#this WIP has been sitting way too long in my folder

[pathologicalreid]

stuck between a rock and a hard place | S.R.

next

You, an undercover agent, uncover a hidden secret of the country's largest operation, putting your life in danger and under the protection of the BAU.

who? spencer reid x fem!FBI!reader category: angst content warnings: general cm violence, hospitals, medical inaccuracy, drugs, sex crimes/trafficking, attempted sa, reader works in sex crimes. mentions foyet and also 6x24 (supply and demand). established relationship. word count: 7.7k a/n: this has been sitting in my wip folder for far too long. i am now emotionally attached to these two. i will write more of this specific pairing because now all i want is for them to be happy.

Spencer

It wasn’t every day that men and women in suits piled into the BAU carrying evidence boxes, everyone stood up at their desks. Spencer watched as Andi Swann followed in behind the other agents, not even bothering to greet the team as she went straight to Emily’s office.

Prentiss opened the door, letting Andi in before beckoning for Reid to join them. This had to be about you.

Ignoring the way his heart rate spiked, Spencer stood up from his desk and went up to Emily’s office. On the other side of the bullpen, the rest of the team filed into the roundtable room.

“Spencer, have a seat,” Emily offered, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of her desk.

Glancing at Agent Swann, he crossed his arms in front of his chest, “No, I’ll stand.”

Andi cleared her throat, looking at Spencer, she spoke, “Y/N missed her last two check-ins. As her next of kin, I need to notify you to let you know that as of now, the FBI is considering her missing.”

He wanted to be angry. He wanted so badly to be mad, but he’d seen this before. Years ago, an agent in Andi’s unit missed her check-ins and the BAU helped find her. More than that, he knew how much Andi cared about her agents, so he couldn’t find it in himself to be mad.

“Section Chief Cruz has asked that the BAU help to recover Y/N,” Emily said, looking at Spencer. “You know I have to tell you that you can’t be on this case,” she explained, leaning against her desk, eyes flickering as she tried to read Spencer’s expression.

Taking a deep breath, Spencer looked at Emily, “Y/N’s gone missing, and I’m not allowed to help look for her?”

Sympathetically, Prentiss shook her head, dark hair swaying with the movement. “You know it’s a conflict of interest to be involved with a loved one’s case.”

“Isn’t that kind of what the BAU does?” He could’ve rambled off a list of BAU agents who worked on cases involving their loved ones – including himself and Emily.

Turning to face Agent Swann, Emily suggested she join the rest of the team in the roundtable room. She waited until the door was closed before speaking again, “When’s the last time you saw Y/N?”

Closing his eyes, he remembered the morning of the day you left, the both of you had stayed up late as if you could delay your departure, but the last time he saw you was when he dropped you off at the Sex Crimes Unit before making his way up to the Behavioral Analysis Unit. “We haven’t even spoken since she left,” he answered, almost a month ago now.

“Is there a chance she tried to reach you or her family?” Emily asked. She had to ask, he knew that, but it didn’t make the questions any less ridiculous to him.

Shaking his head, he began to pace around the office, “No, she wouldn’t have done that. She follows the undercover playbook obsessively. She always said freestyling was like signing your death certificate.” He tried. He tried to get you to leave him breadcrumbs, but you never did.

Nodding, Emily watched as he paced back and forth “When did you get married?”

Pressing his lips into a thin white line, he stopped in his tracks, “When I came back after The Believers. It was the next day.” You had offered to sleep on the couch in an attempt to give him space when he asked you to go to the courthouse with him. That was two months ago now.

He didn’t want space. Not from you. Never from you.

Finally, he sat down.

“Did you tell anyone?” Emily asked, sitting down in the chair next to him. “Did you have a witness to sign your marriage certificate?”

Nodding, Spencer reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced three rings, his wedding ring, your engagement ring, and your wedding band. You didn’t have the time to get them soldered together yet. “Rossi was our witness,” he responded, “He was the only one who answered his phone.” He slipped his ring on and closed his fist around your two rings.

After a moment, Emily stood, “I’m going to speak with the rest of the team, but I won’t tell them anything I don’t think is pertinent to the case.” Which was her way of saying ‘Your secret is safe with me.’ “Stay in here as long as you need, Spence,” she offered before walking out, shutting the door tightly behind her.

He thought of the last night you were together. Spencer tried to check in with you, he told you that if your job ever became too much, you just had to tell him, and he’d be there. What he neglected to tell you was that he was beginning to feel like your job was too much for him.

You had given him the opportunity to hold you close, and instead, he let you slip through his fingers.

Opening his fist, he looked down at your rings and the indent they had left on his palm, slipping them back into his pocket before he walked over to the roundtable room. Everyone paused what they were doing to look up at him.

Spencer just shrugged and looked at Emily, “I can’t just do nothing.”

In response, Emily nodded solemnly and suggested he go through the case files with Matt.

It had been hours. The sun had set, jackets had been shed, and takeout had been ordered. The clock behind him showed it was nearly midnight, meaning it had been almost two days since anyone had last heard from you.

“Oh god,” Penelope said, her voice cutting into the thick silence of the roundtable room. Her fingers began frantically typing on her laptop.

Spinning in the office chair, Spencer wheeled over so he could look at the screen, vaguely aware of Emily hovering above him, “What is it? What did you find?”

She hit the keyboard so hard he thought they might break, but she answered, “The trauma center at Johns Hopkins reported a Jane Doe brought in a few hours ago. She matches Y/N’s description.”

“Did they run prints?” Andi asked, of course, there would be red tape if the hospital tried to run your prints, seeing as you were undercover.

Another tap and dozens of files opened, “It looks like she went right into surgery. Uh, the EMTs reported she was listing off a string of numbers when they brought her in… 265D019Z?”

Spencer swallowed thickly, “That’s Y/N’s badge number.”

Shaking her head, JJ looked over at the map of DC on the wall, “It’s a two-hour drive to Baltimore from here.”

“But it’s a thirty-minute flight, Reid, Tara, Swann, and Alvez go. The rest of us will look into what happened from here,” Emily doled out responsibilities, nodding at everyone as the team broke.

Spencer stayed still, still looking at Penelope’s screen, his eyes flickering over the documents. Words jumped out at him, drugged, punctured, and knife. It made his stomach churn. How had you gotten to Baltimore? Your unit had you set up in an apartment near the Hill. When did you travel from the district to Baltimore?

The thirty-minute flight felt like it was hours long, the drive from the airstrip to the hospital dragged on, but thankfully Emily had called the hospital ahead of time to let them know who you were and who was coming for you.

A doctor stopped the four of you from going into the room, a police officer was already stationed outside of the room, and the blinds were closed. Please, Spencer wanted to plead, please just let me see her.

“She’s weak, she just came down from recovery and she hasn’t fully woken up yet,” the doctor said, placing her hands on her hips. “I can’t in good faith let you go in there and badger her with questions. Not with no one in there to focus on her well-being,” she ordered. The doctor stared the four of them down with piercing gray eyes.

Taking a deep breath, Spencer peeked through the doorway when a nurse exited your room. “She’s my wife, I’ll advocate for her,” he responded, hoping the doctor would let him through. He could feel Tara and Luke staring, but he didn’t care.

Nodding, the doctor continued sizing Reid up, “Alright, but just you, for now. She’s not awake enough to be questioned anyway.” Stepping to the side, the doctor let Spencer through before blocking the doorway to everyone else.

In the worst way possible, you took his breath away. Your skin was sallow, you had an IV, nasal cannula, and a chest tube out the left side. Walking to your right, he took a seat next to you, taking your hand in his and pressing a gentle kiss to your bloodied knuckles – evidence that you had put up one hell of a fight. “Oh sweetheart, what did they do to you?” He whispered even though he knew you wouldn’t answer.

Reaching over you, he smoothed your hair from your face, your skin was clammy, probably as a result of blood loss. It looked like they were still transfusing, so you had probably lost a considerable amount of blood.

Shuffling the seat closer to you, Spencer took your hand in his. The doctor came back in holding a tablet, “Dr. Reid?”

He hummed in response, not daring to take his eyes off of you. “What happened to her? Why did she need surgery?”

“She had been bleeding out in an alley, according to the police officers who reported to the scene. The other agents are talking to them now,” the doctor said, tapping a few buttons on the tablet. “She had been stabbed several times in the upper left side, we went in to repair damage to her spleen, liver, and lung. There was some strain to her heart, it appears she was drugged before she was stabbed.”

He intently watched the steady rise and fall of your chest before he spoke up again, “Is she going to be okay?”

Setting the tablet down, the doctor paused before answering, “We’ll know more when she wakes up.”

Spencer leaned back in the chair, finally taking his eyes off of you and looking at the doctor, “Was there anything… did they…” He felt ridiculous, having spent the better part of his adult life in the BAU, and he couldn’t even put the words together.

To his relief, the doctor shook her head, “There were no injuries that suggested she was sexually assaulted.”

Reading the doctor’s badge, Spencer nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Herman.”

“Hit the call button when she wakes up, we’ll need to evaluate her pain and other treatment,” the doctor said, gathering her things before walking out of the room, and shutting the door behind her.

Spencer kept his eyes on you, tapping his foot on the ground impatiently, every once in a while, his phone rang, but he didn’t have the energy to talk on the phone. When his phone buzzed, he pulled it out of his pocket and checked the messages.

Penelope Garcia: How is she? Spencer Reid: Still sleeping. Penelope Garcia: How are you? Spencer Reid: Not sure.

Setting his phone on the table, screen down, he watched you again, every once in a while, your nose would twitch, or your eyes would flutter. Every time he would hold his breath, hoping you’d open your eyes.

He waited, and about an hour after he had arrived, a small, keening noise came from you. His head snapped up at the sound, your eyes were still closed, but you were moving. “Y/N?” He whispered hesitantly, not wanting to wake you up if you weren’t ready. Slowly, he stood up from the chair, not sure if he should keep waiting or if he should hit the call button.

You were muttering something, talking to someone in your sleep, when suddenly you jerked away. Instinctively, Spencer put his hands on your shoulders to stop you from tearing your stitches, and it was that touch that caused your eyes to snap open. “No, no, no, no,” you babbled, frantically looking around the hospital room.

“Y/N,” Spencer said, keeping his hands on your shoulders, “You’re safe, I’m here. You’re at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.”

With wide eyes, you looked up at him and mouthed the word ‘Baltimore.’ As if you were trying to figure out how you had ended up in Baltimore, something the BAU still hadn’t figured out. “I thought I…” Your voice was nothing more than a rasp, but with the bruises he could now see littering your neck, that didn’t surprise him much. “Did you see it?”

Spencer pushed the call button without you noticing, “Did I see what, love?” He asked, keeping his voice low as he gently sat down on the edge of your hospital bed.

You furrowed your eyebrows and looked around the room, “Is Andi here?" Your voice was tight, like you were struggling to breathe. "I need to talk to Andi.”

Helplessly, Spencer watched as the number signifying your heart rate jumped, “Not just yet, alright?” He said, looking up when the doctor and a nurse came through the door.

The doctor introduced herself and started trying to get you to even out your breathing, one of the monitors was beeping like crazy until the nurse hit a button on it.

All he could do was watch, making sure he didn’t get in the way. Listening in to words about medications and making a mental note to research everything. “How’s your pain, Y/N? On a scale from one through ten.” The doctor asked, standing at the foot of the bed.

“Like a seven? When I breathe it’s more like a nine,” you answered, every word was strained. The doctor flashed a light in your eyes, “That isn’t helping,” you said through gritted teeth.

The doctor said something to the nurse, prompting her to nod before pushing something through your IV. After a few moments, Spencer watched as your heart rate lowered and your body visibly relaxed into the mattress. You nodded softly when the nurse asked if that was better.

Dr. Herman left and the nurse scrawled some notes down on your chart, introducing herself as Amelia before she left as well.

“Oh no,” you whispered, looking in the direction of the door. “Is the whole BAU here? How badly did I fuck up?”

Quickly, Spencer shook his head, “You didn’t, at all. It’s just me, Tara, and Luke,” he tried to reassure you as best he could without knowing the full story. “Do you feel up to talking?” He asked, smoothing your hair away from your face.

You nodded gently, “I need to talk to Andi. Alone, if it’s okay with you.”

“I can wait right outside in the hallway,” he offered, holding your hand in his and skimming the pad of his thumb over top of your knuckles.

You hummed contentedly, “Could you see if I can have water?”

Grateful to have something to do, Spencer stood up, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, “I’ll be right back.” He stepped out of the room, garnering the attention of the agents who were waiting in the hallway, all of them staring at Spencer expectantly, “Andi, she wants to talk to you.”

The Unit Chief nodded and disappeared into the room, leaving the door open just a crack.

He was gone for three minutes, that was the time it took him to walk to the nurses’ station and ask if you were allowed liquids and back, but when he returned the door to your room was wide open. “Where did they go?” He asked, looking over at Tara.

She was still leaning against the taupe hospital walls before nodding in the direction of the red exit sign, “Swann was in there for maybe two minutes before she came out in a huff, she took Alvez with her.” Lewis spoke calmly like it didn’t necessarily mean anything to her.

But it did to him. Walking back into your room, he stood at the side of your bed, “What did you tell Andi that you didn’t want me hearing?”

“Huh?” You sounded tired – rightfully so. Your pupils were dilated, which told Spencer that the drugs that the doctors had given you were working.

It comforted him that you weren’t in as much pain, but you were still hiding something from him. “You asked me to leave while you talked to Andi because you didn’t want me to hear what you were telling her. What did you tell her?”

Your face softened as your eyes filled with a different kind of hurt, “Don’t profile me.” You were too tired to hide the pain in your voice.

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, “Don’t lie to me,” He countered. You were lying by omission, but what was worse was that you might’ve been putting yourself in danger.

“Please don’t leave me,” you whimpered.

Spencer’s chest tightened as he watched your eyes fill with tears, he sat down on the edge of your bed and took your hand in his. “I’m not going anywhere. Why would you think I’d leave you, darling?”

Your eyes were half-closed, “because you…” your voice trailed off and he squeezed your hand to get your attention. “When Scratch had Emily, you wanted to kill him,” you murmured.

The air had been knocked out of his lungs. You hadn’t been talking about a divorce. You were saying that you could identify your assailant, and you didn’t want Spencer to know. “I won’t go,” he whispered, “I’ll be right here.”

“It was Jake,” you mumbled, barely able to open your mouth as you fought your exhaustion.

That hadn’t been the answer he was expecting. He swallowed thickly, “Jake did this to you?” He asked slowly, looking at your hand, your fingers intertwined.

Minutely, you shook your head, “Jake blew my cover, Spence.” Yawning, you proceeded to mumble about him doing it on purpose.

Untangling your fingers, Spencer reached out and smoothed your hair away from your forehead, “Get some sleep, angel. I love you.”

You hummed an ‘I love you’ back, and the next moment your eyes were shut.

A nurse came in and asked for a moment while she checked the output of your chest tube, ushering Spencer and Tara out. “Okay, I’ll bite, who’s Jake?” Tara asked, putting a hand on her hip as she looked expectantly at Reid.

“Jake is her partner. When she’s not undercover and just out in the field, they’re partners,” Spencer explained.

Tara pursed her lips thoughtfully, “So, he would’ve known that she was undercover.”

Nodding as the newly added weight of the situation threatened to pull him down, Spencer turned and faced you, watching as the nurse examined you as you slept. “He blew her cover on purpose,” he reached up and rubbed his eye. Jake knew exactly what he was doing when he blew your cover, and you knew exactly what you were doing when you begged Spencer not to leave you.

“We have to go back in and ask her more questions,” Tara said.

Usually, Spencer agreed with Tara, but not this time. He saw the monitors you were hooked up to, he read your chart, and he watched the concerned looks on the nurses’ faces. They all told him that you weren’t stable enough to be speaking, let alone a cognitive interview. “No,” Spencer said finally.

Clearing her throat lightly, Tara stood next to him in the doorway, “We can’t let them get away, Reid.”

“And I can’t lose her,” he rebutted, ignoring the way his voice broke in his desperation. 

Stepping back slightly, the other agent nodded in understanding. “Okay, I’ll call Emily. You go sit with her.”

She didn’t have to tell him twice; he pulled a chair up impossibly close to your bedside and draped his jacket over the back of it before loosening his tie and sitting down.

You

When you woke up, it was still dark outside, but the bright lights of the hospital room made it hard for you to get any real rest. You were pleased to find that, true to his word, Spencer was right next to you when he woke up.

He was sleeping, resting his head on his hand with his wrist bent awkwardly. “Spence,” You whispered, clearing your throat, “Spencer.” You couldn’t reach out to touch him, but you wanted to wake him up, so his wrist wasn’t sore.

Jolting awake, he looked at you, “Hey, did you just wake up? How do you feel?”

It was a weird question, you felt like an absolute dumpster fire. “Better,” you whispered, “less hurt, achier. Sore. I don’t know, my head feels fuzzy,” you rambled, trying to move higher up on the hospital bed, but being limited by the chest tube. “How long do I have to have it?” You asked, staring at the plastic tubing as if you could make it go away via the power of suggestion.

“At least through the night, but it could be longer,” he said, reaching over and smoothing over the edges of your blanket. “Do you know what they gave you?” Spencer asked, shaking out his wrist.

You hummed in response, “No, it was intravenous though. They were big on amphetamines, but it didn’t feel like a stimulant. Benzos maybe,” you told him, your voice was soft. The pain in your throat had subsided after being intubated during surgery, but you were still swollen from when Cal grabbed you.

None of this made sense to you. The one thing that bothered you more than anything else was why Cal stopped when Jake said to. It couldn’t have been as simple as the money.

Spencer must’ve noticed you burrowing into your memories, “You remember everything?” He asked gently.

He knew what he was implying, in more cases involving severe trauma, victims generally remember everything or remember nothing. It was lucky for law enforcement when they remembered, but bad for the victims. Bad for you. “Mostly,” you breathed, avoiding his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” you said softly.

“Why? You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” he tried to reassure you, reaching out and taking your hand in his.

You hummed, “I don’t remember anything after they drugged me, just the stuff before. Just the…” Your voice trailed off as you returned to your confusion. “Who’s still here that I can talk to?”

He squeezed your hand comfortingly, “Do you feel up to it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much of a choice,” you answered him despondently.

Spencer nodded before he got up from his chair, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before he stepped out into the hallway and let Tara in.

The agent smiled at you gently, “Hey, Y/N, how are you feeling?” She asked, sitting down at a free chair at the end of your hospital bed, leaving the chair at your side available for Spencer to return to.

You gave your best attempt at returning the smile before you answered, “I think I’m going to make it.”

As Spencer sat back down next to you, placing a water cup on your bedside table, Tara opened a file and looked through it, “Can you start by telling me a little bit about your assignment? You were undercover as… Barbara?” She read from the file.

Nodding slowly, you held out your hand for Spencer to hold, “Yeah, but they called me Babs.”

Three days ago...

You shifted self-consciously in the gold dress. It was a silky, slippery number that displayed more than you particularly liked. Spencer would probably like it, but he’d hate how uncomfortable you were in it.

Inadvertently, you smiled at just the thought of your husband. It was late, so he was probably at home, reading next to the fireplace. Maybe he was on a case, off somewhere in the United States and saving lives.

It had been twenty-nine days since you had last seen him.

“You look gorgeous tonight, Babs,” Johnathan McCallister, better known as Cal, told you, reaching out and placing a hand on either one of your shoulders before placing a kiss on both cheeks.

Bashfully, you smiled at him, “You’re too good to me, Cal. I can’t believe you got me in!” Deep down, you knew tonight could be the night, you would be able to take down The Program. At least the D.C. chapter of it.

When it was over, you could be Y/N Reid again, instead of Barbara McFarston.

The Program took women around your age and sold them into sex slavery. The chapter in Washington D.C. was one of the most active, which made sense when you looked around the room and saw a majority of the people were elected officials – men and women alike.

Andi Swann had assured you that taking down this chapter would create a domino effect, causing the other chapters to topple. According to her, if you could take down D.C., Miami, and Los Angeles, The Program would most likely cease to exist.

Turning to ask Cal about the selection tonight, you were startled to see familiar gray eyes on your companion’s other side. You felt your façade slip, but only for a second before you pasted a brilliant smile back on your face.

You tilted your head to the side, “And who might you be?” You asked Jake, wondering if Andi had sent him in to get a status report on you.

“Jake Cohn,” he answered, and goosebumps spread over your exposed skin at his answer. He should’ve said William Jacoby, that was his identity for this case.

In horror, you watched as Jake leaned in to whisper something in Cal’s ear, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. You bit your tongue as Cal wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you in tightly, “Let’s talk.”

You stumbled a little over your own feet and looked at Jake with wide eyes, the leader forcefully shoved you into a private room, one that would probably light up like a Christmas tree under a blacklight. “What’s wrong, Cal?” You asked, standing up straight.

He reached over and grabbed the back of your neck, gathering the hair at the nape of your neck in his fist. The force of it made you scrunch your shoulders up, “You’re a fucking fed?” He seethed, tossing you to the ground in one swift movement.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you tried to convince him. Tried to flip the script so that Jake was the liar instead of you.

Cal grabbed your throat next, holding you down on a booth seat. “Oh, Y/N… Jake’s been one of my best employees for years.” He said, chuckling at the betrayal in your eyes, he only laughed more when you kneed him in the gut. “Oh, I like it when they fight back.”

You shut your eyes tightly as you heard the clinking of his belt buckle, but they snapped back open when you heard the word, “Stop.”

“What? Did you want first go on her?” Cal asked, wiping his cheek – you must’ve scratched him in your struggle.

Jake cleared his throat and met your eyes, “We should keep her clean, you know?” He said, and for a moment you thought he was actually trying to help you, “Think about how much a clean fed would go for here. Especially in D.C.”

And just like that, your hopes were dashed, “he’s right,” you told Cal, trying to formulate a plan.

“Shut up, whore,” Cal spat, causing you to involuntarily flinch.

At least there’s nothing he could call you that you hadn’t heard before, in your line of work, people got very creative.

Cal looked at you, inspecting your neck where he had grabbed you before, “You’ll make me a lot of money, won’t you?” He said, rubbing a hand up and down your arm soothingly before poking you with a needle.

Your legs gave out beneath you, but Jake caught you before you hit the ground. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I didn’t think he’d do this. I thought he’d kick you out, but I didn’t think…”

Looking up at him, your throat burned, and you weren’t sure if you were going to cry or throw up, but you shut your eyes. “No, you didn’t.” You don’t just casually tell the leader of a sex trafficking ring that the person with them is an FBI agent.

Present

“And that’s the last thing you remember?” Tara asked, scribbling something down in your file.

You nodded absentmindedly, “I think…” Your voice trailed off as you looked at Spencer, “I think Jake might’ve been in charge the whole time. Pulling the strings from behind the curtain while he waited for the perfect time to catch me off guard. That’s the only reason Cal would’ve backed off when Jake told him to,” You proposed your theory, not missing the way Spencer was holding your hand a little tighter than before.

Tara’s brows were raised, “Jake Cohn has worked in the bureau for almost a decade, it would be hard for him to evade detection for that long.”

“But he knows exactly how to evade it,” you rebutted. “He’d know all of the tricks from Sex Crimes and all of my tricks. He- He set me up,” you realized.

Spencer turned around and looked at your monitor, “Okay, let’s take a break. We can talk more later.”

Getting up, Tara let Spencer know she was going to call the rest of the team before she stepped back into the hallway.

“My chest hurts,” you said, hating how your voice sounded like a whine.

In response, Spencer smoothed your hair back in an attempt to comfort you. “Your heart is racing,” he whispered, “Take a deep breath, okay?”

You nodded slowly, breathing in deeply through your nostrils and letting the air collect in your lungs before blowing it out your mouth. Looking up at Spencer, worry plain in his eyes no matter how hard he tried to hide it, you came to a decision, “Spence?”

He bowed slightly closer to you so he could hear you better, “What is it, love?” He moved his hand, so it was gently cupping your cheek.

Leaning into his touch, you whispered, “It’s too much.” The only thing you had left was to hope he knew what you were talking about, the words were too hard right now, but you felt them contributing to the burning in your chest.

“Okay,” he answered. “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about disappointing anyone.”

You practically melted back into the hospital bed; the weight of your job eased off of you. Nodding, you closed your eyes, “It’s good, this is good. I just feel crazy, but a good crazy.”

Spencer smiled at you, “Okay crazy,” he whispered, “I’m going to-“ He was abruptly cut off by his phone ringing, furrowing his brows, he swiped the screen and held the phone up to his ear, “Hey, JJ.”

Cocking your head to the side, you tried to listen to JJ’s side of the conversation, but either she was speaking quietly, or Spencer had his phone volume really low. From the way Spencer’s jaw tightened, you knew that this couldn’t be anything good.

He looked at you before looking at the door, “Do you know where?” He said in a tone entirely unfamiliar to you, it was low and steely. Reaching over you, he nimbly pressed the call button on your bed, “Okay, keep me updated.”

“Spencer, what is going on?” You asked as the nurse came into your room, faltering for a moment as she looked at the two of you.

Placing a hand on the bar of your hospital bed, Spencer looked at the nurse, “Do you have somewhere secure she can be moved to?”

The nurse looked shellshocked, surely the FBI occupying the hospital wasn’t an everyday occurrence, “I don’t… I don’t think so?” She seemed unsure of herself.

“Spencer,” you repeated his name.

He turned to look at you, “Jake’s here and he’s looking for you.” Turning back to the nurse, he pointed at you, “She has to be moved.”

“I don’t… I’m just a student, my preceptor is taking a break. I could try to find-“ The nurse stammered nervously. “We don’t usually just move people.”

Nothing about this situation was usual, but one look at Spencer told you this was life or death. Your life or your death. You sighed in defeat, “This is really going to suck.” Reaching over to your side, you gripped the tube that had been draining blood from outside your lung and pulled it out. Like ripping off a band-aid.

In the process, you tore the stitches holding it in place and set off all kinds of alarms, leading to a crowd of nurses and doctors charging into the room.

As someone held pressure down on where you were bleeding, someone said something about moving you to a sterile procedure room, and the nursing student trailed along, whispering “That was the stupidest smart thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.”

Everything was blurry when you woke up next and, through the blinds, you could see that the sun was finally rising. The warm, orange light peeking through like lines on a piece of paper.

“Hey,” Spencer said from right next to you, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he whispered.

You looked away from him, back towards the blinds, “Will you open them?” You rasped, your throat felt raw, and your body felt heavy.

He got up and ambled over to the window, twisting the mechanism until the sun poured into your room. “How are you feeling?”

“Heavy,” you whispered, the mental weight of the past several days was threatening to take you down, but physically you felt like Atlas himself, carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.

Spencer hummed in response, “They sedated you, standard procedure for people who rip their own chest tubes out.” He adjusted the way your gown rested on your shoulders, “Luckily you didn’t do too much damage.”

You took a deep breath and leaned your head so you could look out the window. The outside felt so foreign to you now, you couldn’t remember the last time you had breathed real, fresh air. “So, what is the damage?” Your voice was little more than a murmur but with just the two of you in your room, it wasn’t hard to hear.

“You’re going to be fine; they think the tube can go later today. Then they’ll evaluate whether enough you’re strong enough to go home, it’ll probably be another couple of days,” He explained to you, matching your gentle tone. “Johnathan McCallister is in custody, and Jake Cohn is dead,” he told you, studying your face for any kind of reaction.

Closing your eyes, you felt white hot tears stream down your cheeks. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, laughing a little despite yourself. He probably thought you were losing it, crying over the death of someone who had nearly had you murdered.

The edge of your mattress dipped down slightly, and you opened your eyes to see Spencer sitting next to you, “You don’t need to be sorry, my love.” Gently, he rested a hand on your hip, skimming his thumb over the rough fabric of your hospital gown, “He was like family to you. I’m not sorry he’s dead – I’m not. I am sorry for that loss, though.”

Nodding, you felt it as your face crumpled, leading Spencer to lean down and hug you as best he could. “I’m sorry I scared you,” you said as he pulled away.

Your furrowed your brows in confusion as he reached into his pocket and produced your wedding ring, taking your left hand, he slid the rings on, “For better or for worse, right?”

A small smile grew on your face as the gem on your finger shimmered in the morning light, “for richer or for poorer,” you continued.

“In sickness and in health,” Spencer whispered, eyes flickering around the hospital room.

You reached up a shaky hand and cupped his cheek with your palm, “to love and to cherish.” You said, feeling a dopey, lovesick grin blooming on your face.

He turned his head and kissed the center of your palm, “until parted by death,” he finished, taking your hand in his.

“No dying,” you insisted, feeling your energy begin to drain, you started to understand why the doctors didn’t want you going home for a few days.

Spencer hummed in response, “You almost did. If you hadn’t been found when you were-“ his voice broke off and you had to tear your eyes away from his for a moment. “I still can’t believe you chose that,” he whispered, looking at you like you hung the moon.

Shrugging as if it was nothing, you melted back into the pillows, “I had a split second to weigh my options – get sold into sex slavery or get stabbed in the chest.”

“A catch-22,” he nodded, wrapping his head around your impossible decision. You couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take until the fear in his eyes left.

You shifted a little in the hospital bed, the sheets rustling as you did, “We get it, you’ve read Joseph Heller.”

He smiled at that, the light teasing seemed to bring brightness to his face, “What is it about blood loss that makes you think you’re funny?”

Laughing lightly, you squeezed his hand as tightly as you could manage, “I am funny. And I’m tired.”

“Go back to sleep then, baby,” he said softly, “it’ll all be here when you wake up.”

There was a party in your hospital room. It started with just Emily, coming in because you were finally up to seeing anyone other than Spencer, and it ended up being the entire BAU.

Someone had gone to the apartment and gathered clothes for you so that, once your chest tube was removed, you could put on real clothes. So now you were sitting up, wearing sweatpants and a ratty old college sweatshirt, and laughing with the BAU. You were leaning heavily on Spencer, who was also sitting on your hospital bed, but he didn’t seem to have a problem with keeping you steady.

Luckily for you, no one in the BAU wanted to ask about what had happened on your assignment, they were more interested in the rings that adorned your and Spencer’s fingers.

“I still can’t believe you two secretly got married,” Penelope said. “Of all of the times for me to not answer my phone.”

Next to her, Luke shrugged, “Honestly, I can believe it. It feels like a very Y/N and Reid thing to do.”

Gently, Spencer rubbed your back. His hovering was quickly going to become insufferable, but right now you were welcoming every touch with open arms.

“Well, we’ll have a party for the two of you. When you’re up for it, of course,” JJ said, smiling from where she was standing next to Emily.

You wanted to shake your head and tell them that it really wasn’t necessary, but asking the BAU to refrain from throwing a party was like asking a shark to stop swimming. Instead of debating, you just smiled and bobbed your head.

Eventually, Andi showed up, just as you knew she would. “Hey, guys,” Emily nodded in the direction of the doorway, “Why don’t we go raid the hospital cafeteria?”

After a few more hugs, including a lingering one from Garcia, the BAU, save for your husband, filtered out, and Andi made her way to the foot of your bed. “Hey,” you said, your voice was soft.

Nine years. You had spent nine years in the sex crimes unit. Spencer had done the math, you’d spent approximately seventy-six percent of that time undercover, missing birthdays, holidays, not ever really looking forward to the future. Until now.

You, the most decorated member of the sex crimes unit, were leaving.

Suspiciously, you eyed the files in Andi’s arms, one was a case file, the other a plain manila folder. She silently handed you the case file, and you shared a look with Spencer before flipping it open. “The Program is gone?” You asked, your eyes skimming the folder.

Swann nodded, her brown hair swaying with the movement, “The arrest of the leader of the D.C. chapter greatly contributed to that, but it was the death of the ringleader that took the remainder of The Program down.”

Closing your eyes, you nodded as you tried to process what she was telling you. Jake had been in charge all along. “Andi, I-“

“It was your intel that did it,” she cut you off. “From your last several assignments, everything you collected directly contributed to the downfall of this trafficking network. One of the largest networks the FBI has ever seen.”

She handed you the next file, labeled with only your name. You flipped it open, well aware that Spencer was reading from over your shoulder. “I don’t qualify for retirement,” you told her, furrowing your eyebrows, and looking at the papers in front of you. You didn’t qualify for retirement, and yet, you were looking at a retirement offer.

Your unit chief nodded understandingly, “I pulled some strings, with some help. Collectively, Prentiss and I know a lot of people.”

Spencer placed a supportive hand on your back, and you looked up at Andi. “I’m only thirty-two?” You asked, it wasn’t a clarification, it was a question.

“And yet,” she answered, “you’ve done more for the Bureau than most agents could hope to do in their whole career. This plan came from the director, Y/N. He wanted you to have it.”

Shaking your head, you handed the folder over to your husband so he could look through it. “I don’t… can I think about it?”

“He’ll want an answer soon but talk it over and give me a call when you’ve come to a decision,” she said, grabbing her things and making her way to the door. “And Y/N?”

You lifted your head up to meet her eyes, “Yeah, Andi?”

She smiled at you, a rare, real smile from her, “Make the right decision for you. You have a small army ready to support you through everything.”

Slowly, your gaze followed her out the door, waiting until you heard the latch of the door secure. Spencer handed the folder back to you, “What do you want to do?”

You flipped through the folder again, it was a lot of money, and there were a few different distribution options, but it was more than you felt you’d ever need. “I don’t really feel like I deserve this,” you whispered, reaching your hand up and rubbing the back of your neck. “The Bureau doesn’t offer early retirement like this, not without extenuating circumstances,” you continued.

“They did it with Hotch,” Spencer said, reading the file over your shoulder.

Shaking your head, you leaned over to look at him, “That was way different, Haley was murdered by a serial killer.”

Spencer sighed, “I think you’re selling yourself short, darling. The Program was trafficking almost 12,000 people across the country. That’s almost 70 percent of the yearly total trafficking victims. You took them down,” he told you earnestly.

Your shoulders slouched forward, “I didn’t do it alone, though.”

“Didn’t you, though? They sent you in with no communication device, no emergency signal, and information that wasn’t even true. Your unit told you Johnathan McCallister was the leader of the ring, but it ended up being a decorated agent and you’re the one who figured that out,” Spencer spoke emphatically. “You almost died in the process, and now there are thousands of victims who are going to go home – all thanks to you.”

Wiping at your eyes, you looked at your husband, “You’re biased.” That felt true, but Spencer was the person who knew you best in the world.

“What’s holding you back?” He murmured gently, sweeping strands of your hair behind your ears.

Smiling unsurely, you closed your eyes, “Fear of the future. In the past nine years, the longest I’ve ever been home was four weeks. I don’t… What do you want me to do?”

He shook his head slowly, “it’s not my decision.” A diplomatic answer, you should’ve guessed.

“But what do you want me to do?” You pressed.

Sighing, you watched him weigh his options, “If my choices are you going back out into the field and getting hurt again, where maybe it doesn’t have this good of an outcome, or you, safe at home, where I get to see you more than approximately three months a year, then the choice is clear.”

When he laid it out for you like that, it was pretty clear. “Maybe I could finally see what all the BAU spouses are talking about. You know, how you’re never home,” you said. Some part of you always felt disconnected from the other BAU family members, Spencer wasn’t the one who was never home, you were.

Spencer laughed lightly, “We could celebrate your birthday together.” That was the one day you always missed. Almost six years together, and something always came up on your birthday.

“I’ve never had this before,” you whispered, there was still something about it that felt tentative, almost frail.

Smilingly softly, Spencer reached out and took your hand in his, “Had what before?”

You beamed, “A future to plan.” Everything was always laid out for you, every day was spent waiting for the next directive, a new assignment. “I mean, not in nine years.”

There were always dreams, late-night murmurs with Spencer about a house with a yard and kids running around, but they were just dreams. The nights when you were able to sleep next to each other. “Do you have plans for us?”

Nodding rapidly, you answered, “Oh yeah, you and me, I’ve got big plans for us.”

next

please remember to like, reblog, and comment if you enjoyed :-)

[neonlazycat]

* throws another au at you *

this has been sitting on my wips folder for way too long so I decided to post it . Basically mermaid au fused with pirate au

I had the designs for mermaid au and somewhat a plot for the pirate one so I merged them together

[violetsiren90]

The Lighthouse Keeper

~a What the Moon Saw drabble~

Pairing: Yoongi x f!Reader (What the Moon Saw universe)

Genre: drabble; non-idol AU; friends to lovers; childhood friends, angst

Summary: Life moves on. The moon blooms and wilts. The tide sinks away from the sands and returns with new waters. Yoongi stays.

Content warnings: PG rating, but ALL my content is off-limits to minors; drinking and drunkenness (set in a cantina); cigarette smoking; Yoongi gets hit on; longing and pining; sad Yoongi 😔; some ogling of a female character by Hoseok; reference to the death of a minor character; allusions to domestic violence; allusions to semi-homelessness; allusions to casual sexual encounters; this is just pure angst, honestly.

Word Count: ~1600

Author's Note: This has been sitting in my WIP folder, and in the wee hours of the morning last week I sat in a hospital cafeteria with the shittiest cup of coffee I've ever tasted (that I was nonetheless grateful for) and finished it up. Poor, sweet Yoongi . These two are my comfort couple and coming back to them has a way of reminding me that "nobody knows how the story ends - live the day, do what you can."*

As always, if no one has told you today, please know that you're loved, and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

*"Nobody Knows", the Lumineers

"Alright, old buddy, what's got you down?" 

     A slim, dark-haired young man slid into the booth across from Yoongi. The older man's eyes softened slightly, and his mouth quirked up into a small smile as he regarded his companion over a swig of Pacifico.

     "Who says I'm down?" he asked in a mildly affronted tone, drawing a hand over his beer-slicked lips.

     The other man's mouth broke into a toothy smile, his lips pulling into a heart-shaped grin as he let out a boisterous peal of laughter.

     "You never call these days unless you are," he rejoined, grabbing a foggy acrylic standee from the center of the table and squinting at its small list of beverages. "Geez, they really don't have much of a selection here, do they?" 

     Yoongi snorted.

     "Since when are you an alcohol connoisseur? You don't even drink, Hoba."

     "I do too!"

     A waitress sidled up to their table and slid a food menu in front of Hoseok, who trailed wide eyes up her tattooed arm to her bright blue pixie cut with a thick swallow.

     "Our mango ahi tacos are on special tonight," she hummed with a wink.

     The young man's ears flushed a bright shade of crimson as he stammered something about passing on the food but wondering if they had any ciders. She pocketed her tongue in her cheek as she flicked her eyes to Yoongi.

     "You hungry?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow and tilting a hip clad in low-slung cargo pants and a studded belt in his direction. Yoongi looked up at her and shook his head, taking another sip of beer.

     "Hm, damn shame," she hummed, flicking her eyes over him a last time before sauntering back to the bar.

     Hoseok tracked her every move with a slack jaw, craning his neck to watch her slip through the kitchen door before turning his face - features, still frozen in lascivious astonishment - back to his friend.

     "Holy shit, hyung," he murmured, covering his mouth with both hands, "You could see her nipple piercings right through her shirt!"

     Yoongi grunted in assent, trailing a cloudy gaze over the table's waxy surface as he picked at the bottle's damp label.

     "You gonna get her number?"

     "What?" Yoongi shifted in his seat, eyes refocusing on his friend.

     Hoseok sighed.

     "Nope, you're not. How long's it been, hyung?"

     Yoongi glanced down at his beer again, then raised it to his lips and drained the bottle.

     Jung Hoseok had met Yoongi the summer between freshman and sophomore year of high school. He had attached himself instantly to the older boy, an unusual experience for Yoongi, who was used to people as sunny as Hoseok steering clear of his little storm cloud. He was one of the few friends from those days that Yoongi still called up, on occasion. One of the few who knew the context of his life - the sandy paths on which he'd come of age...what he'd found there, and what he'd lost.

    "Don't, Hoba," Yoongi murmured lowly, his voice suddenly thick in his throat. 

    Hoseok hummed, lips pulled into a thin line. The waitress returned with a hard cider, a Pacifico, and a plate of nachos they hadn't ordered. While Hoseok changed shades like a chameleon on a tomato and attempted to stammer his thanks, Yoongi cast his eyes out the window.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, the gulls pushing their yellow legs from weathered wooden perches to soar beyond the edge of the pier and into the little golden space between the fading light and sparkling waters. The sandy beach stretched around the edge of a rising rockface, dappled with lush green ice plant and yellow sea asters, a few miles to the north. Around the other side of the stony promontory was a place Yoongi knew well. The shore there drew inward and curved into another swell of land as the cliff rose; near its highest stretch an old wooden stairway weaving down its face.

     Tucked away to the side of those stairs was a ledge - a few meters wide and about as deep - that jutted out as the cliff sloped down to its base. It was smooth and fairly even, nearly level with the closest steps; a perfect little hideaway barely visible from above or below. Perfect for two children to sit, huddled against the rock, as they whispered their dreams and fears; for a boy and a girl to hold each other through nights that couldn't be spent at homes far less warm and gentle than each other's arms; for a young man and woman to give themselves to one another at last and too late.

    It was where Yoongi had sat utterly broken, on the last morning of a summer ten years past, his head tilted back against the stone as he wept up to the sky, praying to any god that would listen that you would run fast and run far - that you would finally spread full your beautiful wings...that you would forget him.

    But Yoongi never forgot you. Not one word that you spoke, not one touch of your gentle fingers or your soft lips.

     He had left the ledge that day, but he had carried you with him - down the beach and back into the horrid little shack where three nights later Yoongi's father hit him for the very last time. Yoongi had carried you with him to the doorstep, as he threw the man out into the dirt. Then he had carried you with him to every couch and car and dingy apartment that served as a night's shelter until he had saved up enough for a little place of his own; had carried you around with the tools and lumber as he spent long, hot days building the tiny workshop beside it. And he had carried you, on a some miserable nights, into the beds of strangers - who, through no fault of their own, could never ever compare.

    "My dad died," Yoongi said drawing his eyes away from the window. He said it with a quiet simplicity that he seemed to embody more and more with age.

    Hoseok looked up from the plate of nachos, mouth full. He looked as if he were sorry, but didn't want to say that. Instead he got up and slid onto Yoongi's bench of the booth, gently shoving the older man over to stay flush with his side. Yoongi wouldn't usually tolerate that sort of closeness, but with Hoseok it was different. Hoseok knew.

    "How's your mom?" he asked softly.

    Yoongi nodded.

    "She's okay. She's taking it better than me, actually. Already talking about leaving."

    "Are you going to?"

"What?"

    "Leave?"

    Hoseok's voice sounded hopeful. Yoongi's right hand slipped instinctively into his jacket pocket, slender fingers curling around a little whittling knife with a pink heart painted on its handle. 

    "I don't think so, Hoba."

    The younger man sighed through his nose. He was quiet for a long moment before turning to his friend.

    "I got an offer from a high school down south. VP. I start there in the fall."

    Yoongi raised his gaze, his small smile affectionate and his eyes soft. He wouldn't let the sadness reach them - he'd learned how to push it away.

    "They'll be lucky to have you," he murmured sincerely.

    Yoongi was used to people moving on. Everyone did...everyone but him. While the world turned, Yoongi stayed.

    "Someday, you need to leave, hyung,” Hoseok urged him quietly. ���She's out there somewhere living her life. She'd want you to live yours too."

    At the mention of you, Yoongi felt his heart squeeze and ten years of carrying your memory well up and into his throat.

    Hoseok clapped a hand onto Yoongi's back, and raised the cider to his lips.

Hoseok knew, but he didn’t understand. No one ever really seemed to.

    As the cantina closed its door for the night, Yoongi ushered a stumbling Hoseok into the back of a cab. 

    "You're nah coming?" the younger man slurred as Yoongi stood and moved to shut the door. 

    He shook his head.

    "Gonna walk. Goodnight, Hoba," Yoongi gave his friend a little endeared crook of his mouth before closing the cab door and tapping the back of the car as it rolled away from the pier.

    Pulling a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, he watched the cab's red taillights fade into the evening blue. Yoongi lit a cigarette and turned to walk the path that wove along the edge of the cliffs. While he walked he wondered about you. He wondered if you were safe, if you smiled and laughed. He wondered if there was someone who made your eyes sparkle and your smile shy, someone with whom you could share your joys and sorrows. Yoongi wondered if you had found a home.

      The moon had risen to meet the stars when he reached the little stairway. He gingerly descended its rungs - neglected of repair and worn with their years - until he reached it, the little ledge in the moonlight. He stepped onto its smooth surface, the lower half of the rickety railing long fallen away, and sinking down he closed his eyes.

    The full bright moon washed over him, and for a moment, Yoongi felt it understood. It had seen, after all.

It had seen the boy and the girl and what they had become for each other. It had seen you give Yoongi a home, and it had watched him, in return, teach you to fly - to fly far away.

But Yoongi carried you with him. After all, you were his home, where else would he go? As the wind whipped up off the sea and swept around him, whispering of another summer's end, the moon watched Yoongi stay another season. And if it could have seen his heart, it would have watched him go to its little window, and, as the darkness fell, light a lamp to shine out across the sea.

The moon heard Yoongi pray that you'd never return.

…It saw him stay on the chance that you might.

-Fin-

[noforkingclue]

Desperation

Summary: The end times are near and Crowley has come to you with a proposition.

Author's Note: decided to publish this as it was sitting in my WiP folder for too long and since I've also started re-watching Good Omens I thought now was as good as time to publish it!

You always knew when Crowley and/or Aziraphale were in your flat. Call it an instinct that developed from knowing them for over thousands of years. Which was why it was so surprising to see Crowley standing in the middle of your flat without any prior warning.

You paused when you saw the demon standing there and you carefully shut the door behind you. He twitched at the sound but didn’t turn around. You slowly made your way towards him, nervous about what was going to happen. You frowned briefly at the unfamiliar feeling coiling in the pit of your stomach, it had been years since he had made you feel like that.

“Crowl-“

“Everything’s fucked.”

You blinked at Crowley’s sudden outburst. While you’d heard him swear before it wasn’t that usual. You winced as you heard the sound of cracking wood and looked down, realising that he was gripping your table so hard that he was splintering the wood.

“Why don’t you sit down?” you suggested, worried about your friend as well as the future of your table. It was an antique after all.

“Have a cup of tea and tell me what’s happened.”

“What’s happened?” Crowley let out a bark of laughter, “What’s happened is the world’s ending and Hell knows that all of this,” he spun around and waved his hands about, “Is because of me! I misplaced the antichrist and now they’re coming.”

“Oh.”

“So I’m leaving.”

“That’s sensible.”

“And I want you to come with me.”

You froze, midway through making that cup of tea you promised. You looked at Crowley out of the corner of your eye. He walked over to you and put a hand over yours, forcing you to lower the kettle.

“It isn’t safe anymore,” he said, “Everything is going to get destroyed. Hell and Heaven are going to war and it isn’t going to be pretty. We can escape. Be safe.”

“What about Aziraphale?”

Crowley, who had rested his forehead against your shoulder, tensed behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you against him.

“He think he can stop this,” he muttered, “He isn’t coming.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly you were spun around and pushed roughly against the counter. You gasped in shock and Crowley tilted your chin so you were looking directly into his eyes. It was the first time you had properly seen him and you could see the desperation etched across his face. His sunglasses were gone and you were forced to look into his yellow eyes. He grabbed your chin and forced your head in place.

“Come with me,” he said quietly, “It’ll just be the two of us.”

“But what about-“

“Shh, don’t think about him.”

You opened your mouth to protest but Crowley seized the opportunity to press his lips against yours. You squeaked in surprise as Crowley wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you roughly against him. You put your hands against his chest but found them trapped between your bodies. Crowley broke the kiss but remained close. You felt his lips brush against yours and he said,

“Just think about me.”

“And the world.”

“We’ll be safe.”

“We’ll be on the run.”

“We’ll have each other.”

“And Azira-“

Crowley covered your mouth with a hand. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder.

“I thought I told you not to think about him.”

He removed his hand and brushed your cheek with the back of it. He smile softly and his gaze dropped back down to your lips.

“If Zira thinks that there’s hope then there must be.”

“So you’re choosing him?”

Crowley shook his head and gave you a bitter smile. He stepped away and you gave him a pained look. You took half a step towards him but he put his hands up to stop you.

“I understand,” he said, “one last hurrah.”

“Crowley-“

“It was fun while it lasted.”

“We can still beat this.”

“No we can’t.”

And with that you were once again left alone with only your hope to keep you company.

[spiderlandry]

congrats!!!! i was wondering if you could do a childhood friends to lovers drabble with ethan landry?

thank u anon!! i Love childhood friends to lovers (i already have one for ethan in my wips, so i ended up making this one a little different, but my wip sounds like something you’d be into so stick around for when i release that soon!)

used a jack gif because i am running out of cute ethan ones 😧 this turned out way longer than expected sorry omfg

100 follower event

warnings/tags: mostly just fluff w ethan 😮‍💨 ghostface not mentioned, one use of y/n, mentions of dieting (by ethan b/c he’s going to the gym), insecurities

off the table — ethan landry

“Ethan, look at the camera!”

He stares at his phone, watching through the ‘movies’ you used to film at his house when you were younger. Your voice sounds squeaky, matching his at the time. The video is blurry, but he can see his own goofy pose through the pixels as you turn the camera to him, and then here comes his favourite part, when you turn the camcorder and set it on the coffee table and he can see you and him sitting on the floor of his family living room.

“Introduce yourself, come on!”

“Ethan?” A knock on his bedroom door forces him to shut off his device and hug it to his chest, leaning back against his headboard.

“Yeah?” He responds to the all-too familiar voice, you, on the other side of the wood, opening the door.

“Um—“ You squint your eyes at him, as if you’d heard the sounds coming from his phone. Shit, did you hear? “You have any plans tonight?” You don’t mention the way he’s visibly relieved when you ask.

“No, why?” He’s back at ease with you again, pushing back the thoughts of a future with you to the back of his mind.

“Dinner?”

“I want wings,” He confesses.

You chuckle at his admission, knowing he’d been dieting because he began regularly going to the gym with Chad. (Which, honestly, was a treat to your eyes—but he’d never know.)

“I’ll get wings.” You pull out your phone to order, then adding, “I won’t tell Chad.” Before you leave and close the door.

He runs his hands down his face. Why did he think becoming roommates with you was a good idea? Oh, right, because you promised each other when you were kids.

It’s not the fact that you’re roommates. It’s that you’re just roommates, at least at this moment. But you’re also each other’s best friend since childhood—a connection that neither of you plan to change.

He watches through the video folder he has, titled, ‘y/n and ethan’ consisting of the videos you two filmed with a shitty camcorder at his dad’s house.

It was a time capsule of sorts—the videos progressed and the two of you grew up—but as time passed, the entries became less frequent. The last time was before you both separated for the first two years of college, when you went to study abroad. But you came back, reminded him of the promises you both made; telling him ‘the offer is still on the table.’ and he ended up moving in with you as per the plans you made as children.

This year of living together has been like if nothing ever changed, like you never went anywhere else, never spent two years apart from him. Though, there are flashes of uncertainty. Cracks in your demeanor that leaves him wondering if he truly knows you still.

Each moment where you mention someone in your life he doesn't know, he feels a sting. And on top of that, he feels guilt. How can he stay in your life keeping this secret from you? It eats at him.

He's in love with you. There's no denying that. The problem lies in how long he can hold it in, out of fear of ruining what he has with you. But knowing you, you would probably reject him so nicely that he wouldn't notice. There is no chance you'd feel the same, he thinks.

You both eat wings on the couch, watching your favorite movie. Neither of you care about the close distance, shoulders touching and hands brushing against each other when the movie ends and you begin to cleanup.

In the kitchen disposing of trash, you lean against a counter while he gets busy tidying up the kitchen. He can feel your stare on him, burning.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" He laughs, but there's a waiver in his voice that is hard to miss.

"Were you watching the videos of us? You know. Earlier."

His heart pounds in his ears. "Yeah. Why?" He doesn't see a point in lying anymore.

You sigh, "I miss you too, you know."

His head snaps up to meet yours, a longing gaze in your eyes.

That's when he realizes that you've stepped closer, your warmth practically radiating off your figure. His mind blanks.

"I feel like I've been..." You pause to think, "I don't know. Distant?"

Between the two of you, you were always the more honest one. A trait he admires, a reason to look up to you. You never shy away from a conversation when it's needed.

Ethan's mind jumps to a worst case scenario. Multiple, actually. Why are you telling him this? You're about to break bad news to him, aren't you?

Reading the uncertainty in his eyes, you continue.

"Something's changed." You shrug, looking to him for an answer.

"No, why--why would you say that?"

"I'm sorry, E."

His brows furrow. Now he's even more confused.

"I feel like I don't know how to fucking act around you anymore."

Woah. Now where did that come from?

His shoulders slump at the mere though of you not wanting to be around him. Did he do something wrong? Are you uncomfortable?

You mumble something inaudible.

"What?" He whispers, almost breathless.

"IthinkI'minlovewithyou."

He's certain his heart stopped beating. He needs to get his ears checked, surely.

"Can--can you say that again?"

You stare at him through your lashes, a frown forming on your lips. He wants nothing more than to wipe it off you, but first he needs to make sure he heard you correctly.

"I'm in love with you." You stop looking at his eyes, unable to face him. "And I'm sorr--"

He engulfs you in a hug before you can finish.

"Don't ever be sorry," He tightens his hold, and you reciprocate. "I thought--I didn't think you'd ever feel the same."

He can physically feel you relaxing.

"You're an ass."

That gets a laugh out of him. "Why?"

"You made me say it again."

"You know what? I'll make you a deal."

"Yeah? Is it a good deal? Don't try to scam me."

He smiles, though you can't see it because your eyes are closed, too focused on the feeling of his arms around you. "I'll tell you how much I love you for as long as you want."

"Give me a timeframe."

"For the rest of our lives, hm? Deal?"

"Deal."

[heresthestorymorningglory]

Together Bound In Madness - Part 2

Summary: There’s a reason you were told not to walk alone at night….

A/N: This particular piece of work wasn’t meant to see the light of day and live its life in my WIP folder…it was supposed to….

Then I mentioned to @ken-dom that I might share and well…here we are…what can I say y'all? She’s mad encouraging and I love her dearly for it. Without her none of these would exist.

As always, this NSFW 18+ and has a few extra warnings attached; a kidnapping trigger warning being the biggest one, but others will follow.

The title comes from the Marianas Trench song The Killing Kind

Y'all should know by now I rarely post one shots…..so yeah, this will be multiple parts….I’m just not sure on the final tally yet. You can find previous parts here.

Enjoy my loves! <3 

He had had enough, if you weren't more careful, someone was going to….no he couldn't even consider such a thing. He wouldn't. 

He'd have to rectify this before you got yourself into trouble. 

And he had, it had been laughably easy. You walked home tonight, alone. If you hadn't had your earbuds in you would have likely heard him coming up behind you, but you were careless. 

And now, here you were with him, in his apartment. Safe. 

You stirred in his arms before he laid you on his bed gently. 

Your hands and feet were still bound, he frowned seeing the raw skin around your wrists. 

He sighed as you opened your eyes. Your eyes locked on his and you breathed hard through your nose. 

You screamed against the tape and he moved swiftly to sit next to you on the bed his gloved hand closing over your hands to keep yourself from cutting into your wrists further. 

You squeezed your eyes shut and his heart sank seeing the tears prick your eyes. Why were you so upset? 

He stroked a gloved thumb over your cheek, wiping away a tear and you flinched. 

The bump on your head was growing darker; god you were so fragile. 

He went down to the bathroom and found the first aid kit. 

When he came back he helped you sit up on the edge of the bed. 

Making his way to the kitchen, he wrapped a handful of ice cubes in a towel, twisting the top of the towel shut and knotting it. 

When he came back he knelt in front of you, touching the ice to your head. 

You closed your eyes with a flinch, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks. 

His free hand reached to tug gently at the tape covering your mouth. 

You gasped, crying harder, finally able to take a breath. 

“Please don't hurt me” you sobbed 

Your face was red and stained with tears, your eyes glassy. They were beautiful. 

He set the ice aside long enough to reach around behind you, he took a breath and his nose was filled with your scent, making his cock twitch in his jeans. He snaps the zip ties with his hands before bringing your arms around in front of you. 

Your wrists were cut and raw. Maybe that was part of the reason you were so upset. You were hurt. 

You sniffed, but didn't pull away as he cleaned your wounds. 

Once one wrist was clean and bandaged, he held out the towel with ice cubes. 

You hesitated before taking it from him slowly, your eyes fixed on him as you brought the ice to rest on the bump. 

You watched as he cleaned and bandaged your other wrist but sat in silence. 

He moved to reach into his pocket and produced a tattered strip of fabric bringing your hands back together. 

“No, no, no” you pleaded, shaking your head, fighting to pull your hands away. He held your hands tighter, wrapping the strip of fabric around both wrists, making an effort not to tie it too tightly. “P-please don't 

He kept his head down as he got to his feet, you were shivering. Of course you were shivering, you were wearing practically nothing. 

He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over your shoulders. 

You reached up with collapsed hands wiping away more tears. The smudge of dried blood on the front of his jacket caught your eye and you took a breath trying not to panic. 

“Thank you” you whispered and he simply nodded. 

He hadn’t said a word, it was incredibly unsettling and doing nothing for your already frayed nerves, but you were still breathing air…his blood stained jacket was enough to stop you from thinking about an escape plan, at least for now, it very obviously hadn’t been his blood and you weren’t too keen to add yours to it. 

Of course the quiet, hot neighbour would be a serial killer and of course you would be on his radar. Your sister always said you had a really good resting bitch face. You had probably given him a dirty look or something and we're about to pay the ultimate price for it. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, not speaking, your wrists aching, your ankles still throbbing painfully. 

Suddenly your stomach growling loudly cut through the thick silence. It was late, you hadn't eaten since before leaving for work, that was almost twelve hours ago. 

Again, he didn't speak, you watched as he collected a box of cereal, milk and appropriate dishes. 

He poured a bowl and added the milk before turning his attention to you. 

He knelt in front of you, snapping the zip tie and you winced, the skin rubbed raw similar to your wrists. 

Whether he noticed or not you weren't sure, but you watched as his thumb stroked gently over the angry red skin making you flinch, but the leather felt cool against your skin. 

He stood to his full height and offered you a hand to help you stand. You had noticed ages ago that he was always wearing gloves, now you were starting to understand why. 

You looked from his extended hand, up to his face. It was unreadable. He didn't smile, didn't speak, nothing. Just waited expectantly. 

You took it, letting him pull you to your feet. He lead you over to the table where the cereal sat waiting. 

He pulled the chair out and you sat before he pushed you closer to the table. 

Your heart slammed in your chest, wanting to ask if he would untie your hands, but too afraid to speak. 

You picked up the spoon with your hands still bound as he sat in the chair next to you. He reached over untying the strip of fabric. The look in his eyes saying everything his mouth didn't. 

‘I’m trusting you, don't make me regret it’ 

You had managed to keep yourself from shaking more as you ate. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until you had started to eat. 

The spoon clinked against the edge of the bowl as you set it down, looking up for the first time since you had sat down. 

“Can I have some more?” You asked, not recognizing your own voice as you did. 

He nodded, refilling the bowl and adding more milk. 

You smiled appreciatively and continued to eat. 

He stood and your heart jumped but you stayed seated. You could hear him walk through his apartment as you examined the jacket he had put on you earlier. It was white, that was a bold fashion choice you thought, but it was clean save for the blood smears you had hoped you'd imagined. You hadn't. 

It was the same jacket you had seen him wear almost every time you had run into him in the hallway. 

For the first time since waking up you glanced around your surroundings. His apartment was very clean and well kept for what you could only assume was a young single guy. 

Maybe that's because he's constantly cleaning up blood, the little voice in the back of your mind whispered. 

You pushed it away as you heard him coming back into the small dining area and finished the last of your cereal. 

You yawned, exhaustion settling in as you noted it was nearly 4am. 

You wanted to fight it, wanted to stay awake, but you were so drained. 

He came back to the table offering you what you realized were pajamas.

Again, he offered you a hand, you swallowed hard taking it this time a little faster than before. 

He led you to the bathroom and handed you the clothes he'd had in his hand. You took them and walked into the small room and closed the door. 

You leaned against the closed door letting out a shaky breath as tears streamed down your cheeks. You covered your mouth to muffle your sobs. 

You sniffed quietly, wiping the back of your hand under your nose as you walked over to the small sink. There was a face cloth and a hand towel sitting on the basin. On top of them were a small tube of toothpaste and a new toothbrush. 

You reached with shaky hands to turn on the water, catching your reflection in the mirror over the sink. 

Your mascara was smeared from crying, your hair falling out after having been worn pulled back all day. A dark bruise on your forehead was new, a reminder of the chaos that had been your evening. It hurt enough for you to accept that this was reality and not some nightmare. 

You shrugged the jacket off, hanging it on the back of the door before cleaning yourself up  and changing into the pajamas he had given you. 

You folded the clothes you'd worn that day, clutching them to your chest as you opened the door. 

He stood leaned against the wall waiting for you. 

You held out the jacket and he took it from you leading you back into the main room. He draped it over the back of one of the dining chairs and again gestured for you to sit on the bed. 

You sat, leaning against the headboard, too tired to hold your head up anymore.

[skyedancer-rae]

TGAA 2 Spoilers

A little snippet from a modern AU that's been sitting in my WIP folder for too long. So I finally finished it off. Wherein Ryunosuke's first dinner with Kazuma's foster family has a long-distance interruption. Or wherein even halfway around the world, Sholmes will find a way to cause problems. No Irises were endangered in this comic. Also, Kazuma probably made a comment along the lines of, "Well, at least Sholmes is in London right now and can't make a bad first impression with Ryunosuke." And Sholmes said, "Watch me."

Image description after cut.

Each image is a 4-panel comic read vertically.

Panel 1-1: A close-up of Mikotoba from chest up. He is wearing a white button-up shirt and red tie, no jacket. He is smiling, eyes closed, posture relaxed. He is holding a glass to show that he is at a dinner table. He says, "It's nice to meet you, Naruhodou-kun. Kazuma's told us a lot about you. I hear you used to be an English language student before switching to study law."

Panel 1-2: A close-up of Ryunosuke from the waist up. He wears a dark blue button-up, unbuttoned, over a teal shirt. He is smiling, but clearly nervous. With wide eyes and sweat beading along his temple. He says, "Oh, yes, sir. That's a bit of a long story, but really..." He is interrupted by the sound of a phone going off, indicated by a speech bubble that reads "Ba-ding-ding, ba-ding-ding, ba-ding-ding."

Pane 1-3: A shot of Susato & Rei seated beside each other. Susato wears a pink blouse with a darker pink bow at the neck while Rei wears a bright yellow sweater over a teal shirt. Susato is holding her phone, which has a pink phone case. She is staring at the screen in concern; Rei looks on in curiosity beside her. Susato says, "Father, I hate to interrupt, but you really need to see the pictures that Iris just sent."

Panel 1-4: A close-up of Mikotoba staring down at his phone. He says, "Oh? Surely it can't be.." His expression is unimpressed/unamused. After a pause, he says, "Excuse me, for a moment, everyone. I need to go make a quick call."

Panel 2-1: Mikotoba stands on the left edge of the canvas, walking off-panel while talking on the phone. He says, "Hello, Iris, how are you? Yes, I did get your pictures. Thanks for sending them so quickly. Would you mind putting your phone on speaker? Thank you." In the bottom right of the panel, the others are seated around a traditional Japanese dining table, bowls of rice and other sides set before them. Susato and Rei are seated beside each other facing the viewer. Susato is staring at her phone in concern while Rei is eating a bite of food, looking at Susato's phone in curiosity. Kazuma sits across from them with his back to the viewer. He is wearing a black turtleneck and is looking at his phone in a red phone case. His screen can be seen, showing a small picture of a stick figure (Sholmes) holding a flask with a purple, smoking chemical spewing from it. Iris' next text just says "SOS." Ryunosuke sits to the right, staring at Mikotoba in confusion.

Panel 2-2: The scene zooms in on the dining table. Everyone is situated as in the previous panel. Susato smiles at Ryunosuke and asks, "How is the food, Naruhodou-san." Ryunosuke, raising a bite of food to his mouth, says, "Oh, it's very good, Susato-san. What kind of sauce--"

Panel 2-3: A giant speech bubble covering the top half of the panel gives Mikotoba's dialogue as, "HERLOCK SHOLMES, GET THOSE DANGEROUS CHEMICALS OUT OF OUR KITCHEN RIGHT NOW!!!" Everyone's hair and clothing are blowing slightly to indicate the force of Mikotoba's yelling. Susato just stares forward with a blank, unamused expression. Beside her, Rei is still staring at her phone, smiling as she picks up another piece of food with her chopsticks. Kazuma has turned toward the left, just as unamused as Susato. To the right, Ryunosuke has jolted in shock, expression panicked. The piece of food he had been holding in the previous panel has gone flying from his chopsticks.

Panel 2-4: Mikotoba (still off-panel) says, "I DON'T CARE WHAT SCIENTIFIC BREAKTHROUGH YOU ARE ON THE VERGE OF DISCOVERING. WE JUST RENEWED THE LEASE ON THAT APARTMENT." On-panel, the other 4 are still seated around the dining table in the same configuration as described in the first panel. Susato and Rei are eating while staring at Susato's phone. Kazuma has turned toward Ryunosuke to show him the pictures Iris sent on his phone. Ryunosuke stares at Kazuma's phone with a look of complete bewilderment/disbelief.

Panel 3-1: Mikotoba, still off-panel, says, "NO, YOU DON NOT GET TO BLAME YOUR LACK OF AN IMPULSE CONTROL ON MY ABSCENCE!" At the dinner table, Susato & Rei are staring off to the left. Ryunosuke stares forward, mid-bite, in clear curiosity. Meanwhile, Kazuma is facing away from the viewer, but he is as unamused as Susato.

Panel 3-2: Mikotoba, off-panel, says, "WE BOTH AGREED THAT IT WOULD BE BEST FOR IRIS TO FINISH THE SCHOOL YEAR BEFORE YOU MOVED TO JAPAN." At the dinner table, Susato & Rei are now glancing sideways at each other. Ryunosuke has turned his attention to his food with an eager smile. In an icier tone, Mikotoba says, "YES, THANK YOU, DEAR."

Panel 3-3: In a cheerier tone, indicated by the cloud-like speech bubble, Mikotoba says, "Thanks again for informing us so quickly, Iris. Study well for your finals. I look forward to seeing you in a few weeks. I love you too." At the dinner table, Rei & Ryunoskue are enjoying their food with eyes closed. Meanwhile, Susato & Kazuma are making eye contact across the table.

Panel 3-4: Mikotoba has returned to his seat with an air of exasperation, covering his face with his right hand. Rei cheerfully asks, "So, how's your husband doing, Professor Mikotoba?" Mikotoba says, "Testing every single one of Darwin's theories on survival of the fittest."

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

A Rose Without A Thorn (ao3)

Behold! Baby’s first Elucien fic. (For @elucienweekofficial day one)

Growing tired of all the barriers between them, Elain finally snaps during one of Lucien’s visits to the River House. Set post-acosf.

(The idea for this fic has been sitting in my wips folder since November, so it has been such a long time coming, but I'm a tad nervous because this is not my usual wheelhouse. It’s inspired by Sam Ryder’s song Tiny Riot, and the title was taken from and inspired by, of all things, Henry VIII. I’m a historian. What did you expect?)

The first Elain heard was his voice.

As warm as the sunlight that streamed through the kitchen window, and as soft as the butter she spooned into the mixing bowl, Lucien’s honeyed voice drifted down the hallway— so damned familiar and yet still so foreign. His voice was a song she ought to remember, a melody she thought she might once have heard in a dream— but still he was a stranger to her, no more solid to her than the wind, slipping through slack fingers. 

Elain stood frozen, rooted to the spot, and as the string of polite words exchanged at the front door echoed, still she remained unmoving in the kitchen, static, trying to remember what it was to breathe.

In her dreams she heard that voice.

Every night when she closed her eyes she heard him speak, and in her dreams they spoke like friends, like lovers, like they had known one another forever. In her dreams he laughed, his tongue sharp and wicked, and in her dreams she blushed, smiling at the glint in his eye. Every night he spun her stories, weaving tales of romance and beauty whilst she slept— but every morning Elain woke alone, her heart sinking as if yearning for the beat of his. 

Her dreams were pretty, but the reality…

The reality was this— the stark truth of it laid bare as Elain remained tucked away in the kitchen, up to her elbows in batter, unable to take a single step forward. He stood only in the hall, separated from her by just a handful of feet and a few wooden doors, but the distance felt like so much more, a stretch made impassable, uncrossable, by every awkward meeting and each stilted conversation, by all those times they’d sat politely across from one another, Elain quiet in her chair, knowing nothing but his name. 

Every month he came, like clockwork, to meet with Rhys and Feyre and discuss whatever it was he’d been up to in his role as ambassador. Every month Feyre insisted Elain be present, and every month the four of them sat down to lunch at the river house. Elain always made cake, and she spent every single moment of every single luncheon trying not to notice the gleam in Feyre’s eyes, the way she looked at her as if she was wondering if this might be the month that Elain would offer Lucien more than just a perfunctory greeting and a small, subdued smile.

And every month all they shared was small talk, mild pleasantries exchanged with tight, straining smiles.

Elain might have been a seer, but she didn’t think her dreams were anything but figments of her imagination, the fractured pieces of a life she might once have had. She didn’t think they were any sort of glimpse into the future— how could they be? There was simply too much disconnect between them, like she and Lucien weren’t just on different pages— they were reading from different books altogether, and it hadn’t bothered her at first, back when she hadn’t really wanted to know more than his name. 

But something had shifted lately, changed with the seasons, and with the deepening spring Elain found herself with every passing day growing… curious. 

She heard the telltale sound of Feyre leading Lucien into the sitting room, the door closing behind them, and questions unasked and unanswered balanced on Elain’s tongue. She thought of him— how he’d spent so long in the Spring Court, surrounded by flowers and sunlight. 

What was it like, she wondered?

What was he like, when the air smelled of roses and blossoms? In the bright light of day, in the summer heat— what was he like? What did that red hair look like beneath the midday sun, and who was he, outside these walls, beyond this court? Who was he really, the man that fate had bound her to?

He was an enigma, and as she cracked an egg against the side of the mixing bowl, Elain huffed. It sent a small cloud of flour rising from the countertop, and throughout the kitchen silence reigned. 

All of those questions burned within her chest— but how could she ever ask, how did she even begin, when she was only ever forced to endure tea parties and elegant lunches when he visited, with Feyre always lingering? Or Rhys, or Nesta?

It was ludicrous. Suffocating— exhausting.

She was twenty-three years old, and her every move, every breath, every look was examined and analysed like she was a debutante at her first ball, barely cut from her governess’ apron strings. It was the weight of others’ expectations sinking them before they could hope to swim, and the most ironic thing - the most infuriating - was that Elain spent every luncheon trying not to study the lines of Lucien’s face. Trying not to notice the way his lips curved when he smiled, or how he tucked his hair behind his ear when he laughed. Trying, too, to pretend she didn’t see the way he looked at her, like she was a secret he was trying to figure out.

Slowly, she drew a breath, one made heavy by exhaustion and exasperation. Maybe, just maybe, Elain would like Lucien, if only she had to space to decide for herself. 

Maybe.

She gritted her teeth now, that deep breath swelling in her lungs, coalescing with something bitter, and when she cracked another egg into the bowl, the shell shattered. 

It was just… impossible.

Lucien was only ever polite, but every time Elain found herself in a room with him the conversation was forced— like neither of them quite knew where they were supposed to fit together. He looked at her like she was porcelain, breakable, afraid of saying the wrong thing, and though Feyre had broken the curse and freed him from the mask he’d worn for so long, Elain couldn’t help but feel he’d merely exchanged one mask for another when it came to her. He hid, now, behind those manners and that charming smile, that devastatingly polite exterior, and she couldn’t blame him, not really. 

After all, her guileless smile was a mask of its own, wasn’t it?

One she had hidden behind for years— that demure and delicate little smile, the one Greysen had liked so much, so wholly appropriate for a woman of society, meant to be seen and not heard, to be looked at and admired. She had let that smile carry her through every social season, and though she’d once thought it as much of a weapon to her as Feyre’s bow and arrow…

It was different now. 

It wasn’t a comfort or an asset— it had turned her into something fragile, something to be protected, like the smile on her face somehow made her weak. She hadn’t minded so much at first - Rhys and the others had always been so kind to her - but now… it was becoming an effort to curve her lips when they held their meetings behind closed doors, as though convinced she couldn’t handle it.

She plucked up her wooden spoon now, and as she began to mix the batter in the bowl she gripped the handle so hard her nails dug into her palm, tiny crescent moons marking the soft skin. She let out a single embittered huff - the last she would allow herself - glancing towards the doorway that separated them, the hall that stretched beyond.

Lucien was just as bad as the rest of them.

He looked at her like he didn’t know what to do with her, how to approach her, like she was a startled deer in the forest. In her dreams, he looked at her like he knew every inch of her, inside and out. Like he had committed every part of her to memory, knowing her as keenly, as acutely, as he knew himself. As the timbre of his voice resonated from the sitting room, for a moment Elain wished he would look at her that way now, in the bright light of day. She wished, too, that she knew what that voice sounded like in grand halls and marble ballrooms, in small spaces and quiet corners. For a moment she wished she had the courage to find out.

Furiously, she mixed that batter. 

It was a mess— everything was a mess, and she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to fix it, how to make it better.

And then—

“Hello, Elain.”

Every nerve in Elain’s body stilled.

He’d come upon her silently— or had she just been so lost in her own thoughts that she’d stopped hearing his heartbeat through the walls?

Her hand went slack around the wooden spoon, her mind emptying as that voice filled the silence that stretched through the kitchen. It was a lilting voice, so elegant it was almost musical, with the hint of an accent softening his words, rounding out the edges of her name. Elain let her eyes slide closed for the briefest of seconds, feeling those smooth tones echo in her bones, warming her right the way through like a shaft of pure, brilliant sunlight. For just a moment - spare and singular - she let herself feel the bond in her chest, the warmth of it wrapping around her ribs, dancing as he spoke her name. It almost stole her breath, and Elain caught herself before it got stuck in her throat, righted herself before she could fall. She straightened her shoulders, plastered that stiff and stifling smile onto her face and lifted her eyes, catching sight of him in the doorway.

Gods, she almost wished she hadn’t.

Her dreams might have been wide of the mark when it came to their conversations, but even they had not exaggerated Lucien’s beauty. He stood, effortless and immaculate, in fawn coloured breeches and a loose white shirt, his long hair shining like burnished amber in the sunlight. His golden eye glinted as he clasped his hands behind his back, the golden hoop in his ear winking as the sun danced across his skin. He was lovely— lithe and graceful and elegant, and as Elain let the spoon fall with a clatter against the side of the bowl, she cursed herself for being so distracted.

As though only now remembering that she was supposed to be making a cake, she reached for the measuring cups as her mouth went dry, her tongue heavy. That feeling behind her ribs swelled, tugging the way it always did, and as Elain dunked the measuring cup into the sugar, she took a breath and somehow found the will to say,

“Hello, Lucien.”

Something flashed briefly in his eye when she spoke his name, a momentary spark, but she didn’t have time to study it. He buried it, hid it quickly as he dipped his chin in a courteous, practically genteel bow, a polite smile drifting across his lips.

Polite— he was always so damned polite, and though Elain didn’t doubt his manners for a second, sometimes she wished he would let his composure slip— let her see the sharp-tongued fae who had, by all accounts, suited the fox mask he’d been stuck in for half a century.

Silence crawled back into the kitchen, settling thick as Elain dumped the sugar into the mixing bowl. She was all too aware of his presence at the door as she added another cup, her eyes flicking up to find him watching her intently, following her every move.

“Do you need any help?” he asked.

She shook her head, biting her tongue as she filled another cup with sugar. She forced an easy smile on her face, accommodating and bland, the kind her mother had always told her worked well in high society. Lucien nodded, and Elain poured the sugar in the bowl, trying to remember how many cups she’d already added.

Was that the second cup? Or the third?

She couldn’t remember, his presence in the doorway a distraction so complete she couldn’t remember anything from the past five minutes.

Lucien cleared his throat. “Well, then,” he said, unlinking his hands from behind his back. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Elain nodded, wiping her hands on her apron as he gave her a long, searching look before turning on his heel and heading back to the sitting room. Once he was gone, Elain let out another disaffected sigh, one that was heavy in her lungs. She looked at the doorway, at the space absent of him now, and felt something like regret curling uncomfortably within.

Cursing softly under her breath, Elain huffed sharply and added another damned cup of sugar to the bowl.

***

Too much sugar.

She’d put too much sugar in the cake.

Elain’s hand tightened around the silver cake fork, one so dainty, so tiny, it was a wonder it didn’t snap. The cake wasn’t… bad. Not exactly. It was just…

The icing was too thick, the sponge far too dense from where she’d over-mixed it, and sweet, it was so, so sweet. 

Lucien’s fault, she thought as her entire body recoiled from the sweetness on her tongue. It was his fault— him and that stupid smile of his, that stupidly lovely face that had seemed to glow in the sunlight. She’d lost count of the sugar she’d put into the bowl and just added another three cups anyway, and now there was a cloying taste clinging to the back of her throat, making her teeth ache and her gut twist, and as she did the maths… Oh gods— there were six cups of sugar in a recipe that called for three. 

She glanced around the table, gritting her teeth as Feyre swallowed, pasting a smile on her face as she took another bite. The cake was terrible, and yet they wouldn’t tell her— too afraid of upsetting her, like they didn’t think she could handle it. Feyre practically winced as she closed her mouth around her second bite, and Elain glared down at her fork. 

Lucien seemed more interested in his tea than in the cake that he had delicately taken only a small bite of, but Feyre smiled blandly as she forced a swallow, and at her side Rhys cleared his throat, silver fork cutting through the icing Elain had done an inch too thick— the glaze she had made whilst trying not to think of the look that had flashed in Lucien’s eye, wondering what it was and why he’d hidden it.

“Lovely as always, Elain,” Rhys said, masking a grimace as, with effort, he swallowed. “It’s sweet,” he added. “Just like you.”

He offered her a winning smile, but Elain couldn’t see the bright side. She half wanted to throw something. It was a joke, a comment made in jest to lighten the mood, but… she scowled. A Nesta scowl, an expression she’d seen on her sister’s face a thousand times and yet never once allowed to grace her own.

“A rose without a thorn,” Rhys finished.

And Elain… snapped.

“If it had no thorns it wouldn’t be a rose,” she countered flatly. “That’s not how roses work.”

Rhys paused, fork an inch from his mouth, and on the other side of the table, Lucien choked on his tea. Elain put down her own fork, hands lying flat on the table.

Wasn’t she allowed to have thorns, just for a day? To make a cake that wasn’t perfect and lovely? Why must she always be gentle and kind and sweet— why must she be coddled and cosseted? 

Couldn’t she, just for once, make a mistake?

Vexed, she pushed away from the table.

Her chair scraped roughly against the polished floorboards, and Lucien’s teacup rattled against his saucer as he set it down, but Elain only tossed her napkin to the table, letting it lie in a pile of crumpled ivory fabric, half lying across her porcelain plate still laden with inedible cake. Honesty— it was all she had wanted, to be treated like a person instead of a child. She couldn’t bear it, and she didn’t look back at the table, at the cake half unfinished or the shock that cross her sister’s face as Elain made a beeline for the hall, for the kitchen, for the back door beyond that would take her out to the garden.

Feyre called out her name, but Elain didn’t stop. 

She wanted her garden— wanted the peace and quiet of her garden, the only place she ever felt at home, but—

The breath sawed from her throat as she pushed open the door, gasping as the air kissed her cheeks.

It wasn’t hers, was it?

It was just a plot she tended in Feyre’s garden. In Rhys’ garden. It wasn’t hers, even though she’d cultivated every single bloom in every single bed. She could lay no real claim to it, no ownership, and as she breathed in the fresh air, drawing it deep into her lungs, Elain felt part of herself splintering, cracking beneath the pressure.

At the roses, she stopped.

She came to a halt, looking at the flowers - at the thorns - and reaching out, she traced one with her finger, feeling the sharp edge press against her fingertip, knowing it would take only the slightest bit of pressure to break the skin and bring blood blossoming.

Regret fluttered in her stomach.

The irritation she’d felt turned sour, and as her heartbeat calmed… Elain knew she ought to apologise to Rhys for snapping. To Feyre for ruining her lunch. To Lucien for… everything. For being so stand-offish, for closing herself off when all he’d ever done was try and get to know her.

But how could he ever succeed, Elain thought bitterly, when she didn’t even know who she was herself? She’d been lost— whoever she’d been before having vanished with the cauldron, dried up when she came out, dripping and freezing on the cold stone floor. Lucien had given her his jacket then, and ever since she’d plastered on that unassuming mask, only to find that, like poison ivy, it had burrowed its way beneath her skin and wound itself tight around her veins. 

Who was she, without that bland little smile?

She didn’t know anymore— the answer always escaped her, snatched by the wind. 

As if she’d conjured him, Elain heard footsteps on the gravel path behind her. Instinctually, she knew who it was. It wasn’t that she recognised the tread— no, it was the way the thread behind her ribs began to vibrate, to tremble, and she knew without needing to turn that Lucien had found her.

She turned, expecting to find a face lined with concern— but instead his expression was calm, like the afternoon sky after a morning storm, and he looked at her with a kind of ease Elain had never seen before. He stood with his hands so casually in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. His head tilted an inch to the side, and Elain had never once seen him so… relaxed. He gave her a small smile, and for the first time it didn’t seem contrived. His eyes were alight - both the russet and the gleaming gold - a fire beneath the afternoon sun, and when that smile turned wider, showed teeth, for the very, very first time he wasn’t looking at her like she was some dainty, fragile little thing.

He didn’t look afraid that she’d break.

And for the first time he didn’t look like the kind of man who would buy her gardening gloves. No— he looked like he’d let her get her hands dirty, let her feel the earth, and sit right beside her as she did. His golden eye shone in the sun, and as Elain dragged her gaze over his face, the look he’d buried earlier in the kitchen flashed again, a flare in his single russet eye, and this time Lucien didn’t bother to hide it, to mask it. This time he let her see it, and Elain found… interest there, sharp and glinting, mingling with appreciation, with something that seemed an awful lot like attraction.

He looked at her like he wanted her, and Elain suppressed a shiver. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning her gaze to the roses, to the thorns. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Lucien cut in, interrupting her. He’d never interrupted her before, always let her finish. Elain suddenly felt like some pretence was dropping away, both his mask and hers eroding at last. “Don’t apologise.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Lucien snorted, taking another step closer until he was there looking at her roses too. He reached out, brushing a finger along the petals, velvet soft. Elain wondered what that touch would feel like against her skin, the drag of his hands on her waist.

“For the record,” he said softly, his voice carrying the hint of smoke, like he knew where her mind had gone. “I like roses.”

There was something heated in his gaze, his eyes lowering as for the first time he let himself look at her, really look at her. He dragged his focus over her cheekbones, across her jaw, lingering on her lips, so blatant and brazen she almost couldn’t believe it. Oh, Lucien was a gentleman, of that she was sure— but not all the time. There was a streak of something else in him too, something a little bit rakish, a shade of daring, and here it was at last, coming out to play as they stood between the roses. 

He gave her a knowing smile, a sidelong glance that had the bond between them thrumming, alive in a way it had never been before, and Elain didn’t pull away or put space between them, even though this was the closest they had been since she’d been tipped out of the cauldron, when he’d draped his jacket over her bare shoulders. He was so close now that his arm was brushing hers, and when she breathed she could smell him— could feel his scent being pulled into her lungs as though it were the only kind of air she needed. It was something sweet and warm with a sharp undertone, and in her rose garden it was delectable, all sugar and spice and crackling embers. He was so close, all she’d have to do was tilt her head and—

His hand fell away from the flower, and he canted his head to the side as Elain looked up at him, suddenly feeling the world narrow until it contained nothing but this little square of the garden. His eye sparked, and as she watched… Lucien winked. 

There he is, Elain thought. There’s the man Feyre told me about.

“And I like my roses with thorns,” he added in a whisper, almost conspiratorial.

Elain let out a surprised laugh as her heart kicked in her chest, and with the way his eyes widened, it shocked him almost as much as it did her. His eyes glinted as his lips split into a bright smile, and it was… lovely. Gods, how had she not noticed before, how utterly lovely he was when he smiled?

“And did you like my cake?” she challenged, raising an eyebrow.

It was Lucien’s turn to laugh now, a shocked bark escaping him as he shook his head, auburn hair cascading over his shoulder. 

“No,” he said, apologetic. “No, I didn’t.”

“At least you’re honest,” Elain sighed. “I didn’t like it either.”

Lucien laughed again, softer this time, and as he dipped his head his hair fell across his face, masking the scar and the golden eye. 

“Apologies, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she whispered. 

Not now— not yet. She wanted him to call her my lady when his lips were against her skin, wanted him to whisper it against the crook of her neck as his hands roamed. In her dreams, the only time he called her my lady was when he made love to her. Now— now it was only another barrier between them, a formality she couldn’t stand. 

And she’d had enough of formality.

Suddenly Elain wanted to push that hair back, wanted to see his face— the face of the only one who had given her honesty when she asked for it. She wanted to run her hands through that hair, burnished by the afternoon sun. Wanted to see how warm his skin was beneath her fingers, how soft, and something began to build inside her, some kind of desperate anticipation, and even though she knew she should probably keep her hands to herself…

Tentatively, she lifted her hand, eyes growing wider as her heart began to hammer in her chest. Lucien stilled, his smile falling away as slowly, agonisingly slowly, Elain curled her fingers and brushed the hair back behind his pointed ear, feeling the strands between her fingers. Both of his eyes widened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

It was silent, but this wasn’t the silence of all their other meetings, where they had nothing to say to one another.

No— now there was too much, and Elain didn’t know where to begin.

“Call me Elain,” she said at last. 

“Elain,” Lucien whispered, his eyes shuttering as though her name on his tongue was an unexpected pleasure, a delicacy he’d just discovered and didn’t ever wish to be without. His lips parted, and when he murmured her name again, it was as though he found it to be a balm to every one of his burns, spoken with a kind of wonder that made her shiver, made her feel like the world was shaking. 

And gods— Elain felt the tremble in her blood and smiled.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, barely able to hear her voice beyond the pounding of her heart, “you could call again next week and I’ll have a better cake for you.”

Lucien didn’t mask his smile this time. He met her eyes, gaze boring into hers as he held her wine-eyed stare. It started small, a soft smirk playing at the corners of his lips, but as he scanned her face it spread— like a wildfire, catching. His fingers rose in the space between them, his eyes turning bold as he brushed the back of his knuckles across her cheek.

“I’d like that,” he said, his smile so easy Elain couldn’t understand why he’d ever hidden it, ever kept this part of himself back. 

She leaned into his touch, feeling his fingers against her skin warm and light, like the first kiss of sunrise after a long, dark night.

“I’d like that too,” she said, before pausing and looking back towards the house, to the windows lining the kitchen where everything had gone so decidedly wrong earlier. “But you should probably stay out of the kitchen until it’s done,” she added.

Lucien frowned as confusion flitted across his russet eye, and Elain shrugged.

“It’s your fault I lost count of the sugar,” she explained.

Lucien laughed again, and with the sound something inside Elain began to unfurl, and for the first time… For the very first time, she felt like maybe this mating bond wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

[babblingbookends]

20 questions for fic writers

Okay so hopefully I found all the people who tagged me in this game, thank you to @fleur-de-violette @goldenraeofsun and @wildsofmarch for the tag! (If you tagged me and I didn't see it, thanks to you too!)

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

Thirty-eight! I didn't realize there were so many.

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

50,029. A respectable number, but could be better

3. What fandoms do you write for?

DC Comics, but mostly Batman. I pretty much exclusively write fics for DC Comics, with the majority being Batman and Batfam-related comics. I have one single fic for another fandom, and that fandom is Avatar: The Last Airbender.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Tim Drake (Doesn't) Drink Coffee, which is also my first fic! It currently has 990 kudos

Do You Need Another Box of Tissues? which beats the next fic by 1 kudo, sitting at 242 kudos

Hypnogogic Jerks and Other Body Quirks is still one of my favorite titles! It has 241 kudos (update: I double checked before posting this and it now has 242 kudos, tying it for second place

Batman vs. Bridezilla has an even 200 kudos

And number five is Isern, which I'm a little shocked by considering it's currently my most recent fic. It has 156 kudos

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to! I don't get a lot of comments, so it doesn't usually take me long to get through them, but I do tend to let them build up a bit before I answer them.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uhh good question. You're Just A Baby, You Can Not Fly is angst the whole way through, so maybe that one

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Realizing now that a lot of my fics are either angst or smut, soooo there's happy endings in most of the smut fics teehee. But also this one, Soda Pop, is sweet the whole way through.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I'm fortunate enough that so far, I have not! I don't feel like I'm big enough to get hate

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! Not sure how to describe what kind, but I've touched on a lot of smut things. This may be TMI, but I really like writing sex that also involves pain, I think it works so well with the Batfams gestures wildly everything.

10. Do you write crossovers?

No. I'm not opposed to the idea but it sounds too complicated for my writing tastes

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I've noticed or been told about

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of! I would love to have it happen though

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope! I think it sounds fun but collaboration scares me sometimes because what if. what if I'm actually stupid. and my co-writer hates everything I come up with. Horrible thought

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

My all-time favorite is a tough one to choose butttt I really like Wonderbat from Justice League Unlimited. Niche, I know, but it was my childhood ship and holds a special place in my heart. Never actually written something for it though!

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you will?

Hoooooo-boy, I recently abandoned a buuuuunch of wips in my wip folder because I had named them random, unimaginative stuff, and simply didn't have the mental energy to go through them and see what was in them and rename them so I just put them all in a folder and started fresh. However, in that folder was another folder where I had a series planned based around Jason and a bunch of members of the Batfam. Each fic would have chapters from Jason's POV and another character. The first fic was Jason and Tim solving a missing persons case. I think Barbara's was them, like, getting trapped in a mall by the Joker, and I vaguely remember that Dick's took place in New York City.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I have no idea. Maybe my descriptions of stuff? I really like describing things in unexpected ways and trying to pull emotion into them. No idea if other people like it though!

17: What are your writing weaknesses?

I always feel like my flow is really bad. Like some places feel really slow and some places feel too rushed, if that makes sense. I also think that when I'm writing a character I always make the character feel a bit too distant, like I'm just describing what's happening to them instead of making the reader feel what's happening to them.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Well you see, I have this bad habit of thinking I can just learn an entire language in an afternoon, which means that no writing actually gets done. So unless it's something I can a. easily translate from a dictionary (so a single word or a simple, common phrase) or b. ask one of my international friends to translate for me, I usually find another way to say it without using the actual language. Maybe sticking the words in italics, or the old classic "he said something in Russian".

19. First fandom you wrote for? 

Batman! As I said above, my first fic was Tim Drake (Doesn't) Drink Coffee. Before that I only wrote original stories.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

All these questions about fics when I don't remember anything about any fic I've ever written XD.

Probably either Gotham Roulette or Clock-Beat, Heart-Beat. Based off of popularity, Gotham Roulette is one of my least popular, but I still like it, it was so dramatic. And Clock-Beat was really fun to write, it's about the Batfam from the perspective of a clock.

And that's that!

Tagging @cephalog0d, @adelfie, @nelson-and-murdock, and whoever else wants to play!

[hurricanek8art]

Okay, I don't know what's going on with Tumblr and everything has been absolute chaos with my life the past few months, so y'know what, screw it. I think I'm actually brave enough to share some of my art. At least it won't just be sitting on my tablet that way.

This is my Sith Inquisitor turned Force-sensitive Outcast from SWTOR, Roodaka Greatstorm-Kallig. I haven't really plotted everything out with her regarding her story, but she's not my Outlander. She leaves the Empire right after Ziost, after losing all of the family she'd used her Dark Council connections to find and save from slavery, and Lana recruits her to help Sana-Rae run the Enclave about two years before the Outlander (my Knight Aja Verdona) is rescued. She's prickly and petty and spiteful but I love her dearly. And because I've never posted art before, art process and a little bit of character lore ramble under the cut, I guess?

I usually work with lined art/sketches that are admittedly very messy, but when I did the first one back in May I was experimenting with actually rendering/painting, and I saw a fashion post thing that looked like something Roo would wear, so I was mostly just playing around, it's not a solid outfit design for her. It's janky and wonky and oh Lord please don't look closely at the anatomy or face it is not up to my usual standards, but I was so proud of myself for the lighting on this one, as well as how I managed to render the muscle. Like, the lighting! I have no idea what I'm doing but I think it looks so flipping good! And I was happy with how the crackly lightsaber blade turned out—it is supposed to be Aloysius Kallig's lightsaber, meaning it's at least over a thousand years old, right? It should be a little janky with age!

The second one is supposed to be post Fallen Empire, after she's left the Sith and become sort of a wandering Force-user—think Ahsoka as of, well... Ahsoka, but more on the side of Ventress if she'd survived TCW (don't get me started on that choice 🙄🙄🙄). I came into it knowing a little more of what I was doing, but I kinda got in over my head and gave up on the 100% lineless thing, you can definitely tell with the sword/clothes. 🥴 The second piece has been sitting unfinished in my WIP folder for months, so I just said screw it, finished up some details and called it because I am SO PROUD of her face and hands (I DREW A GOOD HAND WITHOUT LINEART WHO AM I?!?!) and how I rendered her skin, I don't want it to live in WIP purgatory forever. You can actually tell that's muscle! And a neck!

I'm proud of how her tattoos turned out, too. I played around with Cham Syndulla's tattoo pattern, turning it at different angles. It felt like a good way to root her in Twi'lek culture despite the Kallig bloodline having been separated from it for so long. She gets the first one to cover up a slave tattoo, and the rest after Ziost to further reclaim her identity and culture, leaving the Sith behind.

I have no idea how to close this post. Um... thanks for reading all this, if you have? I've never posted art before, I'm kinda terrified. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

[wildemaven]

wip wednesday

Tagged by the lovely @undercoverpena

some of these are old WIPs, so you might have already seen these snippets. I’m taking this week off from writing too so there won’t be anything new for a bit.

Step one: post snippets of the fics you're working on (can be a summary if there's no snippet)

strangers : chapter 4 | dave york x f!reader

“You’re not wearing your ring?” “Oh— I must have forgotten to put it back on after we went to the pool…” “You don’t think these strangers will get the wrong idea? A beautiful woman, alone at a bar, without her wedding rings— Don’t want—“ “I think the only stranger confused about our marriage is you, Dave.” “Wait— Where are you going?” “I’ve been sitting here waiting for you for an hour. I’m going to the room.”

broken dreams | javier peña x f!reader

“Well, that asshole would be Javier Peña— your other partner.” Steve says, glancing down at the file he just acquired. “Charming. Seems like he’s going to be a fucking delight to be around.” You say as you finally get around to pouring yourself a somewhat decent cup of coffee. “That’s one way to put it.” Steve snorts, clearly amused by your observation, as slaps the folder shut. “Let’s get you set up at your desk, give ya some time to settle in before you’re subjected to more of Peña’s fucking charmin’ ways.”

fall apart, again | joel miller x ofc!genevieve

Contentment blooms somewhere deep within you. It fills in every fractured part of you that’s been lost and forgotten for so long. It brings a sense of peace that you’ve searched for through bleak and uncertain times. There’s a twinge of guilt that starts to prick at you for how quickly familiarity has settled in. Less than 24 hours ago, your life had shattered on that hillside. Only to seemingly be put back together after stepping foot into this new place, reacquainted with your old life. For it to be ripped apart again.

after hours | tim rockford x f!reader

“Hey— why don’t you head on out of here? We’ve got it all covered for the evening.” Tim tells you. Grabbing for the ceramic mug that’s sitting on a pile of files, a quick glance inside revealing its contents are empty. “What?! You can’t be serious— I’m more than capable of being here.” Spencer you expect flagrant dismissal of your ability as a woman in this field, but never did you think Tim would jump on such the chauvinistic bandwagon. “Never said you weren’t. Go home, you look like you could use some rest. We can handle this— not much going on anyways.” Tim says over his shoulder to you as he walks over to the coffee pot across the room, with his empty mug in hand.

Step two: put them in a poll and let people vote on which one you should work on

NPTs @gnpwdrnwhiskey @trulybetty @lovesbiggerthanpride @guess-my-next-obsession @dreamymyrrh @thelightsandtheroses

[kikisfuneralservice]

LEE TAEMIN BF HEADCANONS

always wanted to know what lee taemin is like as a boyfriend? your questions have been answered…

includes nsfw content‼️

*ALL CONTENT IS PURELY FICTIONAL AND NON-ASSOCIATIVE WITH ANY OF SHINEE OR SM ENTERTAINMENT- PURELY FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES!*

FLUFF:

likes waking you up early

for no reason too he's just your alarm clock cuz he’s loud as hell in the morning

clashing shit around n bein loud

he takes longer than you to get ready

you are ready to leave in sweatpants and he’s got a full outfit on and you’re like come the fuck on

wants to buy you expensive things so you two can be the stylish couple instead of the trashman and the hot guy

you like being the trashman tho so it’s ok

swings your hand that he’s holding while u two are walking n starts skipping n shit cuz he thinks it’s cute while you’re like :| what

ties your shoes, buttons up your coat, puts on your scarf, etc. loves taking care of you

loves laying his head on yours when yall are on the bus or train

he also likes sharing earbuds with u!! he just does it to be physically closer to u tho lol

writes gross poems out in the notes app in his phone for you and they physically make you ill because of how cheesy they are

*some odd interpretative dance in the middle of the street* “this represents my love for you”

you: 🧍 “take it back pls”

u both are just very chaotic

copies people that he sees on the street bc life imitates art

tries to say profound things but they end up coming out sounding like tongue twister

sends up just telling a story from ten years ago that you’ve already heard before

but you’d never tell him that

likes to take the scenic route even though it’s far longer because he loves taking photos

speaking of which, he has more than 10k photos in his camera roll, half of them being of the sky and the other half being memes from twitter

is a big fan of trashy reality tv—sometimes more than you

i hc him as a huge love island fan

he likes ordering you both large coffees from starbucks and sitting down on the couch and gossip about the love island contestants

always somehow roots for the couple that gets eliminated the fastest

is very passionate about voting on reality television shows

tries to imitate their accents (he is convinced he could be Australian)

also is someone who yells at the tv, but also stops it every five seconds to talk about what’s going on in depth bc no one else would understand

loves doing karaoke so u guys have karaoke nights

he buys the goddamn microphones too

he just loves doing the things he loves the most with you

as long as he’s with you :)

SMUT:

loves touching u more than anything else 

loves getting on his knees to look up at you while you run ur fingers through his hair

loves loves loves praising u but only if u reciprocate it back

just very very sensual and does everything slow just to take it in

french kissing/??!?!?!?!?

yeah

puts your hands everywhere on him

rlly likes handjobs???

he just wants ur hands on him

he loves getting off on the thought of u

loves when u sit on him facing each other just bc he wants to see ur pretty face as u get off on him

mutual masturbation!!!!!

does that thing and pulls u closer to him by ur legs

likes when ur on top of him just cuzzzz

it’s the best seat in the house

he likes seeing u in control thats all it makes him feel loved and wanted

loves putting ur foreheads together so he can feel ur breathing against his lips as u slowly fuk him👀

his eyes are way too much to handle

slightly hooded and pupils dilated so much it’s like he just got back from the eye doctor

“lemme show u what i've always wanted to do to u”

wants to know he’s making you feel good

---

how do we feel about these taemin hcs that have been sitting in my wips folder for actually about a year?? i’m sorry ;-; i wanted to upload a little something before i go ia this weekend, and i thought i’d upload the taemin hcs! if you are interested in more content, please make sure to see my pinned post!

please make sure to rest well this weekend and heal: i will be here or on my twitter for anyone who would like to reach out.

TAGLIST FOR THE SPECIAL PEEPS (lmk if you’d like to be a part of this to get notifs on my new posts!): @keyloml​, @jjongolese​, @taeminscheesetouch​, @dayskz​, @jonghyuns-husband​, @taeminscult1​

[bagheerita]

ooh!! i love hearing about original works just as much as fanfics!! (im always so impressed cuz original work isnt my wheelhouse) Could you share about 'I can find you in the dark'?

And from the sga wips I'd love to know what 'Jade' is about :3

❤️❤️❤️ woot

Tag Game

This got super long so i will put it under a cut.

In summary:

I Can Find You in the Dark is an SGU fic

I share a different/my only original fic bc you said you like them ❤️

Jade is a fic about my Wraith OC named Jade

~~~~~

So the “non sga” docs aren't original, but other fandoms, sorry if that was confusing.

"I Can Find You in the Dark" is my Stargate Universe Park/Volker/Greer pwp. I started it but lost momentum and need to rewatch s2 before I get back to it. In canon Lisa Park and Ronald Greer are a couple, and Dale Volker has a crush on Lisa and has a “connection” with Ron when Ron is a donor for Dale's kidney transplant, so I just really want to solve all of their problems with polyamory. Also, Lisa is blinded in an accident, so this specific story is about them having sex with the lights off and the men learning to navigate their environment, and specifically each other's bodies, without being able to see.

Exerpt:

Lisa sits, listening.

Ron's hands are on her thighs, his thumb rubbing warmly at the juncture of her hip. His touch makes her feel safe.

"Is this okay?" she hears Dale ask. He's across the room, fiddling with the lights; his voice echoes around the room before it reaches her.

"Depends on how much you don’t want to see," Ron says matter-of-factly. His voice is warm, rumbling up against her knees where he's sitting beside the bed.

She can hear Dale's indecision, but this is his experiment, so she smiles encouragingly. "Whatever you need is fine, Dale," she says.

"Don't get lost on the way to the bed," Ron adds.

Lisa reaches out, finds his head, then smacks him. Not too hard; he barely notices other than to press a kiss of apology to the inside of her knee.

Ron tenses slightly; instinctively wary. Lisa feels the slight cooling of the air that means the lights have been turned off. Dale stumbles over something.

Lisa pouts. She knows Dale means it as a way to try to understand her situation; for her to not feel alone in her darkness. Which is sweet, but she's not sure he's thought it through.

"You okay?" Ron asks.

"Yeah." Dale sounds annoyed, but then she feels the bed move as he sits on it. "At least I thought to not take my shoes off until after," he says, and there's triumph in his voice now, just a little bit, and she loves that. “No stubbed toe or anything.” The bed moves and she hears rustling as he starts taking off his clothes.

Lisa reaches out her hand to him, slowly, seeking him. When she brushes his arm he jumps.

“Oh,” he says, startled. “Sorry. Um, that.”

She’d pulled back but she feels the movement of his hand as it slides past hers in the darkness, and she stops and readjusts herself to meet him. Dale jumps again in surprise, but this time he turns with her and takes her hand. Bringing it to his mouth he kisses her fingers and her palm. “Wow,” he murmurs against her skin and Lisa shivers.

Ron’s hands slide up her sides and along her arm, finding Dale at the end of this path and without needing to flail at all. Lisa smirks against his throat as he reaches past her, and she kisses the back of his head. She hears Dale inhale and then she feels the way his body goes lax, relaxing into Ron’s kiss. She grins fiercely against Ron’s hair and twines her fingers with Dale’s. After a moment she feels Ron turn to her, feels Dale’s hand pull her lightly, and they position her between them. Dale kisses her mouth and Ron kisses the corner of her jaw, working his way down her neck to her collarbones.

********

Because you like original ideas I will also share the other document in my wip folder that I didn't mention at first (because the game seemed more fandom focused). It is my only original work that I consider currently “in progress.” The story has no title as of yet, but the document is called “syras braeden ren.” It's about a pair of mages named Syras and Braeden who have retired and moved to the middle of nowhere to get away from politics. They meet Ren, a young man who is in a lot of trouble. He doesn't want any help at first, but they realize that they need to help him anyway because he is at the crux of a web of issues that goes pretty deep and is connected to some of Braeden's past trauma. They engage on a cross continental journey, running into several old friends and developing a strong relationship between all three of them.

Exerpt:

The wind was cold now that the sun was gone, and Braed pulled his cloak around him more tightly as he followed Syr's black tail by moonlight. The tail was pointed straight up as Syr trotted along with his nose to the ground, but a dark-furred dog wasn't the easiest to see in the dusk, especially when he was headed directly into the forest.

Braed almost lost his footing in a patch of mud, catching himself against a sturdy oak. The tree's leaves were greyish yellow in the darkness, though this time of year they were a dull yellow in bright light as well. "This has better be important," he called to Syr. "If you've dragged me out of a warm bed because Lothian's Eyes glow with a brighter gleam once you're north of Rommy Ford, or some of your usual rot, I might be tempted to violence."

Syr blew air through his nose, expressing his opinion without needing to shift out of his wolfhound's shape to do so. They'd been together long enough that this argument was all placeholders in any case. Syras liked observing phenomena first hand and experiencing events as they happened; Braed much preferred hearing about events afterward and reading articles about megical phenomema in the Quarterly, and preferred both while seated next to a warm fire with his hands wrapped around a mug of che. They'd just come north this past summer, the political unrest in the cities along the coast of the Inerwa Sea making the south rather less plesant for those with no interest in taking sides in the intercity politicking, and Braed was finding the weather along the Glass River more of an adjustment than he'd expected. He'd been born in Bezar on the shores of the Glass Sea, even farther to the north, but he'd spent all his life till now pointed southward.

"And for good reason," he muttered under his breath, though he immediately wanted to take back the uncharitable thought. He was warm, in the cloak that Syras had bought him, and the boots and gloves that Minera had made him after he and Syras had saved her sheep from being cursed to eat nightshade. If his shoes were muddy and his face chilled it wasn't a hardship compared to other parts of his life.

Syr barked once to draw his attention, and moved up out of the trees and onto the road. Braed sighed as he followed, but soon caught sight of Syr's quarry.

A figure, he would guess a young man, was stumbling away from Syr, running as best they could down the road.

"Wait," Braed called. He sighed. "Syras, stop chasing them."

Syr didn't listen but whined in apology, his attention intent on his quarry.

The person didn't listen either, keeping to their stumbling run. They glanced behind and, seeing Braed, with Syr circling around them to attempt to cut them off, darted back off the road and into the trees on the other side.

Braed sighed again. He moved a bit more quickly. Syr wasn't giving up; it would be better to get this over with.

Syr eventually cornered the person between two large trees.

When Braed caught up to them the moon was out full, and he could see the person's face. They appeared human, rather than Karas- though the Karas were not known for their tolerance for "lesser" beings, and one would not have allowed Syras to sport with them in the way that he had. They were thin and their clothing was little more than rags, brown hair matted with dirt. Dark blue eyes stared at Braed with wary fear out of a face as dirty and worn as the person's clothing.

"Greetings," Braed called softly. "We mean you no harm." He glanced at Syras; Syras had given no indication of why he'd selected this apparent runaway for his attentions this night; they were neither philanthropically inclined as a rule, nor obligated to a house or guard to detain runaways. Syr sat now with his eyes fixed on the runaway's bedraggled face. "I apologize for my companion,” Braed said. “He can be rather overbearing when he is focused on something, but I will repeat that we mean you no harm."

The runaway did not appear to believe him, which Braed was not at all surprised about. "We live not far from here," Braed continued, though it was farther than he rather thought someone without shoes should be walking. The runaway's feet were leaving smears of blood on the ground. "If you'd be interested in a hot meal."

The runaway snarled at him, "Stay away from me," and managed to wedge themselves into a crack between the tree trunks and escape Syr's cornering, stumbling off into the forest again.

Syras was apparently not interested in chasing the runaway any farther though, because he shifted to human and cast a sleep spell, dropping the runaway in their tracks.

Braed sighed, prepared to deliver yet another speech on respecting personal autonomy.

"I tried it your way," Syras said unexpectedly. He flicked long, black hair over his bare shoulder and looked over at Braed; his golden eyes always seemed like they were dancing and drew Braed's gaze even though there was plenty else to look at. "I brought you to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen."

"When your help's not wanted is when you're supposed to leave well enough alone," Braed reminded him.

Syras snorted. "If we leave him, he will die," he said with that tone of authority that Braed often loved and occasionally hated. Noticing Braed's expression he did explain, "I felt him coming, Braeden. He has an untrained ability that will call power to him unless he is taught how to shield himself."

Braed sighed. "Alright," he allowed. It was, after all, what had called Syras to him: a young man whose magical talents were being siphoned by unscrupulous mages. "I suppose you're going to help me carry him, then?"

Syras grinned. He could shift his shape better than any mage in the world, with the possible exception of the elder sisters of the Lunidae, but clothing that fit a human rarely fit a four-footed creature and so shape shifting was a craft that left one walking around in the nude most of the time. Thankfully, or otherwise, Syras did not seem to feel the chill.

"I'll give you a hand," he assured. His golden eyes flared with inner light, and he shifted again until a tall, black horse stood beside Braed.

Braed stroked Syr's nose. "When I mentioned wanting to ride you, this was not what I had in mind," he confessed.

Syras threw back his head with a whinny, and bumped Braed's shoulder with his nose a bit harder than he really needed to.

********

“Jade”

a story about my original Wraith character whose name is Jade. He leaves his hive and comes to Atlantis, and is trying to find his way in the galaxy while also dealing with the prejudice he has suffered all his life because he is intersex.

This exerpt is from the beginning of my draft of chapter 5:

Jade is sitting in the darkness, enjoying the quiet of the pier as the planet turns toward morning, when he hears a faint scraping sound.

A Wraith's hands appear over the side of the edge of the pier, and following that a Wraith, pulling himself up out of the water and onto the pier’s surface.

Jade doesn't know this Wraith, and he sits very still, his left hand on Sheppard's knife as he waits for the Wraith to notice him.

The Wraith shakes himself, squeezes water out of his hair, then stops dead when he notices Jade. His eyes fixate on Jade in alarm, which then fades to curiosity. Jade feels the Wraith reach out to him tentatively, seeking hive bonds, and Jade opens himself to the other.

Greetings, the Wraith says. I am Third Scientist of Biological Creatures, known among the humans as Ray.

Jade bows his head. I am Jade, formerly Second Navigator. He hesitates but asks, What are you doing? Is the water good for swimming? Jade has received tellings that contain memories of swimming, but hadn't thought about trying it here.

Ray grins. It is very good for swimming, he agrees, a certain tone in his mental voice suggesting that swimming isn't necessarily allowed.

Jade remembers both Scylla and the Commander delineated the Pier as the zone where Wraith were permitted to go, and not places adjacent to the pier. What are you doing? he asks again.

Collecting specimens, Ray answers. He approaches and holds up a small cup with a lid that screws on tightly; inside of it is seawater and a nearly microscopic organism. I had to go far to get this one, he says proudly. Doctor Branson is studying how different environments cause them to develop different abilities.

Jade is intrigued. And you gather these specimens? By yourself? He moves to the edge of the pier and looks into the water. It is rough near the surface, breaking against the structure of Atlantis, but he imagines that underneath the surface it would be very calm.

Ray shrugs. Sometimes Goose assists me, and Jade receives a mental impression of another Wraith, but he is more interested in the study than the capture so he usually stays with Doctor Branson.

I have never swam, Jade confesses. Is it very difficult?

Ray cocks his head. I do not think so. Would you like to try?

Jade looks at him warily.

If it is your first attempt you should not go alone, Ray advises. He hesitates. I can assist you. If… it is alright? He makes an abortive gesture to Jade’s hair. You look… He doesn’t say the word “queen” but the feeling of reverent awe and a desire to not offend needs no additional words. But you feel like another Wraith in my thoughts. Are you a brother of the hive then?

Yes, Jade says with surprise. He's so rarely met someone who truly had no idea who he was. I know my hair is dark, but consider me a brother. He adds shyly, I would welcome your assistance.

Ray bows. Very good. If you like we can go now.

Jade thrills with excitement and nods. He pulls off his boots and leaves his coat on the pier. He hesitates, but follows Ray’s lead and strips down to his skin. Ray has short hair, but Jade braids his quickly to keep it from tangling, and then jumps into the water.

Hitting the water is a sharp feeling but, once in, the water holds him. Jade spreads his limbs and mimics Ray’s movements to propel himself along. Other than the dark bulk of Atlantis the water is clear and empty, the light of two moons reaching down into it, though endless depths stretch below him, descending in darkening layers to complete opacity.

Jade hangs in the water and looks down into the darkness, transfixed. It reminds him of the endlessness of space, but he is here without a ship surrounding him and can experience it directly.

Ray swims past to catch his attention and leads him back up to the surface to take a deep breath; Jade hadn't even noticed the passage of time. He doesn't need to breathe quite yet but follows Ray anyway.

Closer to the surface where the light is stronger he can see the million little organisms that live in water: see them and not just sense the electrical presence of their life.

These ones are best seen under moonlight, Ray shares. It is why I come out at night.

It is beautiful, Jade says shyly.

Ray grins. That is the other reason I come.

[trainsinanime]

WIP reblog game

I got tagged by @chaos-has-theories and @into-september. Sorry for the delay in doing this, I just forgot about it.

If you're like me and you have a million WIPs and are anxious about updating them, play this game!

List the titles your top five priorities for WIP updates (link your fics for new readers!)

An upcoming scene, event, or detail in each fic that you're looking forward to writing

Bonus: make a poll for your followers to vote on which top 5 WIP they are most excited to see an update on!

Then tag 10 writer friends!

Let's start with the stories. So, I don't trust myself with multi-chapter stories, it takes me forever to write one-shots already, so (almost) none of these are out yet. You can read the ones that are out over here.

Operation Multifail. Three-chapter story where Marinette tries to convince Chat Noir to stop thinking about Multimouse by fighting as Multimouse, badly, on purpose, so he'll think she's incompetent. It doesn't quite work out.

Kwamidaddy Adrien. Assumes Marinette is the guardian. For reasons, Chat Noir has to take the Kwamis for a while. They all promised not to tell him anything about her private life. Shouldn't be a problem, right? This one may also end up being like three chapters

Chlogami Sabrina's Wedding. I think I posted a rough outline for chapter one here: It's Sabrina's wedding, and drunk Chloé confides in also-drunk Kagami about her complicated relationship to Sabrina, how she's happy for her but also jealous but also knows that because of their baggage, it could never work, while Kagami also has feelings about Adrien's and Marinette's upcoming wedding. I have like half a first draft of a first chapter here and absolutely no clue where this might go next.

Wings AU - Learning to Land. So there's a wings AU concept for Miraculous that keeps coming up every now and then. A bit too angsty for me, but when I first heard it, I thought it was a fun idea to talk about aerodynamics and world building in that context, specifically where Marinette teaches sheltered Adrien how to fly.

Plagg Interview. Now we're deep in the dregs, I picked a folder at random. Alya publishes interviews with someone close to Chat Noir's thinking. That someone: Plagg, who has been bribed with cheese. Marinette is not happy, but she can't say anything because Alya can't learn she's Ladybug. Yeah, this one's been sitting in my folder for a while. As have the others. Probably a one-shot.

Stuff I'm looking forward to in each fic:

The whole thing is based around big action set pieces. Three big Akuma fights, one in each chapter, which Marinette tries to fail at in different ways, and fails to fail, so to speak. I have no idea how to write these well, but I think that can be fun. Super-unpopular opinion: Fanfiction has way too much angst and romance and not enough action, and I'm definitely part of the problem myself.

Adrien interacting with the Kwamis who imprint on him as their father should be really adorable. As should the Kwamis trying their best to get Adrien and Marinette to marry (without revealing too much (they will reveal too much)).

Writing the banter between Chloé and Kagami is fun. I want to write more of it. I can definitely see someone taking that concept and turning it into, for lack of a better word, "normal long fic"; you know, thirty chapters, misunderstanding, they take a trip for a few chapters and return, so on and so forth. I'm not doing that, I don't have the work ethic and it's not actually my favourite genre of fanfic anyway. But what else could this story be? Figuring that out is an interesting challenge.

Aerodynamics! Learning to land! How do you learn to fly in a Wings AU? What does "rich kids aren't allowed to fly" mean for the world building? I don't have a story here at all but I do like the setting.

Plagg and Alya scheming together should be gold. Plagg trying to barter with a Marinette who can't reveal she's the Guardian has also a lot of comedic potential. Plagg trying to teach both of them how much Adrien needs them could be very emotional. Just Plagg.

Also, do you have any title ideas for any of these? I think Operation Multifail is good, the rest are just literally the file names I chose when I started with these projects.

I am tagging, very much at random, @sizzleissues, @pauliestorylover, @oblivionhold, @wrw47, @precious-notes, @kyuunonana, @aidanchaser, @aanabear2803, @valtionrautatiet-official and @cosmiccarrotcake. The requirement for inclusion was "I found you in my activity view in the past three months", so if you don't know what fanfic is, or don't feel like doing this, do feel free to ignore this.

[blackjackkent]

Food Shopping :)

(From this ask game: “Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!”)

This one's pretty much pure fluff and has been sitting half-done in my drafts for a while. XD After their arrival at Rivington, Karlach gets left behind at camp while Hector scopes things out by the gate, and she and some of the other companions take advantage of the downtime to replenish their food stocks from the Rivington market.

Inspired by this art by @raintides which is incredibly fkn adorable. XD

Snippet:

“Ah, hello and good morning!” Gale calls with a good-natured grin as she emerges from the tent. “Welcome to the realm of mud.” “Holy fuck, no kidding.” She laughs, looking around. The abandoned farm where they’ve made camp is ankle-deep muck. Gale has dried a long pathway around the fire and between the tents, but the surrounding ground is a filthy wasteland that bears only the slightest relation to its former life as a farmyard. Experimentally, Karlach takes a step off the makeshift path and grins at the sucking sound her boot makes as it squishes into the mud. “Nice. Like punching a lemure.” “Well, you’d know better than I.” Gale sits down next to the fire and peers into one of the supply bags pensively. “I'm sure Rivington is an absolutely lovely destination in the general run of things, but our first few days have been altogether too damp for my liking. I think I speak for everyone when I say I am displeased with the accommodations.” “I dunno. I've kind of liked it,” Karlach says with a crooked grin. “Cold rain's a nice balm on the old engine, and the Hells never had much of it.” “That's the spirit,” Wyll puts in good-naturedly. He's sitting in the flap of his tent in trousers and undershirt, pulling his boots on. “At the very least, it's a nice change of pace from the Shadow-Cursed Lands.” “Anything would be,” Shadowheart murmurs. She’s sitting near Gale at the fire, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring into the flames pensively. Karlach cocks her head to one side, then drops down to sit next to her.“You doing all right?” she adds in a lower voice.  Shadowheart flinches slightly at the question. “I'm fine,” she answers, too sharply.  No way she's fine of course. No one falls into the Shadowfell, turns on their goddess, and gets dragged through a torment dimension, and then comes out fine. Fine people don't chop their hair up and dye it white overnight. Fine people don't go completely silent for the whole journey to the city.  But Karlach has plenty of experience being not-fine herself, and she knows there's no point in trying to talk about it before Shadowheart is ready. So she just smiles. “Good,” she says mildly. Then, louder - “What’s for breakfast, Gale?” “Cheese!” Gale says brightly. “About all we’ve got left - and just on the edge of turning, too.”

[kitkatt0430]

6, 13, 28, 31, 46, 51, 63, 68, 73, 77 and 88 for the fanfic ask game!!

6.) do you have any kind of consistent writing schedule or just hoping for the best?

Absolutely hoping for the best. Trying to enforce a writing schedule always just frustrated me when I failed to meet it, which made writing into more of a chore that had to be completed. By letting myself write when the mood strikes me, I might wind up going days between writing, but I feel better about what gets written because it'll feel right in a way that something I forced myself to write for a self imposed deadline generally won't.

13.) talk about a writing experience that has pleasantly surprised you.

Since I've been porting over my co-written fic for FF8, I think I'll talk about that some.

Honestly I think I expected co-writing to be a lot harder than it was and I lucked out a lot with Emcey as a co-writer in that our writing just really flowed well together and adjusting our scenes to fit together after writing them was generally a fun process and not a frustrating one. While at the time I was interested in co-writing more with her and we talked a lot right up until the end about doing so as if the plans were in stone, I think I'm ultimately glad we didn't even.

In retrospect, I picked up on a lot of her habits and opinions on the characters because hers were the stronger opinions of the two of us at the time. So while the experience was overall a good one, I don't think I'd have found my own voice as a writer as strongly as I have if we'd continued co-writing.

28.) handwritten notes or typed notes?

Typed notes, though I'd like to get back into handwritten notes more.

31.) tell us about one of your characters who’s an absolute joy to write

I haven't done a whole lot with Jerrie Rathaway, but every time I include her in a fic it's really great. She's a good balance for her brother and I wish there was more in the comics about her for me to dig into for when I create my own versions of her for fanfics.

46.) what time are you the most productive when it comes to writing?

Usually in the evenings, after work, but afternoons on non work days are pretty good writing times too. Or a thirty minute break on a work day can be surprisingly productive if I've got something in my head that won't quiet until it's been written down.

51.) share the synopsis of a story you work on that you haven’t published yet

Iris has had an unrequited crush on her best friend, Barry, for years. But he's never seen her the same way. These days they're a solid investigative team with her as a detective for the CCPD and him as the in house CSI for the department. But Barry's interest in a barista working at CC Jitters threatens their status quo and just as Iris is planing to finally confess her feelings, Barry gets kidnapped and Iris' only lead is that surprisingly cute barista, Eddie Thawne, who thinks that the kidnappers mistook Barry for Eddie and that the whole thing has something to do with his missing Uncle Eobard.

... I've got, like, two or three pages of this written and I no longer remember where it's going, but I'm going to get a full plot re-imagined for it at some point because the initial premise is still a good one. (but if someone else wants to write a fic based off the summary, feel free...)

63.) what’s the best insult you’ve read in a fic?

... I know I've read some real zingers, but honestly none are coming to mind at the moment. *sigh* Sorry.

68.) how long will you spend on a story or scene before you give up?

I'll usually try for a few hours before putting it aside and then I'll keep coming back to it on and off to try and figure out what's going wrong. Sometimes the scene is right, but I'm not in the right brainspace. Sometimes the scene is wrong, but I needed time and distance to admit it. Sometimes I never do figure out what the problem is and so it sits in the WiP folder until the apocalypse happens.

73.) how do you visualize scenes? do you see it like a movie in your head, or do the words just flow?

I'm much more of a 'words just flow' type then a 'visualizes movie' type. Sometimes it is the movie in my head, though. It's just not usually that way.

77.) how do you write kissing scenes?

Like smushing two barbies together and hoping their mouths actually meet. lol ;)

Jokes aside, I go into it with the approach that a kiss is gonna happen, so how do they get there? Sometimes that means stepping backwards from the kiss and sometimes it means finding point a before the kiss and stepping them forward from there. It's as much about the intimate gestures that draw the characters in towards each other - towards the kiss - as it is about the kiss itself.

88.) if you could have another author write your wip for you (bc we all dream of this occasionally), who would it be?

@fezwearingjellybananas definitely for a Flash WiP