#the host (2008)

[witchrealms]

(x)

[princecloud]

hot chocolate and shoujo ♡

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Do you know if Gedds are ever described, specifically on the Yeerk homeworld, to have the one too-short limb? I'm wondering if when the Yeerks were introduced to space travel and took a population of host Gedds with them, they didn't prepare enough for the effects of inbreeding. (though that also depends on Gedd reproduction/maturity rate. how long would they have to have been in a limited population to accumulate mutations. were yeerks trying to do gedd eugenics even before Seerow.)

We don't ever see the yeerk home world in canon — the closest we come is a hologram in Hork-Bajir Chronicles and Esplin 9466's attempt to recreate it from memory in Andalite Chronicles. So I feel like the gedd eugenics read is totally supported by canon, as is the interpretation that the yeerks somehow help "course correct" gedds while inside their brains.

[sinclair-enterprises]

Dipping my toes into The Host fandom in the big 2025, did not expect to have my interest reignited in a SMeyer property from 2008 that never really climbed out of Twilight’s shadow. Respect to the tiny remnant of fandom that exists here-the meta and other content on this site I’ve seen so far has been great at recognizing the story’s quintessentially Meyerian flaws while also highlighting and building upon its strengths.

[sadaveniren]

.

[fyeahnix]

I know some people really don't like the Olympics but I've been having a fucking blast watching it and I'm gonna be sad when it's over. I didn't watch it in 2022 for some reason and I kinda regret it but I made a conscious effort to do it this time. I've always enjoyed watching it ever since I was a little kid, even back in '96 when I was fucking 4 lol

So much history being made, so many memes, so many close games, so much... unfortunate controversy. It really has it all. And I def am not familiar with every sport I've watched. Technology has gotten better with the (un)fortunate addition of streaming, so I can now watch every sport the US doesn't give a shit about normally.

I've been watching so much fucking handball it's unreal. I learned how Judo works. I watched wrestling today. Taekwondo starts tomorrow. Breakdancing is making its Olympic debut at the end of the week. There is just so much cool shit to watch. I've watched so much more of every other country other than the US, and it's honestly a breath of fresh air because my god the American commentary is so masturbatory..

I just really appreciate the fact that these athletes have worked their fucking asses off to get here and I cannot hate them for doing something only a handful of people on the planet are able to do. It's a huge accomplishment. This shit reminds me why sports are so damn cool.

[eternal-apidae]

why did Stephanie M did that weird age thing at the end of the Host?

Excellent question anon!! Let’s get into it!

So for context, The Host (2008) is a book based on an invasive species of aliens that need host bodies to operate on alien planets. The 2 main characters of the book are one of the invading aliens, a “soul” and her human host body that is still alive and well even when the alien is operating her body. The grand finale of the book has the alien give back the human body so her host can go back to living her life. BUT! the humans involved in the story have grown attached to this specific alien and find her a new body. Not a big deal except SM wrote it the weirdest way possible. The running theory in the book is that the longer a human was human before an alien took over the more likely they are to remember their own lives. so while our favorite humans from the story go looking for a new body they choose one that is noticeably young so that the alien doesn’t have to worry about the human host being alive inside the body. BUT! the alien has paired up with one of the adult males in the story and so when she wakes up in the new body she lies about its age so that her partner won’t object to hanky panky and make her wait until her body is old enough.

There’s a lot there. It is Stephanie Meyers writing so it’s filled with her usual sexism and weirdness that makes a lot of people question her sanity. I am a white person so i don’t know how to go about commenting on her racism. i will say she didn’t dig herself into the same hole she did with Twilight (2005) but the invading alien 100% have a savior complex about taking over planets, they said something of the lines of “We come to experience and make it better.” or something to that effect that i wish i had my copy of the book in front of me to check. But they fit the definition of colonizers so take that as you will.

Stephanie has a history of using similar tropes and just weird things that she insists on including in her writing. What anon has come to me about is the weird age thing and let’s dive into that. There already has been a lot of commentary about the age gap with Bella and Edward from Twilight but i bring it up because it’s a trope SM writes often. The only book i can think of that doesn’t have a weird age gap is her spy/espionage book The Chemist (2016) but i haven’t read a couple titles that popped up in my deep dive for this ask.

The biggest clues about why the hell SM writes some of this stuff is that she is mormon and her religious views definitely get added in writing in different ways. Mormons believe that a “delayed marriage” is a sign of delayed maturity so that’s the biggest thing i can think of when it comes to why SM writes this ideology into her books.

Returning to The Hosts age gap and Twilights age gap the circumstances are shockingly similar, one of the pair has been alive for multiple life times before they meet the other and they are suddenly complete. They felt so isolated and distant from their own kinds until they found their true mate. It’s crazy to me! The only difference the pairs is that in Twilight, Edward is an eternally mature 17 y/o and in The Host, Wanda is an eternally immature thousand of years old, in the book she estimates that she was born around earths big bang? or that her mother? was but she constantly moves from planet to planet and has to start the maturing process all over again with each species. She even states towards the end of the book that she was “barely a year old” because her time on earth had been that short and then!! she’s put into an even younger body!! The aliens defense within herself is that she doesn’t want to wait like her previous human host had because her human host was 17 (i think) when she found her mate and he made her wait for her 18th birthday before her would have sex with her. So she lies and says the new human host’s body’s birthday is in a week! which is just so silly to me! it brings in the question of if the aliens celebrate their host’s birthdays? which i genuinely don’t see that they would??

I do know that SM stated that The Host was based off a story she started telling herself while driving through arizona? one of the more desert states and so she probably started writing it and had to come up with some kind of happy ending? similar to twilight which was based off a dream and she wrote the meadow scene first and had to build a backstory around that and then find some way to give all of those characters a happy ending which is how we ended up with genuinely the most disturbing age gap in any of her writing to date.

Long answer short! i’m not sure! but i mostly blame mormonism and poor plotting!

Thank you anon for sending in this ask so i could talk about my favorite book ever and the absolute disaster that it is!

[xx-key-xx]

I GOT IT YES B*TCHES

[sexynetra]

1 and 8!

1. what are 3 things you’d say shaped you into who you are?

Middle school choir, literally almost dying that one time, and getting deeply emotionally invested in the 2012 presidential election

8. Any reoccurring dreams?

I don’t usually remember my dreams but afaik it’s a different one each time! Lots of stuff that’s just like interpersonal interactions with my friends I guess 😂

[einshi]

toying around with the thought that maybe mukuro's persistent, looming presence in the plot even after he's been imprisoned by Vindice, although superficially disguised as a method of espionage, for someone of his intelligence and self-awareness there's a big probability that he does it in order to stay sane, being in solitude as he is. submerged in water, deprived of all his five senses, it must come at the cost of sanity and that's precisely why only the most dangerous criminals are sentenced to that type of confinement in rebornverse so it's an interesting concept to think about, that illusions are what keep him connected to reality.

[of-lillies-and-remains]

i was telling my wife that i like how people are using dinky little digital cameras more nowadays and she told me that we had a digital camera in a box of my late grandfather's possessions and i powered it up and i was so excited but the sensor is dead so it can't take photos anymore :/ so close yet so far......

[pyreflydust]

Actually, if you can't remember, this post should tell you when you signed up.

deletes don’t count. this is how long you’ve known about/been part of this website. if you left and came back say when you made your first blog even if you no longer have access to it (but also tell me how long you were gone for because i’m nosy like that)

[spencereidluver]

M is for Merry Christmas

december 22, 2008

summary: It is the annual Christmas party hosted by Penelope at the BAU, you get a little too drunk- and in turn- a little too handsy with your shy boyfriend. He decides it's time to take you home, where he takes care of you as you sober up and deal with your hangover.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: drunk!reader, mentions of vomit and a somewhat descriptive scene of reader doing so, somewhat caregiver!spencer but not really (reader is hungover and he is just very sweet and caring) there is also sort of a brief one sided angst where reader thinks spencer is upset with them

“Watch where you’re flinging them arms sweetheart, I’ve got papers on my desk,” Derek laughs as you very ungracefully kneel to the floor next to his desk chair. Spencer was sat in Derek’s chair, calmly taking in the atmosphere. 

“Well maybe if you did your paperwork faster you wouldn’t have to worry,” you teased, earning a laugh from your team which filled the bullpen of the BAU. 

It was the annual Christmas Party at the BAU headquarters, a tradition that started when Penelope joined the team. The team didn’t often take cases over Christmas, unless they were urgent, and this year was one of those when you had the holiday off. Penelope stocked the party with plenty of goodies, and you’ll be the first to admit, maybe you got a little too carried away with the alcohol that she had provided. But in your defense, you rarely drank. This job didn’t allow for it often. And now that you had the chance, why not take it? 

You were playing with the hem of Spencer’s charcoal gray slacks, the slacks that came up just a little too high on his lanky figure. It wasn’t too obvious when he was standing, but now that he was lounged in a chair, it was blatantly obvious his pants were a good three or four inches too short. 

Emily approaches you, handing you a glass. “Another drink, Y/N?” She asks. You take the drink. 

“Are you purposely trying to get her drunk?” Spencer questions. He reaches down to entangle his fingers in your hair. 

“Babe, ‘m not drunk!” You protest. You’re lying. 

Your words linger around Spencer’s head. Babe. You’d called him pet names before, but never so casual-like, and never had you in front of your coworkers. 

You hide your giggle into Spencer’s leg. Nothing funny happened, but you felt like laughing. You knew you were drunk. But you were having fun. You took a sip from the glass Emily had just given you.

“Y/N, you’re laughing at nothing! You can’t tell me you’re not drunk,” Spencer chuckles at you. He finds humor in your attempts to convince him and a group of profilers you weren’t wasted.

“Hey hey hey, Pretty Boy, she’s having fun, don’t rain on her parade,” Derek says.

“Yeah, Prett’boy, don’t rain on my p’rade,” you say, mocking Derek and Spencer simultaneously. You take another sip from your cup before reaching your arm up and offering it to Spencer. “Drink?”

“No, thanks,” he says, shaking his head. You shrug before chugging the rest of the cup. 

Penelope Emergers from her office, carrying a tray down the stairs. “Guess Whatttt?” She says in a sing-song voice. She rounds the corner and extends the tray out for the team to have access. “I brought shottts!”

You practically jump from your position on the floor, leaving Spencer in Derek’s chair and rushing to Penelope, well, more like the tray of drinks she was holding. 

You, Emily, and Derek surround the shot tray while Hotch and Rossi were sat observing and eating crackers from two other desks in the bullpen. With three taps of his glass on the tray, you Emily and Derek have a mouthful of vodka. There are three remaining glasses of clear liquid remaining. 

Derek takes a step away to open the view of the tray up. “Hey, do any of you guys want these?” He shouts. He was on the verge of being drunk, starting to lose control of the volume of his voice. 

“No, I’m not a big vodka drinker,” Spencer says, swiveling gently left and right in Derek’s chair. He’s not drunk, but he may be having the most fun of anyone while he’s playing in the rolly chair. 

Hotch and Rossi share a glance at each other, before Hotch speaks up. “No, you three go ahead, you seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Derek closes in the gap he’d opened, grabbing another shot glass. You and Emily follow his lead, waiting for his three taps. Your mouth burns as the liquor fills it, you’re quick to swallow before taking a sip of water as a chaser. You smack your lips, giving a three-way high-five to Emily and Derek. 

“Those are my girls,” Derek says as he pulls you and Emily into a group ‘bro hug.’

You leave the tupperware party that had formed around Penelope, walking toward Spencer, who was still spinning in the chair. 

“Hey,” you say as you approach him. You grab onto his tie, leaning forward and resting your free hand on his thigh to be face-level with him.

“H-hi, Y/n,” he chokes out, the position you’re in having made him a bit flustered. You lean in to kiss him, but your drunkenness causes you to stumble and miss his lips, leaving a big sloppy kiss on his chin. You let yourself fall into Spencer’s lap, situating yourself on his upper thigh and letting your legs fall over his lap. He wraps one arm around your waist, the other drapes over your shins and his hand holds your calf. He shoots you a worried look. “How much have you drank?”

You giggle, letting one of your hands reach around his back to fluff his hair. “Not that much,” you lie to him. 

“Y/n.” His voice is slightly stern. You begin to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt with your free hand.

“‘m fine, baby, I promise,” you say, leaning into his shoulder. He jumps slightly as the word ‘baby’ falls past your lips. He can’t help but let the smile he’s forming peek through a tiny bit. Still playing with the buttons, you manage to pop the top two open with just your fingers. You let your fingers slip beneath the fabric of his shirt and begin to trace little shapes on his bare chest. He shivers into your touch, but tries his best to hide it. 

His grip tightens a bit on your waist, fingers digging into your ribs slightly, causing you to squirm against his lap. 

“I’ve got one more round of shots for three of my favorite agents!” Penelope says as she returns from her cave once again. You look to Spencer, almost as if asking permission, before standing up and stumbling to Penelope. She was only a few feet away, but your footing was sloppy. 

You, Derek, and Emily grab the shot glasses, doing a “cheers” before pouring the liquid down your throats. Emily brings hers down with a “wooo!” sound. You and Emily sip down your chasers afterwards, but Derek has drank all his. His cup was empty.

“Hey sweetheart,” Derek says, raising his eyebrows at you, “Go grab that waterbottle off my desk, would’ya?” 

You nod at him as you once again stumble over to his desk. This time, you make your way behind the chair Spencer’s sat in, grabbing the plastic waterbottle from the corner of the desk. “Catch,” you say, throwing the bottle directly into Derek’s hand.

“Damn, girl, the NFL should’ve drafted you, not the FBI,” Emily jokes.

You turn around, leaning over the back of Derek’s chair to rest your hands on the shoulders of Spencer. You’re starting to really feel the alcohol now, your head was swirling. Spencer reaches his hand up and grabs yours, running his thumb over the back of it. You let your other hand fall downwards, grazing over his few inches of bare chest that was still exposed from the open buttons. He gently squeezed your hand. You lean down, burying your face in the crook of his neck, planting soft kisses, and letting your hands chase further down his clothed torso.

Spencer clears his throat. “Alright,” he says, standing up and sliding the chair out of the way. “It’s time I get this one home.” He grabs the small of your waist, hoisting you up and throwing you over his shoulder without so much as a grunt. Gasps were heard around the room.

“Reid, you’ve been holding out on us. If I’d have known you could lift people like that so easily I’d be sending you on tacticals instead of Morgan.” Hotch said, half joking, but still with the serious undertone he always has with his jokes. 

“Damn,” Derek gasps. “Look at those muscles.”

“Oh be serious, it’s just Y/n. She’s statistically much smaller than the average unsub.” Spencer states as he adjusts you on his shoulder. You’re face down to the ground, the blood rushing to your head. 

“Yeah, be honest guys, Spencer would get his ass kicked by a majority of those guys,” you jokingly say. 

“Not if I have my gun,” Spencer defends himself, beginning to carry you toward the door.

“Bye, Y/N!” Emily shouts, giving you a big wave that you can’t see. “I love you!”

“Don’t be too tough on her now, big guy,” Derek laughs, poking fun at him. 

“Oh shut up!” Spencer says.

“Don’t let him take me!” You beg as you watch Spencer get closer to the door step by step. “He’s ruining all the fun!”

“Bring her back!” Penelope shouts from the top of the stairs. 

“She’s had her fun, it’s way past our bedtime,” Reid says, turning around to face the team. He lifts one hand to wave goodbye, the other still holding you on his shoulder. “She’ll regret this when she’s throwing up all day tomorrow. Have a Merry Christmas, guys.” He turns and exits the building all while the team bids their farewells.

Spencer carries you the entire way from the BAU office to your car in the parking lot. You’re still slung over his shoulder as he opens the passenger door. He leans into the car and gently lets you fall into the seat. He tucks the loose strands of hair falling in your face behind your ear, then places a delicate kiss on your forehead. He buckles your seatbelt as he ducks out of the car, stopping in his tracks when he locks eyes with you. 

Your eyes have glossed over, having had the time for the alcohol in your system to have begun filtering through, a terrible hangover was building. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, leaning back into the car. You nod in response, resting against the headrest of the passenger seat. “Are you sure? You had a lot of alcohol, Y/N.”

“‘m okay,” you say, reaching a hand out to grab ahold of his forearm that was stabilizing him above the car seat. “Just got a headache.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let’s get you home and into bed, m’kay?” He’s gentle with you. Soft. Caring. He runs his thumb over your cheek once before closing the passenger door, making sure not to slam it as he’s sure a headache has begun to form. He was right. 

Spencer jogs quickly around the front of the car, climbing in the driver's seat and turning the key. He turns the volume on the radio down, another thing that could trigger your headache. “I’m gonna take you to my apartment, okay?” He says, placing his hand on the back of the passenger seat and looking over it to reverse out of the BAU parking lot. 

‘Does he know how attractive that is?’ You ask yourself.  

After reversing, he drops his hand down to your mid thigh and gives it a slight squeeze. You begin to doze off, the effects of the alcohol taking its toll much faster than expected.

...

You wake up in Spencer’s bed. He’s asleep beside you, arm wrapped around your waist holding you close. You’re unsure of the time. Come to think of it, you don’t even remember getting into Spencer’s bed. He must’ve carried you. 

Spencer’s apartment is hot, which is strange because he always kept the thermostat at 68, and you could hear the air conditioner running. You gently lift Spencer’s arm from you and place it down next to him, the need to escape from the heat of the blankets outweighing the comfort of his embrace. Saliva begins to coat your throat, the kind that swallowing won’t help. Oh. Oh.

You are going to puke. 

You hurriedly sit up on the bed, not giving yourself enough time for your body to stretch before jumping down and rushing into Spencer’s bathroom. You kneel in front of the toilet just in time before the contents of your stomach have become the contents of the toilet bowl. Tears well in your eyes as you struggle to catch your breath between bouts of vomiting. You’re trying not to gag, trying to be quiet, just wishing it would be over. The sound of your sickness echoes through the wall shared by the bathroom and Spencer’s bedroom, waking him from his sleep-addled mind. Spencer jumps to his feet as if his life depended on it, hurrying to the closed door to the bathroom.

“Y/n?” He called softly while pushing the door open. You’re sat on your knees in front of the toilet, pale and trembling. Once he sees you, there’s no hesitation before Spencer is knelt beside you, gathering your hair in one hand and gently scratching comforting patterns on your back with the other. Another wave of vomit hits you, leaving tears streaming down your face as you recover. 

Spencer shushes you softly, still scratching your back. “It’s okay baby, I’m right here,” he whispers at you as he wipes tears from your eyes. “You’re going to be okay, baby. Do you want me to get you some water?”

You can barely muster a nod in response, feeling a bit neglected when he gets up to go retrieve it for you. Yes, you did want water, but you also wanted Spencer. 

As soon as he leaves the bathroom, you’re hit by another round of vomiting, this time left to deal with on your own. Spencer hears you from the kitchen, causing him to rush. “I’ll be right there, Y/n,” you hear him yell from across the apartment as the bile spills past your mouth, some trickling down onto your shirt. Damn it, this was kind of a nice work shirt, and now it has hangover puke all down the front of it.

Spencer returns to the bathroom, glass of water in hand. He sees you frantically trying to pat away the vomit on your shirt with a few squares of toilet paper. He sits the glass on the edge of the counter, rushing to your aid. “Hey, let's just take this off,” he says, helping you to pull your shirt over your head. Only being left in your bra, the air is cool as it hits your bare back. It feels good. 

Spencer grabs the glass of water off the counter, handing it to you. “Here,” he says, “rinse your mouth out real quick.” You do as he says, swishing the room temperature water around in your mouth and spitting it into the toilet. Spencer fills the bathroom sink about half way full with water, then places your soiled shirt in the basin to soak. After, he returns to you, taking the glass of water from your hand and situating himself back on the floor behind you. 

You lean back against him, your back to his bare chest. You sigh, grateful beyond words for his presence, for the warmth of his touch amidst the cold grip of illness. His steady mind anchored you in the midst of discomfort. You remain there together on the floor of the small apartment bathroom for what felt like an eternity. Spencer offered you quiet words of reassurance and helped you to drink water while you struggled to regain composure. Eventually, the violent spasms of sickness subsided, leaving you exhausted and shaky in Spencer’s arms.

“Can we go back to bed?” You whisper, your voice hoarse and raw from vomiting. 

“Of course, baby, let's brush your teeth though. Vomiting exposes your teeth to the stomach’s highly erosive acids which eat away at the enamel at lightning speeds.” Spencer rambles. You groan in response, not having the energy to hold your arm up for that long. “I can help you, Sweetheart, you just got to stand up for me, ‘mkay?” You nod, struggling to your feet. Spencer picks you up bridal style, carrying you the few steps to the sink and sitting you on the counter facing him. He removes your soaked shirt from the sink and hangs it over the edge of the bathtub to drip dry. 

Spencer situates himself between your legs, takes your toothbrush from the cup and wets it, applying a swipe of toothpaste to the bristles. You part your lips as Spencer brings the toothbrush to your mouth. 

His brushing was gentle and slow, yet thorough. You rest your head against his shoulder as he does so, too weak to hold your own head up for long periods of time. He uses his left hand to cup your cheek so as to keep your head still as the toothbrush makes friction against your teeth. 

“You’re doing great, Y/n,” he says as he moves the toothbrush away from your mouth. “Need to spit?” He directs your head over the sink by your cheek, allowing you to spit the toothpaste into it. He rinses your toothbrush off and returns it to the cup, then hands you the glass of water. You drink the rest of it. 

Spencer plants a heavy kiss on your lips, your cool minty breath causing him to shiver. “Ready to go back to bed?” He asks, locking his arms around your waist and pulling you up to his chest. You nod into his shoulder and wrap your legs around his hips and arms around his neck as he carries you back into his bedroom.

He carefully lies you on the mattress, pulling the covers snug around your cold, bare torso. He joins you on the other side of the bed, climbing under the covers himself and snuggling up against you. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur weakly as your hands explore his unclothed back. 

“Don’t be,” he replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead. “I’m glad I could be here for you. It’s my job to take care of you.”

“I shouldn’t have drank that much in the first place,” you say. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“No. You had fun, and you were in a safe environment. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a night drinking every now and again. And each time you do, I’ll be here to take care of you afterwards.” 

“Thank you, Spence. And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.” You’re thinking back to him in Derek’s chair, and how you were being a little too comfortable with him. You knew Spencer was shy about showing off your relationship, not because he wanted to hide you, he was proud of you. He was just new at this, he was still learning how to love you publicly. 

“No, Y/n. Don’t be sorry. It kind of made me realize I want to be able to show love for you in public too. Y/n, I love you so much. I could never be embarrassed to be loved by you.”

“I love you, Spencer. I love you so much.”

“I love you. Now, get some rest, honey. Hopefully you feel better in the morning.”

You smile into his chest, your heart swelling with love and gratitude for this man who held your hair back when you were at your worst. You could spend eternity here. In this raw, vulnerable state that made you feel at home between Spencer Reid’s arms.

_____

next chapter: N is for New Years

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

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a/n: i wrote this fic way faster than i thought i was going to (three days) however i am pretty confident in it. i'm really enjoying being back! i'm really hoping i am able to stay on this writing kick for a while, i'm always the happiest when i'm writing. i'm hoping to get the next part out within the next week, so stay tuned for that!

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[lewismcqueen]

could've been. 1/2

lh44 x black!reader

part 2 -> summary: you and Lewis meet again for the first time since 2008, and his presence leaves you reminiscing on what could have been. cw: this will be smutty all the way through. story involves infidelity, so feel free to pass on this one if that distresses you. a/n: this was gonna be a one-shot but I could feel deep in my spirit that it was gonna be longgg asf so...two parter! (not a series lol). I know folks don't love Lewis' pre-braids era but just go with it this one time for the plot 😁 I tried to cosplay as a British writer for a second it might be inaccurate pls don't jump me 🙏🏾

“Don’t look so down, honey. Walk around, grab a couple drinks!” 

Your husband, Joshua Lee, flashed you that ‘party host’ smile that was more for everyone else than for you. He raised his flute of champagne in the air jovially before turning away. He had an audience to entertain.

He thinks he’s in the fucking Great Gatsby, you thought to yourself with a sigh. 

You touched a manicured hand to the white cashmere sweater tied around your shoulders overtop a navy blue blouse. It was starting to create unnecessary bulk, and you considered removing it and just tying it around your waist the way you used to. Too hot out to just put it on. 

Freshly-cut grass occasionally brushed the sides of your feet as you wandered around what was the third garden party that your husband had decided to throw on a whim within the past couple of months. It’s considerably more crowded today, which meant that he’d likely invited a few of his buddies from Formula One, and you now had twice as many folks to smile and wave at if you couldn’t weave around them. Some had even begun to recognize you; he liked to take you to races and paddock walks to ‘show you off’. Brag about how he’d married you before any of the actual racers could as soon as you graduated.

You were just ending a conversation with one of the drivers’ wives about where you got your sandals from when a man’s voice that was not your husband’s called out your name. It took a second to place it, but the pang of familiarity was unmistakable. Eyes widening, you turned around. 

“Lewis?”

-

“What?” Lewis’ brows furrowed. 

Now, this Lewis hasn’t grown his hair out yet, keeping it closely cropped so that none of the other racers or the media had anything to comment on. He hasn’t pierced his ears just yet either. He’s wearing a black polo shirt—you swear he has a million of those—over loose blue jeans on which he wipes sweaty palms. Lewis is trying to look irritated and pragmatic, but it doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes. They always gave him away, revealing that he cared more than he would like to admit. 

This is the Lewis you knew.

“What do you mean ‘what’?” you snapped. You began counting off on your fingers, “You walk right past me after races, you miss my birthday, you’ve not returned any of my calls, or my mum’s calls! Do you know how crazy it is to let my mum go to voicemail?”

Lewis’ expression softened, and he suddenly looked very tired. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’ve got back-to-back training sessions with my dad, then it’s straight back home for me. I’m hanging out with you now, though, right?”

“Sure, I guess.” 

“You don’t accept my apology?”

“I don’t know.”

You pretended to check your nails. The glittery blue polish had finally begun to chip. 

Soft, quiet laughter came from the other side of your bed. “What the hell is your problem?”

He called your name one, two, then three times, but you continued sulking with your head turned in the other direction. Finally, you felt his finger beneath your chin, turning your face towards his. You stuck out your bottom lip with a pout.

Lewis tilted his head with a grin. He liked to do that whenever he was trying to make you forget whatever he’d just done to annoy you at that moment, sometimes batting his long lashes and narrowing his eyes for full effect. It was almost coquettish. And it always worked. 

“Are you mad at me?”

“Maybe.”

“Well don’t be, ‘cuz I got you something. That's the main reason I came here.”

Lewis bent down and reached into his backpack, which he had laid beside your bed when he came in. From it he produced a small white satin pouch with drawstrings. Gently, he placed it into your palm and closed your hand.

“Open it.”

You pried open the soft material and gasped softly as you pulled out a gold necklace. The warm light of your bedside lamp reflected off of a nameplate hanging from the chain. Your name, in stylish, curling letters. It was going to be extra hard to stay mad now.

You held the nameplate between your fingers. “How…how did you know?”

He snorted. “Overheard you begging your poor mum to buy you one. Put it on, then.”

You undid the clasp and wrapped the chain delicately around your neck, finding the hole it was supposed to go through with your fingers with practiced ease. Letting it fall at your collarbone, you brushed back iron-pressed hair and turned to Lewis. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” he answered with an earnestness that caught you off-guard. “I’m really gonna miss you.”

You were half-expecting him to be a smart Alec and say something like, “The same, but with a necklace” or something. But he was staring at you the way he stared at the sunset when you two would watch it together while sitting on the hood of his dad’s car. 

Staring, and getting much, much closer. 

His lips pressed against yours before you could even react. When he pulled away, he suddenly looked mortified. Heart drumming in your ears, you noticed the residue of some of your lip gloss creating a sheen on his lips. It was a lucky thing you were wearing your favorite tank top today, because the heat simmering beneath your skin would’ve made you break into sweats.

Lewis held his hands out defensively like you were going to hit him.  “I’m so sorry—”

“Shut up.”

Impulsively, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him into another kiss. You had watched him make out with other girls enough times in sixth form to get the general idea of how it ought to be done. Now, fresh out of your first year of university, you were basically an expert. Sort of.

“Wow,” Lewis exhaled with his lips still nearly brushing yours. He smirked. “You’re a terrible kisser.”

You rolled your eyes. “Then show me how, idiot. Since you’re apparently so good at snogging.”

“Let go of my shirt, and I will.”

Despite your casual remarks, you were very sure that your steadily rising heart rate and heavy breathing was the loudest thing in the room. Lewis gently held your chin again.

“Alright, so you’ve gotta tilt your head.”

“Like this?”

“No,” he laughed. “Other way.”

You followed his lead before leaning in with your lips slightly parted this time. He guided your hand up to his face, where you rested it on his cheek as you went in for a much surer kiss. 

Save for the occasional awkward clicking of teeth, you eventually fell into a rhythm. Lewis’ hand came to rest on your waist. He seemed to approach making out like he did racing; the moment he felt you relax, he pushed further, deepening the kiss with more hunger than before. Your breathing had just begun to even out again when he made the bold move of planting a soft, experimental kiss on your neck, making you tense up. He pulled away, looking hesitant.

“Do you want me to stop? I’ll stop if you ask me to.”

You bit your lip, considering. A week from now, he’d be back to racing, unlikely to ever bring this up again, knowing him. You’d be going back to school to study engineering in a couple of months. The bedroom door was locked. Might as well make the most of it.

“No,” you finally answered, voice so low you were nearly whispering. “Keep going.”

Slowly, Lewis lowered his head to where it was before. You placed a hand on the back of his neck as he made contact with hot skin, more sucking now than kissing. As your mouth fell open with the added pressure, you thought about how this felt way better than how it looked in those R-rated movies you sometimes snuck off to watch together. 

Just as the tender spot above your necklace began to feel sore, he broke contact. His eyelids were low as he looked at you, lips just slightly pinker than they were before. He was staring downwards, where the nameplate rested just above the swell of your breasts. Lewis looked up.

“It’s, uh, better lying down. Can you…?”

He didn’t have to finish the question for you to get the message. Lewis got up as you swung your legs and scooted forward so that you were lying flat on your back. He climbed onto the cramped twin-sized bed with you, carefully settling right between your legs. Suddenly, you were very aware of how high up your thighs your shorts cut off, how your hair was going to be a flattened mess after you got up, and how you might look from above while gazing up at him through thick red prescription glasses. This rapid line of thought was soon cut off when his lips crashed into yours again.

You pointed at your spectacles as he hovered over you. “Should I take these off?”

He shook his head, “I like when you keep them on.”

Huh, you think. Must have a thing for glasses.

“You know, if they get crooked, it’s not gonna look very—”

“I like when they’re crooked.”

A mischievous smile spread across his face; The statement seemed to shut you up.

Lewis had been right. It was easier lying down. Your hands roamed up and down his back as you gave him full access to your neck. You felt him tug at the hem of your shirt.

“Can I?” he asks against your skin.

“M-hm.”

You actually weren’t sure what you expected him to do until you felt his hand slide underneath your tank top and begin kneading your breast through your sports bra. This was now completely uncharted territory, but heat was building between your thighs and you wanted him to explore all of you until he knew it like the back of his hand. 

An unexpected, quiet moan escaped you when his thumb swiped over your nipple. You’d never moaned before, not even by yourself when your dorm was empty.

This seemed to signal something to Lewis, who momentarily sat up on his knees to bring his shirt up over his head, revealing an expanse of bronze skin with lean muscle that wasn’t there before. He discarded it onto the fluffy pink rug you had on the floor.

You lie there gaping for a moment, before realizing that you were supposed to do the same or it would be weird. You were about to wriggle out of your top when he stopped you.

“I can do it, it’s fine.”

Raising your arms, you let him briefly remove your glasses and hoist the turquoise fabric over your head. He looked so focused as he carefully placed the glasses back on your face that he could’ve been doing surgery. Lewis had never looked this methodical in your presence before. 

Now that you were more or less topless, there was no bit of skin that went untouched by his lips or tongue. He was kissing your navel when you finally stated the obvious.

“I didn’t realize you were into me like that.”

Lewis stopped and looked up at you quizzically. Then he smiled. “Me neither.”

-

This new, less familiar Lewis wore a white tank top that showed off extensively-tattooed arms, earrings that glittered in the sunlight, and hair that was braided into neat square sections with faded edges because he had won too many championships to be worried about what the media would say about it. He had a hand shoved into the pocket of some fashionably-baggy cargo pants while the other hand carefully held a champagne glass.

That sharp, gap-toothed smile was the same, though. And the way he said your name again, softer this time.

“Hey,” he regarded you warmly. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Still reeling from his sudden appearance, you stuttered. 

“Y-yes, it…certainly has been. A while, I mean.”

“I know what you mean. How have you been?”

You thought you’d gotten used to seeing him, given his face was everywhere now. But the intensity of those eyes couldn’t be captured on camera. Suddenly you were back in first year again, moaning beneath him in your old bedroom. 

“I’ve been…good,” you nodded.

“Oh, don’t give me that. It’s been so long that you’ve gone and got married!” His hand left his pocket to gesture animatedly. “Tell me something. I mean, how’s married life? What do you do these days?” 

You had forgotten that Lewis could chat up a tree if he wanted to. “It’s been alright,” you say unconvincingly with a practiced smile. “Joshua’s been great, he takes me to races once in a while. I even get to tour the garage sometimes, though I’m not as involved as I’d planned to be. It’s like I never left.”

“You were studying engineering, right? I’d love to see you working around the paddock, if you’re ever interested. I’ll vouch for you.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you’d given that up—all of it—because you thought you were in love. Now your degree was nothing more than a notch in your belt. A mere decoration collecting dust on your nightstand. 

“I’ll be sure to call you if I ever think of joining the team. We’re always rooting for Mercedes,” Gesturing towards Joshua’s figure in the distance, you started to move past Lewis. “I will see you—”

“Wait,” 

You felt Lewis’ hand lightly touch your elbow. You stopped, only turning halfway.

He looked like he was still figuring out what to say afterwards, as if he had stopped you on impulse. His free hand awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “I, um, don’t have your number.”

You nodded slowly. 

“Right, um,” you reached into the back pocket of your white capris and pulled out your phone. 

Once you added a new contact labeled with his name, he typed in his number.

“Well, there you go.” You gave him a strained, polite smile. 

Lewis looked like he wanted to say something, but you turned to leave before he could. You told yourself it was better this way. I’m married, you repeated like a mantra in your head.

I’m married, I’m married, I’m married.

[vestaignis]

Волшебство зимних праздниках в потрясающей коллекции красочных иллюстраций Таши Тюдор.

Таша Тюдор, урожденная Старлинг Берджесс (28 августа 1915 года - 18 июня 2008 года) - американская художница и писательница, ставшая знаменитой благодаря своим детским книгам и образу жизни в стиле викторианской эпохи. Ей захотелось жить в 1830 году, и она своими руками построила этот мир вокруг себя.Она одевалась в длинные платья викторианской эпохи, носила фартук и чепец, топила плиту дровами и носила воду из колодца. Вставала рано, доила коз, делала сыр и взбивала масло, собирала яйца, пекла хлеб и печенье, варила варенье. И каждый день устраивала послеобеденный чай для детей и друзей, за которым всегда рассказывали интересные истории. Но главное, она рисовала, писала книжки, мастерила игрушки, всевозможные поделки, выращивала цветы и необычные растения.

 Рисовать Таша начала с раннего детства. В юности она писала маленькие рассказы и сама их иллюстрировала. Училась в Бостонской школе изящных искусств. За свою долгую жизнь художница проиллюстрировала порядка 100 книжек для детей, часть из которых написала сама, а также множество праздничных открыток. Таша Тудор рисовала в основном акварельными красками по бумаге и картону. Ее рисунки привлекают своей многофигурностью и проработкой деталей, милыми пасторальными сценками и праздничными сюжетами. 

The magic of the winter holidays in this stunning collection of colorful illustrations by Tasha Tudor.

Tasha Tudor, born Starling Burgess (August 28, 1915 – June 18, 2008) was an American artist and writer who became famous for her children's books and Victorian lifestyle. She wanted to live in 1830, and she built this world around herself with her own hands. She dressed in long Victorian dresses, wore an apron and a bonnet, heated the stove with wood and carried water from the well. She got up early, milked the goats, made cheese and churned butter, collected eggs, baked bread and cookies, and made jam. And every day she hosted afternoon tea for children and friends, at which interesting stories were always told. But most importantly, she drew, wrote books, made toys, all kinds of crafts, grew flowers and unusual plants.

Tasha began drawing in early childhood. In her youth, she wrote short stories and illustrated them herself. She studied at the Boston School of Fine Arts. During her long life, the artist illustrated about 100 children's books, some of which she wrote herself, as well as many holiday cards. Tasha Tudor painted mainly with watercolors on paper and cardboard. Her drawings attract with their multi-figure and detailed elaboration, cute pastoral scenes and holiday stories.

Источник:/fototrap.ru/illyustratsii/tasha-tyudor-illyustratsii/, //www. tashatudorandfamily.com/tasha-tudor/the-woman, /artchive.ru / artists/9294~Tasha_Tudor/biography, /www.babyblog.ru / community/kids_books/post/3182871,

[novelistparty]

everyone loved the discussion and found the video to be memorable (the best praise possible for a reading in a class or book club or salon)

a friend started their own salon (biweekly) and I was asked to choose the next reading and I picked this hbomberguy video:

I get to lead the discussion too :)