#Colt’s a little impressed

[cupophrogs]

First Mission

@clownsuu @thelone-copper

[unhinged-girls-stan]

just watched The fall guy and although i rly love emily blunt and ryan gosling, my fave performance in the film is winston duke !!! the man is So Good. also Jean Claude the french dog who bites men's balls

[draconic-desire]

💥 Take My Whiskey Neat 💥

Yandere Boothill x Reader

Again and again, you find a way to escape, and every time ends with you peering down the barrel of a gun.

Warnings: Yandere behaviors, forced relationship and captivity, implied kidnapping, some suggestive content but mostly sfw. Mild spoilers for his background story; I want to write him both as a super attentive and protective guy but also crazy for you???

You’ve become all too familiar with the sensation of a gun being pointed to your forehead.

“Aw, darlin’, why the long face? Took me two whole days to find ya this round! You should be proud’a yerself. I dare say our time together has taught you well,” he concludes with a wink.

Somehow, his praise feels more like a taunt.

That’s because it is. Obviously you never had a chance at escaping from him, a Galaxy Ranger with a bounty on his head worth more than your life a hundred times over. He was born and raised to hunt, to track, to kill. You’re just the unlucky target.

He leans the gun ever so slightly closer to you, mere inches before it can graze your skin, and waits for your response. Although you know he won’t pull the trigger, the sight of the 9 millimeter colt aimed directly between your eyes still sends goose flesh skittering down your arms.

You grit your teeth and pin him with a withering glare. The last thing you’ll relinquish is your pride—you’re not intimidated by him, and it is impressive that you evaded him for so long, relatively speaking. Your other escape attempts lasted mere hours.

Unfortunately, the fact that the Ranger has always traveled alone doesn’t help your chances—especially when lately, his only occupation has been you.

“What, no clap back today? No, ‘fudge you, ya son of a nice lady’ or ‘fork you, shirtbaggin’ bootlicker’? I’ve gotten so used to yer colorful language that I’m almost disappointed!” Boothill tilts the gun and juts his hips, his bullseye gaze locked on your own.

Ignoring the subtle look of longing, of hurt, within their depths is getting harder and harder. He’s superb at hiding it behind jokes and attempted curses, but you know that look. He’s clinging to you after all that’s been taken from him, seeking love after it was destroyed in flames. If only he still held onto his human emotions and didn’t rely on that neuro chip of his; then he’d know that what he’s showing you isn’t love, but obsession.

You wish you had never extended your kindness to him that fateful day, when he’d burst into your home, sparks flying and wires exposed. One of his arms was barely attached, completely torn through with bullet holes. A shootout, he’d said, and he’d caught wind of a handy ‘machine doctor’—a mechanic, you’d corrected him—in town who could fix him right up.

It had taken a full two weeks for you to get him back up and running functionally. Two weeks of evading IPC grunts knocking on your door in search of him, two weeks of tolerating (and fine, maybe even enjoying) his crude jokes, and two weeks of stories over a glass of whiskey, about your hope to one day travel among the stars and his of finding a companion to do so with.

That’s when he’d seemed the most human. Voice tinged with sorrow, yes, but lips curved into a morose smile, eyes looking up at the stars. Reminiscing about when he was still fully human, nothing but a cowboy on a seemingly insignificant planet, surrounded by his adopted parents and siblings, and even that little girl whom he never got to see grow up.

After he’d shared his story, you’d felt the sudden urge to be close to him. Without thinking, you’d brought your hand up to his cheek, wiping an invisible tear despite the fact that he lost his tear ducts long ago.

He’d sucked in a breath and gone deadly still; thinking you misjudged the situation and overstepped a boundary, you’d quickly started to jerk your hand back, only for him to lock it firmly against his face with his metal palm.

His voice, normally loud and clear through the synthesized distortion, had been quiet, low, wavering. “I—please, don’t stop. That feels…nice.”

You were sad to see him go after those two weeks. You honestly expected to never see him again—he was a Galaxy Ranger, after all, the definition of a lone wolf—but to your surprise, his visits didn’t end there. He kept returning again and again, and not just for repairs. Sometimes he’d bring you gifts or tell you stories of his hunt, and you’d cherish those moments when the galaxy felt just a bit less lonely with him.

Then the visits started to increase in their frequency—and intensity. He’d show up while you were working with a client and brazenly threaten them to leave so he could occupy your time instead, or he’d appear on your doorstep in the middle of the night with your favorite bottle of liquor, winking at the sight of your embarrassed form, still in your nightclothes. Your world suddenly seemed to revolve around the gunslinging cyborg.

You’d had to put your foot down—as much as you did enjoy his company, you wouldn’t allow him to interfere with your career. You’d worked hard to gain your skills, and even though you were barely scraping by and living in a tiny, modest home by yourself, you were still proud of what you’d achieved on your own.

His initial reaction was an uncharacteristic and frightening bout of silence, his pupils blown wide, locked onto yours. Just as quickly, his typical smirk returned as he laughed it off. “Just watch out, lil cutie, ‘cause I know you’ll be missin’ me soon.”

Apparently, soon was imminent, immediate. You were pouring yourself a drink after a long week of work when he finally kicked down your door and announced you’d be coming with him.

“I’ve been waiting a long while now to claim you, darlin’.”

“And if I refuse?”

That was the first time you witnessed his gun trained on you.

Now, Boothill drags you along everywhere, hopping from one planet or system to the next, living together as nomads. What you believed to be a serendipitous friendship, he thought was the start of your romance and life together.

It would be thrilling in any other circumstance, treading the path of The Hunt, evading the law, tracking down the IPC members who destroyed his family…except the cyborg transferred that need to protect, to save someone, onto you. You have no choice but to be his now, and he’ll be damned if he ever lets you go.

“You just want to hear me curse because you can’t,” you growl. What a stupid argument to be having with a pistol to your head. Yet you can’t help but siphon all of your anger into this dumb little game of cat and mouse, of shark and minnow, of hunter and bird.

He forgets you’re not the only one armed.

You flash him the most vulgar gesture you can make. “Go fuck yourself, Boothill.”

The cowboy throws his head back in a laugh. “Haha! There she is. Wild as a newborn colt.” He grins, flashing those shark teeth you’d groan to loathe. You’ve lost count of the number of puncture marks and scars they’ve littered across your flesh.

That’s something he can’t seem to get enough of—the feel of your warm, organic, human skin against his cold, steel shell.

“Lan shoot me with an arrow, do you ever shut the fuck up?” you grumble, looking up as if the Aeon will give you an answer.

“Think ya already know the answer to that,” he replies, lowering his weapon to sling his opposite arm around your shoulders. The gun hangs languidly from his other hand, as if he’s not the deadliest shot in the galaxy.

His breath brushes your neck as he leans in and nips at your ear. “Now, how ‘bout we take this back home, eh cutie? Two days without you has got me pretty…” His voice drops an octave. “…pent up, if ya know what I mean.”

The tooth marks along your skin flare. Oh, you know all too well.

~*~

Trying to find the solution to your imprisonment at the bottom of a bottle seems like a really clever idea, at least until the room starts spinning.

The empty glass cracks against the wooden table again as brown liquor burns down your throat. What did he call it? Rocket fuel? Damn right, and you’d lost count of the number of shots you’d taken.

Boothill’s normal smirk is contorted into a small frown. “Darlin’, I know it’s been a long couple’a days away for you, but I think we should retire the whiskey for the time being—”

“Shyut up!” you slur, jabbing a finger at the Ranger, your neck still throbbing from all the love bites and hickeys he’d given you. “Thiz is your fault.”

He reaches for the bottle, but you snatch it away and instead start to take pulls directly from it. A deep sigh reverberates behind you as you stand and begin to spin around, hands extended. “Aren’t we celebrating you catching me again? You got what you wanted, you…you mudder…fuuuu…” You sway and just barely catch yourself before you tumble—wait, no, that’s him steadying your shoulders.

“(Y/n).” You blink out of your haze momentarily; only on rare occasions does he use your name and not things like darling or cutie. His face is controlled, mouth tilted downward. “Put the bottle down. I know the feelin’ of wanting to drown in liquor, but it ain’t right.”

“I’m only like this because you took me from my life!”

He bares his teeth, and you know you hit a nerve. “That little shack you called a home? Was that really livin’? All those nights we talked, you said how you wanted grand adventure and risk! To travel and see the stars! To be with me!”

“I didn’t ask for you to put me in a moving cage,” you spit back, trying to shake out of his iron-clad grip. “But you never asked what I wanted, did you?”

“Why’s this all so hard for you to accept?” One hand moves to grab your chin, tilting your face towards his tall form. “It could be just us, ridin’ through the galaxy for all time.” His lips brush lightly against your own, and you feel a tinge of warmth run down your spine. “Just be mine.”

In your drunken stupor, your anger morphs into something else, something more carnal. He wants to be the predator? Well, even the hunted fight back sometimes.

The bottle drops from your hand, shattering against the floor, as you hook an arm around his neck and kiss him fervently, your tongue running along the edges of his pointed canines.

Before he can kiss you back, you pull away, wiping the back of your mouth with your forearm. “That’s what could have been if you hadn’t kidnapped me. If you’d asked me first.” Skipping over the remnants of the whiskey bottle, you flip him the finger over your shoulder as you walk away. “Too bad that’s all you’ll get. Fork you, Boothill.”

As soon as you leave the room, Boothill raises a metal digit to his lips, savoring the sensation of your warm mouth against his. So that’s what your willing kiss feels like. The true passion he knows is hidden deep in your soul, buried beneath the dirt like an unmarked grave. He releases a breathy laugh.

Well fork him sideways, but he wants more.

Taking his hat off, he sets it on the table and moves to pour himself a glass of sherry. He’s nearly positive he’ll find you passed out in bed if he goes to you now, and knows he shouldn’t, can’t be in the same room with you when his self control is so near to breaking. Better to let you sleep it off and tease you about the kiss in the morning.

Boothill kicks his feet up and takes a long sip. So, it turns out your drunken self may actually be harboring some attraction for him. Yeah, he can use that.

“I’ll have you someday,” he whispers, a promise to both you and himself. “Whiskey ain’t the only thing that’ll be on your lips, darlin’.”

[thebramblewood]

Everyone say congratulations to the new uncle! Thank you @itcrescentcrow for your lovely Veronica Aurelius, whose story inspired me to have Vlad start a vampire family of his own (for entirely unspiteful reasons, I'm sure).

P.S. Join the fan club if you haven't already!

Previous / Next

Caleb: [startled] Jesus Christ!

Vlad: [wryly] Guess again. I couldn’t help noticing you’ve acquired a new… houseguest. That girl is freshly turned. She has all the grace of a newborn colt. Your sister’s latest plaything, I presume?

Caleb: How many times have I told you I’m not interested in indulging your desire for gossip? Anyone with a modicum of social grace would have taken the hint by now.

Vlad: [continues, unruffled] The curious thing is I’ve seen her before, the girl, at your insipid little gathering of hedonists in the spring. Her cheeks were much rosier then, as I recall. I’m surprised Lilith offered her the dark gift so soon — or at all. Does she not expect to grow bored of this one? Or, I wonder, did something not go precisely according to plan?

Caleb: [defensively] Lilith didn’t turn her. She nearly killed her. I did it to save her life.

Vlad: [amused] Always the humanitarian, you — though it is strange you would choose to burden another with an existence you clearly detest. But I must admit I’m impressed. I wasn’t sure you had it in you. Frankly, I rather thought you’d be dead or driven to madness by now. [sighs stagily] At any rate, I wish you luck. If you’re hoping to raise her in your image, you’ll need it. I can’t imagine Lilith will surrender her easily. Alas, I must go. There are other matters-

Veronica: [snarls aggressively]

Caleb: Who are you?

Vlad: Manners, darling.

Veronica: Sorry, Uncle Vlad. My dinner almost got away from me.

Vlad: [strangely paternalistic] Isn’t she a marvel?

Caleb: Uncle Vlad?

Vlad: This is my niece, Veronica. Well, cousin several times removed, but that’s such a mouthful. I’ve been trying to introduce her for some time.

Caleb: I must have mistaken that for your usual garden variety creeping.

Vlad: We have a common ancestor in my maker, though the bloodlines diverged centuries ago and hers was thought to be quite diluted. You see, after generations of tamping down their vampiric nature, their powers had largely grown dormant. But Veronica is special. She tells me her dreams led her to me. Can you believe it? [chuckles] I haven’t dreamed since I was mortal. At any rate, I’ve taken her under my wing. I have much to teach her, and she is an eager pupil.

Caleb: Good… for you.

Lilith, looking out on them from the window: He has a WHAT?!?

[superprofesh]

The Five Times Colt Seavers Almost Kisses You (and the One Time He Does) — Part 2

Pairing: Colt Seavers x reader

Description: The second time Colt Seavers almost kisses you — in which he thinks he might be losing his sanity.

Rating: T

Word Count: 2.2k

Tag List: @strangedeerconnoisseur, @icantwaittoliveandlearn, @moonlightandstarshimmer

Author’s Note: As the Colt obsession rages on, I hope y'all enjoy part 2, because it certainly was sizzling when I wrote it :D This one is more from Colt's POV, and it includes some of his inner monologue (which I loved in the film). I appreciate everyone's kind words so far and would love to hear your thoughts about this chapter! Thank you all! <3

Part 1

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Ever since the little paint-smudging incident, Colt has been, well… off.

This never happens to him. He’s a professional, he’s been working on movie sets for years, he’s known hundreds and hundreds of coworkers. But something is different. You’re different.

As he leans against the hood of his truck after filming, one leg propped on the fender as he takes a deep breath of the midnight air, Colt can’t stop replaying the events of the day before. You painting a prop sign, you laughing at his dumb jokes, you smearing red paint across his face. The steadiness of your hands, the smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. The sunbeams luminescent in your hair. The way your hand felt for the few seconds it lingered on his cheek.

Get it together, man, his inner monologue scolds him.

Colt can’t deny that he has feelings for you. You’ve been on set together for about two months now, and he sees you practically every day. Every time he performs a stunt, you’re always there adjusting the furniture, dabbing color onto the walls, rearranging props with that magnificent touch that brings every setpiece to life. Colt is amazed by your talent in your job as a set decorator, and your skill pushes him to try harder stunts each time, to try to impress you with his own skills.

But there’s one major problem that he can’t get past — he’s just not good enough for you. Sure, Colt has all the confidence in the world when it comes to throwing himself from a moving car or flashing a dazzling smile at you across the set, but he’s destined to be an unknown stuntman for the rest of his career. Your talent and dedication promises great things for your future, and Colt has already made up his mind that he’s not going to stand in your way by coming on too strong.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Even when he’s trying to be noble and keep himself from getting you distracted from your career, he’s replaying the way your eyes fluttered shut for a moment when his thumb brushed your jaw.

I’m so screwed.

Colt has just agreed with his inner monologue that he will keep his distance from you and turn all his unfulfilled feelings into protein powder when you step out of a nearby trailer, one arm over your eyes as if you’ve been crying.

All thoughts of noble detachments shatter instantly, and Colt pushes off his truck to make his way toward you. He’s relieved when you lower your arm from your face and he can tell that you weren’t crying — just so dead tired that you can barely keep your eyes open.

“Hey, Van Gogh,” he calls to you, keeping a distance of about six feet as he reverts to his usual habit of artist-nicknames. Too familiar, too familiar, abort, abort. “Too much moonshine?”

Your eyes pop open in surprise to see him standing there, but a wearied smile crosses your face nonetheless. “Too much moonlighting,” you correct him, leaning back against the art trailer with a sigh. “Gordon has been on my back all day about the props for the train station scene. I got wooden benches for a rustic vibe, but he wants metal for a grittier vibe. I painted the graffiti mural in multi-colors, but he wants it red for a sharper contrast. I spent the last week distressing the station floor so it would look lived-in, but now he wants it clean. Clean, cold, and clinical.” You bury your face in your hands, rubbing your red-rimmed eyes. “I just finished making twenty neon signs for the depot, but I don’t know if he’ll even still want them by tomorrow.”

Colt’s heart tugs seeing you so exhausted and discouraged, and he elects to ignore his previous inner monologue and take a few steps in your direction. “Sounds like Gordon is trying to direct a hospital soap opera instead of an action thriller.”

“Exactly!” You throw your hands up in frustration, letting your head loll to the side as you look at him through half-opened eyes. “I never want to see another paint roller again. Or at least not until tomorrow.”

Colt chuckles at that, taking another step closer. “It is tomorrow. It’s past midnight.” His brow furrows in concern as he watches your eyelids drift closed again. You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet.

“Right. I knew that,” you mumble. “I need some sleep.”

“I’d say you need a hibernation,�� Colt says gently, cursing himself for the way he feels the urge to reach out and touch you. “When’s the last time you got any winks?”

Your eyes roll back in your head as you try to recall. “Uhhh… Tuesday?”

Colt shakes his head. “Come on, I’ll drive you back.”

Your eyes open at that, and you automatically shake your head, swaying a little as you do so. “No, you don’t need to do that! I’ll be fine. My hotel is just a few blocks from here.”

“Good,” Colt agrees, reaching out to put his arm around your shoulders. “Then you won’t have to pay me back for gas money.”

You sigh in mock frustration but give in when he starts leading you to his truck. He can feel you leaning on him, drawing from his strength when he knows yours is depleted. Colt has to force himself to focus on the task at hand and not get distracted by the intoxicating smell of oil paints and charcoal and wood chips emanating off your skin. He especially tries not to notice the way your head naturally falls against his shoulder while he leads you to the passenger door.

Once you’ve climbed into the seat, you immediately droop forward and rest your forehead on your knees. On an impulse, Colt pulls off his jacket — his most comfortable one: the brown one with the drawstrings — and drapes it across your shoulders. He suppresses a grin when you mumble something that sounds like “hmmk hmum” but probably was supposed to be “thank you.”

The drive to your hotel lasts all of three minutes, and he parks his truck under the portico so you’ll be closer to the door. Against the pitch black of the midnight sky, the hotel looks cozy and welcoming, street lamps bathing the sidewalk in a halo of golden light.

Colt opens the door to the passenger side, a smile crossing his lips when you turn your head from where it’s resting on your knees to peek up at him.

“Are we there yet?” you mumble, eyes fluttering between open and closed.

“Just a rest stop,” he informs you jokingly, holding out a hand to help you out of the truck. You gladly accept it, so exhausted that you can barely stand up straight. Colt feels another shimmer of worry at seeing you so worn out.

With his arm around your shoulder again, Colt walks you to the hotel door, which opens automatically to let you in. His thoughts are a jumble of worry, consternation, and elation at this situation, but he breaks out of his reverie halfway to the elevator, when you start giggling uncontrollably.

“What?” he asks, basking in the way your musical laugh wraps around him like a melody. Colt, get it together. Stop romanticizing this.

You snicker again, pressing the elevator button to your floor. “I bet the desk clerk thought I was drunk and bringing you home with me.”

Colt goes stock-still at that comment, only moving again when the elevator door opens and you enter the compartment together. Your sleep-deprived brain is so addled that you barely even register the implications of your remark, but Colt’s mind instantly starts racing with his own thoughts. Be professional, don’t make a saucy joke, just play it cool, play it cool, change the subject, change the SUBJECT—

“You should call Gordon,” he suggests, so enthralled with the feel of your head resting on his shoulder that he can barely get the sentence out. “Tell him you can’t make it tomorrow. You seriously need to get some sleep.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, one that flutters across his collarbone like an autumn breeze. He swallows and turns his head the other way, using all his willpower not to completely come undone right in front of you. You have no idea the effect you’re having on him, so sleep-deprived that you’re missing any cues that would clue you in normally.

“I have to be there tomorrow,” you insist drowsily. The elevator door dings open, and Colt leads you through the opening, his arm still tight around your shoulders as you point him in the right direction. “We’re filming the train station scene, and it has to be perfect.”

“What, at the cost of your health and sanity?” Colt quips, though he can’t deny that there’s a note of seriousness in his tone.

You shake your head stubbornly. “I’m fine. This is my job. I just have to do it.” You yawn widely, stumbling a little as you get closer to your hotel door. “I just need a few hours and I’ll be good as new.”

Colt lifts his eyebrows skeptically but doesn’t argue with you. You’re pulling your room key out of your pocket, and he’s suddenly torn between the desire to run before he violates his vow of noble detachment, and the need to confess every passionate feeling coursing through his veins right now. He knows this isn’t the right time, though, and that there may never be a right time at all.

You unlock your door with a swipe but pause before going inside, leaning your back against the doorframe so you can look at Colt squarely. “Thank you for bringing me back.” Your smile steals his breath, makes him imagine a halo of stars around your face. “I couldn’t have made it without you.”

Every muscle in his body is urging him to lean forward, to close the distance between you, to capture your lips against his so he can whisper every unconfessed feeling, every gentle passion, every overwhelming longing in this silent, dimly-lit hallway. His heart is pounding so loudly in his ears that he thinks you must be able to hear it.

“Anytime,” Colt manages, his throat so tight that can barely rasp out the word. He has to clench his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to you.

You reach up to shed his brown jacket and hand it back to him, but Colt stops you by holding up his hand. “Keep it,” he tells you. Shut up, shut up, shut UP— “It looks better on you anyway.”

The golden light from the street lamps outside must be playing tricks on his eyes, because he could swear that your eyes brighten at his words. Your fingers tighten around his jacket, and all he can imagine is your fingers entwined with his, your head on his shoulder again. The way it should be.

Your eyes flicker closed for a moment, and you sway against the doorway. Colt instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand landing on your arm and holding you up for the moment it takes you to regain your balance. His skin feels like it’s on fire from this close proximity. He releases your arm so he doesn’t lose his sanity, but the touch lingers on his palm, making his heart race and his mouth go dry. His eyes flit down to glance at your lips again before he can stop them. Another moment, and he won’t have any self-control left.

You seem to feel the tension, too, lingering in the doorway when you should have said goodnight by now. He knows you’re struggling with it, and he knows it’s his responsibility as the clear-headed one to end this before it starts. His breath is rattling in his throat as he says, “Get some rest. Let me know if you need a ride over tomorrow morning.”

His voice seems to break the spell over you, and you give him a sleepy smile as you nod. “Thanks, Colt.” Your eyes linger on him for a moment more, and then you disappear behind the heavy hotel door.

Once you’re gone, Colt turns and leans heavily against the hallway wall, suddenly feeling breathless and exhausted from the intensity of what he just felt. He can’t believe he even let himself think about kissing you when you’re so dazed, but surely he wasn’t misreading those signals? Surely he felt the heat of your own gaze meeting his?

Colt sighs, trying to clear his head while he catches his breath. He can’t even entertain the idea of starting a fling with you, because his feelings have gone way too deep for a fling. He just needs to keep his distance and stop overanalyzing every moment he shares with you. He needs to get a grip on reality so he doesn’t completely ruin your friendship and burden you with any guilt. This has to stop. I’m going to stop right now, and I’m not going to think about it anymore, and I’m going to get hold of myself before it’s too late.

He hopes his inner monologue is right this time, because he knows he’s only falling harder for you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 3

[puniflash]

The Fall Guy

This movie has completely taken control over my existence, so here are the little things I love most about it, in no particular order.

The triple meaning of the title.

Colt not just being the fall guy in the sense of the stunt community, but also (almost) taking the fall for Henry's murder, and falling in love with Jody so deeply he'd basically die for her.

This is so cool, and I love the english language for it.

(Also, the little fall guy in the A? Perfection.)

The long shots.

My love for one-ers is just as big as Jody's, I guess.

The opening sequence is just so perfect.

Introducing the main characters, establishing Colt's and Jody's relationship and setting high stakes from the beginning with that stunt gone wrong.

This long shot shows you exactly what kind of movie you're gonna watch, and it's probably one of my favourite opening sequences in a movie ever.

This one is so perfect, too.

Jody trying to come up with answers for everyone, and keeping everything under control amuses me and stresses me out in equal messure.

And talking from the little personal experience I have, this sequence (and the whole movie for that matter) captures the work on set so accurately. It's truly amazing.

Long shots like this take so much time and effort to coordinate, and I just love, and appreciate it so much when movies do that. It's so impressive, and so fun to watch.

The prayer hands emoji.

Tom sending Colt nothing more than a prayer hands emoji because he just doesn't care about his well-being at all.

(I mean, he is in fact responsible for Colt's accident, so it's savage but not surprising.)

And then Colt giving that prick at his valet job the exact gesture because the guy acts like an asshole, and Colt couldn't care less about his crispy fiver.

Gold.

The script credits.

This is genius, and I love everything about it!

When you pause the movie and read everthing, you can see there are actual excerpts from the movie script, just a little modified, to fit the credits.

When I saw this for the first time it totally caught me by surprise, and now it is everything I never knew I needed.

This entire conversation.

Jody asking: "Did you fall?" is so ironic, I wanna scream.

Girl, of course he fell. FOR YOU!

And Colt is so high on whatever kind of drug they spiked his drink with, it's so endlessly funny to me.

Plus the way he just can't stop himself from telling Jody how beautiful she is over and over again, while completely ignoring her concern about his wounds.

Not to mention the extended version of this with that sponge bath discussion.

(Haven't seen the extendet cut yet but saw the scene on YouTube a milion times. I die everytime for multiple reasons.)

I could watch a whole movie of them just having a conversation like this.

Bonus:

Everytime I watch this I end up questioning my sanity, cause I feel like he spontaneously gets me pregnant with whatever it is he does here.

Every. Single. Time.

The way his eyes move from her eyes to her lips?

How Jody didn't just lose her mind, and all ability to breathe right then and there is beyond me.

Split Screen.

Another conversation that is just perfect in it's entirety.

The split screen opening exactly on the middle line of that shelf in the backround is satisfying me in a way that should put me in a mental facility.

Colt and Jody being so in sync and mirroring each other during this whole conversation, even after being apart for like 18 months is so special to me.

Colt knowing her favourite movies?

Their love for each other really is a different kind of epic.

The music matching the movie.

This is pure perfection, and I will never shut up about it.

The bottle equals the promise.

The container is turning around in an uncontrollable spin.

Also:

The Song "Dead Guy On Ice" from the original soundtrack is playing right when Colt says this to Gail on the phone.

Also, also:

"I was made for loving you" being woven into so many songs of the original soundtrack, and returning over and over throughout the whole movie in different ways.

It gives me James Bond vibes, and that just makes my heart smile.

I could go on and on about how much joy this sparks in me, everytime I watch the movie. It never fails to make me smile.

Jean Claude.

Nothing to add here, he's such a bon garçon.

Also, the fact that Colt and Jody just keep him after the happenings of the film, is probably my favourite thing ever.

(And I never knew I needed to hear Ryan Gosling speak french, but apparently it's something my body and soul desired very much.)

The post-it notes.

I am OBSESSED with this. Literally the most relatable thing about Tom Ryder. I love using post-it notes for all kinds of stuff when my brain gets overwhelmed, so this is just too real.

"FIRE MASSUSE"

"PRETEND YOU WENT TO JULLIARD"

"next role: paramedic vampire"

"is it MOMOA or MAMOA"

These are cracking me up so hard, I can't.

The cockroach story.

This seriously isn't talked about enough.

Right when I thought I couldn't fall any deeper for Colt's and Jody's relationship, they hit me with this.

Just imagine Colt on all fours, trying to usher that coakroach out of the room, while Jody just sits on the bed, telling him to get it done because she wants to start their movie night.

The domesticity this story implies is killing me in the best way possible.

You're so uncoordinated.

Another thing we just don't talk about enough is this scene right at the beginning:

This is kinda blurry but he totally bumbs her head on that cabinet behind her, and all she does is laugh it off and tell him he's uncoordinated.

And I just love the thought of Colt being this super profesh stuntman, always double-checking everything to make sure it's safe to do the stunts and roll the cameras, but going back to being so adorably clumsy the second the adrenaline rush wears off.

I will never get over this.

That's my girl.

Colt reacting like this when Gail says "That's my girl." is everything to me.

It's so cute, and you know it's exactly what he thought as well, 'cause he is so freaking proud of Jody. It's just so perfect.

"You blew yourself up!"

Tom telling Colt he's supposed to be dead 'cause he blew himself up, then proceeding to blow himself up is amazing writing, and shows how much thought went into this whole thing.

This movie is so good at foreshadowing itself, and I can't get enough of it.

Bonus:

He gets three bars on his phone, and then there are three explosions errupting.

This is satisfying my brain on another level. I can't even put it into words.

Spicy margaritas

Yet another beautiful conversation, that comes full-circle in the end.

Just casually planning a trip to the beach in the middle of the film production chaos, I love that for them.

(The way Ryan says "spicy margarita" is a beautiful thing, that haunts my dreams in the best way possible.)

In conclusion

I love this movie with all my heart, and I could talk hours and hours about how amazing it is.

There's so much more I love about it, but it's just too much to fit it all in here, so these are just the small things that make it extra special for me.

Honerable mentions go to:

- Dan Tucker, master of movie quotes, and best friend Colt Seavers could ever ask for.

- Colt Seavers' coffee side quest.

- The movie lighting a Ryan Gosling sized fire under my ass, prompting me to forget about life, and get a new obsession.

[seeingivy]

award show etiquette

actor!eren x f!reader

**part of my method acting fic, masterlist here

content: light mentions of paparazzi/stalking, SMAU!!!! hehehehe, some fun cameos (HEHEHEHE), eren being a jealous little baby, eren and y/n being so corny

an: enjoy :DDD (for some regular readers, play close attention to usernames)

previous part linked here

--

Things change in the next six months. You turn sixteen. Falco and Colt buy you a shiny acoustic guitar as a gift for you to start writing songs like you’ve always wanted. The guitar is nice, but the writing doesn’t go so well. You don’t land any new acting roles for your hiatus, but everyone else does. 

All in all, some parts of your dreams feel real, like you’re standing at the doorstep of everything that you ever wanted. But the setbacks are so debilitating sometimes it feels like you’re wasting your efforts. Plus, your dreams come with their own set of nightmares too. 

Attack on Titan truly does trend overnight - really gaining traction around the fifth episode. Whenever episodes air, almost everyone is on social media talking about it - live tweeting the scenes, commenting on how phenomenal the storyline, the acting, the costumes were, trying to guess what happens next. It was almost like a trend, becoming bigger and bigger by everyone talking about it, pointing out all the little details woven into the story, following the press junkets.

The reception of the show feels like a victory. Levi, Erwin, and Hange get praised on the daily and people fall in love with the cast fast. Despite receiving a horrendous first impression score from The Elms, they officially take away their initial criticisms and give a glowing recommendation of you after the airing of the third episode - going as far as calling you the cast member to watch out for. 

The show gets renewed for three more seasons by the eighth episode and suddenly you’re getting offers for things you have no idea about. You need a publicist, a makeup team, a personal designer, someone to control your social media presence and a manager for your next moves. Even though you're not even at that level.

It’s…taxing. You’re not really sure what you want to do next. You’re only sixteen - there’s only so much childhood left that you can cherish. But they all insist that this traction won’t come back and that you can’t fall off. There’s pressure to deliver, to keep the momentum going. 

You don’t mean to sound ungrateful. This is what you wanted, but it's far off from what you expected. Evey beyond the entire thing being stressful, it changes even the tiniest, miniscule details of your life - one’s you never even recognized as important before.

Because when you go back to school, you’re not sure what’s going on. Your usual friends treat you weirdly, people who had no idea you existed are going on about how you guys have always been great friends, no one talks to you unless it’s Attack on Titan related. And it’s not that you don’t love talking about it, because you do, but it feels weird to share and bring to your tiny little unimportant high school. 

You feel like a shiny, plastic toy, something people ogle in the hallways, but never touch or come near for posterity's sake. 

And when you leave school, there’s a flood of paparazzi waiting for you right outside, snapping pictures of you, Colt, and Falco as you wait on the block. And they follow you all the way home, taking a seat outside your house. You think it’s stalking. And surprisingly enough, the law doesn’t see it that way. 

Meaning you have to put up with the fact that they’re waiting for you every morning, following your moves like little vultures. And you’re not sure what’s so interesting about you checking your mail, but you’re advised against it, and suddenly you can’t. 

You can’t go to the park. Or the grocery store. Or even into your own backyard because in all senses of the word, they are kind of relentless. 

It feels harsh to say, but you feel like a prisoner. Like you’re watching life move on outside of you - kids biking down the pavement, Colt walking to the store, your neighbors mowing the lawn - and you never realized what a luxury mundane things like this were.

To be unknown, a face in a sea of people rather than a deer stuck in headlights, frozen where you are. Because the people you knew don’t see you the same way, and really, you’re not a stranger to anyone anymore. 

It sucks. It’s amazing. You hate it. You love it. The highs and the lows fluctuate so fast that sometimes you feel like you’re a crazy person - teetering from one place to another. Everyone loves your acting, but no one wants to sit with you at school during lunch. The paparazzi stay outside your house almost all day, everyday but you got invited to announce an award at the Savants Show. 

In some way, your feelings feel inherently wrong. Because this is some people’s dream, and it used to be yours too, but really you just want to go to the grocery store with your little brother and buy snacks. You want to talk to your friends at recess, not get asked random questions while you’re shoved into your car. 

Marco visits around the four month mark, after you confide in him that it hasn’t been the greatest. He spends a whole week with your family - teaching Falco how to play Go, Colt teaches him how to do card tricks, and the two of you spend all night talking about anything and everything. And you love him for it. Because really, you’re not the only one going through this. Sure, they were primed for this since they were little, but it’s nice to have someone who understands you by your side. 

And Eren calls you every single night, to the point where you’re both falling asleep on the phone together, his soft breathing lulling you to sleep every night. Some part of you feels guilty confiding in him, since he is on the set of a really big movie he’s filming right now, but he always assuages any guilt you have with his words.

“How was your day, Y/N?” he asks, nestled into a gray hoodie, the smallest tufts of his brown hair peeking out of the hood. 

He’s leaning against his headboard, his forearm resting against his head and his eyes shut closed. Because he’s six hours ahead of you, in Switzerland. And it’s the middle of the night. 

“Is your roommate there?” 

He laughs, his dimples appearing in the glow of the computer light. 

“He’s really mad at us about last night. He told me we need to stop giggling so late so he can get some “beauty sleep” or whatever.” 

“I don’t giggle. He must hate me.” 

“Oh, for sure. But Ry hates everyone.” 

“Rude.”

“I asked a question. How was your day, Y/N?” 

“Ah. It was okay, Eren. Same old.” 

His eyes flutter open and he leans forward, the concern washing over his eyes. And you hate when he does this, because really, it’s worse to have Eren pity you more than anything. 

“Y/N.” 

“Hm?” 

“Six days.” 

You smile, brushing down the ends of your hair. Right. Six days till you and Eren are together again. 

“Yeah. It feels like time passed by really fast.” 

“What are you talking about? It feels like an eternity since I’ve seen you. I’m not even sure what you look like anymore.” 

“Bullshit. You literally FaceTime me every single day, Eren.” 

“Still. It’ll be nice. To see you in person, to not have the Wifi lag because Coco is trying to play Roblox.” 

“He got banned the other day.” 

“For what?” 

“He censored a curse word, but still got banned because it picked it up.” 

“Rookie mistake, Falco. He can have my account if it’s that serious.” 

You both laugh, falling into a comfortable silence, as you stare at each other on the screen. The white light of the screen is doing little to illuminate Eren’s face in the dark room he’s sitting in and really, you can only make out the harsh figures on his face.

The bridge of his nose, the shape of his eyebrows, only one dimple, and his lips. And when he leans back, placing the phone on the side, as he nestles into his pillow, you put Eren to the side, typing away on your computer. When you glance over in a few minutes, he’s fast asleep, only the sounds of his breathing coming out of the phone. 

Six days.  

- 

As far as red carpets go, this has to be a memorable first. You arrive there at six o’clock, which is when the red carpet starts. Meaning the rest of the cast is already out there, getting pictures taken, doing interviews while your cab driver is Tokyo Drifting you through the streets of New York City.

The second you arrive, Mikasa’s styling team throws you into a frenzy. You’re attired into a long, flowing green dress, because the original outfit that you had picked out got lost in the airport debacle. 

Right. You would have been there on time if the universe was actually on your side for once. You were supposed to fly in on Thursday, with the rest of the Attack on Titan cast. You were all going to be staying together in a house near the awards show, so that you guys could get started on table reads this weekend before you start filming again next month. 

Except, your flight got delayed and you didn’t make it in time. And they accidentally lost your luggage in the time in between canceling your flight and scheduling you a new one. Which leaves you in your current dilemma, of walking onto the carpet an hour late. 

Somewhere in the middle of the carpet, a very antsy and anxious Eren Jaeger is doing press interviews. He’s styled in all black and a green tie, meant by his styling team to compliment the color of his eyes. He doesn’t get that entire thing, but does it anyway. 

“Do you have any news you can tell us about the next season of Attack on Titan?” 

Before Eren can respond, he feels a hand clamped over his mouth, Ymir standing behind him with a stern expression on her face. 

“Do not answer that, Eren.” grumbles Ymir, the interviewer laughing at the two of you. 

Eren rolls his eyes as he and Ymir stand side by side, the two of them answering questions from the interviewer. 

“Are you guys really friends outside of the set?” 

“No. Eren Jaeger is insufferable.” responds Ymir, Eren reaching over to smack her cheek as they both laugh. 

“Yes, we’re all really good friends. Some of us more than oth-” 

Ymir’s response is cut off by a loud sound of cheering, all of the photographers on that side of the carpet rushing to the front. And when he leans over the crowd of people to see you at the center, with all these cameras flashing at you, he can feel his heart thumping in his chest and an almost inevitable smile spreading across his face. 

It’s you. It’s really you - in real life and not on a shitty wifi phone screen but only ten feet away from him, looking like the sun. 

The entire thing is overstimulating. There’s almost a dozen camera’s flashing, all at one time. You’re trying your best to smile but all you can hear is clicking, twenty different people saying your name trying to get your attention, and your cheeks burning from keeping your smile in th3 same position as you flick your eyes around. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see it. The tufts of brown hair you have committed to memory. You look to your right to find Eren and Ymir smiling at you, the two of them giving you waves. And you turn back to the crowd, whisper a polite sorry, and run right into Ymir’s arms first. 

“Ymir, I missed you so much.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’d miss me too.” 

You pull back, every unpleasant feeling in your chest accumulating for the past six months lessening at the warmth of someone so familiar, someone you love so much gleaming at you in your arms. Ymir rolls her eyes and pinches your cheek as she walks away, leaving you and Eren standing on the carpet. 

You can feel yourself smiling really big and you try your best to will it down, but the pure anticipation and adrenaline of the event, and Eren Jaeger, really standing in the flesh in front of you, stops any efforts you may have. 

“Hi Eren.” you whisper. 

“Hi Y/N.” he whispers back. 

You lean forward and lock your hands around his neck, to which he crushes you in his hold, the two of you giggling in each other's ears as you hug each other, cheeks slightly flushed. And for the rest of the carpet, you and Eren link arms, taking turns answering the interviewers questions and taking pictures together. 

“Do you guys like each other?” 

“I mean, I sure hope Eren likes me. We are best friends and all.” you respond. 

Eren reaches forward, smacking his palm against your forehead. 

“Shut up. You know I like you.” 

You and Eren feel a sudden weight on your shoulders, and in true menace form, Connie Springer is leaning against both of your frames. He leans forward into the microphone, grinning at the interviewer as he starts talking. 

“Oh, they like each other all right. They have all these little things they do on set that none of us are allowed to do with them. Like oh, you can’t eat ramen with Y/N that’s our thing. Or oh, you can’t get slushies with Eren, we’ve been doing that since we got here.” 

You lean forward and flick Connie on the forehead, as Eren rolls his eyes. 

“Are you jealous, Connie?” you ask. 

“No. I just want some of that bitch ass ramen you guys are always making.” 

Erwin and Levi walk up, the two of them pinching Connie’s cheek as he whines. 

“Language, Springer.” Levi mutters. 

He drops Connie’s ear and places his hand in your hair, giving you a warm smile. Erwin gives you a hearty hug before the two of them walk away, meeting Hange at the end of the carpet. 

You turn back to the interviewer, you and Eren answering final questions before walking away all together. The second you get away from her, Connie’s leaning down, crushing you in a hug and lifting you into the air. 

“I missed you yesterday.” Connie mutters, his breath tickling your ears. 

“I know, I was so sad to miss it. I really missed you guys too.”  You’re not entirely sure why - but Connie, Ymir, Eren, these comforting people after six months of hellscape are enough for the air to get tangled in your throat and the warm tears to start welling in your eyes. 

Connie swings his arm around Eren as he talks, smirking at the two of you. 

“Some of us missed you more than others.” Connie grins, poking Eren’s cheeks. 

“Oh, yeah?” you ask. 

“Eren pouted all day. Looked nearly depressed when he had to eat that measly ramen bowl by himself. Stared at pictures of you on his phone.” 

“I DIDN’T LOOK AT PICTURES OF HER ON MY PHONE.” Eren responds, now yanking Connie by the ear. 

Connie rolls his eyes as he runs off, leaving you and Eren to walk the last part of the red carpet together. 

Right before you make it into the venue, you feel a tugging on your dress, to be met with two kids who must be a few years younger than you, matching smiles on their faces. You and Eren crouch down, taking in their outfits

They’re dressed as you and Eren, from the show. With perfect green capes and a red scarf. Why are they watching your show? Seems a bit gory for their age. 

“Hi. I’m Y/N.” you say, holding out your hand. 

They both excitedly shake, stumbling over their words as they start talking. 

“Hi. I-I love you so much. You-you’re both so cool and we just-we love you so much we-” the girl starts. 

“We made-made you a gift.” the boy continues. 

Eren leans forward, holding his hand out, as he gives the two of them a warm smile. 

“You guys are too kind. Y/N and I really appreciate it, truly.” 

They place two friendship bracelets in your hands, which you and Eren immediately slide onto your hands. You and Eren take the time to give each of them a hug, making sure their parents are able to snap pictures, before you head back inside. 

When you’re inside the safe confines of the theater, you look down at the bracelets. Yours is green and Eren’s is pink. The beads in the middle of yours say “attack on eren” and the beads in the middle of Eren’s say “attack on y/n” - like your matching tag names on Twitter. 

“Hey. They accidentally switched them when they gave it to us. My bracelet says your name.” you say. 

“There’s no way they would give us the wrong ones.” 

“They could have gotten nervous. Why would I wear a bracelet with your name on it when you-” 

“I’m keeping this one.” he says, with a tone so definitive you don’t even want to respond. 

You and Eren hold your wrists out to admire them, the soft beads standing out against your fancy clothes. It’s simple. You love it. 

You reach down and tangle one of your hands with Eren’s. He squeezes three times. You squeeze back. 

And for the first time in six months, you feel at ease. 

- 

“Wait so, explain this to me one more time.” you ask, being met with eleven prepared faces staring back at you. 

“These are the Savant TV show awards. There are other ones for things like movies, music, and plays. Any show that is part of this cycle has to send names in to nominate for each award. Five are selected in each category and then a select group of people in the industry, we call them the Institute, usually vote on winners.” starts Bertholdt. 

“Okay. That makes sense. Is that how they pick triple threats too?” 

Eren’s hand is still locked in yours, hidden under the pleats of your dress. He squeezes three times at the mention of a triple threat and you get the message.

You got this.

“Well, triple threats are different. They’re kind of variable and get announced randomly. Some years you can have a lot of triple threats and some years none. But when they get picked, they announce the three pieces that made them a triple threat. Then they have to do this long and personal interview where they discuss their time in the industry - good, bad, all of it - and at whatever award show is next, they pick one of the three - singing, dancing, or acting - and perform a piece at the end of the show.” explains Annie, fidgeting with the ends of her perfectly curled hair. 

“Do we have any triple threats today?” you ask. 

“No. But besides triple threat performances, there’s also other performers and an ensemble showcase. Have you ever seen one?” asks Armin, leaning forward to pull Annie’s hands down from ruining her hair. 

“No. What’s that?” 

“Basically, each year the Savants pick a show to perform for an ensemble showcase. It’s the cast of the entire show, or just a select portion of it, and they usually perform a dance or sing a song related to the show. This year, it’s the cast of Blue Lock, the soccer show?” responds Armin.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it.” 

“They’re performing that song Get Your Head in the Game from that movie High School Musical? They’re all going to do a bunch of soccer tricks on stage while they sing the song is what I’ve heard. People usually relate it to the show they’re in some type of way.” says Armin

Before the rest of them can explain more, the lights dim and you focus your head to the front, the show starting. You don’t really recognize the hosts or anyone in the room - which to you is a sign that you really should start paying attention - and you try to focus on what they’re saying. 

They’re cracking jokes about different people in the industry, which Eren explains to you in your ear as they talk. What the jokes mean, who they’re talking about, what shows they’re from. They even crack a joke about you and Eren. 

“The cast of Attack on Titan is here tonight.” 

The statement is met with an array of cheers in the room, and in true Connie and Reiner fashion, they’re both standing up for no reason, bowing to the crowd. That just garners them both a cascading sound of laughter from the audience, which only gets louder when Erwin yanks Connie and Reiner down by the ear. 

“Getting to watch the story unfold, all the twists and turns - it’s almost impossible not to pay attention to such a thrilling story. I’m sure we can’t say the same for our hosting skills, because our sweet leads Y/N and Eren have been whispering in each other's ears the entire time instead of listening to us.” 

The light flashes in yours and Eren’s faces, the two of you with widened expressions as you laugh at everyone staring you down. And when Eren says, sorry what did you say? with a confused tone in his voice, the entire audience laughs and then they move on. 

Somewhere around a third of the way into the show, the usher comes to the seats, whispering in your ear that it’s time for you to come backstage. 

Right. You’re supposed to be presenting an award with another actor. And you totally forgot. 

You turn to your right to look at Eren and before you can even express the panic, he’s already settling you down. Eren Jaeger, mind reader. 

“You’ll be fine. You just have to stand there and present the award. He’s really weird but he’s nice most of the time.” 

"What? I can’t do this, Eren. They’re all going to be staring at me and I don’t even-” 

Mikasa and Bertholdt’s hands are on your shoulder, squeezing twice as the usher leads you along. You turn back to look at Eren, and he gives you a warm smile as you try to focus on the task at hand. 

When you get backstage, everyone is in a frenzy. There are so many different crew members running around - microphones in their ears, sound-checking mics, making sure that the video on the screen stops playing on time. It reminds you of the chaos on set that you like to watch, except this is entirely more nerve-wracking because of the swarm of butterflies in your stomach. 

You tap on the guy closest to you, a boy that can’t be much older than you with pink hair. 

“Hi. I’m supposed to present the award next, do you have any idea who I’m supposed to be presenting with?” 

“Ah. That would be Ryomen Sukuna.” 

“Oh. I’ve never heard of him.” 

He frowns, squinting his eyes at you as you lean forward. You take a second to take him in more closely, his perfectly fitted suit with a black tie. You’re not sure why, but you swear you know him from somewhere. 

“You’ve never heard of him? Ever?” 

You shake your head as he starts laughing, the grin on his face so wide. And before you can ask what’s so funny, they’re pushing you onto stage, the bright lights shining in your face. You scan the crowd for Eren, who mouths it’s okay before you and him start. 

You clear your throat as you turn to the guy, who you now realize is the same pink-haired guy from backstage. 

“Wait. What are you doing here?” 

He laughs - and the entire audience does too - as he turns to you, a devious grin in his eyes. He holds his hand out, which you return, as he introduces himself. 

“Hi Y/N. I’m Ryomen Sukuna.” 

You feel your eyes widen as he lifts your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before he continues. You can feel your mind running in circles as you clutch the envelope in your hand, zoning back in to pay attention to him. 

“You know, you and Eren spend all night giggling, talking about god knows what. Of course, this asshole never mentions me.” 

And then you remember. Pink hair, Ry. Ryomen Sukuna. He’s Eren’s roommate, from the movie he was just filming. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I remember now, you’re Eren’s roommate and-” 

“You’re standing here with me and you’re talking about Eren?” 

“Ah, I-” 

“You keep me up all night by calling Eren and you don’t even know my name. And then I'm trying to have a moment with you and you're talking about another guy?” 

He's doing a bit. Right. Because from what you could tell, almost everyone who presents an award does one. Maybe this is just his. 

“I'm sorry?” 

The entire audience laughs at your words and Sukuna rolls his eyes, saying something about how hard it is to impress girls these days, as he hands you a lollipop. 

“What’s this for?” 

“The people sitting in the front row, Y/N. It’s obviously for you.” he deadpans. 

“Oh, okay that’s kind of weird. Thanks!” 

The audience laughs as you unwrap the lollipop, handing the envelope to Sukuna so you can do it properly.

“It’s about that time. Ready to read the name, Y/N?” 

You nod as you take the lollipop out of your mouth, handing it to Sukuna and you focus on ripping the golden tape on the envelope. Except as you’re opening it, the entire crowd starts laughing and you’re not entirely sure why. 

“Am I that bad at opening this or something?” 

They laugh even more, which makes you turn to Sukuna for reassurance, which is when you see it. Sukuna just put your lollipop in his mouth. Like, the lollipop with your saliva all over it in his mouth. 

“Hey! I was eating that.” 

He pops it out of his mouth and holds it in between you, smirking at you. 

“Want it back, sweetheart?” 

You take it from his hands and shove it back into his mouth - which at this point, the audience is literally screaming at the two of you - as you open up the envelope. And when you read the name and hand the award over, you and Sukuna exit the stage, bickering as you get off. 

“You’re such a weirdo freak. I did want to eat that lollipop.” 

“Then eat it. There’s still some left, sweetheart,” he says, a joking tone present in his voice. 

“You’re so gross. That’s like literally sharing saliva.” 

“We can do that in other ways too if you want.” 

“Ew. Are you always like this?” 

You both laugh as you exit the stage, back into the panic behind the curtains. As people move around you and him, taking mic boxes off, you turn to him. 

“Okay, okay. Let’s start over. I’m Y/N L/N. No more sassing me because I forgot you name.” 

He gives you a glimmering smile, holding his hand out. 

“Okay, okay. Ryomen Sukuna. Call him in the middle of the night and I will do this again.” 

As you both continue talking, a group of people join him at his side, clearly his friends. Another boy with pink hair, who looks literally identical to him, a shorter boy with black spiky hair, and two girls - one with green hair and one with brown. 

They’re all yanking Sukuna by the ears, telling him that he - as always - is doing too much. 

The boy with pink hair turns to you, the look on his face apologetic. 

“He’s always like this. Menacing. We sincerely apologize.” 

You smile, holding your hand out to him as he repeats his name and the rest of them follow suit.. Itadori Yuuji. Megumi Fushiguro. Nobara Kugisaki and Maki Zenin. 

“We’re the cast of Jujutsu Kaisen.” responds Nobara, as she flicks Sukuna on the forehead. 

“Ah. I’m one of the cast members of-”

“Attack on Titan.” they all respond in unison, smiling at you. 

After a few minutes, you’re joined by a group of your own friends - Ymir, Reiner, Marco, and Eren - as well as Levi and a taller man with white hair. 

Marco and Ymir give you warm smiles and squeezes on the shoulder as they congratulate you for doing a good job, saying that the reception was really funny and that you and Sukuna are trending on Twitter. Eren's uncharacteristically silent, brooding in the corner. Before you can mention it, Sukuna beats you to it. 

“Eren. Do you need to take a shit?” says Sukuna, leaning forward to smile at him. 

“What?” Eren responds. 

“You look agitated as fuck. Like you have to take a shit.” 

Ymir and Reiner laugh, poking Eren’s cheeks and teasing him, as you move to the side, paying attention to Levi’s conversation. 

“All they do is cuss. I need to start actually punishing them or they’re going to end up cursing like sailors in a few years.” 

“Tell me about it, Satoru. Jean is actually horrible, I will genuinely wash his mouth out with soap the next time he says fuck near me.” 

Satoru. Satoru Gojo. You may not know many celebrities, but you sure know this one. 

He’s a triple threat. 

“When I got cast on a show with a bunch of kids, I didn’t realize I was going to become a father.” sighs Satoru, grinning at the group of them as he talks. 

“You’re not our father.” the group of them respond, breaking from their own conversations to shoot him down. 

Levi laughs as he looks down at you, placing a hand in your hair as you join their conversation. Satoru crouches down to your height, smiling at you as he talks. 

“Good job. That was real funny, kid.” 

“Thank you so much.” 

“Are you as rude to Levi as my kids are to me?” Satoru asks. 

“We’re not your kids.” respond Megumi and Nobara, breaking from their conversation again. 

“He does kind of remind me of my dad! He always gives good advice on set and helps me and-” 

Levi crouches down, glaring at you. 

“I’m not your dad.” 

“Yes you are.” 

“No, I’m not.” 

Marco and Reiner walk over, holding onto Levi’s arms as they respond. 

“Yes, you are.” 

You all turn your heads to Satoru, who is now pouting. 

“They cast the wrong kids in my show. Mine are so ungrateful,” he says, leaning down to pinch Megumi’s ear, which he just returns by literally smacking Satoru off. 

You all laugh as you get directed back into your seats, as it’s time to present the next award. You wave them all goodbyes as you start walking in line with Eren, who you now realize you hadn’t talked to the entire time. His jaw is locked, an implacable look in his face. You reach down and tangle your hand with his, to which he finally looks over at you. 

“Hey. Was it okay?” 

He stops in his tracks, letting Ymir, Marco, and Reiner walk forward, as you stand in the outskirts of the curtain. 

“It was good, Y/N. Really good.” he sighs. 

“So why are you upset?” 

He frowns as he looks over at you, his mouth in a straight line. 

“It’s stupid.” 

“No it’s not, Eren. Just tell me!” 

“Imannoyedhekissedyourhand” he murmurs quickly, under his breath. 

“Sorry, what was that? It’s kind of loud in here.” 

“igotjealousseeingyouguysupthere.” he murmurs again, his cheeks turning red. 

You lean completely into his space, looking straight into his green eyes. 

“Sorry, Eren. One more time, yeah?” 

“I’m annoyed he kissed your hand! It made me jealous because that should have been me and not him and he’s just doing that because I-” 

Before he can finish, you start laughing, which stops Eren in his tracks and now he’s glaring at you. 

“Quit making fun of me, Y/N.”

“I’m not! It’s just so cute, Eren. You’re so-” 

“I’m glad you find my personal torture cute, Y/N.” 

“Personal torture? Did you get more dramatic from the last time I saw you?” 

“Imagine being me. I just watched an idiot, a real life blathering idiot like Sukuna, kiss your hand before I got to do it. And I was sitting next to Connie too. That’s so annoying and now everyone is going to make fun of me and-” 

And now you get it. He’s…jealous. Of Sukuna. From what Itadori and Maki told you, Sukuna’s kind of infamous for being a cheeky little shit, going about things as he pleases. And Eren’s feeling possessive because you’re best friends. Connie being a little bitch probably didn’t help matters either. 

You’re not sure where you garner up this uncharacteristic courage or boldness from, but you hold out your left hand to Eren.

“What? Trying to rub it in my face now? You’re worse than Ymir.” 

“No, no. Sukuna kissed my right hand. But he didn’t kiss my left, so you can just do it now.” 

You watch his eyes widen and his face turn positively red as he starts blabbering, awkwardly pushing his hands through his hair and teetering on his heels.

“Huh? What? You can’t just- you’re just saying that. This is weird. You’re-you? What? I can’t like- oh my god. What the-” 

You place one of your hands on his shoulder as you look at him, trying to muster the sweetest smile you can. 

“Eren. Please?” 

The ask makes him give in and he shakily places his hand in yours, lifting your knuckles against his mouth as he places a soft kiss in between your second and third knuckle. And when you smile at him again, positively gleaming, Eren curses your existence. He hates you for making him feel like this. 

“Screw you, Y/N.” 

“What? What happened now?” 

"You. You’re annoying.” 

You roll your eyes as you and Eren walk back to your seats, hands locked together and already met with a barrage of insults from Sasha and Annie. They’re pinching Eren’s cheeks, mimicking Sukuna taking your lollipop, the rest of them all teasing him. 

But when you look over and smile at Eren, which he returns, you both focus your heads back on the show, the speakers talking. And when Eren drives away at the end of the night, you hold onto the feeling. 

Just one more month until you’re back together. All of you, for real.

--

next chapter linked here

taglist: @platromm @k0z3me @kayleegomez @yihona-san06 @bsenpai @sweetenertea @mykyoon @violetmatcha  @rebeccawinters @cutiejg @bokutosthings @bookwrmm @mblrrr @wheredidmycrowngo @somethinginyoureyes7 @chilichopsticks @okaystopwhore @you-always-made-me-blush @itzmeme @firelordazulaaaa @whoami-72 @g-ghostly @intimacywithceline @erensmoodygf @cocomellxn @princess-ackerman @jaegerfiles @cacapeepee @squirrelspoetry @rui-0836 @moonmalice @invisible-mori

pls comment on this post or any of the chapters if you want to be added to the taglist <3

[ken-dom]

Okay, so how do you think Colt (or any other RG character for that matter) would respond to his person changing their appearance? (Whether it's getting a new piercing or tattoo or getting their hair cut or dyed.)

I've written about four Geese that came to mind for this one, starting with Colt! Mostly SFW with a few spicier hints here and there. I've written for;

∘₊✧ Colt, Lars, Holland, Driver

COLT

Colt comments on Jody's hair when he sees she's cut it. He seems impressed and kind of fascinated (perhaps because he just had his own hair cut too, but Jody doesn't know about that because she didn't see him grow it out in the first place). He would touch and admire whatever change you've made, and if it was something on your skin like a tattoo or piercing he would give it a little kiss too. Colt is very tactile, and will trace the physical things he likes about you with a gentle fingertip, including the new things (and grab you with two very big and strong hands to admire them a little more... in depth later).

LARS

When Lars is at Cindy's party, he's questioned about not wanting Bianca to cut her hair because 'guys like long hair.' He doesn't mind what Bianca chooses to do with it though, stating that she should have it however she wants it, and whilst on the surface that's an obvious and low bar to meet, for him it's coming from a genuine place of support and care for her. The same would go for any other changes you choose to make about your appearance. Lars would be happy as long as you are, and if you totally changed your look from head to toe, it wouldn't phase him at all, because you're still you. In fact, he would be very complimentary about it, shyly commenting on how the look suits you, too nervous to outright say that he likes it (but he does, and you can tell, because he's blushing like crazy).

HOLLAND

Holland probably wouldn't appear to notice for a while even if you told him, and he would not at all pick up on how miffed you are that he hasn't mentioned it. That is, until a very unexpected moment where he mutters something almost incomprehensible to you, as he passes out on your chest, about how he thinks your new look is sexy whilst and a hand wanders to explore it a little more before he's out like a light. The next day he will confirm that he noticed right away (he is a detective with a cool ad after all) and go into a little more depth about his thoughts on it. But be warned, most of the thoughts he shares end in needy, sloppy kisses.

DRIVER

Driver would immediately notice the changes you've made, but be more intrigued with why you've made them. He would remain quiet about it and wait for you to tell him, not sure how to broach the subject, but keep glancing at you with a raised eyebrow to let you know he has noticed and is awaiting an explanation. Eventually, when you mention that you've taken a trip to the hairdressers or tattoo studio, and especially if you follow up with something like 'I just felt like doing this for myself,' or, more dangerously, 'I thought you might like it,' he simply nods with a coy little smile before softly pushing you back and kissing you, languid yet forceful. One corner of his mouth pulls into a shy smile every time his eyes flit over your new look.

[heygerald]

Falling Without A Harness - Chapter 2

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. When Colt Seavers' sister, Parker, finds the professional asshole in a vulnerable moment, she decides to sideline the attitude to help. Is an asshole still an asshole if no one is around?

read the story here: prev / next

The movie was finished, and, apparently, a whole lot of people were happy and drunk over that little fact. The wrap party was currently being hosted by Gail—producer extraordinaire—and it was quite literally the nicest house that Parker had ever seen in person. White leather couches that cost more than her car dotted the living room floor, decorated with Williams Sonoma pillows, and a Versace rug that spelled the brand name out in big, bold letters. Art hung on every available space, while odd statues were placed at random throughout the living room. There was even a pair of perfectly groomed Afghan Hounds doing tricks near the conversation pit.

The opulence of it all was counteracted by half-drunken executives milling around the pool, very drunk equipment techies playing a game involving dice, a quarter, and a banana in the kitchen, and one particular Colt Seavers miserably attempting a handstand on the back patio.

"It's harder than it looks, you know," he told the crowd of onlookers as he teetered left and right. Venti swatted his shoe when it knocked into the back of her head, while Jody tried to act impressed with some half-hearted clapping. "I did this once—two hours. Could barely talk afterwards."

"Two hours?" she echoed; half doubt, half amusement. "That sounds almost impossible."

"Heh, well, nothing is impossible if you believe hard enough. You're the only one who gets to decide what you will be remembered for."

"Is that written on a poster somewhere?"

"Uh, not exactly—"

Colt's peacocking was cut short when an unfortunately timed sneezed caused the stuntman to lose his balance. He swung his legs wildly in an overcorrection that ended up knocking a full glass of Chardonnay right onto Parker's lap.

She responded in true sisterly fashion: by promptly shoving him as hard as she could on the hip with the toe of her shoe. And though his literal job was to know how to take a fall, the entire patio got to watch as he went ass over face into a nearby potted plant.

Alcohol, a nice sunny evening, good music, and better food made the fiasco a spectacle, and everyone keeled forward at the waist in laughter. Jody, bless her, did her best to muffle her giggles behind her hat while Colt awkwardly floundered on the ground. Parker didn't have such restrictions.

"It was a Taylor Swift quote, actually," she told the camerawoman. It wasn't as funny when she noticed the damage to her pants, and with a sigh she attempted to blot the wet spot with Venti's crumpled napkin. "These are brand new jeans, you ass."

Colt popped back onto his feet with a flushed face. A pair of executives raised their eyebrows at him curiously, and in response he offered his typical awkward smile and wave combo. "What did I tell you about being cool?" he hissed at his sister.

"You're the one attempting cheap Cirque-de-Solei acts on Gail's back deck," she tutted.

"You're not even supposed to be here," he whined while plopping himself down beside Jody. She pretended to sympathize by offering a pat on the back. "How are you even here? You didn't even work on the movie!"

Parker shrugged. "Dan brought me as his plus-one."

"His—? I didn't even get a plus-one!"

"Maybe because you do stupid stuff like a handstand in the middle of a crowded party," she sniped. Colt didn't rise to the bait, however, and instead slumped onto Jody's lap with a long-suffering sigh.

"S'not fair," he muttered into her leg, words half smothered by the denim. "This is my first big party, and you just happen to be invited as well. Oh, the misery."

Parker blew a raspberry.

Colt batted his eyes at Jody and she conceded with an easygoing smile. "I didn't get a plus-one either, babe. But you know what? If I did, I would haven't wanted to bring anyone but you," she cooed while tapping him on the nose.

And—god, it actually worked.

Colt's entire face broke out into a starry-eyed smile.

Parker, still wet and now grossed out, decided that was as fine a time as any to excuse herself. "Well that's officially disgusting. I'm going to try to find a hair dryer and see if I can't dry this before it stains or I throw up."

"There's a loo by the kitchen," Jody pointed.

Colt popped up out of her lap, his tantrum already forgotten about. "Oh, hey! Will you get me another beer? Something cold, domestic maybe. A bud light if they have it. If not, I'm cool with whatever is on tap."

She blinked at her brother. Once, twice, three times.

"Yeah," she shook her head at him. "And I'm the embarrassing one."

"What'd I say?"

Both women promptly ignored that as she asked if Jody wanted something, but the camerawoman was still working on her very much un-spilled glass of wine and therefore didn't need anything. Venti made a general request for some snacks, which Dan quickly seconded.

Parker gave them a thumbs-up before heading inside. The mansion was no less shocking the second time she traipsed through it, but it was certainly more daunting to brave without her date, brother, or Jody and with a giant wine stain near her crotch.

No one seemed to notice her discomfort, however. There were plenty other things to occupy their attention. Between the caterers walking around with trays of fancy finger foods and freshly made mojitos there wasn't any reason to take note of the unfamiliar face in the crowd. She wound her way past whatever game was happening on the kitchen island towards where Jody had said the bathroom was. Unfortunately, the free food and alcohol did seem to have a penance; the line was seven women long.

"Wine?" a waiter offered on a silver tray.

"No thanks, I'm still wearing my last glass off," she joked with a dry smile. The kid followed her line of sight to the large wet spot on her pants and went bright pink.

Still, it couldn't have been the worst thing she had seen before, and with a modicum of professionalism that impressed Parker, she pulled forward a second tray with a variety of fun colored drinks. The one closest smelled of coconut and had a cute umbrella sticking out of it.

"Piña colada?" she asked.

"...yup."

Parker grabbed a glass and didn't hesitate to take a large gulp. And—damn.

Thank you Gail Meyer.

The waitress then leaned closer, glancing pointedly at the bathroom and then Parker's jeans, before saying, "there's two more bathrooms upstairs that are open for guests."

Channeling Jody, Parker grinned. "Brills," she chirped.

She felt a little bad that she didn't have any money to tip the kid, but before she could try to work something out, the redhead was already drifting off through the crowd to offer the other guests her variety of drinks.

"Brills indeed," she said again, even more pleased.

Following suit, she wound through the crowds of people until she reached a large staircase. From there, the crowds seemed to thin out considerably.

A few people sat in conversation at the foyer at the top; a beautiful blonde woman that was the lead actress in the film was chatting with some friends. She was utterly gorgeous, with pearly skin and silken hair, and without even looking where she was going Parker covered her pants with her hand and darted to the hallway on her right.

The first door revealed a linen room with a washer/dryer set that she half considered smuggling out when she left later that night. The second a yoga studio. The third was locked.

The fourth door was tucked all the way on the end of the hallway, hidden between a glass statue of a pelican and a snake plant that was taller than her. It wasn't locked—in fact, whoever had previously been inside had left the door ajar.

Parker stuck her head inside, and was ecstatic to realize it was a bathroom.

A nice one, she thought while stepping inside.

There was a marble counter with a large white sink, a mirror with LED lights, a beautiful tile floor, a clawfoot tub next to a large window that overlooked the back yard, edited photos of Gail on every wall, plants hanging from the ceiling, candles propped across floating shelves, a stunning white rug of questionable descent, and—

Tom Ryder. Hunched over a toilet. Puking.

"Shit."

The sound of her voice echoed in the nearly silent bathroom. Tom jerked upwards, all red flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, and though it took him a moment to realize just who had walked in on him, he didn't manage so much as a glare before he was retching into the toilet bowl.

"Uh, fuck, um—do you—I can totally come back. Sorry. Sorry!" she said, panicked, backtracking towards the door before she not so smoothly slipped on said rug. Parker hit the ground with a squeak, and her piña colada only added to the wet spot on her pants. "Fuck!"

The hurling stopped for a moment as he took in a large, calming breath. And the sudden awkwardness of it all had her freezing in place on the ground, staring.

Always fucking staring when it came to Tom Ryder. Never able to look away.

The white button down he had arrived wearing was discarded haphazardly near the rug. His ripped jeans were bunched on the calves, shoes nowhere to be found, while sweat-dampened tufts of hair were plastered to his forehead.

He looked... well, awful.

Which was a far cry from the first time she had ever seen him on the set, and the three or four times after that in which the pair had equally unfortunate run-ins with one another. Every single one had been filled with witty barbs and well-placed insults. Mostly on her part. Tom seemed to prefer the approach of generally being an asshole in everything he said, did, and thought. It came natural to him, really, and just like their introduction it always ended with Colt playing referee to keep the two from drawing blood.

Well. Colt was nowhere to be seen, and Tom was already down.

Suffice to say Parker certainly had the upper hand if they were going to fight.

But—well, fuck. The dude was lying on the bathroom floor at his producer's house during a party that was practically being thrown in his honor.

Alone. Sick. And looking a little too close to death for comfort.

"Ah, fuck," Parker seconded under her breath. She set aside the cup to shake ice cubes and an orange slice off her shirt. Of course the towels were all white. Wincing, she started to pat dry her, well, everything with a side-eye in his direction. "Are you... okay?"

He scowled. Sorta. It was hard to tell when his face was half hidden in a porcelain bowl. "What the fuck do you think?"

"I don't know. That's kind of the purpose of asking."

"Fine."

"You sure don't look fine."

He glanced at her, eyes darting over the wet spot on her pants to the newly wet spot on her shirt. Somehow, he wasn't too sick to roll his eyes as he pressed his forehead against the cold porcelain. "You're supposed to drink it, not wear it."

"Says the guys vomiting his drinks right back—"

The mention of the word vomit had his face turning a shade of green, and not a moment later Tom pitched forward to throw up once more.

Parker winced. She didn't have a strong stomach, and the sound alone was already threatening her own health. "...er, sorry."

"Can you go bother someone else?"

The vomiting subsided. Parker looked at her pretty pineapple glass with a despondent sigh before she filled it up with cold tap water. He didn't accept it when she offered it, however, and with a defeated sigh she set it onto the sink counter.

"I'm trying to be nice, asshole."

"Hm. Since when are you nice?"

"Well I'm pretty sure if you choke on your own vomit and die, I'll be liable as the last person to see you alive. So," she fluttered her hands at him, unsure of what to do or where to touch, and eventually Parker settled for planting her hands firmly on her hips. "Just—chill out for a moment, okay. I'm going to call Colt and have him find Gail."

"No, no, don't—don't tell Gail."

"Are you kidding? I think you might actually die, dude."

"Just don't," he snapped in a tone that left little room for argument. Of course, it was plenty easy for her sidestep the argument considering he was down for the count on the bathroom floor, but after a moment of a silent stare down, his shoulders deflated with a sigh. "I... she's going to flip. Alright? I'm fine."

"Fine?"

Tom attempted a shrug. "Bad reaction to shrimp."

Parker heard alarm bells ringing. When she spotted a nickel sized baggie on the counter those bells turned into sirens. She pinched it between two fingers while arching a brow at him pointedly. "I know giant shrimp are a thing, but I didn't know microscopic shrimp had started to gain traction."

His lack of a retort was more concerning than the vomiting.

"I think I should get you some help."

"It's not—" he started before stopping when he took too deep a breath. Something darkened in his features; mouth flattening, downcast eyes, furrowed brows. Was that guilt she saw? Or shame? "Just... relax. I took some Xanax and it... well, you know, fucked with the alcohol."

Parker couldn't withhold a snort. "Xanax? Seriously. Are you secretly an unhappy soccer mom or something?"

Whatever look had been curling his eyebrows vanished in seconds, replaced full force by a glare. "Fuck off, alright. I take them sometimes for anxiety."

"What in the hell do you have to be anxious about?" she asked.

There was a long pause. Music thrummed from outside, laughter, chatter, and shouting echoing happily in the summer evening air. The bathroom itself was cold.

Even colder when he said, "you know you can be a real asshole sometimes too."

And—yeah.

That single sentence fucked with Parker. Because upon closer introspection she realized that, shit, he was right. The guy was on the ground, throwing up, in a vulnerable state surrounded by some very powerful people that could easily ruin his career if they found him and here she was kicking him when he was down. Literally.

Pot, meet kettle. You two have a lot more in common than you think.

Disgruntled at being called out—by Tom fucking Ryder of all people—it was Parker's turn to flush red in shame. She tucked the pill baggie into the pocket of her jeans so someone else wouldn't stumble upon it and his piss poor excuse, before sticking her head out into the hallway. Whatever was going on in the landing seemed to be keeping everyone occupied, and the noise wafting from downstairs made it clear that the party would continue with or without her.

Satisfied, she firmly pulled the door shut. Paused. Then locked it for good measure.

The bathroom was surprisingly empty despite all of the decorations. Thanks Kim, now even Gail is part of the minimalist movement. The mirror cabinet was completely empty over then some Q-tips and an extra bar of soap, and there was no space under the sink for storage. Tutting, Parker pulled the hand towel free and stuck it under the tap.

Then, she lowered herself to his level. Physically.

Tom seemed surprised that she hadn't left. Even more so when Parker offered the cup for a second time.

"What?" he asked, a bit dumbly. Fair though, given the circumstances.

"You should drink some water."

"Can't you just piss off?"

She sighed through her nose and gently shoved the cup into his hand. "Drink some fucking water, Tom."

They stared at each other for a long moment before he accepted the cup. He shifted so that his back was now pressed into the shower so he could drink without choking. Parker took advantage to close the toilet lid, flush it, turn on the overhead fan, and crack open a nearby window.

Immediately, it felt easier to breathe.

Tom took two, small sips before setting aside the cup. Patronizing, even when he wasn't trying to be.

"Do you want me to go find one of your friends?" she asked; almost entirely because she couldn't stand not talking.

He shot her a deadpan look. "No."

"O-kay. How about some food?"

He grimaced.

"Right," she clicked her tongue. "Some soda? Ginger-ale might help with the nausea. I don't think you should take any ibuprofen right now or else I would offer some."

"What are you doing?"

"What?"

He gestured vaguely to her, to the room they were in, and then to himself. She could tell by the way that his face paled even that small use of energy was taxing, and Parker shoved the glass of water back into his palm.

"I'm just trying to help."

He harrumphed, but chanced another sip of water. "Why?"

"Because you were... right," she muttered through clenched teeth. He blinked at her through hazy eyes, and she tried not to notice the sweat dripping down his bare chest. "I was, well... being an asshole. And you need help. So."

He still said nothing. Parker tried not to feel super awkward.

After a moment of indecisive staring Tom took another sip of water before letting his head hit the wall with a soft thud. "Is this some sort of trick?"

"How on Earth is me hanging out in a bathroom with you a trick?" she scoffed.

"I don't know," he shrugged, sipped the water, and took a long, hard swallow that made her wonder if he was biting back another round of bile. Subtly, Parker propped the toilet lid open again. "Blackmail, or whatever."

What a fucking asshole, she thought.

"Just because everyone else is dying to get a picture of Tom Ryder doesn't mean that I am," she said. Her attitude did little to convince him of her good intentions if the wary look he shot her was anything to go by. Rolling her eyes, she plucked her phone from her back pocket, waved it dramatically around in the air, before turning it off. When the screen was good and black she half-heartedly tossed it aside. "Happy?"

He grumbled.

Parker huffed. Don't be an asshole, she had to remind herself while clambering to her feet. The hand towel was properly wet and cold by now. She switched off the tap and took a moment to wring out as much water as she could. Then she promptly slapped the wet towel onto his forehead with a thwap.

"What is—?"

"Just shut up and leave it be, okay? The cold water should help with the flush. Once your skin starts returning to a normal temperature, the nausea should be more manageable. I don't know anything about downers, but... it's the best I can do without getting help or using my phone," she said; adding a pointed glared at the mention of her discarded device.

He grumbled a bit louder, but didn't remove the towel. In fact, she watched his eyes flutter contentedly as he smoothed it out along his hairline. "Are you a doctor now or something?"

"On the side. I'm at A-list parties all the time. You're hardly the first celebrity I've found on a bathroom floor with an empty pill baggie."

"...seriously?"

"No. Not seriously, Tom. That was a joke."

He blinked at her. "Oh," he said awkwardly. Then, added, "wasn't that funny."

It was her turn to bang her head onto the cabinet behind her. "Well, sorry for trying to lighten the mood. I'm still a little worried I'm going to get sued or something for this."

"For spilling on Gail's mink rug?"

"That's mink?!" she shrieked, jerking around to give the rug a better glance over. No wonder it was fabulously soft. "Who the fuck keeps a mink rug in the bathroom? Shit! Do you think she'll charge me to clean it? I can barely afford eggs!"

There was a noise half between a grumble and cough, and when she glanced towards Tom he was sporting a crooked smile under the towel. "That was a joke."

"O—oh," she said. Parker glanced at the rug once more. "Well, it wasn't that funny."

"You don't know how to clean mink fur?"

With the panic subsiding from her suddenly too-tight chest, Parker returned to her seat on the ground, and glared. "I guess I skipped over that chapter in my cleaning manual."

"Is that where you learned the thing about wet rags?" he asked, subtly fixing said wet rag with a sigh. His shoulders relaxed as he settled against the shower glass, and in turn Parker tried to relax as well.

"No. I read that in an old textbook once. A physiology manual from, like, the 1930s. So, I actually have no idea if it's outdated information or not. Guess we'll find out, huh?"

"Why the hell are you reading a physics manual?"

"Physiology."

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes. Like... a lot," she deadpanned. He responded with a blank, empty, no lights-on-behind-the-curtains look. Parker pinched the bridge of her nose before decidedly moving on. "I read a lot."

"Don't you work?"

"Says the guy who reads bad scripts for a living," she retorted. His cheeks had been slowly returning to their normal color, but quickly blushed an irritable red as he scowled at her.

"My movie scripts are not bad," he shot back with just as much heat. "They're million dollar enterprises, that make quite a lot of people rich and famous. Like people here, at this party. What have you ever done?"

"Not have my face plastered on a billboard."

"Exactly."

"Yeah, and thank god for that."

"There's not a chance in hell you would ever."

"Good!"

It took them both a moment to realize that they weren't actually agreeing on anything. Parker thought having her face plastered on a billboard was a horrific nightmare that she would not be able to endure, while Tom clearly took pride in his advertisements spread all over the Hollywood acres. Somehow, though, in their attempt to insult the other, they had missed the mark entirely.

The pair shared mutual glares.

Stopped short when he turned green in the face, pitched forward, and vomited a third and final time.

"Oh, shit," she said, hands waving around and not knowing what to do other than to snatch the wet washcloth from where it had fallen into his lap. Awkwardly, Parker patted him on the back. Once, twice. "Um... better out than in, right?"

"Did you read that in a book too?" his voice echoed hoarsely from the toilet bowl.

And, well, it was such a ridiculous question to be asked while he was hurling into a toilet worth more than her car, that Parker didn't have a response other than to huff.

Which turned into a giggle. Then an actual laugh.

In an even more surprising turn of events, Tom laughed too. "S'not funny."

"No, no, actually," she corrected him to gently lay the cold towel across the back of his neck. "I think that's the funniest thing you've ever said, Ryder."

Some time passed as he focused on taking deep breaths before the nausea passed for good. As he returned to his former position against the wall, hand towel now dripping a trail down his chest, Parker flushed the toilet a second time, and folded her legs into a pretzel so she could lean an elbow on her knee. "I read a lot for work. Out of boredom, mostly," she admitted.

"Bad scripts?" he echoed her earlier sentiments.

"Bad biographies, mostly," she corrected him. He gave her an odd look, to which she shrugged. "I work at a bookstore. Er—own—a bookstore, I mean. I just read whatever I happen to find that day."

Parker wondered if Tom Ryder had ever stepped foot in a bookstore before or if he got too distracted by his reflection in the window outside.

"I don't think I've ever been to a bookstore," he said, almost as if he could hear her. The reason why remained inconclusive. "But I thought the idea was to sell books, not read them."

"Generally, yeah," she conceded with a sigh. It wasn't so funny now and she frowned at the thought of her dilapidated store with shoddy lighting and a half-functional air conditioner. "It's not exactly... well, successful. Not like your movies, anyway. I can't throw giant wrap parties for my employees because, well, I don't have any. I don't get a lot of customers so I read."

"Movies are better than books," he said.

He must have caught the irritated curl of her mouth because he made an amendment to his statement before she could argue.

"I mean," he added in the raw sort of voice one got from throwing up five times in an hour, "they make more money. It's all anyone cares about in LA."

"Yeah, well, maybe I should get a billboard."

Tom snorted. "You wish."

Parker wanted to glare, but... it was a little on the nose. The idea of shelling out money to plaster her face—or even her bookstore's name—on highway billboards went against what she believed in. She liked the idea of having a small, hole in the wall shop where lonely wanderers like herself could take solace in. That's what the shop had been in the decades before she bought it. Then again, her old boss had been all too eager to hand it off to her, and how bill days she suspected he knew that it was a dying market without a hope or a dream.

Only—LA was supposably the land of dreams... right?

"You ever read sci-fi?" he asked.

Thrown by the question, Parker had to shake the static out of her brain before it fully comprehended. "Uh, sure. Loads. There's tons of source material from the 70's and 80's that is pretty fun. They're all considered kind of hokey nowadays though so they don't sell that well."

Tom shifted the towel back to his forehead with a thoughtful tut.

He didn't seem so sickly pale anymore, and his breathing had evened out. Even his chest had dried up a bit.

How didn't he die of lack of service if he was never wearing a shirt when she saw him?

"There's this role that I want to go for, a big sci-fi thing. Gail said that I'm not right for it, though."

"Not right for it?" she echoed, scrunching her nose. "Seriously?"

He gave a half-hearted shrug. "Too pretty, she said. Which—duh—that's a given," he added. Parker responded with an over the top eyeroll, but she refrained from faking a gag. She was a little too worried that they weren't out of the woods yet, and that the sound (fake or not) would provoke Tom to start hurling again. "But it's a smart role. Intense. A great script. I think I'd be perfect for it."

"Can't you audition anyway?"

"I don't know, I—she—Gail tends to know what roles I'm good for, you know. She doesn't think I can pull off a smart, sci-fi type."

Parker snorted. "Why not? All Chris Pine has going for him is blonde hair and blue eyes and he got three movies out of Star Trek. Pretty sure you got that covered. You know, box dye notwithstanding."

Tom shot her a cross look. "I would never use box dye on my hair."

"Even better," she waved a hand at him flippantly. "Audition then."

Something weird happened then. Something so out of character and bizarre that by the next day Parker would convince herself it hadn't really happened; that it was provoked by the bathroom fumes of Febreze and vomit.

But Tom Ryder, A-lister, looked... unsure.

"Yeah, I... I don't know. She's probably right."

Sounded it, too.

Parker didn't even know how to react to that. The guy had been a grade A tool since the moment she met him, and in the several run-ins they had since, he hadn't disproven the label. He basically worshipped himself. Once, she had even caught him admiring a paparazzi photo taken of him wearing low riding swim trunks in a cheap magazine.

Seriously!

The guy loved himself, talked about himself, and never let people forget who he was! What could ever provoke a moment of self-depreciation like this?

Oh, duh. Drugs.

"Jesus, how much Xanax did you take? You don't even sound like yourself."

The question pulled him from whatever pensive moment he had been having, and Tom's response was to promptly chuck the wet towel at Parker. It landed atop her head with a smack.

She plucked it off with a grimace. Wet pants, wet shirt, now wet hair. She would have to go home after this to save herself the sheer embarrassment of being an utter disaster at her first mansion party. And by the time she glanced back over at him he was back to his normal mode of self-importance as he started to run a hand through his damp hair, singular moment of weakness already forgotten.

"Is my hair okay?"

Parker sighed.

It was nice while it lasted, she thought.

"Yeah, Ryder," she deadpanned while ambling onto her feet. She fixed her own hair in the mirror while he finished the last of his water. He actually looked close to normal—because, of fucking course he looks fine after coming down from a bad drug cocktail—and she avoided the mink rug entirely to pick his shirt up off the ground. "Your hair looks fine, Chris Pine. Your shirt is probably all wrinkled though."

"Fuck. That's Dolce & Gabbana."

"I thought it was linen," she snarked.

There was some groaning and whining as he teetered onto his own feet, and while Parker was half afraid that he might just keel over and die on her, he seemed more scandalized by the fact that she was touching his designer clothes.

Snatching the shirt out of her hands, Tom huffed, "do you even know what linen is? I thought all you knew how to wear is that polyester crap you seem to like so much."

Wow. What a fucking asshole.

It was her turn to take a deep, calming breath as he ambled towards the mirror. He didn't seem sick anymore, his breathing was normal, shoulders relaxed, and he was able to stand on his own. Somehow, even his skin had bounced back with a lively, bright sheen.

Fuck, even his back was beautiful. How did—?

A wrinkled Dolce & Gabbana shirt was slung over his back, effectively cutting off her gazing. Parker ran a hand through her hair a second time. When she glanced in the mirror, however, she found Tom smirking at her.

"Staring ain't free you know. The pap pay a lot for this," he said.

For fuck's sake! she thought as her mouth curled sourly.

Shaking herself of both her stupor and kind hearted feelings, Parker snatched her phone off of the ground. She didn't miss the way that he was ogling her back side in the mirror, and she flushed a bright shade of pink without meaning to. That only incensed his smirk further.

"Yeah, um, Tom? I did lie," she admitted, pausing in the doorway to bat her eyelashes at him as dramatically as she could. She wasn't an actress, but she was pretty sure the point got across when she cooed, "your hair looks awful."

She watched his jaw slacken in the mirror with a sharp smile, before Parker swung the bathroom door open, and made her way back to the party.

.............

And the love/hate continues.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Diplomatic Concerns. (russingon, on ao3).

When they did at last come together, it did not feel like an inevitability to Maedhros. Far easier it was to believe - to contrive - ways in which they might betray themselves, and allow their understanding to betray their people.

This, they both agreed, could not be permitted. Maedhros would have loved Fingon less, if he had been willing to brave the storm of opposition and defiance their open courtship would cause.

His people had cause, just cause to stand against it; and Maedhros had his own brothers and vassals to rule over, in less official fashion, without the benefit of official authority to put them in place if it prove needed.

They pledged their troth under the stars, a wordless promise with no bitter oath to mar it; and thereafter took the greatest care and discretion that none guessed at it.

-

It was some effort, Maedhros admitted, if only in their very secretive correspondence, written on hidden wink in the back of their official missives.

His mouth ached, his arms felt emptier - poetry, he found, spoke to him beyond the pleasure of precise meter and rhyme.

It was absurd; it was dangerous. Always he kept Fingon swept from his mind, lest some of his heart bleed through enough to be perceived; and always it was work, to keep Fingon out of the forefront of his thinking.

And it was mortifying, too. To be infatuated, to have a joy to hide, to know himself cherished and desired - he could not have bourne it to be known, not easily.

It was only some consolation to know Fingon found his pining ardor very pleasing, being that he was at too great a distance to do much with that. As a matter of fact, it made it all the more torturous.

This lasted all through the first fortnight of the autumn summit.

Maglor looked at him indulgently. “How many horses can Fingon possibly need? Nay, not at all. You must give him the best foal, and rear it by your hand, and drape it in Fingon’s raiment and colours, and teach it the signals he favours. Quality, not merely quantity! Do you hear me wasting breath on too many love songs? There must be a measure, by which things are made precious.” 

“You were song-wed by proxy fashion to an ascetic zither-master you knew from correspondence only, and met thrice every ten yéni,” Maedhros told him. 

Maglor shrugged. “Once every ten yéni was enough. It made the anticipation all the sweeter.” 

Maedhros raised all three colts to perfect training. If some of his braids were chewed away, and much of the fur of his best coats, then at least Fingon was suitably impressed.

-

None guesses at our affections, Maedhros amended on his next letter, besides Maglor, and his silence is our boon. Fingon was swift to tease him for that - and in truth he had barely bothered to hide it from Maglor.

There was little use; therefore he worried little. All the rest of his brothers held their own domains, were occupied with their duties - if it became pressing, he could always invent a new task to distract their tracks.

He had forgotten Caranthir. Caranthir never needed to be given new directions; if anything, he excelled at taking attentive initiative, especially on matters of international commerce.

“I,” Maedhros said. “Have never offered any thing, to lord or vassal, besides gifts of friendship, and diplomacy, and cunning morsels of what might attained with a better trade arrangement.” 

“Explain to me how Fingon’s newest gem-crown counts as a diplomatic expense,” Caranthir demanded.

-

Besides Caranthir and Maglor, none noticed. 

The next time they met - a well-prepared hunting retreat, and the anticipation did have a certain strain of pleasure in it - it was only some time after the first enthusiastic greetings that they found time and patience to speak at lenght about their dealings, those small or great matters they had not trusted even to set to hidden writing.

 "Did you -”

"I told none. Besides those who know."

“Are you entirely certain. Amras and Amrod keep sending me cured meats? Excellent sausages for my table, and lovely truffles. For some reason; they did not last year.”

"They are not poisoned," Maedhros assured automatically. Then hesitated. "They do like to experiment with spices and certain powders, however."

"I noticed," Fingon said, mouth curved. It was a lovely smile, better for being not amused; Maedhros suffered the rather stupid instinct to kiss his cheek. "Around the time the sugared mushrooms caused an apparition of a great mammoth grazing upon my father's head as we sat in public Council. It appeared purple to my eyes, the mammoth; also my father."

Maedhros had suffered great torments of the flesh and spirit; the image made him wince with genuine feeling. Fingolfin kept a very eclectic conjunction of lords near him, Sindar and Noldor and Avari, all of them clever, cunning, far-seeing people with an unhappy habit of keeping a wide awareness to every stray thought that they might fish out slyly round them on a wide range of space. It made Maedhros feel unusually warmly towards his straightforward, stone-silent dwarves and the fierce, scarred, closed minds that came to serve Himring. 

"You need to string them up from a high tower," Maedhros concluded. "You shall have their apologies in a season."

"Need is a strong word," said Fingon. But his mouth was twitching, more genuinely.

Through the place where their spirits pressed together he passed on the faint, kaleidoscopic memories of that afternoon - Maedhros had stifle his own crinkling eyes. It was impossible not to admit Fingolfin did look rather fetching in tints of purple; and the mammoth was very realistic.

"If you want them to redeem themselves, have them send more next year. I would rather have enjoyed them in privacy. Lalwen thought it was very amusing. Eventually; she stole the rest of the bounty, and left me none at all, which was very like her and rather a disappointment. If your brothers are found wandering the wilds naked and intoxicated, you shall find no way to prove it was her work."

"They will enjoy it too much." Maedhros thought of when the twins's nonsense had been joyful, once. And involved less paperwork. The worst of it was that they likely thought it a good gift.The twins had ever liked Fingon well enough, as much as they liked anyone outside their enclosing understanding.

Fingon turned around, with that sweeping grace that made him deadly. In a moment he had rolled them over. His hands dug into the loam around Maedhros's head; his legs tangled in him, pressing down, delicious.

There you are, he thought, directly at Maedhros. No distance at all, and his laughing mind dizzying like a windfall, a sweeping rush. You stay away too often, Russandol, even here.

"Let them," he said, voice low and warm, close enough Maedhros could feel it thrum in his own throat. He was so very warm. Maedhros's whole body felt alive under him, as if he were fresh from a battle; as if it could feel alive and joyful with no violence. "I mean to enjoy myself with a clear mind. I mean to recall you perfectly while we are apart."

-

Maedhros, rather wisely, he thought, kept any commissioned tokens away from familiar forges.

It was a marvel, the inspiration which which Curufin could contrive as an insult. In this he truly was Fëanor's heir.

I will not have any of our Father's house be known for offering substandard works, he wrote, a stiff note of parchment atop a casket.

Inside the casket was a treasure - elf-made emeralds, and rubies, fine gleaming garnets that caught the golden light from the candles and would assuredly shine beauteously strung around golden ribbons, and on the chained earrings Fingon favoured.

 Keep those Dwarven pieces away from Fingolfin and his ilk, lest he rethink our work agreements. Have you lost your sense, along with your shame? Findekáno's not the least suited to Belegost's blue-steel and sapphires, they wash him out terribly, I do not know how Fingolfin can be so tasteless in his heraldry as not to consider it.

-

Maedhros recalled a time when his brother at least pretended to attend to elvish mores, those small contrivances of decent conduct. Such as pretending at ignorance. Pretending at ignorance had been a good habit, one Huan's master remembered these days merely when it was convenient for him.

Celegorm only looked at him in a flat vulpine fashion, nostrils flaring. Worse than a smirk, worse than mischief. Maedhros had seen it turned on others often enough; he could not say he enjoyed the very unpleasant awareness with which it remind everyone of all the passionate embraces they may or may not have indulged in the wild, where a little bird might carry gossip, or a finicky squirrel pass on mockery.

It also made him rethink the wisdom of wearing Fingon's undershirt under his tunic.

"Not a word," he ordered.

Celegorm only whistled in wolf-like fashion and darted away from his swing.

The next time Fingon dared him for a swim after a lengthy ride up the hills of Barad Eithel, Maedhros quite ruined the romance of it all by insisting on raising a tarp-and-leather tent beforehand.

-

Huan had the good grace to wait until they passed each other on an empty corridor before stopping to block his path.

Oromë's hunting hound looked at him with those terribly knowing dark eyes and let out a soft snorting sound. It was not a very approving woof; a little mournful, perhaps. Maedhros did not speak Hound.

"Do not you start also," Maedhros said. His tone held little effort, as it ever did in these cases.

He had to fight the instinct to cross his arms. He refused to be easily biddable or intimidated. As a matter of principle; he had few of those, and it tended to be better to keep to those he did maintain.

Woof-woof, said Huan.

"We are all Doomed regardless," argued Maedhros.

A sniff, rather pointed. A little charming, perhaps - none of his brothers had offered, so far.

"It is very generous of you to offer," Maedhros said. "No biting will be necessary. I would rather Fingon whole as he may."

Huan licked his bad arm. Shifting ears, which, in all honesty, were insulting. 

"I am not letting myself be carried off as a mate to establish a new collective dynamic as pertaining previous intra-community competitions," Maedhros said, rather stiffly. "No, not though I was stolen from the Enemy for that purpose."

Maedhros did not speak Hound, as such; but Huan and him understood each other a little. If anyone was going to look at him with the knowledge that Maedhros would have let himself be carried off as a prize, and possibly did not dislike the notion, he would rather it was him.

"I will bring you some of that good hind meat from Dor-Lómin," he conceded, eager to bribe him away.

Huan's dog-grin finally widened. Maedhros, relieved to be free from evaluation, scratched his chin until his wagging tail was thumping the carpet. Some relatives, he thought, were harder to please than others.

-

"We have failed at every avenue," Maedhros concluded, as displeased as he could stand to be just then. "Let this be not a sign of our joined efforts to come!"

Fingon was rather less moved at their failure than Maedhros would have expected. Possibly that was the effort of the long ride to the fortress, and their - reunion. Maedhros did not want him alarmed and on his feet, as such; but he did eye his complacence a little.

"Brothers are not Balrogs. It could be worse," Fingon said, very confidently.

Maedhros lifted his head from Fingon's chest. His own eyes were growing half-lidded; his muscles too felt weary, suffused still with satisfaction. Himring's walls, warm within like a living body, rumbled faintly with the noise of their gaseous pipes. He was warm, and sated, and all in all quite in accord with the form of the world, at least for the foreseeable candle-mark.

It was only that he had not trusted messengers to pass on the news; and he had felt an urgency to share the state of affairs with Fingon for months. They had determined to be fully discreet.

"How?"

"Turgon and Aredhel might return," Fingon said promptly. His voice showed he had considered the matter at great length, and was very amused by the way Maedhros went still against him. "And be less generous with their blindness than the rest of my - our kin."

"They might not have noticed. Your father has not."

Fingon lifted himself on his elbow, and looked at him, a little pityingly.

"Beloved," he said. "Whom do you think invented the art of invisible writing?"

[cowboygunfighter5]

The gunfight was intense. My leather pants squeaked and my spurs jingled as I ran over to the tree to get a better angle. I raised my revolvers and aimed, meanwhile I could see my opponent doing the same. Bang there was gunsmoke coming out of his two .45 colts he missed. I aimed carefully and fired. Bang! Bang! my bullets slammed into his torso and he moaned loudly as he collapsed... My spurs jingled as I silently walked over to the dead gunfighter. I still had my two Colts in my gloved hands. Ready to shoot. The dead cowboy lay on his side, a little crouched. Both of his two revolvers lay beside him. There was still gunsmoke coming out of the barrel. He was an impressive sight. Nice pointy high-heeled cowboy boots with large spurs. leather chaps in thick leather. Black leather gloves and studded cowboy cuffs. A nice carved gunbelt with two holsters. All bullet loops were filled with deadly .45 bullets....

See more stories and cowboy gunfights on my youtube channel.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Some people got the impression from the Agreste family's backstory in season 5 that Gabriel lost some of his morals trying to win the approval of Emilie's parents, does that make much sense to you?

Sure. The backstory was incredibly vague, but it certainly made Emilie's parents look less than stellar. The implication that Amilie was happily married off to a monster is... uncomfortable, but I'm also not sure if that's what happened or if Amilie chose Colt on her own because he'd make her parents happy. Either way, it want a love match or a happy marriage.

The fact that Gabriel and Emilie had to go to those same parents for help with fertility treatments could easily lead to a setup where Gabriel had to become more "respectable" for them to be willing to help. However, it's just as easy to assume that Emilie's parents changed nothing about Gabriel and his corruption came from searching for the miraculous or just generally losing his path in life in pursuit of wealth or [insert other option here].

There's a whole world of options because the pointless vague backstory adds almost nothing of value to the show. It doesn't answer any of the questions we've been wanting to have answered and does very little to limit what you can do with the backstory while staying mostly canon loyal. Like did anyone actually care about Felix's childhood? Or Emilie and Amelie's childhood? Wouldn't it be so much more satisfying to finally learn about Adrien's childhood??? I've been waiting for five seasons for them to explain why Adrien was locked up and instead we get this nonsense? I am displeased.

I also wanted to know how Gabriel learned of the two missing miraculous AND how the heck he knew where to find them because it only makes sense if Fu spilled the beans! (The only person who knew that the miraculous were lost was Fu and they were lost far from the temple, so how the frick did Gabriel and Co find them or even know to go looking? The history buff inside me has so many questions about this part of the plot so, if the writers must give us backstory that doesn't actually move the story forward, then my vote is for them to give us the interesting backstory! Please? I am wildly curious how they're going to try and justify this! I know it doesn't actually matter, but at the same time it's such a massive plot hole!)

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Okay, I need this 2007 equestrian estate in Colts Neck, New Jersey. It’s about an hour from where I live, now, and it has 7bd. 8.5ba. $24.9M.

Look at the elegant entrance to the living room. 

The decor is a little stuffy, but I like the coffered ceiling and the fireplace. 

I like the family room better- nice wood ceiling and rosy walls. Plus, it opens to a conservatory.

Pass thru an alcove filled w/liquor bottles, to the barroom. 

The conservatory is that beautiful tower that can be seen outside.

Huge formal dining room with a cool ceiling. 

Look at the size of the kitchen. I like that windowed cabinet above the island and table.

Look at this smaller dining room- love the height of the fireplace and the built-ins.

The resplendent grand staircase.

The hall leading to the bedrooms has lovely wainscoating.

Huge bedroom w/fireplace. The only thing I don’t like is the ceiling. I know it’s not, but it does look like cheap suspended ceiling.

I like this bd. w/the marble floor and canopy bed.

Look at this shower with a marble bench.

Lovely guest room has a terrace.

The baths are beautiful in this home.

Wow, is this pool room classy.

Beautiful home theater.

Look 

Home gym. I’m always impressed by white equipment.

Wow, that fountain is the size of one you’d see at a public building.

Stunning gardens.

Picture perfect pool.

And, here’s where the horses live.

Nice, huh?

https://www.priceypads.com/160-horse-farm-with-25000-sq-ft-main-house-in-colts-neck-new-jersey-2/

[agoofyannoyancetolaw]

appreciation post!

I simply wanted to thank all of you, followers and mutuals- I really didn’t expect my writing to go anywhere on an website like this with thousands upon thousands of posts. It means so much to me to see every like and follow and post or @, and I am so glad I’ll have this new year to post and grow even more!

So I’ll take up this post thanking people!!

★@rodolfoparras

even when I was an anon you were so polite and kind to me! I’m always so inspired by your writing and I’m genuinely sure that you were one of the few reasons I didn’t quit tumblr months ago

★@lieutnt

you were one of the first people I followed on my sfw account and I’ve always been so impressed by your writing and all your ideas! And from that point I managed to to find your mutuals accounts and get the urge to write!

★@gazmialmagemela

your genuinely so sweet 😭, you always reblog my posts and are so fun to talk to (and also totally got me to cut my blonde hair into a Phillip graves haircut)

★@ccreekside

I think the lore and drama you create! Sure it takes up my feed- but is it worth it to smile a ton while reading it? Yes!!! And on top of that your writings always stunning

★@arthurmorgansballsack

I genuinely think your writing is so fun when it comes up on my page 😔, I don’t interact much but it’s always a nice surprise to find your account when scrolling

★@adrawinggnome

your writing is SO TALENTED RAAHHH. You always have the best ideas and do so well with ideas anons send to you! Your dragon reader and dragon price made me so happy!!!

★@fortheb0ys / @fortheb0ys2

I genuinely love your writing and when you interact! Also I remember stumbling across your blog and finding your graves theme so funny :)

★@softggh0ul & @s1nfultrash

both of you SCARE ME /pos. It’s odd to see such cool writers and people following me! It’s always so much validation to see ‘——reblogged’ or ‘——- liked’

★@miguel-owhora

I remember when your account disappeared I was SO SCARED! Your writings always been so much inspo for me and I think your theme and just overall personality is so funny! :D

★@bonesnmore

just like you, I’m scared of interacting with my Moots :((, I’ve always found your writing and your silly little green creature so cute and you seem so cool genuinely

★@colt-redfield

we haven’t really interacted because I didn’t follow you till recently, but you seem really talented and I can’t wait to interact with you more!

★@planetrhythm

I’m so sorry I didn’t follow you till now!! I’ve seen your posts and you seem super cool and I simply always forgot to go to your account to follow correctly 😭

★@transi1vanianhunger

I am genuinely so sorry I forgot to do yours! I adore your interesting writing and the music you link and your humor 🫶, I am so sorry that I didn’t remember to add someone as talented as you to this post when I was making it!

★And to all my anons, emoji or not, and followers- the times I see your asks brighten my days so much and I couldn’t get the traction I do without you!!! And to anyone I might have missed, know I am in fact writing this while very very sleepy and eepy :(

[the-guilty-writer]

The Big Game and Revelations

Agent Rossi-Reid

Anthology Masterlist

David Rossi x daughter!reader,  Spencer Reid x reader, Criminal minds x BAU!reader

Summary: A fun night out with the team turns into a case, which turns into a disaster, which turns into Rossi-Reid’s own personal Hell.

A/N: Ah, yes… this one should be interesting and after the Super Bowl I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. I did try to get this out on the night of the Super Bowl but I fell asleep trying to finish it. I think it was worth the extra week it took to write it though.

CW: Rewrite of S2E14 and E15 so it’s heavy, very minor suicidal idealation.

---

You were actually excited about the Super Bowl this year for one reason and one reason only… 

The Chicago Bears were playing.

And you had a bet with Derek Morgan. The two of you had pooled a week's worth of paperwork each… and the loser had to do all of it.

Of course Derek had his love for Chicago and team spirit on his side.

But you had Peyton Manning.

And Spencer Reid.

Before placing the bet, you had pulled up all the statistics and you and your husband spent your day off deciding mathematically, who would be the most likely to win Super Bowl XLI. Ultimately, the formula that Spencer had come up with predicted the Colts would come out on top. The next day you didn't hesitate to challenge Morgan, and with his competitive spirit and hometown honor on the line, he couldn't resist the bet.

A hopeful blow to Morgan's ego wasn't the only reason you had wagered with him, though. With a whole week of paperwork off your plate, you'd be able to take the Friday after Valentine's day off so you and Spencer could take a mini vacation.

Spencer knew this was the plan the moment you'd given him the stack of papers filled with player stats. He was looking forward to it too.

The entire team, with the exception of Gideon, was at a local bar. You and Spencer were sitting at a table with a few people you'd met, Spencer impressing them with his extensive knowledge of Star Trek. Morgan was on the dance floor, Penelope was shamelessly watching him, JJ was kicking ass at darts. You saw Prentiss bringing drinks toward a table, noticing that Hotch had even brought Haley for the occasion. Quietly, you excused yourself to go say hi to them.

Besides, it was good for Spencer to be left without you sometimes. The last few cases you’d spent more time with other members of the team. Part of that had to do with the nature of the cases, but part of it also had to do with the fact that Gideon had asked you to watch over Emily. You weren’t sure if it was as Agent Gideon who trusted your evaluation of another agent's abilities, or Uncle Jason who knew that you really needed more friends; but it meant that you’d worked with her on a few consults and even been paired together on a case.

The shift in dynamics had forced a shift in Spencer. You could see that slowly, but surely, the confidence in him at work was growing, and you loved to see it. It was in the little ways he would tease Morgan back now, or that he didn’t hesitate to bother Prentiss while she was in the middle of paperwork. Even though the ordeal with Nathan Harris had been tragic, watching Spencer take a role of someone older and wiser, yet still compassionate and still himself, showed you how much he had grown since you’d first met him.

“How are they treating you at the BAU, Emily?” You heard Haley say as you approached them.

“She means, am I being nice to you?” Hotch said.

“Actually, everyone has been incredibly nice.” Emily smiled.

“I think it’d be nice if the boss covered all our drinks tonight,” you said as you walked up beside Emily.

Haley laughed and Hotch cracked a smile. “For everyone but you, (Y/N),” he said.

You faked offense, bringing a hand to your chest before turning to the Hotchner. You knew she always got a kick out of your theatrics. “Haley, do you see how he treats me?”

Haley laughed again. “You be nice to her,” she scolded Hotch playfully. He pouted and she laughed again. “I swear you two bicker like siblings.”

Hotch was about to say something when Garcia interrupted. “Look at him move.” The 'him' in question was Morgan, and the move in question was… questionable. He hadn’t even noticed the Bears had lost. “He’s like a cat.”

“More like a dog!” You and Emily said at the same time. Both of you grinned. Gideon had truly created a monster by making the two of you work together.

“He did not ask them to dance. They asked him,” Garcia defended.

“Okay,” Emily said. “Okay, he’s a cat.”

“An alley cat,” Haley commented. You nodded in agreement.

“Come on, Haley, let’s go show them how it’s done,” Hotch said as he grabbed her hand.

“I’m game if you are!” Haley looked at you as Hotch led her away. You faked a retch, making her giggle.

“That’s so sweet!” Emily sighed a bit.

“It gets a little gross after twelve years,” you told her. “Especially when I had to listen to him pin nonstop for the first two years they dated… "Oh I never thought she’d love me, why do I have to go on a case for twenty four hours away from my love, oh why, why, why’…” You tried your best to mock young Hotch in love.

“So you and Reid won’t be gross in another eight years?” Emily asked.

You watched Hotch spin Haley around on the dancefloor, both of them simply enjoying the presence of one another. The way they moved with one another had nothing to do with acts of lust (unlike Morgan who was… being Morgan), and everything to do with knowing a person inside and out. Hotch leaned in to whisper something to Haley and she threw her head back with laughter. Her laugh made him smile.

In all the years you had known Aaron Hotchner, no one could make him smile like Haley Brooks did.

“Maybe a little,” you said, just low enough that no one could hear you over the music.

“Hey,” JJ said as she approached from behind. You could already tell by the tone in her voice what was coming next.

“We have a case, don’t we?” you said.

JJ sighed. “Yes. We do.”

---

The case was odd, to say the least. With so much evidence, the team should have been able to put a profile together easily, but things just weren’t adding up. The religious obsession combined with the technology, the dominant and submissive team dynamics that weren’t constant, the obvious organization with, what seemed to you to be, a disorganized system.

You were out in the field with Morgan when you got the text that there was another crime scene. Morgan was on the phone with Garcia. “Yeah, baby girl. Tell him we’re on our way.” He whipped the car around. 

When you arrived on the scene, you got straight to work, but just like before, nothing seemed to make sense. The religious ramblings were beginning to irritate you. You understood them enough, but you didn’t have extensive knowledge on different analysis on the passages over the centuries or know the actual wording in Latin like Spencer did. But Spencer wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“Hotch,” you called to him. “Where’s Spence?”

“I sent him and JJ to go interview someone who might know something,” Hotch told you. The vagueness of it all told you that it was probably nothing- that it was a stretch.

But hours later, the distress on Hotch’s face and the strain to keep his voice steady made it obvious to you that it wasn’t a stretch. “Hankle?”

“Hotch, what is it?” Morgan’s voice was filled with concern as well.

But when Hotch answered, he wasn��t looking at Morgan, he wasn’t looking at Gideon or Emily; he was looking at you. “JJ and Reid went to interview him. He’s the unsub.”

---

The drive to the unsub’s house was a chaotic collage of names and tactical plans, of kevlar and lights and sirens. But you hardly remembered any of it. Your mind was on Spencer.

There was always a chance that he and JJ were fine; that they realized he was the unsub and parked out of cell service, waiting for the rest of you to arrive. But there was also a chance that they weren’t fine.

When you arrived on scene, your brain kicked into a different gear- it wasn’t wife gear, but it also wasn’t Agent Rossi gear. It was a strange inbetween that you had never felt before- a collected calm caused by panic. You went with Morgan and Prentiss to the barn, only to find yourself on the wrong side of JJ’s sidearm.

“JJ,” Morgan called. “It’s Morgan, Rossi, and Prentiss. Don’t shoot.” JJ lowered her gun and Morgan did the same, approaching her. “It’s okay. Are you hurt?”

You approached JJ alongside your other two team members. Your mind was cloudy and clear at the same time, your body shaky but still. In JJ’s frazzled state she continued to talk, ignoring Morgan’s question- the one you wanted to know the answer to- where was your husband?

When Prentiss got her to slow down, telling you that they had split up and Reid took the back, you didn’t hesitate to follow Morgan out into the cornfield. There were obvious signs that someone had been dragged and then the trail stopped. You could see it in your head like a nightmare- Spencer being drug through the vegetation and thrown into the back of a vehicle.

Somehow you ended up in the house with the rest of the team, hearing, but not truly listening to what they were saying. You stood at the window, the flashing blue and red lights highlighting the streaks in the grass. The whole world was slow and blurry, but not from tears; it was from shock. You recalled the first time you ever got shot- it wasn’t bad, but the sudden impact of the bullet and the instantaneous pain that followed made it feel as though your brain had disconnected from your body. But that sensation had ended in a few minutes… this one felt never ending. That was, until, Gideon asked the question.

“Where’s Reid?”

“Gone,” you answered before Morgan could.

Your head came back to you, the shakiness of your hands stopping, something building inside you like a dormant volcano- destined to explode, but no one would see the signs until it was too late. You looked at the team. They were lined up in a semicircle, each of them looking at you with a different adverse emotion- Morgan, resentment; Prentiss, pity; Hotch, anxiety; Gideon, disbelief; and JJ; guilt.

“Spencer’s gone.”

---

You didn’t sleep that night, but Morgan was adamant that you take breaks, drink water, and provided you with many gentle squeezes on the shoulder when he walked by. Prentiss sat down with you and together, the two of you began unpacking the journals before going through them. She was less about sympathetic looks and more about action. It was a good combination for you at the moment.

The rest of the team on the other hand was… Well, JJ avoided you at all costs. Gideon didn’t actively avoid you, but he couldn’t seem to look at you and when you spoke he always left the room. Hotch up and left- driving all the way back to DC to get Garcia and then all the way back. He could have had any other agent do it, but he did it himself. You weren’t sure if it was because he didn’t trust anyone at the moment, or if it was because he needed to run.

When Gideon got the call that Hotch and Garcia were on their way, all of you gathered in the room downstairs, surrounded by boxes and journals and things that would hopefully lead you to finding Doctor Reid. That’s how you had to think of him right now; not as Spencer, your husband, of Agent Reid, your colleague, but of Doctor Reid- just some smart guy with three PhDs. You knew that it was distancing yourself from the situation, but you couldn’t help it. If that’s what you had to do, you would do it.

“Welcome to our nightmare,” JJ said as Garica walked through the door.

It might just be a nightmare to you, but it’s worse than Hell for me. You swallowed your anger and told the voice at the back of your head to shut up. You had a job to do. She shouldn’t have let them split up.

Morgan and Garcia got started in the room full of computers, JJ went to take a break, and Gideon and Emily went to do some more searching upstairs. You sat down at the table and went through more of the journals. The entries weren’t long, but there were a lot of them.

Spencer would get through these in less than an hour.

“(Y/N),” the voice was strong, but more gentle than you were used to. “You should take a break.”

“I don’t need a break, Hotch,” you told him, looking up to meet his unblinking eyes for just a second.

He didn’t argue. He knew better. “I’ll be back to check in later.”

You went back to the journals.

---

Night had fallen and it felt like you were no closer to finding Doctor Reid than you had been when the sun rose. Most of the journals were religious ramblings, and Garcia was working as hard as she could on the computer system, but it still wasn’t matching up. The profile was still a mess. The whole thing was a mess.

“Rossi,” Morgan said. You didn’t respond. He plucked the journal out of your hand. 

“Morgan-”

“I’m going to check the perimeter.”

“Okay?”

“Come with me,” he said.

You hesitated. “Okay, lead the way.”

You followed Morgan out of the house and into the night. He walked ahead of you, flashlight in hand. You had to admit that the fresh air was relieving, helping clear any residual fog from your brain. You scanned the sides of the house, the broken boards that needed to be repaired, the roof that needed new shingles, and the gutter full of leaves. Your eyes trailed downward, landing on something strange, something new…

“Morgan!” You called. You jogged over to the cellar doors, drawing your sidearm on the way.

Morgan ran up next to you. “Hey guys, I think we’ve got something!”

Hotch and Prentiss were quick to join you. No words needed to be spoken- Hotch would go in first, then Morgan, and you and Prentiss would stand guard outside. The two men entered the cellar, glocks drawn. You listened carefully, but you couldn’t quite make out all their words.

When Hotch and Morgan came out of the cellar, both of them looked disturbed.

“Anything?” Emily asked.

“We found Hankle’s father,” Hotch said. “He’s dead.”

---

It felt like time was moving at the speed of light and standing still all at the same time. You continued to be able to catch small bits of information- JJ and Prentiss were going to look into Hankle’s Narcotics Anonymous meetings, Hankle’s father had been dead for six months, Garcia was making progress on the computer system- making the day fly by and slow down all at the same time. Around noon, your brain failed you and you fell asleep at the table for just a few hours. By the time you’d woken up, the rest of the team had figured out that Hankle was living as three different people and he had a serious drug problem.

You sat in the room full of screens with Garcia, feeling absolutely like the most useless agent in the world. Of course all the progress had been made while you were asleep. You were hardly paying attention to what Morgan and Garcia were talking about when you heard Penlope’s signature “Oh my god,” and looked over to the screens.

For the past twenty four hours all you’d wanted was to see Spencer- but not like this. Never like this.

You gathered around the computers with the rest of the team, trying to keep your face as still as possible. You wanted so badly to be able to focus on what was going on- analyze the situation, the words, the background, in an effort to find out where Spencer was, but your mind couldn’t work. Not while watching this.

Then the feed cut- all the screens going blank- and any hope of finding evidence to rescue your husband was gone. You heard Morgan punch the door as he stormed out of the room. The sound brought you back to reality, and you followed him out of the room.

“Morgan,” you called to him, but he kept walking, all the way out onto the front porch and into the front yard. “Morgan!”

You and Morgan were both known to have hot heads when things got personal and rageful, but your emotions came out in loud and painful words; Morgan’s came out in kicking down doors and breaking down walls. You just stood and watched as he took a piece of wood that was laying in the yard and smashed it down on the ground, causing it to splinter into pieces. His back heaved with heavy breathing, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d be scared of him. But you did know better.

“Derek,” it was more gentle this time, and the other agent turned around to look at you. The fury and frustration now replaced with an expression of agony.

He walked up to you quietly, shaking his head just a bit. “How are you doing this, Rossi?”

You closed your eyes tight, and tears pricked at the corners. The pure pain in Morgan’s voice finally causing all the pent up emotion inside to come out. “I’m not,” you admitted.

Spencer had been in plenty of dangerous situations before- stuck in an ER with a known killer, on a train with a psychotic man with a gun, in a mansion with a bomb- but this was the first time he was somewhere completely alone. You trusted that Hotch and Elle and Morgan would help protect him.

But no one could protect him now.

Every feeling you had shoved inside came out at once, and you collapsed in a fit of sobs. Morgan caught you before you could hit the ground, pulling you so tight to his chest you almost couldn’t breath. You cried so hard it hurt- it hurt your head and your eyes and your chest and your heart. Morgan was whispering something to you, but you couldn’t hear him over the explosion of emotion you were experiencing.

When the dam gates closed and the tears stopped flowing, you gently pushed Morgan away and wiped your eyes. “I need to help get him home.”

“Then let’s bring him home.”

---

It felt strange that the team was inhabiting the house of a killer- eating at his table, using his bathrooms, sleeping on his couch- but sometimes to get in the mind of an unsub, you had to do strange things. One of those strange things was using his appliances, including his coffee maker. The entire team was running off caffeine, and you were no exception. Just as you turned the corner towards the kitchen, you heard voices, and paused.

“It’s funny,” JJ said. You didn’t think anything about this was funny. “I keep thinking, the one thing we need to crack this case is uh… well, Reid.”

You wanted to scream.

“Yeah,” Morgan responded quietly.

“You think Reid and I should have stayed together at the barn, don’t you?”

Everything in you wanted to walk into the room and confront JJ… tell her upfront that they should have stayed together and it was her fault that Spencer was missing. But you couldn’t move.

“JJ, go get some rest.” You could hear Morgan’s exhaustion… but you could also hear his anger.

“I can tell that’s what you’re thinking so-”

“I just wanna get Reid home safe.”

“But if I had his back like I was supposed to, he’d be here now.” The defense in JJ’s voice made your blood boil.

“JJ, what do you want from me?”

“I just… I want someone to tell me the truth!”

“The truth is one of you is here and one of you isn’t,” Morgan said, frustration coming through. “You gotta figure the rest out for yourself.” He walked toward where you were standing, just out of sight. When he saw you, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you with sympathy before walking away.

You walked into the kitchen, avoiding looking at JJ as you made your way to the coffee pot. It was empty. You stared at the pot as it brewed, then poured it into your empty mug, not bothering to wait until it was cool before taking a sip. Maybe if you burned your tongue you could keep yourself from saying rageful words. You went to leave the kitchen when-

“(Y/N)?” JJ said.

You shut your eyes tight for a moment and turned, looking at the blonde, but not saying anything.

“What?” You shook your head slightly, keeping your face as straight as possible.

“I-” JJ swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

You looked down and took a deep breath. “Don’t apologize to me.” You looked JJ dead in the eye, holding yourself in as much control as possible. “Apologize to Spencer.”

Without another word, you turned and left; not feeling any better, but not feeling any worse.

---

You continued working with Prentiss. Hotch and Gideon were working together- an oddity. But so was a member of the team getting kidnapped. There was a sudden sound of shock coming from the room filled with computers. You and Prentiss both shot up from your seats and quickly filed into the room where the rest of the team was staring at the screens.

Spencer’s chair had fallen over, and he laid on the floor, unmoving. You’d seen enough people who were sleeping, dead, or dying to know the difference, even on a screen. And Spencer was dead.

You’d had this nightmare before, and in every single one you instantly crumbled to the ground in a fit of sobs, fighting whoever tried to touch you or calm you down. In your nightmares, the grief was so overwhelming it robbed your body of air until your head was so light that you couldn’t think- as if your body’s survival response to such overwhelming sadness was to make it so you couldn’t think long enough to be sad at all.

But now that it was real, all you could do was stand there- eyes glued to the screen, mouth slightly agape, blood draining from your face. The feeling was impossibly numb. Your mind not processing anything, refusing to believe what you were seeing. There was no survival response to overwhelming sadness; because all the will you had to survive was gone.

You remembered a quote from Dante’s Inferno- the one book Spencer had ever made you read to him since the original was in Italian- “L’inferno e freddo”: Hell is cold.

And you were frozen.

“Guys.” You heard the voice, but your brain was still in a state of limbo. Only the sudden appearance of a man on the screen, giving Spencer CPR, was enough to snap your body from the frost.

And then Spencer was alive.

Your vision blurred as your eyes watered, relief filling your body. But it was only temporary. The next thing you knew, Hankle was speaking.

“Choose one to die.”

“What?” You weren’t sure if Spencer was still in shock from dying and coming back to life, or if he was truly asking.

“Your team members,” Hankle said. “Choose one to die.”

“Kill me,” the words came out of Spencer's mouth like a plea.

Spencer, no. Your chest tightened, your breathing taught. Just say a name, Spencer. Please don’t give yourself up to him.

“You said you weren’t one of them.”

“I lied,” Spencer said. It didn’t matter thought- the math worked somehow.

“The team has seven members. Tell me who dies.”

Just say a name, Spencer… any name.

“No.”

Hankle pulled Reid’s revolver from his pocket, pointing it straight at your husband’s forehead. “Choose, and prove you’ll do God’s will.”

“No.” Hankle pulled the trigger. The chamber was empty. A tear streamed down your cheek.

“Choose.”

“I won’t do it,” Spencer’s voice was barely audible over the video feed.

Another trigger pull, another empty chamber.

“Life is a choice.”

“No.”

Choose to live, Spence.

Trigger. Empty chamber.

“Choose.”

“I…” This time Spencer was slower to answer. He was going to choose. He had to choose. If he didn’t, he was dead. “I choose Aaron Hotchner.”

The entire room seemed to become still with shock for a moment, before everyone turned to look at Hotch- you included. The expression on his face wasn’t hurt, or at least you didn’t think so. Hotch had been so avoidant of you the past 48 hours that you weren’t sure that you could read him in this situation. He continued to watch the screen, but you continued to look at his expression.

“He's a classic narcissist,” Reid explained Hotch’s sin. “He thinks he's better than everyone else on the team.”

The wheels turned in your head, and as Hotch furrowed his brow, you could see that the wheels were turning in his head as well. He left the room quickly, and you followed after him. Hotch grabbed the Bible sitting on the table, flipping through it rapidly. You didn’t ask why.

The rest of the team filtered into the room and Hotch looked up. “I’m not a narcissist,” he said. It wasn’t defensive. You’d seen Hotch defensive before, and it was nothing like this.

“Come on,” Gideon started. “Look, you can't think anything from that. He’s not in his right mind-”

“No, stop, stop,” Hotch cut Gideon off and looked around at the rest of the team. “All right, everybody right now- what's my worst quality?”

Silence.

None of you wanted to answer that question. 

“Okay, I’ll start,” Hotch said. “I have no sense of humor.”

“You’re a bully,” JJ said quietly.

“I’m a bully,” Hotch agreed.

“You can be a drill sergeant sometimes,” Morgan said, avoiding eye contact.

“Right.”

“You don't trust women as much as men,” Prentiss said boldly. You wondered how long she’d been wanting to say that.

Then Hotch turned to you, meeting your gaze for the first time since Spencer had gone missing.

“You avoid difficult emotions,” you told him. “Instead of confronting them.”

“Okay, good.” Hotch kept his eyes on you for a moment before turning back to everyone else. “I’m all these things, but none of you said that I ever put myself above the team, because I don't, ever.” That was true. It always had been. “Reid and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism, and he knew that I would remember that, and he also quoted genesis, chapter 23, verse 4. Read it.”

JJ read the verse outloud. There was more discussion about narrowing down where Spencer might be. You hung onto every word, but you had just called Hotch out on something that you were doing yourself. You’d been burying yourself in work to avoid dealing with the terror and the pain that stirred inside you.

So instead of fighting to let you be in your normal point position when the team raided the cabin, you stayed at the back with JJ. Instead of avoiding her, you worked next to her in silence; both of you sharing a silent and desperate hope that Spencer was okay- that he was alive. When the team spread out, you stuck close to Prentiss, knowing you would need the support if something went awry and not being ashamed that, at the moment, you didn’t trust yourself to stay as steady as you needed to be.

And when Hotch helped Spencer to his feet, you let the tears stream down your cheeks. Holstering your gun, you let yourself go entirely- the relief crashing through your body. You breathed heavily, the cold air causing condensation to form. Morgan put a hand on your arm to keep you upright, and you let him.

You allowed the thoughts that had flooded your mind for the past two days to rise to the surface; that Morgan was probably the only other person in the world who shared what you were feeling right now- disappointment in Hotch for letting Reid and JJ go off in the middle of nowhere on their own, resentment about Gideon nearly getting Spencer killed, and rage at JJ because this never would have happened if one of you were with him instead.

“(Y/N),” Spencer’s voice as he said your name was barely a whisper, but to hear it in person made it real- it made everything real.

You pulled him into a hug, tears free flowing down your face. Spencer wrapped his arms around you tight, pulling you in so your bodies were as close as they could possibly be while standing upright. He buried his head in your shoulder. You leaned your face against the side of his head, pressing your cheek against his curls.

He let go of you slowly, as if you were the one thing keeping him tied to earth, your eyes locking only for a moment before Gideon walked over. You let Spencer lean on you, keeping his hurt foot off the ground.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Gideon said. “Come on.” Gideon went to support Spencer on the other side, helping him forward just a few steps before-

“Please.” Spencer looked at Gideon, but not at you. “Can I have a second alone?”

You looked at Spencer, but he didn’t look back at you, so instead you looked at your mentor. He gave Spencer a sympathetic look before locking eyes with you for just a second and walking away.

You let go of Spencer gently, your hands brushing before your bodies lost contact. He turned away without looking at you and began to limp towards Hankle’s body. You turned as well, looking over your shoulder as you walked. Prentiss was the one to help you this time- resting a gentle hand on your back to ground you.

You let her lead you back toward the SUVs, but you didn’t quite know where you were going; your mind was still full of Spencer. Then again, your mind was almost always full of Spencer- but not in this way. Never in this way.

“He’s going to be okay,” Emily said gently.

You let out a heavy breath. The clearing where the vehicles were parked was lit up by flashing colored lights. An ambulance had arrived, as had a coroner’s van. Officers were talking quietly, Hotch was pacing as he talked on the phone, JJ sat in the open trunk of an SUV staring out into the distance.

It was all over, but somehow you felt like things had only just began. 

“How do you know?” you asked her, breathing out as you did. It sounded helpless, but that was how you felt.

Emily put a hand on your shoulder, looking into your eyes. “Because,” she said- her voice was gentle, but her words were confident. “He has you.”

---

Join the tag list

taglist:

@doctorsteeb@saturnluvvr@padsfirewhisky@staygoldsquatchling02@mycoolusernamesstuff@reidstileschishiya@rory-cakes @star-wars-lover

[ninadove]

Miraculous Masterpost

Because I did not expect to write about this series as much as I did, so now my Random Ramblings Masterpost looks like a never-ending shopping list, and we can’t have that.

Generic 🦋

Miraculous’ philosophy of consent: all’s fair in love and plot [S5 E19]

A word on show-don’t-tell (Get it? A word? On show-don’t-tell? I’ll see myself out —) [S5 E18]

London Callin’ (Maybe) (We’re not sure) [S5 E24]

The Shadow Weaver-ification of Gabriel Agreste — Part 1 [S5 E26]

The Shadow Weaver-ification of Gabriel Agreste — Part 2 [S5 E26]

The Shadow Weaver-ification of Gabriel Agreste — Part 3 [S5 E26]

I love the Sentimonster Theory Canon and you can pry out of my cold, dead hands [S5 E26]

Felix Graham de Vanily / Argos 🦚

"Duusu, spread my feathers!" — A queer reading of the Sentimonster theory [S4 E26]

Felix is a little b*tch (affectionate) [S4 E26]

Taking risks in Strikeback (Get it? Risk? Strikeback?) [S4 E26]

On the beef between Felix and Chloé [S5 E18]

Felix’s masterplan was brilliant, actually [S5 E18]

Leave my fucking child alone — Part I: "There’s only one thing worse than Gabriel —" [S5 E18]

Leave my fucking child alone — Part II: A very chill rant about Adrien’s amok [S5 E18]

Reminder that yes, Colt SUCKS, but he’s not the only one [S5 E24]

On cracked rings and broken chains [S5 E24]

Surviving child abuse through humour [S5 E24]

Badass in the arena [S5 E24]

TRANSMASC. FELIX. PROPAGANDA. [S5 E24]

Plushie Parallels [S5 E24]

Felix is a ray of fucking sunshine [S5 E24]

On Felix’s wish [S5 E26]

Kagami Tsurugi / Ryuko 🐉

To wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve [S5 E18]

Cutting off contact(s) [S5 E19]

Thinking about Kagami Tsurugi ❤️ [S5 E24]

On Kagami and the cousins’ silly antics [S5 E26]

Feligami 🦚🐉

On Feligami and the (absence of) masks [S5 E18]

Beware of first impressions [S5 E18]

Feligami Fastburn my beloved [S5 E19]

Feligami Flexes [S5 E19]

It’s the way they hold hands, your honour [S5 E19]

Some Ship Bingo Ramblings [S5 E19]

Incoherent screaming over Kagami’s amok [S5 E19]

Feligami / Gabemilie parallels [S5 E19]

Pretension 🥺💜❤️ [S5 E19]

On Flairyuko and chokers [S5 E19]

The quickest prison break ever [S5 E24]

You come to MY post, you disrespect MY blorbos — [S5 E24]

A word on jealousy [S5 E24]

Finding beauty in the monstruous [S5 E24]

Feligami’s couple cosplays [S5 E24]

A word on monsters [S5 E24]

Feligami Writing Guide [S5 E24]

From queer neurodivergent child abuse survivors to lovers [S5 E24]

Draw me like one of your British boys [S5 E26]

Felix doesn’t get the monopoly of the heart eyes [S5 E26]

On defying the narrative [S5 E24]

Ryukomori x Argos… Argomori? [S5 E24]

*Fireflies from Owl City starts playing* [S5 E26]

The Marigami-to-Feligami pipeline [London]

Beauty and the Beast AU

Felix’s fanfictions

Coup de foudre

Adrien Agreste / Chat Noir 🐈‍⬛

Remember kids: necromancy bad — [S5 E26]

On the S6 Redesigns Dread™ [S5 E26]

Graham de Family 💍

Flairmidable’s formidable costume [S4 E26]

Transmasc Felix Propaganda [S5 E18]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part I: NEWSFLASH, ASSHOLES!!!!! Felix has cared about Adrien the entire goddamn time [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part II: The Path to Isolation [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part III: L’Enfer est pavé de bonnes intentions [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part IV: Sun and rain [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part V: Sun and moon [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part VI: Mirror, mirror [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part V: First draft [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part VI: Everything I did… [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part VII: Reclaiming your image [S5 E24]

The Senticousins Agenda — Part VIII: Blue roses

#LetAmelieStabABitch2023 [S5 E24]

On Felix, Emilie and Solitude [S5 E24]

On Felix, Emilie and loneliness [S5 E24]

All I’m saying is, Emilie should have been a lesbian [S5 E24]

Some thoughts on Sentisouls [S5 E24]

Adrien is a disappointment to his entire lineage (and we love him for it) [S5 E24]

Hands again! [S5 E24]

Let’s play Animal Crossing: Happy Home Paradise! [S5 E26]

A word on accents and guillotines (with a title like that how can you NOT want to click)

Aroace Adrien and Demiromantic Felix propaganda

Marinette Dupain Cheng / Ladybug 🐞

Do NOT talk shit about Marinette [S5 E26]

In defense of Ladybug’s suit [Paris]

On Marinette and second chances [London]

Kind of an accidental Lilanette post [London]

Love Square ❤️

Queer coding! Queer coding everywhere!

Chloé Bourgeois / Queen Bee 🐝

Can a bee change her stripes? [S5 E18]

That one time I accidentally made myself a Chlolila shipper [S5 E22]

Lila 🐛

London special takeaways

Master Fu 🗝️

Ah yes, the good old cycle of abuse and neglect

Lukadrien 🐈‍⬛🐍

A word on… Swear words