being around suffering was worth it to see a happy ending…” Spencer’s voice lowered into a soft tone. One that was conflicted with himself.

“And…was it?”

“Sometimes...Sometimes I just wanted to go home and forget what I had seen” Y/n frowned at his words, knowing how ironic it was, Spencer wanted to forget but with that memory of his. He would always be haunted by something in his past.

She offers her hand to Spencer, palm up. A friendly gesture that Spencer accepted remarkably. He may have hated germs and touches but always enjoyed Y/n’s interactions. In comfortable silence, they held each other’s hand until Spencer broke it.

“What brought this up, Dragonfly? You were fine this morning.”

“This case bothers me, rubs me in the wrong way. He’s killing these women but treating them like they are…”

“Trophies?”

“Yes..or like a collection. He takes these women and doesn’t degrade them but makes them into..enchantresses? Just sickens me.”

“He’s clearly showing signs of some delusion; we had a similar case way back. A brother and little sister, the mother was hospitalized for chopping off her daughter’s limb. About how it would make her less appealing to the devil. The mother eventually died in a fire at the hospital. The son had delusions that he saw certain women as wives of the devil just like his mother” Spencer begins an intense look at his features as if the memory just happened yesterday.

“He was poisoning these women with pure nicotine, soaking it in these dresses from a play. Shakespeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor. Then, they would suffocate to death from the toxin. His mind became so broken that he believed his sister was chosen as a wife. Luckily, we caught him in time before his sister could suffer.”

“Oh my god..that’s..awful.”

Spencer nods then sighs running a hand through his hair.

“There have been worse ones..but anyway, do you like the book?” He asks, deciding to change the subject.

“Oh yeah! I love it. I can’t wait to learn about some of my favorite flowers. Who knows, this might help in this case.” Y/n grins at Spencer, who shrugs with an equally stupid grin.

“Maybe it will.” Their hands still intertwined perfectly comfortably.

‐---------------------------------------------------

The weather in Warren Valley was bright and warm, but the rain seemed to drizzle over the town despite the sunshine. Due to the rain and sun, a light mist also covered the roads making Emily grumble, who was driving herself and Y/n to Warren Valley’s morgue. They needed to see the victim's body for any more evidence they could use for the profile. Y/n smiled at Emily’s scoff, looking up from her map in the passenger seat.

“What? You don’t like rain?” Y/n asked, looking back and forth between the misty road and Emily’s focused face. Emily cracked a smile back, keeping her eyes in front of her. She always enjoyed Y/n’s company, seeing her as a good friend. Many girls' nights out and hangovers that came with them proved enough.

“Not when it’s covering up the road, I like the ability to see. Makes living a lot easier, don’t you think?” She joked, her eyes breaking away for a moment to look at Y/n. In her lap was the big book of flowers that Spencer had given earlier, a bookmark already in it. Emily couldn’t help but smirk to herself.

“Heh, compared to some of the things I’ve seen in the last few years. Yeaahh, I’ll take the mist. More appealing to look at.” A soft laugh escaped the two women then soon, a comfortable silence washed over them for a few moments.

“So.. I saw the flowers on your desk. Seeing someone finally?” Emily asked, a teasing smile creeping its way to her face.

Y/n scoffed, then laughed and shook her head at Emily’s comment. A light smile on her face as she answered back.

“No, the flowers are for my sister. It was her birthday, and I wanted to ensure she knew I didn’t forget.”

Emily hummed in response with a slow nod, apparently unhappy with the answer. Y/n raised an eyebrow at Emily and nudged her with her elbow.

“What?”

“Well, Spencer gave you a book about flowers.” Emily gestures to the book on Y/n’s lap. “ You both were holding hands earlier on the jet and according to Rossi, he saw you two talking about flowers earlier. We all saw the flowers on the desk..” She trails off slowly, waiting for Y/n to pick up the pieces.

Y/n’s eyes narrowed at Emily’s words, and she sat back in the seat, letting herself sink into the cushion. This wasn’t the first time that the team had asked or assumed that Spencer or her had made a move on one other. The time Spencer asked Y/n after a long case week if she wanted to come along with him to see his mom only because he needed the mental support, and didn’t feel comfortable asking the others.

“Spencer and I are not dating, every time you guys assume you’re always wrong, Spencer is just an excellent friend.” Y/n responds finally with a smile, but there’s a pain in her eyes. Luckily Emily is focused on driving that she doesn’t see, it doesn’t stop her from hearing the sorrow in Y/n’s tone.

“Every time you tell me that, your voice gets sad.” Emily points with concern laced in her voice.

“....” Y/n didn’t know when it first happened. It started with the little butterflies in her stomach when he would smile. Some days, she would be looking at him and admiring his beauty, he was always handsome to her, but now her looks were endearing at most. It was normal one day the next like she woke up and saw the bigger picture.

Y/n had boundaries, though; she knew of Maeve, his old girlfriend, and how her fate happened. Spencer had told her a few stories, but the subject always became hard for him to open up about. Whatever else she knew was because the team was helping to fill in the blanks. Maybe it had to do with it being almost a year and a half since her death. Y/n concluded that Maeve had to be the love of his life, so if Spencer was ever to love again, she doubted it would be her. He found love outside of work once before and would do it again.

“You need to talk to him about it, let him know before you regret it” Emily spoke again trying to give advice.

Y/n shook her head again, then waved her hand, trying to dismiss Emily. Her focus was now looking out the window.

“Spencer doesn’t need to know about this. I don't want to make him feel uncomfortable or awkward.”

“I know it’s hard to talk to him about this bu-”

“Emily, I appreciate it but, I want to focus on this case. We can talk about this later.” Y/n cuts her off, just wanting to end the conversation for now. It was making her head hurt, Great now she would have a migraine later.

No answer from Emily except a soft sigh. She decided to drop the subject for now, but she wouldn’t forget about it. The rest of the ride was in silence until the car stopped at the parking lot of the morgue. Slipping the book into her bag, Y/n and Emil exited the car. Once inside the building, Y/n and Emily were greeted by an older man in his late 50s with sandy blonde hair, clearly with years of experience sunken in his face. He wore glasses along with a friendly smile to the two agents.

“SSA Prentiss and SSA L/n?” He asked, then proceeded to give a nod and offer his hand out for a handshake.

Emily is the first to engage with the shake, and Y/n is next. “My name is Dr. Franklin. Your superior SSA Hotch told me you would be coming. Please follow me, ladies.” The silence lasted for a few seconds as the trio walked down the hallway and into a set of double doors.

“What can you tell us about the victim?” Emily asks first as they approach the medical table.

A look of grimace and sorrow washes over Dr. Franklin’s face, he turns to his right to pick up a clipboard. His eyes scan over the paper as he proceeds to speak.

“ Well, the tox screen returned, and I’ll let you see it yourself.” Dr. Franklin says handing the clipboard to Y/n. She looks over her eyebrows furrowing together while Emily looks over at Caylee

“Lycorine and Coniine? Not the usual chemicals we find, any idea how she could have gotten these into her system?”

“Well, based on the chemical compound we found. It looks like your suspect is taking the coniine and mixing it with the lycorine. Your victim was severely dehydrated more than likely due to the poison. ” Dr. Franklin responds as he waits for the two agents.

“And what exactly are those chemicals?” Emily asks, raising an eyebrow.

Before Dr. Franklin could say another word, Y/n was already flipping through the Flowerpedia. She frowns, finding two different sections. The older man watched with curiosity as Y/n frowns looking over at Emily.

“It’s Daffodils and Wolfsbane. The Lycorine is the pure chemical from the flower itself, same with the coniine. It’s not hard for someone to find out the chemical makeup and then alter it..”

“Daffodils??” Emily asked with a confused tone and look, clearly trying to wrap her head around how an unsub was using flowers.

“Daffodils are essentially harmless, ingesting one doesn't harm you. The more you get dehydrated and stomach sickness. Most children who are treated for it are usually fine within 24hrs with proper hydration.” Dr. Franklin comments, placing his two cents into the conversation.

“True but you know as a doctor that too much of anything can be harmful..” Y/n says closing the book and sighs. The weight as she puts it away in her bag grows heavier with each lingering thought. She or Emily didn't dare comment on how ironic the book helping was. It had to be a coincidence.

Dr. Franklin moves over to show Caylee’s wrists, his finger pointing to the purple bruising around them. “The bound marks on her wrists suggest rope or leather for an extended amount of time.” Dr. Franklin shook his head, placing down Caylee’s wrist with care.

“Wait, he’s mixing wolfsbane with daffodils? Did you find any puncture holes on her?” Y/n asks looking back at Emily.

Dr. Franklins responds as he removes his glasses, a cleaning cloth in hand.

“By the tissue damage we found in the throat and stomach, I would say it was ingested.”

“But why use the daffodil chemical if you already have an excellent poison right there?”

“Get me a pair of scissors please,” Emily interrupted a white medical glove on her hand as she was inspecting Caylee’s hair, a pair of tweezers in her hand. Confused, Y/n walks over to Emily’s side to look at what she’s discovered handing her the pair of silver scissors.

At the top of the hairline, all around her scalp, there were small lines crisscrossing from the hair to the skin. Speckles of dried blood painted at the border of the two. The skin was tightly taunted, with bruising around each stitch. It had to have been done while she was still alive; there were signs of healing. A sickening sight to see, it makes the pit deepen in Y/n’s stomach once Emily begins to cut the stitches. Upon the final cut, the red auburn hair falls off Caylee’s head revealing a messily cut brunette hair instead.

“Oh god, I didn’t even notice that. My eyesight must be going..” Dr. Franklin frowns his eyes in disbelief and slight horror.

“It’s alright, all that matters is that we caught it now,” Y/n responds to the older gentleman who goes to inspect the other corpse as well.

Emily pauses processing the information before she looks up at Y/n. Her expression was one of empathy yet she felt sick just alone on this discovery.

“He’s sewing wigs into his victims' hair.”

“We need to report to the team,” Y/n says with a sickened look on her face and Emily is already calling her phone to contact Hotch.

-----------------------------------------

Rainy weather was a delight to most or a nuisance to others. In Spencer’s opinion, he was mostly indifferent. He would rather be in the office or at home curled up with a book while the rain went on. Instead, here he was in a park staring at the dumping site of the victims, surrounded by yellow caution tape. Spencer’s eyes looked around at the park, it was the typical one. A small area for a playground, wide-open field for all kinds of sports, and a dining area filled with four weathered wooden tables, and benches. A twisted, and disgruntled expression rested on Spencer’s face. He stood by Morgan holding a red umbrella shielding them both from the weather’s light rain and mist.

“Well if there was any evidence, the rain washed it away” Morgan said as he stepped underneath the caution tape with Spencer following close behind.

“Why do you think the unsub chose this spot specifically?” Spencer asked as he looked around at the site.

There was indent in the grass from where the body had been laid out. Along with a border of wilting daffodils, the discoloration was already forming in the flower itself.

“Well its out in public so clearly, it wasn't hidden. He must have a message, something he wants to tell the world.”

“It could be a folklore message, the flowers and positioning of the bodies indicates a whimsical and almost artistic expression.” Spencer states as he crouches down to pick one of the wilted flowers with a gloved hand.

Morgan scoffs softly as he watches Spencer, a look of disgust.

“he's got sick taste then”

Spencer doesn't say anything as he tries to understand the meaning of the daffodils. He knew they were considered as a spring flower, they were native to grow in this state but were they important or just a throw away detail?

“So..” Morgan starts with a little smile on his face. The tone in his voice was light and fun, almost teasing. Spencer already didn't like where this was headed.

“You and Y/n earlier were getting all comfy with one another huh?”

Spencer felt a lump in his throat, his heart beat fasten at the thought of what Morgan was implying. Turning his head to look over at Morgan, his voice was a bit higher than he wanted to.

“What do you mean? She's my friend, of course I feel comfortable with her.”

Morgan scoffs softly with a smile. “Comfortable enough to hold her hand on the jet?”

A rush of heat smacked Spencer in the face as he gulped slightly. He frowned standing back up and sighed. Truthfully he was comfortable with Y/n because she made him feel safe. She was his friend and he cherished their friendship, but these newer feelings were confusing him.

“It's not like that..honest.”

Morgan looks at Spencer noticing how the comment seemed to hit him.

“well talk to me kid, I can handle it”

Spencer's lips form into thin lip unsure of how to continue. His eyebrows furrowed in thought as he tries to form the right words to say.

“It's been almost a year since Maeve passed..”

“Reid.”

Spencer shoots his head raising a hand up to stop Morgan from continuing. Then he crossed his arms.

“ Don't. I know I should be moved on by now but I can't help but feel guilty.. what if I'm just using Y/n as a replacement?”

Morgan's face formed into a scowl. “Do you really believe that? Do you even hear yourself?”

“No! At least I don't think so..I would never want to hurt her like that but” Spencer trails off rubbing his own cheek.

“But what?” Morgan says not fully convinced of his friend's words.

“ There was a bouquet of flowers on her desk this morning..and now I'm getting all of these confusing feelings and..I don't know what to think Morgan.”

Morgan stared at Spencer for a moment then chuckled softly with a sad tone.

“Pretty boy, what are you going through? You have nothing to feel guilty about. While you shouldn't let Maeve's death hold you back, you deserve all the time to grieve. But you need to do what feels good for Reid to do.”

Spencer frowns, then speaks in a soft tone.

“I don't know what that is..”

Morgan places a hand on Spencer's shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. “don't worry, you'll figure it out. But I know you Spencer and I know that if you're feeling something for Y/n. It's not a second hand feeling.”

Spencer let out a noise that sounded like a mix of a scoff with a laugh. He smiled abit though, he always appreciated Morgan's support. Even if some teasing came along with it.

“Thanks Morgan..”

Before Morgan could say another word, he felt his phone vibrate with a new incoming text. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, his eyebrows furrowed intensely as he read. Spencer stares at Morgan with slight confusion, a pit in his stomach starting to form.

“What? What is it?”

“Prentiss and L/N found something”

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fandom #silentwonderlocks

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bakersimmer · 1 year ago

Text

There was disappointment in Hanna's response. The memory of one of their previous conversations, where Hanna had a defensive reaction to his remark about being a romantic, popped into Martin's head.

Martin: Keeping options open won't make me a player. Hanna: (arguing) I disagree. Martin: Okay… In my humble opinion, dating is a bit like building a product. You go through multiple iterations—refining and perfecting each time. Hanna: Sounds like commitment issues. Martin: (persuading) But why commit to the first thing right away? I mean, how do you know it's good unless you compare it to other options? You know, I wouldn't even call the first meeting a date… It's more like a demo. Hanna: (glaring at Martin)

Martin: Willingly meeting lots of different people, and learning about them, is the pre-relationship phase. It's awkward and sometimes annoying, but you can't skip it. That's how meaningful connections are made.

Hanna couldn't find a rational argument to counter Martin's words. His blunt and so very unromantic statement held a certain truth. However, as someone who secretly yearned to fall in love at first sight, Hanna couldn't bring herself to concede that Martin was right.

Hanna: I'm not judging, but there seems to be a slight mismatch between your dating philosophy and marriage. Or was Laila's demo so good that you didn't think it was necessary to follow your own philosophy? Martin: (pauses, contemplating) Let's say my theory is more ideal than reality. My reality is that I'm significantly more knowledgeable about what not to do... and I refuse to learn from my mistakes. Hanna: (chuckling) Ah-a... At least you're honest about it!

Hanna: Do you believe in the one? Martin: I used to. But, as we've discussed before, people change, and circumstances change. Hanna: So, you're a romantic who's lost his way? Martin: Or maybe I'm a realist who started as a romantic.

previous / beginning / next

#MartinsESC #ts4 #ts4 story #ts4 storytelling #sims story #Martin Archer #Hanna Edwards #Escape23

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blood-teeth · 5 months ago

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hello! just listened to the spotify playlist for "this grave calls you home" and i am SOOO HYPED for the demo release!! how's the progress going so far? awesome music taste btw i'd love to know more; is this your first time developing an interactive story, and how long have you been stirring this idea in your head for? :D reading about it makes me want to rewatch the media it's inspired by lol. esp alien

howdy there!!

AHHH THANK U SO MUCH!! you have no idea how much this ask made my day :') !!! u are so, so sweet!! i try really hard with these playlists lol so i'm soooo glad!!

progress is going good!!! I have all of the prologue coded!! i had the thought just to drop it this week to let everyone have a little sense of the tone of the story, but I do want to add a few more things to it since the pro really is only a page.

i'm wanting to try composing somewhat of a soundtrack for the game, so that'll take me a bit, but the pieces won't be overly complicated because music theory is mine enemy >;(

it is not my first time developing an interactive story!!

Tell Me If There's A Way Home was the first story i ever posted online and something i first started writing in 2019 and posted here on tumblr in 2021. it's, like, literally the story of my heart. so i've spent the better part of 5 years (!!!!) trying to get it right. i reformatted tmitawh from an interactive novel to an actual real life novel that i'm currently trying to query to literary agents. (trad publishing is HELL) while i've been working/waiting on this, i've been doing something stupid and making a game about it (???) idk perhaps more to come on this later. the reality of trad publishing is that your book just may never be sold, straight up. so i'm preparing other ways for everyone to be able to witness this story just in case.

The Mouths Of Elysium is currently my OTHER IF that I'm (still!!) working on. a small demo for this is available here! this was inspired by my terrible brain's obsession with Jim Henson's Labyrinth and also my desire to see women be terrible and twisted because i think it's hot. i am not sorry about this >:-)

This Grave Calls You Home hit me like a lightning strike pretty much immediately after watching Interstellar. in the past, I've also posted something about a post-apocalypse story after humanity fled to the stars, but felt that this too was not right and so I took a break from this to figure out the story a bit better. it came to me 2 years later in the form of this story!! i was compelled by this idea of a lone astronaut. they're literally like cowboys, just in a different setting. loneliness is the singular thing that scares me most in this world, above anything tangible and not. space is the epitome of loss, of loneliness. nothing exists and therefore, you do not exist. i became so very nearly feverish with this idea of an astronaut lost forever in space, the memory only barely surviving the absence and then the implications of this as well.

i also love media where the narrator of the story is not the main character and more of a witness. of course, the MC of TGCYH changes the story based on the choices you make while reading, but in truth The Astronaut is the protagonist of this story. this story doesn't exist without The Astronaut.

a lot (read: all ) of my work revolves around this concept of loss, grief, and then the after. what does it look like when you are a stranger to yourself after these traumatic events. what does it look like when you have to manually pick the pieces of yourself off the ground, hands shaking as you slot them back together in this now fucked up, mismatched picture of who you were before. what happens when you realize you have to start from scratch with all new pieces. is it better to get back what you've lost, or is it better to move on? this question propels everything i write, i think.

#tell me if there's a way home #the mouths of elysium #this grave calls you home #thank you so much!!#i hope you are having a great week and staying warm!! <3

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catoz0 · 1 year ago

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Hello! So the following paragraphs of rambling text are from an alternate au of sorts that I am currently working on, certain bits and ideas are sticking to the inside of my head like cotton so Ive decided to write some of them out in the hopes that it helps me in developing this universe further. For a quick and simple ( but not super accurate honestly) explanation Evan, Williams youngest son survives the incident with Fredbear and Michael does not, so he takes the place of his brother in this series and he is currently aiding Henry in his final plan when, ignoring Henrys protests he drops into the tunnels to fix one of the lures when he encounters a certain someone, I hope to be able to show more of this Au soon as its very dear to me, Enjoy!

A Hug From Dad

“Hello” Evan says for want of anything better.

The hallway is long and undecorated, a narrow expanse of unlit tunnels many feet underground.

Something built for function rather than aesthetic

It does make the situation more creepy especially given the other occupant of the hallway.

It was tall which coming from Evan didn't mean much granted but still. Once golden fur had decayed and rotted to a sickly green colour, made even more garish by the harsh light of Evans torch. Teeth bore in a permanent smile gleaming in the low light. Crooked and mismatched ears swayed as it tilted its head, its eyes despite not being submerged in the ray of light gleamed in the darkness anyway.

The rabbit did not respond to Evans call

Evan is clutching the radio in his hand so hard it he can feel the plastic creaking in protest. Ignoring the desperate rabbiting of his own heartbeat Evan speaks again.

“Sorry for disturbing you, I was just down here to do some General maintenance, mind if I get past you?”

Calm Evan thinks. he needs to stay calm. They expect screaming and when they don't get it it confuses them, it had worked with Hive ( at least for a while) so it might work here, he just needs to breathe

The rabbit doesn't answer him

It simply stands there drinking in the sight of him, eyes aglow in the darkness

Evan breathes out and then in he opens his mouth to try again again but before he can, the rabbit finally speaks

It simply says one word

His name.

Evan stops, freezing on the spot.

Yous see the thing is Evan doesn't know for a certainty who is in there, he knows for a certainty that it is haunted by someone he has theories and suspicions but with Fazbear entertainments tendency to keep certain things for ever reaching the public getting numbers our accurate stats from them is next to impossible.

Certain stats like say, how many staff have died under their employment

As loathe as he was to admit it being an Afton occasionally had its perks, but even that hadn't been enough sometimes.

Something among many he really doesn't like to dwell on

Evan takes a breath again, in and out. He just has to stay calm.

“Did Hive tell you my name? I'm guessing they were mumbling about me, I think they're still at mad at me because of”

“Evan” he says again. “Evan darling”

Evan stops, stops completely. Horror is engulfing him. Pieces of a picture coming together to an image that Evan doesn't want to look at. Memories and images spiralling together to a truth that he cannot deny or escape coming up to consume him whole

Spring Bonnie was always his favourite

“Dad” he whispers hoarsely

He seemingly takes that as his cue to begin walking towards him, he walks as if it takes effort lurching forward at a pace that Evan thinks he could outrun. Evan is quicker than he looks small and nimble, if the rest of his movements are as stilted and awkward as his walk then Evan should be able to dodge past

He could

He can

Evan doesn't move

His Father reaches him, Evan still has to crane his neck up to meet his eyes

He reaches out to him, and Evan doesn't flinch. Even as his rotted hands encircle him.

Even as his hands pull him in, slowly and gently.

Either Evan was on to something with his movements being stilted and awkward or he's savouring the moment

He pulls him against his chest Evan bring his hands up automatically fingers digging into the suits rotted fur, some of it detaches completely clumping under his fingernails. Evan shudders at the feeling but otherwise still doesn't react. His fathers pulls him even closer

His grip isn't quite painful but its close.

One of his hands begin to card through his hair, bone and metal gently tangling through the mess of curls on the back of his head as he clutches him close

Evan is still, eye pinned wide as his fingers dig into his fathers suit, the smell is abhorrent but Evan just cant move

He feels the costumes mouth gently touch the top of his head jaws opening slightly, a mimicry of the kiss his companion had gifted him with so long ago

And that, that is what breaks the moment, breaks the moment of calm and Evan suddenly cant breathe hands twisting into the suits ragged surface as his eye fills with tears, breath coming in gasps.

His father makes a sound, something quiet and desperate as his grip tightens on him and it finally vaults over the line of uncomfortable and lands in painful, ribs protesting against the treatment.

But then the radio in his hand shrieks a wave of noise that causes his Father to recoil, enough for Evans thrashing to set him free, pulling away Evan turns and bolts

Evan Afton with tears in his eyes and fur under his fingernails runs from the desolate silhouette of his Father

As he is turning the corner, Evan not consciously aware that he's doing it turns his head to look back. Some part of him, a part that sounds a lot like Charlie is hissing for him to stop to just keep looking ahead and keep going.

He looks back anyway

Later that night as he curls in bed and traces the dark shadows of his fathers affection bruising his ribs Evan will think of that final image

The image of his Father illuminated in the twilight of the hallway, head tilted.

With one of his arms outstretched delicately waving goodbye.

#evan afton #fnaf #fnaf au #william afton #springtrap #digital art #art

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hurtcomfortficstilltheend · 6 months ago

Text

In the Name of a Cosy Christmas

Lockwood & Co (books) fluff

Summary: After everything, what more could be asked for, than a warm cosy Christmas?

Warnings: none, just fluff. Spoilers for The Empty Grave.

A/N: This was written for a Secret Santa event on one of the L&C discord servers! To read in Ao3, click here.

word count: 1070

A few months after the break in, after the Other Side, and Fittes, and all the shit that went down with it, gradually normality seeps back into Lockwood and Co’s headquarters. The new shelves fill up with new trinkets, the walls get repapered and Lucy makes the effort to make and hang up polaroid collages on the first floor. The house goes from cozy to destroyed to pristine to lived on again.

Lockwood feels lighter than he ever has, redecorating his home gives him a chance to project and think of a life of his own. He tears up at the paint store when the employee asks him what colour he wants, so Lucy steps up and picks a few cans, ignoring the guy’s questioning looks.

With time cases started to come, and routine set in again. Despite the dismantling of the Fittes conspiracy, the arrival of autumn spikes the number of ghost sightings and hauntings, as would be expected, and Lockwood and Co rises to the occasion.

Holly still tags along in the field, but her demeanor is more cautious, if it is even possible. She checks and re-checks the bags before going out, and packs twice the standard amount of salt bombs in her duffel bag and magnesium flares in her belt. One random day in October, she shows up with her white strand dyed black to blend in with the rest of her hair. No one makes a comment or snarky remark.

She doesn’t stay for lunch as often, and Lucy thinks it’s her way of putting some distance between herself and the agency, but later finds out Holly and her roommate started going on dates and spending more time together. The only piece of information she can make her spit out is the DEPRAC agent’s name, Scarlett.

George makes a full recovery, and keeps making up theories and investigating about the Problem and its imminent end. A curious little relationship forms between him and Flo. It’s odd to see her every other day around Portland Row, in such a domestic setting, but she is welcomed by everyone, even with her muddy boots that mess up the carpet more often than not (Holly does offer to buy her some slippers).

Kipps spends a month bottled up in his apartment, recovering and thinking of his next steps. He gets in touch with his family, and his sister helps him through it all. He marvels at the idea of studying to become a school teacher to young agents in the future.

Distant fireworks announce the start of Christmas Day. The table is messy with different snacks, tea, champagne and what remains of dinner. Mismatched glasses with different beverages are raised and clinked.

Lockwood stands up and hugs Lucy, a chain reaction of ‘Merry Christmas’ and kisses on cheeks follow. Everyone is cheerful, and for a moment it’s like nothing bad has ever happened, and they are just a normal group of friends that call each other family.

��I haven’t showered since last year,” exclaims George, looking very proud of his joke. Lucy rolls her eyes, but then her expression turns into a smirk. He freezes. “Wait, that’s not today.”

Holly lets out a bark of laughter no one has heard from her before, and quickly covers her mouth to hide it. That triggers a round of giggles and Holly joins in, feeling self conscious, but accepting her fate. Scarlett hugs her from the side and pecks her cheek as if to cool off the flush (it has the opposite effect, of course).

Kipps takes a sip of champagne and steps to the side to open the freshly painted and decorated back door, snow glistening under the moonlight and the occasional pyrotechnics. A cold current of air meets his cheeks and brings with it memories of the Other Side. He looks back at the table, and closes the door.

“Shall we move to the living room?” Exclaims Lockwood, excited to show off the gifts he bought for everyone (they are matching sweaters that he will make them wear for the rest of Winter).

It’s four in the morning. The fireplace is being guarded by a sleepy Lucy, who keeps the fire going for the sake of Quill. He complained a couple of times about freezing to death if he slept on the couch with such a fimble blanket, the implications of such comment perturbed her a bit, so she agreed to be the one in charge of it.

Holly and Scarlett claimed the guest bedroom and moved there half an hour after Holly passed out on Scarlett’s lap. She kept playing card games with Kipps and Flo, but excused herself and picked Holly up when she started to stir and gently pull on her long auburn hair.

George is asleep on the other couch, his legs in Flo’s lap. She is drinking sugary coffee while she reads a book and fiddling with the quilt that covers them.

Lockwood approaches the fire and sits next to Lucy, balancing a tray with tea and some leftover dessert. She’s focused on the small flames, sitting cross legged, but looks over and returns a small smile when it’s offered to her. Lockwood passes a cup to her and takes one of his own.

“This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” she whispers, looking back at their friends. She cut her hair last week and it frames her cheeks so perfectly. One of the white strands is a part of her curtain bangs now. She takes a sip of her tea and looks directly at Lockwoods eyes. “I still can’t believe we made it out.”

“Yeah…” He sighs, then a vulnerable smile replaces his shining one. “I’m so thankful we get to be here, all of us.”

Lucy glances at the skull on the shelf. It has been adorned with fairy lights and a scarf ‘just in case he feels cold’, according to George. It has made its fair share of wispy half-apparitions since the explosion, but it’s okay. She knows wherever he is, he must be so pissed about the lights, and it does bring some comfort to her.

And so, on one of the longest nights of the year, they slump into each other in the warm glow of the fire, and eat cake until they feel slightly sick.

They wake up at midday, on the floor, with cramped muscles and necks, but covered by a certain quilt that Florence insists on knowing nothing about.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! See? I can write non-selfinserts, haha (i fought tooth and nail to keep the second person away lmao). Felices fiestas, and i hope you start 2025 with the right foot!

Masterlist

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood and co fluff #lockwood and co fanfic #anthony lockwood #holly munro #lucy carlyle #george cubbind #george karim #flo bones #holly has a gf #quill kipps #christmas fic #fluff #lockwood x lucy #george x flo

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