#I think the most stress inducing part is the clothes

[gerbu]

tragedy has struck the gerbu household (2 years since quarantine and the social effects of high school are beginning to take root)

[aliteralsemicolon]

3 days, 4 hours and 55 minutes

When Spencer doesn’t call at midnight on your birthday like he usually does, you believe he truly wants nothing to do with you because of your fight a few days prior. Until there are two FBI agents knocking on your door, neither of which are your apparently missing boyfriend. 

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER This story is SFW but mentions strong themes. It is intended for mature audiences only.  You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read. 

WARNING: Mentions of kidnapping, injuries & vague description of panic attack. Proceed at your own risk. 

Word count: 8.6K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers. 

11:57 PM

Eyes trained on the long red hand, you watch as the minutes spin around the clock hanging on the otherwise-empty wall. A century could’ve passed between the last minute and now. It sure as hell feels like it. 

11:58 PM

The movie meant to keep your mind from replaying the events from a few days ago failed its purpose before you even turned on the T.V. If the time between every minute was a century, then the last time you heard from him must have been an eternity ago. When was the last time you heard from him anyway?

“I don’t want to see you anymore. I can’t even bear to look at your face right now.”

In all your time together, Spencer had never once raised his voice at you. The fact remained even during your worst fight yet. God, how you wished he had yelled at you. Maybe then he would’ve needed less time away from you. 

“Yeah? I don’t want to be near you anyway. Not when you’re being like this!”

He was unfair. So were you. Surely neither of you truly meant what was said. You wanted to be near him so, so badly. Did he really not want to see you anymore? He must not, or Spencer would have returned at least one of the twenty four calls he ignored. 

11:59 PM

It was well-intentioned on your part. The migraines were most likely psychosomatic. Otherwise the MRI scans would’ve picked up on the issue. 

“You think I’m crazy? I am not crazy!”

“Spencer, I’m not implying that you are! I’m saying that it’s probably stress induced-”

“No! No. That’s not what you really think, is it? Go on, say what you really mean.”

“GOD SPENCER! You think that just because your mother is a paranoid schizophrenic, I think you must be one too? You’re completely reaching! You just don’t want to deal with the reality that maybe it is all just in your head!”

12:00 AM

Perhaps he did mean what he said. He’d still call though, right? If not to return one of your voicemails then to wish you a happy birthday? After everything the two of you shared together he should at least call today. 

“Leave. Please.”

“Spencer..”

“Stop. Please. Leave.”

“Wait Spence-”

Unsure of how much longer you could hold out, you uncurl from your fetal position on the sofa and reach over for your phone. Vision peeling from the wall-clock and redirecting to the photo on your lockscreen. How beautiful he looked adorned on your screen. Then again, he always looked beautiful. 

12:31 AM

‘Twelve thirty one’ read the time on your screen. The first thirty one minutes of your birthday were spent replaying exactly what you wanted to avoid. He must’ve fallen asleep. He would never intentionally miss his tradition of wishing you a happy birthday, 12AM, on the dot. “That was before you ruined everything”, your mind began. “You ruined everything”, it repeats over and over in a mantra. 

“He hates me. He would’ve called if he didn’t.” a whisper only for yourself to hear. Minutes passing you by once more as you begin your spiral into doubt and self-hatred. Tears completely stain your skin, clothes, the blanket hugging your legs. Your vision is too blurred to notice it. What you do notice is that you can not breathe. Shit. You can not breathe. 

“Five things” You can almost hear his voice whisper into your mind. “Five things”, you repeat aloud.

“Five things you can see.” As his voice begins to guide, your eyes frantically wander. “The blanket on my lap. My hands curled on top of it. The coffee table in front of me. The T.V playing across from me. The wall-clock hanging just above on the wall behind.”

“Four things you can touch” Not waiting a second before answering to the thought of his voice: “The cushion next to me. The couch beneath me. The sweatshirt I’m wearing. The rings on my fingers.”

“Three things you can hear” Tuning your focus on the sounds around you continue, “The T.V playing. The cars passing by outside. That stupid wall-clock ticking.”

“Two things you can smell” This one was always your least favourite because you had to think the hardest. You could hardly breathe a minute ago and your nose is clogged. How can you smell anything? “I can’t smell anything. I can never smell anything.”

“That’s okay. It’s okay. Just tell me one thing you can taste” . His voice was engraved in your brain. You probably couldn’t forget it if you tried. “Salt.”

Shoulders slumping into your body, you wipe the tears clouding your line of sight and dare to look up at the clock once again. If it could speak it would probably taunt you for your pathetic state. 

12:56 AM

You barely make out the time as your eyes begin to cloud again. At least you can breathe normally now. Except your head is throbbing, your eyes are sore and you’re so tired. Sinking back into your previous fetal position, you feel your body give out. As you drift off, you make one final plea for your sanity: “He probably just fell asleep. He’ll call when he wakes up.”

The pounding headache was bad enough, but the rapid pounding against your door made you want to shout violently. As if your body was now on auto-pilot, you attempt to jump up from your position on the sofa - only to not so gracefully trip over your blanket and almost face plant into the coffee table. “Fuck-AH-bitch”, you grumble just as you manage to catch yourself. “I’m coming in just a minute!” Yelling for the very impatient recipient at the other side of your door. You quickly give the clock a glance before making your way to the hallway mirror. 

2:07 PM

You aren’t vain, you’re just a decent enough human to save the person outside your apartment a jumpscare from your post-ugly-crying state. When you stood in front of the mirror and actually saw yourself for the first time today, you didn’t believe there was anything you could do to save that person. That person could be Spencer. So you gave it an attempt, regardless, quickly brushing your hair out with your fingers and wiping the dried tears from your face. Finally shuffling to the door, you take a deep breath as you unlock it. He probably just showed up instead of calling. At least that’s what you wanted to believe.

“Oh. Derek? JJ?”, instead you find two of his friends and FBI profilers, who definitely caught the disappointment in your voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey Pretty Girl. Any chance Pretty Boy is somewhere behind you?” Morgan asks, slightly concerned by your poorly concealed state.

“Hi, sorry, no, he’s not here.” You blurt out as you make eye contact with your nosy neighbour passing by. You consider inviting the agents inside for privacy, but remember that your living room shares the same messy look as you and abort that thought. 

“Can we come inside?” JJ asks for you, also noticing the unwanted eavesdropper.

“Um, sure”,  you hesitate, clearly embarrassed. “Excuse the mess, I wasn’t expecting company.” The agents share a look that you miss and follow behind as you quickly begin to tidy up a little. 

“Hey, are you okay?” JJ follows up. 

“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine. Why are you looking for Spencer here?” You were deflecting. She definitely knew that you were deflecting, but didn’t push further and for that you were grateful.

“He’s not at work and he’s not picking up his cell. So we thought he might be with you.” Morgan answers you, taking a quick glance around. 

“When did you last talk to him?” JJ cuts in.

“Uh, two days ago I think?” Your breath hitches at your first reminder of the fight you had. 

“Two days?” JJ’s brows furrow in a questioning manner towards Morgan, who looks just as confused. “Are you sure?” He chimes in, not waiting for your reply before he dials a number on his phone and rushes off towards your kitchen. 

“Yes, I’m sure…” your eyes follow him as he disappears and quickly snap your attention back towards the blonde woman in front of you. “JJ what’s going on?” 

“Exactly what time did you last see him?” She ignores your question. The slight panic in her voice is contagious and begins to shift into you. “Well I don’t know the exact time, but I’d guess some time just before midnight? When did you last see him?” 

Before she can answer, Morgan calls your name as he walks back in. “Get dressed. You’re gonna need to come back to The Bureau with us.” 

“The Bureau? Okay, seriously guys, what’s going on?” 

“I’ll explain later. JJ and I are gonna wait here while you get dressed okay?” His tone was assertive. 

“No, you’re going to explain right now actually, what the fuck is going on?” But you were too worried to care about his tone. 

He took a deep breath, clearly frustrated. “Spencer’s been missing for two days. ” Realisation spreads across JJ’s face as she puts the pieces together, “ And I think you might’ve been the last person to see him.”

3:42 PM. 

You were currently sitting alone in one of the interview rooms at the FBI Headquarters, phone in hand, repeatedly checking the time. Morgan and JJ gave you time to clean up and get dressed before leaving your apartment. None of you uttered a single word on your way here and JJ led you into this room, telling you to get comfortable and to let her know if you needed anything. 

Somebody was supposed to come in and interview you, but you had been waiting for at least twenty minutes now. The room itself was mostly empty, except for two muted couches in the middle facing each other, separated by a small table. An old rug laid under the setting and a couple of stock pictures were hung on the walls. You had taken JJ’s invitation and claimed a spot in the corner seat of one of the couches, facing the door, but sitting as far away from it as you could. 

The air conditioner was set at room temperature but everything felt cold. Spencer was missing and you were definitely the last person to see him. You felt like the worst person in the world right now. The man that you loved more than anything in the world was missing and the last thing you ever said to him was that you didn’t want to be around him. 

What did missing even mean in this situation? Did he just decide to up and disappear? That would be believable if he was anybody else, but this was Spencer. He would still say goodbye to his friends before leaving. Friends who were also his coworkers. Coworkers at his extremely dangerous job. If Spencer was missing then it wasn’t because he chose to be. Which means that there’s a strong possibility that he’s really hurt, or dead.

Your mind was filled with so many concerns and had you not heard the door handle click, you probably would’ve driven yourself into another panic attack. A raven-haired woman walks into the room and takes a seat opposite to you on the couch across yours. 

“Emily!” 

“Hey, how are you holding up?” 

“Have you found Spencer? Is he okay-” The questions begin piling out of you.

“Woah, take a deep breath okay.” She cuts off your worrisome ramble before it begins. 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” You cry out in frustration before catching your tone. You take a short, deep breath and continue, “I’m sorry. I’m just really worried okay. I’ve been here for god knows how long and nobody will tell me anything and I just really need to know if Spencer’s okay.”

Emily slightly tilts her head as she looks at you, slightly narrowing her eyes in sympathy. “It’s okay, I understand. You feel really isolated right now because you don’t know what’s going on,” she leans in a little “but the truth is, we don’t entirely know what’s going on either. All we know is that Spencer hasn’t been to work in two days and you were the last person to see him.”

You stare back at her with an apologetic look and the two of you share a brief silence of understanding. As worried as you were right now, you had to remember that Emily and everybody else in the BAU were also extremely worried. You nodded, not saying anything.

“I need you to tell me about the last time you saw him." She’s the first to break the silence.

Instead of simply responding, you stare at her blankly. You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound would come out. It was like you physically couldn’t respond. You couldn’t even let yourself think about the last time you saw him. The guilt was overbearing, it was pushing tears to well in your eyes. Sighing, you take a gulp and try to get yourself together. Eyes wandering everywhere except towards Emily.

“You okay?” She questions for the second time, giving you the same narrow-eyed look as before, but this time there’s concern behind her eyes.

You try to respond but all you can do is bite the inside of your cheek. Emily’s presence was a welcome distraction from the current situation, until it wasn’t a distraction anymore. She’d unknowingly pushed you back into the headspace you desperately needed to stay out of to keep composed. It wasn’t her fault, you knew she was just doing her job. However, right now you desperately needed her to go away or you were going to completely break down.

Then for the first time in days the universe took pity on you. It leaned into the room in the form of one colourful Penelope Garica, giving you a rushed greeting and ushering Emily out of the room.

“Hey Em, sorry to interrupt, but we need you in the conference room. By that I mean like yesterday.” Garcia turned towards you and squeaked a sad “Good to see you again, I wish it was under different circumstances.” before disappearing. Emily drops a quick “Excuse me” as she gets up and disappears after her.

You knew she would be back. For now, you had time to calm down and you were extremely grateful for that. Taking deep breaths, you check your phone again. There on your screen was Spencer, smiling back at you brightly. You glance at the time again.

4:03 PM

Your eyes instantly land back on his face. They must have stayed staring for a while; before you knew it Emily had re-entered the room. “What’re you doing there?” The sudden interruption from her voice pulled you out of your trance. “Huh? Oh-Sorry, I was just checking the time.” A half-lie. “It’s 4:17.”

No verbal response. Her only response was a look you couldn’t entirely make out as she took a seat in her previous place. “Emily, is everything okay? Did something happen?” 

“I need to tell you something and you need to listen to the full thing, okay? Spencer’s been kidnapped.” She nervously bit her lip as she broke the news to you. “Garcia pulled a recording from a surveillance camera on the street outside your apartment building.”

“What..” You interrupted, unintentionally. “What do you mean kidnapped? Outside my apartment?”

“Look. I won’t lie to you, this is bad. You were the last person to see Spencer and then he’s taken from outside your apartment-”

“Wait a minute, are you telling me that I’m a suspect?” The second time you cut her off, she leans forward and takes your hand in hers. “Listen to me. The whole thing okay? No interruptions.” Her patient tone gives you some comfort. You nod, giving her the go ahead to continue. 

“Now, in normal cases, those closest to the victim would be looked at as initial suspects. But this is not a normal case. You aren’t a suspect but you might be the key in finding him. I’m going to play the recording for you in just a minute and I need you to tell me if you recognise anything. Before I play anything though, we’re going to have to run a cognitive interview and recall your last day with Spencer. I understand that it may be hard, but if you want to help find Spencer, you’re going to have to.”

As your mind processes her words, your hand attempts to close into a fist and squeezes hers. “Emily, I can’t” are the only words you can bring yourself to say.

“Why?” She’s quick to ask in surprise. 

“Because it’s horrible, Emily. The last thing we did was fight. The last thing I told him was that I didn’t want to be around him.” You spit out before you can stop yourself. 

The woman sighs as she mumbles your name, “You can’t possibly blame yourself for this. All couples fight. You couldn’t have known this would happen. I promise you, no matter how bad you think it is, it really cannot be worse than not finding Spencer.”

Her words are blunt, but her voice is empathetic. It’s just what you needed to hear to break out of your ego. “Okay, what do you need?”

“I need you to close your eyes okay. Just listen to the sound of my voice as I guide you.” The brunette instructs. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath. “Think back to that day. What were you doing when you first saw Spencer?”

“We met at our favourite café after he got home from work. He had missed our date the night before and wanted to make it up to me. I was checking the time when I heard him call out my name from behind me.” You begin to recall.

“Okay, you turn around to see him. What’s happening around you? Is it busy?” 

“No, it’s actually really quiet compared to usual. There’s maybe four or five other people here besides us.”

“What was Spencer like? His behaviour, was he acting like he normally does when you’re together?”

“He was pretty normal at first. He just looked tired, more than he usually does. But it wasn’t until we started talking that I noticed that something was off.”

“What was off?”

“He just wasn’t present like he usually was. I could tell that he wasn’t feeling great, so I insisted we go back to his place. It was closer than mine.”

You continued recalling the events of the night. When you turned on the light as you entered his apartment, he hissed slightly. That’s when you realised what was going on. He admitted that his migraines were back after some pushing. You asked him if he’d gone to the doctors and he told you how they’d found nothing again. You sat him down on the couch, got him some painkillers and brewed some tea for him. He began ranting about how there had to be something wrong. That’s when you suggested that the migraines could be stress induced. The two of you began arguing not long after that. 

“Spence, have you, maybe, considered that the migraines are psychosomatic? Probably from all the stress you face at work?”

“What does my job have to do with this? What are you saying?”

“I’m just saying that you have a stressful job. It can take a pretty heavy toll. Stress is a common factor for migraines.”

“No, not like this. I just need to find another doctor. One that can actually help.”

“How many doctors will you see before you finally understand that it’s in your head?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry, I should have worded that better.”

“You think I’m crazy? I am not crazy!”

“Spencer, I’m not implying that you are! I’m saying that it’s probably stress induced-”

“No! No. That’s not what you really think, is it? Go on, say what you really mean.”

“What? No. That’s not at all what I’m saying.”

“But it’s what you’re thinking”

“No, it’s what you’re thinking, Spencer.”

“Don’t hold back now, just come out and say it.”

“GOD SPENCER! You think that just because your mother is a paranoid schizophrenic, I think you must be one too? You’re completely reaching! You just don’t want to deal with the reality that maybe it is all just in your head! … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Leave. Please.”

“Spencer..”

“Stop. Please. Leave.”

“Wait Spence-”

“I don’t want to see you anymore. I can’t even bear to look at your face right now.”

“Yeah? I don’t want to be near you anyway. Not when you’re being like this!”

Emily’s hand on your shoulder pulled you out of your head, “Hey, it’s okay. Take a deep breath for me.” And so you do, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Once she’s sure you're calm, she leans back in her seat and continues, “You’re doing great. I need you to go back to the café. Was there anything or any one out of place?” 

You think back. You and Spencer were sitting just by the entrance. There was another couple ordering at the counter. You could smell flowers. Not the nice, light, floral kind of scent. It was the loud, head-ache inducing, overpowering roses kind. It was coming from your left, where there were two old ladies sitting not too far from your table, lost in their own conversation. Behind them, in the far left corner, there was a man sat glaring at Spencer. You couldn’t really see the man that well but, nothing felt out of place. 

“No.” You mumble in disappointment, unable to remember anything out of the ordinary. Wait. The man in the corner. “Yes, yes there’s some guy. He’s barely in my vision, but he was glaring at Spencer. I made eye contact with him once as I entered but I didn’t think anything of it.”

“I need you to really think hard,” Emily urges, “What can you remember about this man? Any distinct details?”

“Um, he was dressed in dark clothing and wearing a beanie. There isn’t really anything that stands out. I’m sorry Emily.”

“No, it’s okay you did great. You can open your eyes now.” You do so, greeted by the sight of Emily across from you fidgeting with the tablet in her lap. “I’m going to show you the recording and I need you to tell me if you recognise anything from it.” 

She passes the tablet over and you click play. It’s a little blurry but you can see Spencer walking on the street outside your apartment building. It looks like he’s making his way over to your place. A man shows up out of, seemingly, nowhere and bumps into him. Spencer appears to become drowsy, unable to coordinate his movement at all. Thirty seconds later, a black van pulls up and that same man from before yanks your boyfriend into the van before it drives off. 

Your stomach drops. “Fuck, Emily! He was right there. He was right outside my apartment. They took him…I should’ve…oh my god..” If you thought you were gonna have a panic attack before, you were in for a heart attack now. 

Emily tries to call your attention using your name as she grabs hold of your hands, “You need to take some more deep breaths okay, panicking now is not going to help.” She’s right. Spencer has already been kidnapped, panicking isn’t going to bring him back. The video replays in your head, you recognise something.

“Wait Emily..the man - that man from the café. That’s the same man. The one who bumped into Spencer. He’s wearing the same clothes and everything. Oh my god, was he following us the whole time?” The realisation seeps through your body and shivers run down your spine. Spencer was being watched the entire time you were together. “Why did they wait? Why didn’t they just take me out and then kidnap Spencer?” 

“I don’t know the answer to that, but you’ve helped a lot. Now I’m going to go and tell the rest of the team what you’ve told me, okay? But you need to stay here.” 

“Why? I can’t just wait here forever, how is that gonna help?” you question. You couldn’t just sit here alone with your thoughts, you needed to get out. 

“Those men that took Spencer, they clearly know about you. This puts you in danger and we don’t know what their plan is. Here is the safest place for you to be. I’m going to send an agent to sit outside that door,” She points at the brown door that serves as the only entry and exit to the room you’re currently in, “His name is Agent Anderson. You tell him if you need anything at all, but you need to stay here. Please.”

You watch her stand up hurriedly and head for the door. You know she’s right. They can’t search for Spencer if they also have to worry about your safety. Getting Spencer back was the most important thing. “Okay.” You agree. “But Emily,” she turns back to look at you from the doorway, “Please bring him back, okay?” 

“We will.” She Promises. It may be an empty promise. There’s no guarantee that he’s even alive, but it's enough to keep you hoping for now. Spencer has to be okay. 

Spencer’s POV

It’s not very often a person finds themselves escaping death’s grasp. The chances of the same person escaping death twice is even less likely. Yet here I am, in the back of an ambulance, on my way to the hospital, having escaped death for the second time in my life. Hopefully, it won't cost me an addiction this time. “Rossi this is ridiculous, I’m fine!” I insisted to the older man next to me, looking over me like a watchdog. I was already aware that my injuries were serious enough to warrant a hospital visit, but I hoped that the EMT’s would ignore that regardless. I need to get back to her, I just want to hold her as soon as possible. “Sir, you need to lie back down” I hear a voice instruct from my right. Then I hear Dave from my left.

“Kid, you are not fine. The sooner we get you to the hospital the sooner you can leave. Now lie back down and let the medics do their job.” How am I supposed to stress the seriousness of the situation in my drugged up state? My girlfriend is in danger! “No Rossi, I need to see that she’s alright, you don’t understand. They got me from right outside her apartment, they know about her!” Why doesn’t he understand? “Reid, relax. She’s been at headquarters since yesterday afternoon. She’s fine. She’ll meet you there, Anderson’s driving her there as we speak.” I have to count on this reassurance for the time being, because I was clearly not getting my way anytime soon. 

Wait yesterday? “No Rossi, that's not right. What day is it? What time?” Guilt surged my veins, did I really miss the most important day of the year? “It’s Friday. Wait no, Saturday now, about uhhh,” he paused “1:43 AM.” No, no, no. “Saturday? She spent her birthday at headquarters? That wasn’t the plan!” I desperately needed to explain something to Rossi, but I couldn’t find the right words. I couldn’t even fully remember what I needed to explain. “Okay, Sir, I’m going to have to inject you with a light dose of tranquillisers if you don’t calm you down.” I hear the voice on my right say. 

“No, don’t touch me! Get away from me! Rossi-” My objections are interrupted by Rossi on the left again “Kid, you’re heavily drugged right now and you’re not making sense. You need to calm down. Just do as the nice lady says.” I’m entirely perplexed. What lady? And where am I right now? I try to make sense of my situation but my senses are suddenly taken over by a strong sense of drowsiness. I feel at peace, but something has to be wrong because I can hear rapid beeping behind me. “Sir, you need to keep your eyes open, do not fall asleep!”

Your POV

Somebody’s hand hesitantly shaking your shoulder wakes you up. You slowly open your eyes to see Agent Anderson crouching in front of you. Before he can get a word in edgewise, you start throwing out questions at the poor man and rush to sit up-right. “Agent? What happened? Did they find him? Is he okay?” The rapid fire of questions knocks your own breath out of your lungs and forces you to pause for a deep breath, allowing Anderson to cut in. “They found him! I’m not entirely sure of his condition, but he’s on his way to the hospital and so is the team. I can drive you so you can meet them there.” He stands up and walks towards the door, holding it open for you.

“Yes! Please! Let’s go!” You don’t even hesitate as you respond, jumping up from your seat and practically running towards the door. The journey from the building, to the car, then to the hospital is another blur. Spencer fills your mind, as usual, while your eyes are fixated on the time displayed on the dashboard. You watch the minutes pass the whole ride. ‘2:13 AM, 2:14 AM, 2:15 AM, 2:16 AM’ and finally as you arrive at the hospital:

2:17 AM

“You head on in, I’m going to park and follow behind you.” Anderson breaks the streak of silence. The car barely comes to a stop before you jump out and make a bee-line for the doors. You probably look like a maniac running up to the reception desk. “Hi Ma’am, how can I help you?” The receptionist asks unfazed, probably used to seeing maniacs like you. “Spencer Reid. That’s the patient's name. Where is Spencer Reid?” You pester urgently. “Just a moment please.” The receptionist smiles as she begins to type on her keyboard. She turns back to you after a few seconds, instructing you on where to go. “Thank you!” You don’t even blink after she’s done speaking and immediately head towards where you're guided. 

As you enter the waiting room, you’re greeted with the faces of his team from the BAU. “Hi! There you are!” Garcia is the first to notice you, coming in for a hug. “Hey, how is he?” you ask hugging back, no time for proper pleasantries. The rest of the team start making their way up to you one by one for a quick greeting too. “We don’t know yet, the doctor should be out soon to let us know.” Derek, the last one to hug you hello, answers. That’s never good to hear, nervousness covering your face. “Don’t lose hope, he’s going to be just fine!” Rossi interjects your train of thought before it can even begin. Damn profilers. Anderson, true to his word, shows up too. 

Feeling slightly ashamed for your rushed behaviour you apologise and thank him for his patience. He assures you that there’s no need and he understands, before Hotch sends Anderson home for the weekend. It seems like everybody in that room takes turns sitting and pacing around. Everyone except you. Your eyes are glued to the clock at the entrance, occasionally making small talk with the others. It’s officially been three excruciating days since you’ve last seen Spencer and even now, as he’s just a few metres away, you’re unable to see him. “Happy belated birthday.” Rossi whispers, taking a seat next to you. You turn to face him, slightly stunned. “Sorry?” 

“I said happy belated birthday.” He repeats. You can only return a puzzled look, unable to muster the common ‘thank you’. “Spencer. He told me, in the ambulance.” He answers your unasked question. A single tear manages to escape your eye before you sniffle and re-adjust to compose yourself. 

“How bad is it?” Your boyfriend's condition is your immediate concern. 

“You know it’s funny,” the old man ignores your question, knowing it’s better to not worry you further, “the whole ride here the kid would not stop going on about needing to be there for you. It’s like he was unable to comprehend anything in regards to himself. And now here I am, talking to you, and it’s like you’re unable to comprehend anything that doesn’t concern him.” He takes an almost dramatic pause so he can look you in the eyes, like he’s trying to pass on an unspoken message. Whatever that message was, you didn’t understand it. 

He knew you didn’t, because he continued, “even in extreme situations like this one, you think about each other before you think of yourselves. You truly love each other. So, whatever happened before this, let it go. Feeling guilty about it won’t help.” With that he got up from his seat and headed towards the vending machine. Damn profilers. You don’t have a chance to linger on his advice for too long before the doctor shows up. “Spencer Reid?”

Everybody gathers almost immediately around the doctor, waiting to be updated. “He’s got a broken rib, minor concussion, a few deep bruises, specifically around the abdomen, and other minor cuts and bruises. Other than that he’s been heavily sedated, but he’s going to be fine. He’ll be knocked out for a couple of hours, but he’ll be just fine. You’re welcome to see him now, but only two at a time please.” Almost immediately as the doctor leaves, the group turns to look at you and JJ pipes up first. “Would you like to go in first?” 

You couldn’t wait to see him before, but now the nerves were getting to you. “No. You guys go in first.” 

“Are you sure?” Emily asks. 

“We’re allowed two at a time, you know.” Derek reminds you.

“Yeah! The rest of us can take turns while you sit with him!” Garcia pipes up, softly.

“No, come on guys. He’s just as important to you as he is me. Besides I’ll be here for a while, the rest of you need to get home. I can see him after.” You reason. 

“Okay. If you insist. But if you change your mind, let us know.” Emily nods, as she begins to head towards Spencer’s room.

You were sitting in the waiting room once more, while the team had taken turns going in and out of Spencer’s room. Eyes trained on the clock, again. 

4:31 AM

Most of the team had headed home by now. You were honestly surprised they stayed as long as they did, knowing how late it was and how exhausted most of them were. The only people left besides you were Derek and Hotch. Jack was away at a sleepover so Hotch decided to stay longer, feeling responsible for Spencer. “What’s going on in that mind, Pretty Girl?” Derek now sat across from you.

“Derek!” you jumped slightly, not expecting him. “Nothings going on. Why? Is Spencer okay?” 

“You know you keep doing that. Deflecting.” He doesn’t let you get away with it this time. 

“I’m not.” You persist. 

“You are. Look, Spencer’s one of my closest friends and by extension you’re also my friend. I’m not going to force you to talk about it if you don’t want to, but just know that I am here to listen.” He persists harder.

“Derek, I just…I don’t know what to say. Not just to you, but to him. The last time I saw him, we fought. He said he didn’t want to see me anymore. I know it’s all in my head, but I can’t stop thinking about if he meant it. What if he truly doesn’t want to see me?”

“Woah, woah! Pretty Girl, c’mon. He’s crazy about you, you know that. You’re practically all he ever talks about. I can promise you that no matter how bad you think that fight was, he won’t let it ruin what you have.” The reaffirmations from Emily, Rossi and now Derek were honestly unnecessary. You were a rational person, you already knew everything they’d said to you. The emotions just overpower your rationality at times but hearing those closest to Spencer confirm was how you knew for sure that it’s true. “Thank you, Derek” You responded with a small, but confident smile.

“He’s awake.” Hotch alerts the two of you. FBI training must be heavy on sneak attacks because these fucking profilers had unbelievably light steps. You turn to face the usually monotone man and instead, catch him sporting a relieved smile. He meets your eyes directly as he speaks, “He’s asking for you.” A hopeful huff leaves you as you stand up. “Go get 'em beautiful!” Derek encourages. You thank both him and Hotch, making your way to Spencer's room. You take a deep breath as you approach the door, but before you enter, you make a final note of the time.

4:55 AM

“Hi Angel.” Spencer’s voice weakly acknowledges your arrival in an instant. Your heart feels a mix of hurt and relief at the sight in front of you. His figure’s confined to the gurney and linked with tubes to an IV drip. With every step bringing you closer to him you’re able to make out more of his injuries. Bruises on almost every part of his visible skin, an especially large one covering the surface around his cheekbone, eye and temple. Cuts on his nose, lips, arms - you bite your lip trying to hold back the tears welling you eyes again. “Please say something.” He begs, matching the same pained look as you. 

Rossi’s words were starting to make sense. While you looked at your lover in guilt over his marred state, he looked back at you with guilt for worrying you. “You look like hell.” Maybe not the most sensible thing to say right now, but you didn’t want to cry and worry Spencer further. The poor attempt to lighten the mood showed some success because you earned a light chuckle from your boyfriend. The atmosphere didn’t stay light for long though, the two of you almost instantly falling silent as you stared into his beautiful brown eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

The words fall out from both of you simultaneously. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Angel. You were right and I was being unfair.” Spencer intertwines his fingers with yours, immediately rejecting your apology. “You were,” you agree “but I was also unfair. I shouldn’t have said what I did.” He tries to sit up, wincing from the unanticipated sharp sting. This earns him a soft reprimand from you, reminding him of his broken rib and you instead use the remote to shift the gurney into a position comfortable for him to lean against. “You need to be more careful!” You whine.

“I know, I know. I just, I want to hold you.” He whines back, staring at you with his dangerously powerful puppy eyes. Those eyes were actually dangerous, you had to internally fight yourself to not give in. You opted to meet him half-way and lightly wrapped your arms around his head for a quick hug. “Don’t look at me like that. There will be no holding unless the doctor clears it.” You whispered against his hair before pulling away, not wanting to accidentally hurt him more. “Technically I’m a doctor-” He tries to protest, but you beat him to it. “A medical doctor, Spencer.” 

You pull the chair from behind so you can sit as close to him as possible and take his free hand into yours, holding it tightly. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday.” You look at him in disbelief as the words leave his mouth. “Spencer, forget the stupid birthday please! Actually, can we just stop with the apologies? I’m just glad that you’re okay- sort of.” Your eyes scan over his injuries again as you say the last sentence. “Stop. Don’t do that. I’m okay, I promise.” It’s more of a request than anything else. He doesn’t like being ‘babied’ or pitied. “Angel look here.” his fingers guide your face to meet his eyes.

“I’m okay. These will heal, but please don’t give me that look. I know you want to talk about it and we will, later. Right now I just want to talk to you about anything else.”

“I know you do, it’s just hard Spencer. There’s so much to say and I was so worried. I spent three days thinking you hated me. Well, technically, I actually spent two days thinking you hated me and the third losing my mind about-” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” he cups your face gently to cut off your ramble and keeps his same soft, whispery tone, “I know. I too spent the last 3 days, 4 hours and 55 minutes regretting the last thing I might have ever said to you was something I never should have said because I was being an ass.” 

“Don’t say that!” You immediately interject, unable to even think about the meaning behind his words. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, “Shhhh, just listen.” 

“There’s just so much more I have to say. So much more we need to talk about. And right now I just want to talk to you about anything else, even the little things that don’t matter. Especially the things that don’t matter. So please, just tell me about all the pointless things.” His voice cracks slightly at his plea, his gaze connecting so deeply with yours, tears glazing his lashes.

Stupid puppy eyes. There was no fighting against them this time, you gave in. The two of you talked until the medication knocked him out. It was easy like that with Spencer, you never ran out of topics. Nurses went in and out of the room, hours passed by, but you stayed right there next to him. The next few days were spent in the hospital, you only left to get refreshed if somebody from the team was there with Spencer while you were gone. Spencer was asleep most of the time due to the medication. Everybody from the BAU took turns visiting, Garcia always bringing fresh food with her. 

Before Spencer was discharged, the two of you agreed that it would be best for you to stay with him while he recovered. You wanted to be there for him in case he needed anything and he’d take any excuse to have you near him. It was a smart decision overall, because the broken rib rendered Spencer unable to do almost anything on his own. Which is why you were currently watching him bathe, perched on the edge of his bathroom counter, making sure your boyfriend didn’t accidentally hurt himself further. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know. I’ll be fine.” Spencer insists. “He says, after almost breaking another bone trying to undress by himself earlier.” You snark. 

“I think you’re enjoying this a bit too much.” Amusement surfaces in his voice and it causes you to blush. 

“Careful, handsome, you’re going to work yourself up and end up disappointed.” You successfully fluster him back. The doctor deemed Spencer unfit for any physical activity, much to his dismay. 

“Ughhh,” he groans, dramatically, rolling his head back. “This is so unfai-Ah!” His complaint is cut off by his own shriek while trying to reach the loofah around his back. 

“Shit Spencer!” You panic, hopping off the counter and rushing to his side, grabbing the loofah out of his grasp. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry. I just can’t reach my back, I guess.” 

“That’s literally what I’m here for, dummy. Let me get it.” You shuffle behind him from outside the tub and gently push him forward so you can access his back. 

“I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have to do this.” There’s a slight hint of embarrassment in his voice. 

“Spencer, love, stop. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Plus, I like taking care of you.” It was true. Doing small things to make his life convenient made you happy. 

“It’s not just because it’s embarrassing. You shouldn’t have to go out of your way for me like this, you have better things to spend your time on.” The insecurity in his words makes your heart ache. Reaching your hand around his jaw, you turn his head back towards you as you lean in to meet his eyes. 

“How can I get it through your thick, beautiful, skull that I want to be here? I want to do this. I want to spend my time with you.” You state matter of factly. He searches your face for any hint of insincerity. Unable to find any, he whispers, “Thank you” and leans in to give you a gentle kiss.

“And plus, you did promise we’d make up for the lost 3 days, 4 hours and 55 minutes when you got discharged.” You jokingly remind him of his words to you in a conversation you shared at the hospital. He chuckled and kissed you once more.

“I will.” A re-affirmation of his promise. “But this doesn’t count.”

“How so?” You question. “We’re here together aren’t we?”

“Yes, but you deserve more than this.” He declared. “I’m going to make it up to you.”

“Spencer, you don’t have to make anything up to me. We have to make up for lost time.” 

“Let me make it up to you anyway?” He flashes those damn eyes at you again.

“Just get better first okay, then we’ll talk. Plus you owe me a conversation before anything else.” Normally Spencer was the one who’d have to remind you of things, but today it was the other way around. 

“I guess I do.” He sighs in defeat, “Before we do that I have to tell you something.” 

“Yeah?”

“Rossi offered to throw you a party for your birthday and I kind of, maybe, said yes? It was less of an offer and more of a statement if I’m honest, but I thought you’d like it because you’re a huge fan of his books and always wanted to see his mansion. There’s tons of space for your family and friends too and-”

You cut off his speech with a kiss. “That’s wonderful Spencer, thank you. Tell Rossi I said thank you as well.”

“You’re not disappointed? I know you prefer smaller celebrations and originally I had something else planned but given my current state it’s a bit hard to go through with those plans.”

“Of course I’m not disappointed. I’d be happy with anything as long as you’re there.” You flash him a grateful, genuine smile. He kisses you briefly. Then again. And again.

“As much as I love kissing you, we need to get you to bed. Come on.” The two of you share kisses, giggles and loving looks, as you help him out of the tub, dry him off and get him dressed. Making your way over to the bed, you first help him settle in before getting into your side. It’s clear that Spencer doesn’t know where to start. 

“Let’s start with that night.” You take the lead. He takes a deep breath as he begins to recount the events. 

“I felt terrible after you left. I never meant any of it and I just, I am so sorry.”

“I know. I am too.” You reassured your lover, not wanting him to bear guilt over it any longer. 

“I was on your way to your apartment to apologise when I bumped into the unsub. The next thing I knew I couldn’t feel my legs and was being thrown into the back of the van.” He couldn’t offer you more than the basic details, due to the classified nature of his job. The unsub wanted revenge because Spencer was the reason they were caught in the first place. “I’m sorry” is how Spencer finished his re-telling. 

“Sorry? Why are you sorry, that’s not your fault.” A light, confused chuckle escapes your throat as you speak.

“Because, I put you in danger. Because this job puts me in danger, which always puts you in danger by extension. You deserv-”

“Stop. Spencer, stop.” You cut him off, afraid of what he was insinuating. “Stop telling me what I deserve. I knew what your job was when I entered this relationship. Don’t.” Tears threatening to spill from you, your fingers digging into your own flesh to try and stop them. Spencer noticed, gently coaxing your fingers away from your palm as he massaged your hand lightly. 

“Angel look at me.” He almost commands. You begrudgingly meet his eyes, holding your breath as you mentally prepare for the ‘it’s not you, it’s me speech’ you’d heard before from others. “What’s wrong?” He questions, not entirely sure as to why you were crying. For a genius he could be really unaware of his wording sometimes.

“Why do you keep saying that?” You’re unable to hold your tears. 

“Because I want you to know that I’m going to do better from now. To give you the ‘better’ you deserve.” He wipes your tears, still holding on to your hand. 

“Then why does it sound like you’re trying to break up with me right now?” You sniffle, squeezing his hand slightly.

“I must really suck at communicating, because that’s the exact opposite of what I’m trying to do.” He uses his hand to gently coax your head towards him so he can kiss you. “I want to move in together. With you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. If there’s anything I’ve realised over the past few days, it’s that I really hate being away from you. I hate not being able to see you, hear your voice, feel your touch.” He gives you another kiss. “I am not going anywhere. And I really hope you don’t either. Move in with me?”

You give him a peck. “Yes.” Another peck. “Yes, Spencer, I’ll move in with you.” A deep, longing kiss. You share a few more kisses and then nestle against him. Both of you laughing. 

The next few hours pass with both of you just enjoying being in each other's arms. Gently stroking the others hair, small kisses here and there, ‘I love you’s’ bouncing off from one another. The 3 days, 4 hours and 55 minutes spent worrying you won’t see each other again seem so silly now that you’ve got everyday to look forward to. 

“Angel?” Spencer’s voice lulls you out from your semi-conscious state. “Hm?”

“Thank you.” On the surface it was just a simple sentence, but his intention was deeper than that. It was a show of gratitude for you choosing him. For staying with him through the hard times. 

“Always.” Your promise that you’d do it again.

“Spencer?” You say after a second. 

“Yes my love?” Spencer replies.

“Thank you too.” 

“Always.”

Both of you fall asleep cuddling not long after. There were still a few things that needed to be worked out, but one thing was for sure, you were going to wake up next to the love of your life the next morning and then every morning after that. You’d truly found your forever person in each other. 

Spoilers: Hurt, Angst, Fluff, Comfort, Established Relationship.

AN - First fic I’ve ever written. It’s been in my drafts for so long, I’ve edited it so many times. I hope you didn’t feel too edged because 80% of this is without Spencer scenes (I did and I wrote it).

Feel free to drop helpful criticism, I’m always looking to improve. Remember to stay real and respectful :)

Thank you for reading!

[hopelesswrites]

Book Club 3

Part 1 Part 2

Joseph Quinn X Fem!Reader

-Your book club best friend flakes on helping you move, but sends the son she's been trying to set you up with

-

It had been almost a week, and you could not forget Joe like you did the last time. His face kept flashing in your mind like a bad nightmare. You went to sleep over analysing your last conversation.

It didn’t help that Joe was becoming a bigger face in the media, you saw him everywhere. That was also added to the list of reasons why you couldn’t date Joe, how were you going to date the hottest new actor right now. The thought of people talking about you online just through association was mortifying.

It’s as if the more you told yourself no, the more you wanted him. It was a cruel manipulative trick your brain was playing on you, you felt deceived by your own brain.

On top of all this dreadful thinking you also were expected to move flats this weekend. Not a single box had been packed. You had sent Mary a small text earlier that morning fussing about your stressful weekend ahead and she promised to come around and help you sort your stuff into boxes on the Saturday.

-

Another sleepless night of haunting images of Joe’s gorgeous face left you groggy the next morning. You inspected the place; your flatmate had left you alone for the awkward move out. This tenancy wasn’t the easiest and you both were waiting for your time to find your own place.

Slowly you woke up with a cup of coffee, leisurely flipping through books you easily collected in your short time here to put away when you had more energy. A knock at the door had you perking up, Mary said bright and early but you didn’t think she meant first light (it was 11am).

You called out a quick ‘coming’ before dropping the books gently down in the box, you’ll play tetris with them later.

You shuffled over to the door not worried about being in your pyjamas and slippers around Mary, opening the door without a second thought. Stood there was Joe, you looked around him confused, heat rising to your ears at the realization of what is happening here.

“Mums sent me to help” Joe spoke, equally as awkward.

“She get caught up?” You ask, stepping aside to let Joe in.

“So she says” Joe replied a weak laugh punctuating his statement.

You let out a long sigh, “I swear, I love her so much, but she’s ridiculous”

“you’ve got to get a boyfriend, so she’ll stop” Joe joked, stepping inside and toeing off his shoes.

You scoff, “Why do I have to? You get a girlfriend”

“I’m trying” Joe looked around your living room at the empty boxes you had splayed out.

“How much are you moving?” He asked, picking up one of the books you had just been looking at and flipping it over to read the back.

“Bedroom and most kitchen stuff” You answered, watching him carefully. You already felt weird about having him in your home, but now he’ll be going through your stuff? Mary had officially crossed a line.

“Right then, where should we start?” Joe clapped his hands, clearly done with the small talk.

You directed Joe to the kitchen where you instructed him to pack up all the pots and pans, as well as the plates, bowls and cups. In your bedroom you folded your clothes neatly into your one large suitcase and filled boxes with books. It was peaceful and far less anxiety inducing having Joe busy in the kitchen. The sound of pans clashing together in boxes and crockery being wrapped up filled your ears and you deemed it safe to open your drawer of delicates. Humming to yourself you neatly organised sets of lacy underwear and bras that barely get to see the light of day, not noticing the pause on pots and pans clashing and the shuffling of feet approaching your room.

“Am I doing the glassware as-“

“Fuck Joe!” You cried, stuffing the thong you were holding back into its drawer and slamming it shut.

“Sorry” Joe mumbled looking down at his feet, a teasing smirk on his face. You chose to ignore it.

“Glassware?” He tried again.

“Um, only the wine glasses” You sighed, following him out to the kitchen. You observed the work he had done, almost all of it was in its respective box now.

“You can probably go after that; I can handle the rest.”

You were far from calm now, utterly mortified having the man you have just accepted you now fancy see your lacy underwear. Mary had made a hard task more difficult by sending Joe here and you were ready to be done with him.

“I thought I was taking it all over to your new flat?” Joe asked confused. He was bent down, organising a box giving you the best view of his ass. Why did he have such a nice ass?

“That’s fine, ill get an uber XL”

Joe stood up and faced you, hands on his hips. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll never mention what I just saw, we can finish this job together and get you moved in”

You stared at him for a moment, analysing the situation.

“Come on, what’s next? I’ll do the books.”

Books was dangerous, books were in your room, meaning Joe would have to pack alongside you, and your underwear drawer.

You led him to your bookshelf with two empty boxes. “Just stack them as tightly as possible”

Before opening up the drawer you were previously packing you looked over to make sure Joe was occupied on his own side of the room. You made quick work of more embarrassing things to pack and moved onto the rest of your clothes, your suitcase slowly filling up.

“Have you read this one?” Joe asked holding up a book for you to see.

“Yes” you answered shortly.

“How about this one?” Another book was held up in the air.

“Yep”

You watched him put it in the box and pick up another one, this one displaying a large image of a mans naked torso.

“Yes, I’ve read that one too” you spoke before he could hold up the book.

Joe chuckled, placing it in the box with the others. “For the book club?”

“Not those ones” you answered, heat rising to your face, you didn’t need to be having this conversation with Joe right now.

“I bet mum would like that one, what was it called? Dark Passion”

“Your mums not keen on romance”

Joe faced you a shocked look on his face, “That was a romance? Could have fooled me, looked a bit more like a smut book”

You laughed at his dramatics “There’s elements of romance in there”

“Barely” Joe responded quietly, his distant tone catching your attention. You looked over to see him immersed in a page you knew, just from the place in the book, was particularly nasty.

“Hey! Stop that!” You scolded, trying to snatch the book out of his hands but he turned away, holding the book in the air as he continued to read.

“His chain fell above her face, rocking back and forth as his thrusts grew harder and faster” Joe stopped, looking over to you “Jesus Christ, id hope my mum wasn’t reading this”

“Close the book please” You whined, ready to wrap the scarf you were holding around Joes neck and end your own suffering.

“Okay, sorry” Joe chuckled to himself, putting it back in the box.

The next hour consisted of you working around Joe to pack the rest of your belongings. You filled his car with your many boxes and did a final sweep of the flat you were so happy to be leaving.

“You didn’t leave your flatmate much to cook with” Joe said, doing his own rounds of the space for anything he may have forgotten.

“Good, she doesn’t deserve it” You scoffed, taking your final bag of clothes and linen and making your way to the door.

“Not a great first flat share experience then?” Joe asked, following you out to his car. You shoved the last bag in the back seat, with a bit of a struggle, and joined him in the car.

“It was an arrangement made out of desperation” You answered.

Joe nodded in understanding and began the drive to your new flat. You had moved a little further out of the city this time, purely due to affordability. One bad flat share does leave a person scarred and the idea of another one didn’t sound all that exciting. You figured this would be the perfect opportunity to start your own little life here in London.

Your new place was a small run down one bedroom unit in a quiet part of town. Joe described it as a retirement village and assured you it was safe and quiet.

“I live pretty close by” Joe added as he was placing a light box in your arms to walk up the two flights of stairs.

Just your luck.

You could already hear Mary, “Joe can pop over to do all your maintenance jobs” in that ‘I’m finally getting my way’ tone of hers.

Inside you dropped your boxes in the small kitchen space. The flat came with appliances and a bed so you were practically all set with what you brought with you, just needed a couch and television.

“This is pretty nice” Joe exclaimed as he walked through the open door with your last box. “I just spoke to a neighbour by the way, lovely lady, she’s baking you brownies apparently”

“Oh, Margie, yeah I spoke to her when I inspected the place, I think she put in a request for me to get the lease”

Joe offered you a puzzled look. “You really have a way with older women, don’t you?”

You laughed at his accusation, “I have an aura apparently”

“Old lady aura” Joe scoffed.

You looked up at Joe, ready to thank him and bid him goodbye. It felt bittersweet, realising that today hadn’t been as horrible as you expected, and that you had actually enjoyed your time with him.

“What are you doing for dinner?” Joe blurted out before you could get a word of thanks in.

You returned him a puzzled look.

“I mean, you don’t have any furniture, why don’t you come out and we get a pint and some dinner” Joe offered, eyebrows raised in suggestion.

You went to reject Joes offer but he stopped you again.

“As friends, honestly, mum didn’t put me up to this. Just get dinner with me”

You considered your options. It was either a pub feed with Joe or Chinese on the floor while you unpacked your wardrobe.

“My shout though, for helping me today”

Joe smiled wide, “Great, there was a nice looking place down the road, happy hour special”

You followed him out the door to start your walk to the pub and reminded yourself:

Friends

Dinner

That’s it.  

[moibakadesu]

Okay, here we go, my interpretations and rambles about the 4th anniversary art. I know everybody is doing that right now and a lot of my thoughts might be the same as a lot of other people's, but the brainworms are active.

Let's start that it is brilliant that they went with a funeral theme for the 4th anni and to top it off they released it on the 4th of April. As a lot of you might know, 4 stands for death in Japanese (and various other asian countries), as it is pronounced the same.

My initial prediction for the art was, that it would be the funeral of the prisoners themselves and that we would see them lying on the frame of flowers (chrysanthemum, white lilies and white roses, all traditional funeral flowers). But as it turns out, we have the prisoners attending the funeral of their victims, so to speak.

So of course we have everybody in classic funeral attire, and sadly that doesn’t make for a lot of variety for the guys, sans the shoes, some buttons and different seams and pockets, but they all look splendid in it (and it stops Fuuta from combining it with some ridiculous fashion choices), so I can vibe with it.

For the girls we have of course a bit more to look at in terms of different clothes, the ones who are still visiting school in their respective uniforms, although in dark tones to fit in the whole composition, and Mappi with a simple dress as well as Kotoko with a chic blazer and trousers combo.

The wardens take the role of the priest who would attend a traditional Japanese funeral, how very fitting. Everybody is very pretty. I do still prefer akka’s art, but kee did a very good job capturing everybody as well.

Now the really interesting part is of course how everybody is holding their bouquets. I think the general consensus is that they stands for the victims, or in a wider sense the emotional stance that each prisoner has in regards to their murder. Let’s go in order from left to right.

Mikoto: Very prim and proper. I am in the camp that thinks that Mikoto committed the murder, not John, but also that he genuinely doesn’t remember anymore (due to stress-induced amnesia etc.). So it makes a lot of sense that he holds it in the most neutral and normal way possible. He doesn’t know the victim, he doesn’t have any particular feelings regarding it that he can remember.

Kazui: Holding it very lightly, but not as careless as if you would have to fear it falling to the ground. Maybe symbolic for the lack of emotional commitment in his marriage, due to being homosexual? Somewhat fitting to the lyrics of Cat, “let’s keep it simple”, keep it casual, these feelings are not real and very fleeting.

Shidou: Oh, he is interesting. He is holding the flowers exactly like you would a young baby, proper head and body support with both his hands and arm, while being very gentle with it. Further evidence that his murder ended up being one of his sons. As I assume ending up braindead after an accident and Shidou having to give the okay to use him as an organ donor.

Fuuta: My angry little ginger. And his anger shines through, what are you gripping your flowers so tightly for, little man? He is holding it almost like a weapon, very much the hero of justice with his sword ready to strike. I find it interesting that he is the only prisoner not smiling. I thought maybe because he is the one who is the most terrified about what his actions have led to? He was deeply riddled by remorse from the beginning after all, as much as he didn't want to admit that.

Haruka: Oh Haruka, what are you doing? His is … interesting. My theory is still that the murder he is actually is in Milgram for is a suicide, and the way he is holding the flowers does a good job in supporting that thought. He is holding the bouquet upside down, with not much apparent care for its state, some petals falling on the floor, and more importantly, on himself. I think this might represent how he has little to none self-worth and care for himself. Another thing I did see a japanese fan on Twt talk about was the meaning of an upside down bouquet. Apparently there is a superstition about holding flowers upside down, so that they … absorb water faster. This is both a good way to show Haruka’s innocence about the world as he would possibly believe such a thing as well as … very grim, as I think he drowned himself.

Yuno: Similar to Shidou she is holding her flowers a lot like you would an infant, and … well, that speaks for itself I would say. There is no ill feeling or disrespect towards the unborn life, is what just not meant to be with her.

Muu: Holding her bouquet behind her back, just like she does not want the fact that it might in fact have been her fault behind her victim act. Could also go very well with how she most likely did hide the box cutter out of sight until she struck.

Mahiru: She is holding her flowers very gently, delicately, with a lot of love, of course, it’s Mappi after all. Maybe almost a bit too close to her, if she is not careful she could crush or squish them easily. As it is in line with how destructive her relationship ended up being.

Amane: Oh Amane, the disrespect, haha. Carelessly discarded behind her. Sinners are worthless and need to be punished, right? Nothing wrong with quite literally stepping over dead bodies. The little girl is quite savage, I have to give her that much.

Kotoko: She is a bit hard for me to read. Her grip on the bouquet is concealed, does she maybe not want to admit how tightly she is holding on to it as a parallel how she does not want to admit to her sadistic tendencies, because it is after all always for justice, nothing else. Hmmm.

[the-chaotic]

「— A Stranger Savior 」

「Resume ― 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 a mysterious stranger appears and saves Tatsuya and Tsukumo from the accident? 」

「pairing ― Kohaku, Tatsuya and Tsukumo. 」

「カオス ― Writing from Kohaku's perspective is so difficult, I hope I did it well and didn't mischaracterize him. I also tried to keep a consistent chronology of events. 」

Kohaku is still trying to understand what happened.

He thinks that it was all just a hallucination induced by stress and anxiety, but seeing Tatsuya and Tsukumo being checked by paramedics and giving statements to the police, he knew that none of it could just be his imagination.

Everything about that week was sending him into a collapse; first Tsukumo talking about how Tatsuya was worried about him and Mugen and then the fight against the Amamiya brothers among the other many problems. Kohaku felt like she was going to explode at any moment.

When Tatsuya asked to meet with him the day after the fight, Kohaku didn't expect much, he knew that his friend would talk about the path Mugen was taking and he thought he was ready to hear everything that could be said.

But when Tatsuya, the person he valued most, confronted him with the truth, he knew he had enough.

Tatsuya was right, he was scared. Afraid of change, afraid of his friends slowly leaving, afraid of being alone after everything. And all of this led him to be trapped in a spiral of constant anxiety that was preventing him from see what's really happening around you, especially with Mugen.

His breaking point was when he arrived at the Mugen base to relax and by chance overheard a member who was there with another person using his name and that of his gang for dark things.

It was at that moment that Tatsuya's words reached Kohaku and led him to an epiphany.

The next moment, it was as if a part inside him said that he was ready to start accepting the changes that were happening around him, that even though it was difficult, in the end, he was not alone because he had friends who were there for him and that they wouldn't leave him behind. He hopes it's not too late.

Collecting her thoughts, Kohaku decided to go after Tatsuya to apologize about his behavior and the things he said before.

While looking for his friend, from afar on a deserted street he saw him with Tsukumo by his side, which was a perfect opportunity to apologize to him too.

“Tatsuya!” he ran to a stop in front of the two and took a minute to gather the words, “I…”

Kohaku couldn't finish before Tatsuya forcefully pushed him to the side and that was when he no longer knew if he had hit his head on the ground and passed out or if he was delirious because he had no idea how to explain what he saw.

He saw a car coming at high speed about to hit Tatsuya and Tsukumo when, without him knowing from where, a figure appears in the middle of the two, pushing them to the ground and, with inhuman strength, slams both fists on the hood of the car completely kneading.

The brute force of the pack causes the car to fly over the three, skidding frantically with a sharp sound at least 60 meters away, completely crushed and destroyed.

Tatsuya and Tsukumo looked as shocked as Kohaku at this moment. Looking back, the car was completely destroyed and smoking with a strong smell of gasoline, there was no way in the world that whoever was driving it could have survived.

Still in shock and a little desperate, Tatsuya called the police while Tsukumo looked for any injuries on the other. Kohaku got up to go to the other two when he quickly remembered the mysterious savior.

He looked around the space looking for the person when he saw them standing far away. Even with the distance, he tries to record what he can of his appearance, which isn't much. What made him even more incredulous was that even with the loose clothes, the figure didn't seem to have any muscles that could justify its strength.

In the end, none of the three came away with any serious injuries other than a few scratches on their hands. When the police asked for their statement, Tatsuya took the lead and said what had happened but not telling them about the person who saved them, he just said that at the last second the car lost control and overturned. The police officers accepted this excuse.

Neither Kohaku nor Tsukumo questioned him about why he didn't tell the truth, because they also didn't know if they should. Besides, who would believe it? Maybe it would be better this way.

They were walking away after being released when something caught Kohaku's attention. On the sidewalk, there was a blue and white bracelet with a broken clasp. He quickly picked it up without the police noticing and put it in his pants pocket. That accessory probably belonged to that mysterious person and was the only clue he had, so he decided to keep it. Something told him that it would be important to keep that belonging.

You punch the wall behind you in frustration creating a large hole.

You almost ruined everything.

You took a few deep breaths to regain control and stabilize yourself. You weren't sorry for saving those guys, but that action would have consequences and it didn't help at all that two of them were wearing the vest of the infamous Mugen gang.

I hope dad doesn't get upset.

You knew that as soon as you got home you would get a lecture from your father for being reckless, for exposing yourself like you did, but trying to think positive, your identity was safe thanks to the large hood of the sweatshirt you were wearing.

You take off the sweatshirt you were wearing and put it in the backpack that you had left hidden in an alley, although those guys had left by a different route than you, prevention was never too much.

Your phone vibrates and when you pick it up and turn it on, a simple and straightforward notification of a message from your father saying 'I'm waiting at home' glows ominously.

Well, Shit.

After putting away your cell phone, as a form of consolation, you touch the beloved bracelets on your wrist only to notice that one of them was missing.

Please, somebody kill me now!!

[bright-molina]

IM BEGGING YOU 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾- CHAD DATING FLUFF PLEASE

a/n HI i think this ended up more as hurt/comfort than fluff so feel free to send this again and i'll make it real fluff next time sdfsdfjh (i want him to hold me so bad) ((this is also terribly unedited i'm so sorry))

sweet nothing

all that you ever wanted from me was sweet nothing

synopsis chad knows you inside and out and knows exactly how to help you when you need it most

warnings maybe only slightly suggestive? idk i mean they're dating and he's in love he can't help it

The soft, rhythmic knocking at your door brought you out of your self induced trance with a start. You knew who it was, of course you did. There was only one person who did that. The only problem was you were currently in the process of avoiding him.

There wasn’t a particular reason you weren’t talking to Chad. You’d been busy was all and the morning turned into the afternoon and then the night and then two nights before you knew it and now it was just weird.

He was persistent though, you’d give him that. Above all else though, Chad simply knew you. Better than he knew himself or anyone else. He knew every single part of you, everything that made you you, inside and out. It was how he knew that the world had gotten away from you again. The only question left was why.

You didn’t say anything at all when Chad walked in, gently shutting the door behind. The only acknowledgement you gave him was the soft flash of a smile before you went back to the video you’d been watching before his appearance.

A pout formed on Chad’s face when he saw you. Something was up. And he was determined to get to the bottom of it. “Hi sweetheart.”

That caught your attention. Your eyes shifted to him again and you could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew he had you in the palm of his hand already. Before you knew it he was leaning over you, supporting himself on one arm as he looked into your eyes after pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Chad couldn’t help but watch the way your eyes flashed back and forth. He let you stare at him for as long as you wanted, knowing you were satisfied when you finally looked him in the eyes again and whispered a soft “Hi.”

“Good girl,” The praise slipped past his lips and he leaned down to kiss you for real this time. He moved deliberately slow, taking his time as he savored the feeling of you for the first time in days. He drank in the sight of you one last time before looking at you again. “How’re you feeling?”

“‘M fine.”

You were lying. You knew he could tell. Maybe it was the stress of the last few days. Maybe it was the intensity with which Chad was looking at you. Or maybe you had just really missed him. Either way, you had no hesitation whatsoever listening to him when he told you to sit up.

“Come on,” He took your hands and pulled you out of your bed, setting them on his chest before sliding his own down to snake around your waist to support you. He gave you a once over, taking in every detail of yours for several moments. The clothes you’d worn to classes earlier. The creases in them from laying for so long. The slow blinking of your eyes as you fidgeted while waiting for him to say something. He kissed you again, a silent reassurance that he was right there. “You wanna tell me what’s stressing you out?”

You thought and Chad waited. He waited until he saw the tears pricking in the corner of your eyes and you looked down to avoid seeing the way he pouted and looked at you with that concerned look. Then you felt his hands on your cheeks. His thumbs wiped away the tears that had fallen and he held you like that for a moment, waiting again.

“I -” Your voice cracked and he shushed you gently, touching his forehead to yours in an attempt to ease you a little bit more. The movements you made were involuntary. You scrunched the fabric of his sweater in your hands to ground yourself, needing to physically feel him there beside you. After a few more moments it worked. “I don’t know. Everything?”

He hugged you. Tightly. Every now and then he’d kiss the top of your head or squeeze you a little harder but he didn’t let up until he felt the tension release from your body. That was when he spoke again. “Can I try helping you out a little, sweetheart?”

For a moment you forgot how to speak. All you could think about was how much you loved having Chad there. How for the first time in days you knew you wouldn’t have to sit alone with your own thoughts. And then you finally nodded.

Not a second later Chad was unwinding his body from yours and tugging at the hem of your shirt. You watched him carefully, not fully processing a single word that he was saying. His movements were slow, gentle as he undressed you, stopping every now and then to kiss any part of you he could reach.

Your eyes stayed on him as he took off the sweater he was wearing, slipping it over your head instead. “Better?” The only answer you gave him was a quiet hum and a small nod. “Good. Now come here.”

Chad sat down in the spot you’d been laying in moments before and pulled you into his lap in a single swift movement. Your breath hitched in your throat when his hands started running up and down your sides, almost immediately hitching the sweater around your waist. You shivered as his hands wandered. Up your back to your shoulders. Back down your sides. Across your thighs.

It wasn’t until he leaned forward, pressing languid kisses across your jaw and down your neck, that you let out a content, finally relaxed sigh.

“There you go,” You could feel Chad’s smile on your skin. “Relax for me, sweetheart.”

His hands left your bare skin and suddenly you felt cold without them. Your own movements were almost instinctual as you wrapped one of your arm around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him, and used the other one to lead one of his hands back to you.

“What is it?” He tried his hardest to hold back a smile. You looked lovesick. You were lovesick. He was satisfied with that fact alone. He grew even more satisfied when you mumbled in protest and he watched as your face flushed and you buried your head in his shoulder. He wasn’t having it. “Look at me.”

Everything else you’d felt, every worry and fear and intrusive thought in your mind, went away the second Chad’s free hand moved to the base of your throat. His hold wasn’t tight by any means, just enough pressure to get you to meet his eyes again, but it still made you gasp a little bit.

“Hey,” He lost all the thoughts in his head when he looked at you. At the way your eyes were wide and glinting and at how at peace you looked. Worlds different than when he’d found you. “You’re so pretty you know that?” He couldn’t help himself. He pulled you forward with the hold he still had on you and smiled against your lips as he kissed you, a little deeper this time. “Pretty girl.”

“I love you.” You hadn’t even thought about saying the words, they’d escaped you outside of your own volition. All you knew was that right there, sitting on Chad’s lap with him holding you close, you felt okay again. And that was enough. So you said it again hoping he could read between the lines of what you were thinking. “I love you.”

“I know,” Chad smiled and dropped his hand, returning it to its original place on your bare skin underneath his sweater. “I love you too.”

He fell backwards on the bed then, pulling you down with him as easily as he had before. He stayed there with you, holding you and whispering little affirmations in your ear, for minutes and then hours, until you’d drifted off into a peaceful sleep. Once you were finally out he tightened his arms around you once, positive that this right here was the best feeling he’d ever experienced, before drifting off after you.

[forwomenbiwomen]

For some reason I just had a one-two sucker punch of content from men that suddenly and intensely unlocked a revelation lol.

I realised how it would feel to be a man, and not just intellectually. For a moment, when I was lost in the content and felt like a person and like it was talking to me, I felt that.

Pretty vulnerable and long rant incoming, I'm not proud of realising I could have been just like them with the right factors:

As a man everyone supports you, even if you whine that they don't. Everyone in the media looks like you and sounds like you; you are the default. And if they don't, it's uncomfortable and eyeroll-inducing, because what's the point of pandering to wishy-washy failed humans like women? Women are the weird ones; they dress up for some reason and they're soft for some reason and have their own rules about makeup and clothes and they are suckers for us and I'm intensely attracted to their bodies but they're unknowable so I won't bother to understand them beyond that. To them feminism is so cringe and it's equivalent to the cringeyness of q*eer culture or... idk furries

It was like the empathy centre in my brain went overdrive for a minute and for the first time in my life, I genuinely wanted to be a man. It hit me on such a visceral level just how oppressed we are and how uncared for we are and how fucking different we are. I knew it intellectually and I have been angry for a while but this was... different. I felt it.

For a second I realised how easy it is to be misogynistic. How easy it is not to care, and how easy it is not to notice. Women are the other to them. There's a sick sense of satisfaction in ALL of them. "At least I'm not like them, phew. At least it benefits me. I want it to be like this, secretly, bcs it gets me hard and it's the best feeling in the world to feel that sexual power."

And then, when I came out of it like 😳, I found it really hard to adjust because all I wanted was to be like that. That jealous, childish part of me wanted to feel that pleasure and that ease and that sick satisfaction even though I know it's wrong. I just wanted it to be easy. It's so easy for them, and it's not fair. And they know on some level and they don't care because it genuinely feels so good. They're like spoiled children, and I mean that in the most literal sense: there's been research that lack of hardship doesn't develop your brain in certain areas, such as empathy, decision making, resilience, and care for the quality of work. They literally have parts of their brain that are children's level, and it FUCKING SHOWS.

To be a woman suddenly, after imagining for a second that I wasn't, was such a feeling of grief. I really felt like I was lesser. I understood how they think that. Men and women have the same socialisation from the world (men are better and women are lesser) and I realised with horror that if I was a man, that socialisation would've worked. Plain and simple. It's everywhere in everything and as much as it's permeated us as women, it's permeated them; it's just that we are on different sides of the equation. How inescapable it is for us is just as inescapable for them, but we fight to escape because we feel that pain and they don't give a shit because, and I can't stress this enough, it feels good.

It feels safe and it feels comfortable, like a soft, warm chair filled with pillows and blankets that you can order things around from and then jack off lol. And then the "feminists" come and look at you with venom and harsh words and blow cold air down your back and pull at your blankets and say this chair should be ours, you have to bunk along and you're like what the fuck? And all you have to do is say no and your fellow chair dwellers will order them away from you and you can be warm again. Other women pull them back too, then fall at your feet to bring you stuff and suck your dick and you think "thank you normal, traditional women we love you for that <3". You might even feel a warm sense of kindness towards those women, but in the end as soon as they stop that venom you feel comes back. It doesn't matter what happens to them, it doesn't even cross your mind that they're cold, as long as you get to sit doing nothing, eating, sleeping and jacking off fine.

I don't really have a point here I just feel disgusted that I understand them. I feel like my arms and legs are being dragged down while men step all over me with shamelessly hard dicks and mocking smiles, poking me and spitting on me. I hate how it feels to be a woman and I've NEVER ONCE thought that.

I love being a woman, I feel pride and warmth towards my sisters. I love how we're biologically superior in every way even when men define it as quick-fiber physical strength and psychopathy. I love how we're the bastions of what it means to be human, the carriers of culture, the creators of life. I love how we're resilient and that animals trust us more and how creative we are. I love how intelligent and beautiful we are, how sensual and loud we can be. I love how period bleeding is one of our body's ways of reporting on our physical health. I love how we were the first time-keepers. I love how, as a sex, we gravitate towards communal structures and collaboration. I love how we come in all different shapes and from all different backgrounds and struggles and how we then create covens and magic and jokes and science and technology and art.

Everything terrible men project onto us (such as submission, vanity, helplessness, promiscuity) is actually true of them. And when I think about how that shameless privilege felt, and how they have hijacked billions and billions of women across time and space and sucked the humanity out of us, I have the intense urge to a) kill them as a matter of survival and b) keep the feminism going. The angry, evil feminism that actually liberates women.

Anyway rant over I'm normal about them again (👹👹)

[bokettochild]

I find myself in a conundrum

I've been working at a clothing store for over a year now. I was hired as part time but tend to work somewhat full time hours (roughly 35-40 hour weeks). I'm getting paid just short of $12 an hour and most of the work I do is very physical. There's a lot of folding clothes but I also work a lot with our shipment team.

When new stock arrives I count the boxes, wait for the manager to sign off on the delivery, and then it's my job to move all 200+ boxes from the delivery zone to the unpacking zone sorting them by department as I go. I then help to open the boxes either starting day of arrival or at 6 am the next day. I frequently help with moving large fixtures in the store, cleaning, and processing outgoing orders, as well as the standard upkeep of the store and working register. In short, I've picked up how to do anything that isn't a manager's duties.

But I'm barely saving anything for school.

My last job was for almost $11 an hour, and I would sit in a kid's jewelry store all day waiting for customers to come in. I still worked with reorganizing the store (often alone), processing incoming stock (receiving/unpacking/placing) and I still kept the store in order and cleaned, as well as piercing ears on weekends (It was a Claire's so yeah) and while the pay was a dollar shorter, I spent a good portion of my time at work writing fics because it was so darn slow! And I had manager approval to do that!

Thing is, they're hiring again at my old job, and offering $14 an hour to do the same job I used to do. Management has changed, so I don't know if it's as lax as when I worked there, and they're only looking for part time workers, but I'm technically part time now.

My issue is that I actually enjoy most of my work currently, and my coworkers and boss are all really great! The only issue is the pay, otherwise I wouldn't want to leave. But, I have bills to pay and keep having to dip into my college savings, so I really do need another job. The circumstances at Claire's weren't great, but we were also between managers and I hear it's really improved (from the current staff). It still has downsides, of course, but up-selling and piercing is less stress inducing then having to get credit cards every day in order to maintain standing (which I fail at). Talking down panicking kids is easier than de-escalating an Karen, and often involves the parent's help. It was generally a pretty chill job before, and I'm genuinely considering going back, as long as I can assure that I can get at least 30 hours a week. Besides that, I know they never open till 10 and they close by 7, so I wouldn't have any really early hours, I know how they operate, and I have previous experience so I might be able to land the job with ease (not that I didn't the first time).

I don't know!

On one hand, I have great co-workers and managers, I enjoy most of what I do and I'm assured plenty of hours on most weeks, so I'm averaging at least $1,000 a month. On the other hand, working the same number of hours at my old work place would bring me $1,200 instead, on average, and make things less tight (I could afford health insurance!). The issue is though that I won't be assured the great managers or co-workers I have, or a minimum of hours.

I think I might send in an application all the same though, get an interview, and see where things lay over there and what it would look like if I did, even if I didn't decide I wanted the job. It'd certainly be less physically intensive! Which is great because my knees keep giving out on me these days.

Honestly though, I hate uncertainties and having to change things, but this is a needed change. I need a new job, the only question is, is this really the best I could do?

[intrepiddreamx]

All for Variks / Meren. Obviously.

uUwUu What's this? Meren (OC) and Variks for the Ship Sleeping prompt? Thank you!

Who is a night owl?

Meren is prone to late nights, mostly due to her workload and general habit of getting carried away when absorbed in a project/task. Variks, for the most part, maintains a regular sleep schedule, barring those occasions when an emergent situation demands his attention or a bout of stress-induced insomnia strikes.

2. Who is a morning person?

Both, sort of: Variks by discipline, Meren by obligation. Meren's more likely to oversleep on her days off, though, while Variks will get up at the crack of dawn, regardless of the day. No sense in wasting time that could be better spent productively.

3. Are they cuddlers?

Not particularly. To be clear, neither is adverse to the other's touch, but their general approach to affection is a bit...more restrained, I guess is the word. They do enjoy being close to each other and will curl up together during times of relaxation/quiet conversation. But full-on cuddling is reserved for those rare instances when vulnerability supersedes their usual reserve (or in the aftermath of certain bedtime "activities" - you know the ones :;3)

4. Who is the big spoon and who is the little spoon?

Despite the height disparity, Variks is the little spoon more often than he'd care to admit.

5. What is their favourite sleeping position?

Generally, they will fall asleep close but in their own separate space, with a bit of room between them. Variks is prone to sleeping on his back or side, facing away from Meren - not out of avoidance, but because he's fully aware that he has a lot of pointy bits (along with deceptively strong prostheses) that could inadvertently injure a human nestmate. He's learned to blunt his clawtips slightly with a file, though, so those aren't as much of a hazard as they once were. Meren, on the other hand, tends to curl up in her own space but will end up pressed against Variks's back come morning. Her warmth is a comfort to wake up to, so Variks has never seen fit to protest.

6. Who steals all the blankets?

Variks is a still sleeper in general, while Meren, the Sheetstealer will take everything from you. It didn't take long for them to agree that as sweet as sharing a blanket was, it was more practical for each of them to have their own.

7. What do they wear to bed?

It ranges from fully-clothed to nothing at all, depending on the situation. The happy medium tends to be loose-fitting, traditional Old Riis-style bedrobes for Variks and a comfy tunic/shorts combo for Meren.

8. Who likes seeing the other wearing their t-shirt?

Neither of these individuals have a t-shirt in their wardrobe. But in the spirit of the question, Variks takes great satisfaction in seeing Meren draped in his robes/bannercloth. Her clothing is unlikely to fit Variks or accommodate his extra limbs, so the inverse's not an option, sadly.

9. Who falls asleep mid-conversation?

Exclusively Meren. Variks at least has the decency to cut the conversation short, apologize, and excuse himself before passing out on you.

10. Who wakes up in the middle of the night with nightmares?

Variks. Guy's been through a lot. He tries to hide it, when he wakes up trembling, his breath short and heart racing at the memory of the past clawing its way back into the present. Meren, of course, notices. But she doesn't pry, doesn't press him to talk. All she does is curl around him, running her fingers through his setae until she feels his pulse and breathing even out. She never mentions it come morning. And for that, Variks is grateful.

11. Who accidentally punched the other in their sleep?

Meren, probably. Variks didn't notice. Meanwhile, Meren woke up with a bruised hand.

12. Who can’t keep their hands to themself?

Variks is the worst offender, especially early on in their relationship. The Eliksni concept of personal space is a lot more lax than that of humans, so he doesn't think twice about invading Meren's when the mood strikes, particularly when she's nearby and within easy reach. Unfortunately, he doesn't have frequent opportunities to indulge the impulse, as the nature of their arrangement demands secrecy. But when they are alone, you better believe he'll be the one initiating contact...and escalating it, too.

[jessieisqueer]

Starting HRT

Around this time last year, I went I ordered the first piece of clothing I ever wore that pushed my comfort zone but also affirmed my gender: my euphoria hoodie. It was a thick, bright bright pink unisex hoodie. I ordered it expecting to hate how I looked in it and to send it back, but even if I did like it, that I wouldn’t leave the house with it on. It arrived days later. I tried it on… instant euphoria. Then I casually left my dorm to meet with a friend at the library.

What felt like such a big deal in the run up, ended up being nothing, but better yet, a euphoria inducing experience.

The year that would follow would be a myriad of unimaginable challenges for me to surpass with respect to my transition. Everything felt impossible. I wasn’t even sure I wanted HRT, but paradoxically felt so drawn to it, and even slightly envious of the results my friends had got off of being on it.

I had my first private appointment with a psychiatrist to get a gender dysphoria diagnosis in September. My endocrinology appointment was booked soon after for the 20th of December. In this liminal space, my transition felt weird. I had said to my psychiatrist that:

I’ve explored all the avenues I can explore socially for my transition. I keep looking to medical transition for answers. The things I want, fat redistribution, change in emotional landscape, softer skin etc, can’t be achieved through social changes alone. There’s more to be had, and I feel HRT will help me get that.

He agreed and diagnosed me. The appointment on the 20th was spent discussing the different forms of HRT I could go on, and what my care plan would look like. After the appointment, my endo send a link to an online pharmacy to buy my HRT from. I ordered it and it arrived 2 days later, just before Xmas.

In the days running up to the patches arriving, I was so SO excited. But also apprehensive. That anxious part of my brain wanted to overthink everything: “have you thought about this enough? What if it makes you feel sick? What if you get fatigue? What if what if what if”. I’ve spent nearly 3 years on this gender exploration journey, spiralling in and out of doubt, I cannot be accused of not thinking about the step I was taking next enough. That’s when a dear friends words echoed through my head: “What if it all goes OK?” .

The patches arrive. I lay in bed, slowly waking up, nervously excited for putting on the patch, while simultaneously being autistically anxious about the unknown. What would it be like? How will I feel? How long will it take to notice? What if it all goes wrong?

I open the box. There they are. I grab my 50mcg patch, holding it with anxious anticipation. I pace the house for 30 minutes before tearing it open. Now I would need to put it on.

My mom arrived back home, and being so lucky to have such a supportive parent, but also one who has also been on HRT, I asked for her help putting it on. I could have figured it out, but given that I’m doing this privately for now, I can’t afford to waste any!

She showed me how and I managed to get it applied correctly. I felt fine. The sky didn’t fall in. I didn’t give off a blood curdling scream and drop dead. My nerves lifted and I just felt… normal.

I go out for lunch and return home with a sense of calmness over me. I didn’t know if it was because of the HRT or because I had finally done something I had been so anxious about.

It’s been 4 days now. That blanket of calmness still envelops me for the most part. For the first time in over a whole year, that nagging sense of unease and dysregulation has lifted a little. The sharper emotions of stress and anxiety have changed in quality a little. Things feel ever so slightly more mellow.

Is 4 days too few to experience any changes? Probably. Especially without a T blocker (for now). But I’m proud of myself. This time last year, I was scared of those around me knowing who I really am. Now? I’m fully out to those around me, and I’m on HRT. I’m excited for the future and to see the changes come round.

To any trans folx reading this who want to go the medical route: know that you’ll figure it out eventually. If you don’t feel sure, remember that you’re allowed to feel that way, and that one way or another, you’ll find your path. Mine has just started, and yours soon will too. Until then, please take care of yourself. It sometimes may not feel like it, but you deserve compassion and patience while you figure this out 💖

[mydearestkippy]

7 Sept 2023- 32w0d

Dear Kippy,

6-8 weeks more to go before I see you, our darling baby girl, in the flesh. I really cannot wait. Today, at around 1.8kg and 43cm, you are apparently the size of a small rock melon. Or a chihuahua.

It's been almost 26 weeks (~6.5 months!) since I last wrote in here. I wish I could have updated more regularly during these 6.5 months, but I guess I have been distracted / tired. I think there is a lot of getting used to in pregnancy, both the good (like official announcements, friends/family celebrating with us, finding out your gender after a loong wait, passing my gestational diabetes test, people giving up their seat for me on the train, etc) and the not-so-good (breathlessness, tailbone pain, itchiness around my belly button, emotional spikes, increasing fatigue, retching every time I brush my teeth since first tri, etc). Work and church, especially the latter, have also continued to take up quite a lot of mommy's time, energy and emotional/mental capacity.

During the same period, daddy has also been going through a mentally/physically difficult time, especially in being hard-pressed in every direction at work and having to take up the lead in life-group. He also does all the laundry now, although we have since hired a cleaner to come in every other week for 3 hours. For a while he wasn't able to exercise much because of persistent lower back pain, which makes him feel worse. Tired, heavy/heavy-hearted, stressed and unmotivated are some words to describe how he has felt during this time. I think it is a little better now because his back is recovering so he can exercise again, but there are days that the load can still feel quite heavy for him. Mommy wishes to do more for him, but perhaps taking good care of myself and you is the one thing he needs most from me now.

No matter how tiring things get, it is the thought of seeing you soon that keeps us going. It is the grace and love of Jesus, that we remind each other of, and which sustain us, daily. We have done up your room (I hope you will love it!) and procured most of what we need (pre-loved or brand new from friends which we are super thankful for), and we are now left with just the last minute perishables to cart out (diapers, diaper cream, wet wipes, sunflower lecithin, etc).

You, at week 13 going 14:

You, at week 21 going week 22 (the day we found out you were a girl!):

Your perfect 3D face at week 28:

During weeks 20 to 30 (mid second tri till first 2 weeks of third tri), mommy diverted her energy to baking/cooking. I really enjoyed using my kitchen/my oven this period. Now I can make a near perfect banana cake and jelly heart tarts, and my matcha / choc chip chewy cookies have also been a hit. You are in for a delicious treat (when you get older!)

From week 30 onwards though, mommy's energy levels suffered an exponential dip. I now average 10-12 hours of sleep a day (longer if I had exercised in the day), excluding hour-long naps that I take almost daily while WFH. There have also been some days where Kippy you get so active at 5am in the morning that after waking mommy up to pee, mommy could not go back to sleep after tossing and turning for an hour, in which case mommy has an early breakfast and does some baking/reading/work before she conks out again for another 2 hours before starting her day.

Mommy examines her changing body, which is a house for you, and wonders if it will ever be as before again. Sometimes mommy feels discouraged by the sight of her pregnancy-induced physical changes: facial blemishes, pale pallor, double chin, saggy/flabby body parts all over, thunder thighs, and swollen legs and feet. The weighing machine tells mommy that she has put on 8-10kg and mommy's clothes remind her that she is expanding exponentially. It used to be a tussle between S/M for clothes, but now I could be anything from M to XL. Mommy's friend commented that mommy is looking more like a "whale" now and mommy can't stop repeating this word to daddy - first as a joke, then as a... statement of belief?? I am a whale, I am a whale, I am a whale. Mommy isn't an irrational person by nature (I know most of these will pass), but in the thick of it, all of these can make me feel really negative about my body image. It is something that most ladies struggle with - the difference is just how much.

But God responds to mommy's cries. I saw a post by an ex-mentor lately on her own reflections re: her past pregnancy, and it resonated in such a timely manner. "I was looking at my body in the mirror today and thought: dear bod, you have done an amazing job. You've carried a baby and nourished it in you for 9mths, delivered it, and have continued to provide for it tirelessly, sacrificing sleep, making milk, staying strong so you can continue to give. And yet sometimes I look at you almost in disdain, picking on the areas where you don't look or feel too perfect. But how can you be the same after all that you've done? You're perfect and I'm thankful for you."

In the midst of all these changes I have been going through for 7+ months now, I remember that He is using my body as a vehicle - to carry out his perfect miracle of creation. He is giving me the privilege of experiencing, through a keenly lived 9 month journey, how he knits every bit of you together in my womb. If we read about the science of the changing pregnant body - how hormones dip and fall and how organs adapt and evolve - to perfectly cater to the growing needs of the foetus, we wouldn't be able to deny that a Miracle Maker has to be behind it all. How then can I not be humbled by his choice of a vessel in me? How then can I not be confident that only good things will come to pass as long as I trust in His timing, His seasons and His providence? How then can I not be assured by His love for you and His power over you?

Not to mention that pregnancy is merely the uncomfortable prelude to a greater eternal blessing to come - you.

I am thankful for all my dearest friends who have journeyed with me closely and pointed me towards God's kindness throughout these 9 months of pregnancy, my family who has tirelessly asked after and cared for me, and especially my husband who has always reminded me how beautiful I am to him, and how thankful he is to me for carrying his daughter to term. If pregnancy has been a trying time, then as with all trying times, it has revealed to me the people I can count on, even beyond this period. I can't wait for you to meet them soon. You will be so dearly loved and cherished by them.

Instead of wanting to fast-forward this journey in my usual impatience, I will savor and treasure the last 1+ months of you being in me. I will give thanks for every kick, every hiccup, every flutter, every stretch that I feel from you, because it means that you are healthy, active and well. And when you finally come, daddy and I will tell you just how wonderful life is now that you are in the world.

[nitewrighter]

Cindy Part 11

Oh boy this one's a doozy. Uh... content warning for... foot trauma. It's not as graphic as the whole "stepmother cuts off X" thing but there is stuff there, so you've been warned. Vaguely. Vaguely warned.

Welp, as always, for all previous chapters, please refer to the masterpost.

----

Admittedly the stepfam sucked so much that the prince more or less expected the house on haunted hill for their estate, but it turns out the estate is about equidistant between the palace and the village, and is snuggled up in a semi-wooded, semi-farmland area. As the carriage pulls up to the estate, the prince’s eyes fall on an oddly noticeable hazel tree at the side of the grand house. 

“Welp,” Gabe huffs as he opens up the door and looks at Brad and the prince, “Let’s get this over with.”

The prince is scanning around the area as they walk up the path to the front door. This whole house is suspiciously nicer than he expected it to be, and it’s throwing him off. You can tell when any kind of domestic worker takes a lot of pride in their work, and that’s clear here, but what kind of person would be happy to work for assholes like these? Okay, settle down, he probably doesn’t have the whole story. Maybe they’re really nice to their own housing staff and assholes to everyone else? But where is their housing staff? He feels like he should have at least seen a footman or something with how well the estate looks, but it’s… unnervingly empty. They step up to the door and Gabe gives a brisk but polite knock.

The prince and co. plaster on their politest smiles when the stepmother opens the door.

“Madam,” Gabe sticks with his usual script that the prince pretty much tunes out at this point, “I am the king’s valet, and this is the captain of the guard.” (there’s no need to introduce the Prince, who, as far as anyone is concerned, is a footman), “We’ve come here on behalf of the palace to investigate your claim regarding the glass slipper.” 

“Oh gentlemen,” the stepmother says, with a sweep of her arm, “So glad you’ve finally arrived! Please, do come in!”

As soon as the prince enters, the smell of the most delicious food in the world hits his nostrils. There’s pastry, and spices, and a rich, fatty, smoky-gamy poultry smell.. could it be… duck? His stomach audibly growls. 

“This way,” the stepmother nearly sings the words as she leads them to the parlor where two okay-but-very-mean-looking girls are standing. On the table is a small pile of miniature pies garnished with nasturtium flowers and sprigs of parsley. Still warm, still fragrant. The prince is looking at the pies much longer than the stepsisters. Holy fuck he wants those pies so bad. There’s even a point where he’s doing that thing, where like, you flick your eyes really quickly down at the food back up to the person who has the food like, “do I have permission to take the food?” But he’s like, basically invisible to both stepsisters so he’s just stuck smelling the very rare food that’s managed to break through his stress-induced appetite barrier. Brad, meanwhile, has already started helping himself with an audible “mm!” Within minutes he’s already taken down four mini pies, and Gabe’s steady nibbles have taken down two. Two!! This is Gabe the Valet we’re talking about here! They cannot resist the curried duck mini-pies! And who can blame them!

“These are amazing!” Brad says with his mouth half full, “Where is your cook?”

“Ah, I’m afraid they’ve already… left for the day,” says the stepmother.

That’s kind of weird, the prince thinks, You’d think they’d want feedback from the palace…

“Do they have the recipe, at least?” Gabe perks up, “The palace kitchens would be very interested in serving this, themselves.”

“It’s a secret family recipe,” says one of the stepsisters.

“Very secret,” says the other stepsister.

 The prince’s eyes narrow slightly at this. His eyes flick down the girl’s clothes and hair. No spots of flour anywhere, and not a whiff of spice on  either of them. They’re densely perfumed. These guys were nowhere near the fucking kitchen! How can they call it a family recipe?

The stepsisters are now launching into this long-ass spiel about how it took the palace this long to find the real owners of the glass slipper, talking over each other, both talking shit about each other, both talking shit about all of the honestly delightful shoe candidates who came before them.

“Did you see that girl with the curly brown hair, big mouth and giant nasty feet? I mean, you didn’t think that idiot could have fit the shoe, right?”

“Or the girl with the massive ugly nose?”

“Or the girl who kept crossing herself and looked like she was about to piss herself and cry the whole ball?”

The prince stiffens where he stands. Oh no, they are not talking shit about Dutiful Winery Daughter, Eunice, and Amelia. Not on his watch! But he can’t say anything because he’s the goddamn footman!

“Well, as delightful as this food is,” Gabe says, shifting the subject, “We do have a schedule to keep—”

“Madam, may I use the washroom?” The prince suddenly pipes up, “All the tea from these meetings just goes right through me.”

“The servants’ privy is—” the stepmother starts and then catches herself, “I mean, obviously a footman of the palace should use our best washroom. Second door from the staircase.”

“…thank you, madam,” the prince gives a hollow bow and briskly walks out of the room. And like, of course now his hyper-observant detective ass is internally going ‘She is absolutely hiding something. Why would she direct a servant away from the servants’ quarters? I have to find the servants’ quarters now. This house doesn’t look big enough to really have a proper servants’ quarters unless it’s—” as soon as he’s out of sight, he pivots in the hallway near the stairs and glances toward the scullery and suddenly the voices of all of the servants he interviewed after the ball come flooding into his mind.

She fixed this button on that jacket.

She knew how to get a stain out with lemon juice.

She was really interested in how to make the food.

Her best friends are rats.

He walks down the hall. His ears are burning and he feels like he’s moving through molasses. There’s a door. There’s a door at the end of the hall. He can hear rats scuttling in the walls. He presses an ear to the wall—are they all moving in one direction?

But then there’s a bloodcurdling scream and the sound of a shatter and all of a sudden the prince's heart plummets into his gut. He sprints back to the parlor where Brad and Gabe are doing the fitting, except the older stepsister on the couch is wailing.

There’s shards of glass flecked with red all over the floor.

“She—she kicked It off—I didn’t have time to grab it—Oh god—” Gabe’s hand goes over his mouth. 

“The shoe bit me, Mother, you must believe me, it bit me!” The older stepsister insists.

“You broke it…” the prince’s voice is more blank than angry as he hangs in the doorway.

“Because it bit me!” says the stepsister, and suddenly a horrified holler escapes her, “My TOES!”

“What?” The prince glances over and his own hand claps over his mouth. Her pinky and… ring? toes are missing. And the stumps are bleeding. Dripping and spurting all over the carpet.

The younger stepsister lets out another earsplitting scream. Oh my god it is not helping.

“You—you could have warned us there were such consequences for not fitting the shoe!” the Stepmother says through gritted teeth to Gabe.

“Madam, We swear, we had no idea—” Gabe starts but the Prince can’t contain himself. HE JUST LOST HIS ONE FUCKING LEAD.

TO ASSHOLES.

“Consequences?!” The Prince blurts out, “This is the first time I’ve seen this happen! With every other girl in the kingdom it’s just either been too tight or too loose! Ma’am this is the first fucking time I’ve seen anything like this! What the hell did you do to piss a shoe off!?”

“You have no right to speak to me like that, you lowly servant!” The Stepmother barks.

“You will address His Highness the prince with respect!” Brad says on reflex.

And the Prince huffs a breath through his teeth like, ‘Goddammit, Brad.”

“…what?” Says the stepmother. 

“MY TOES!” The stepsister wails again and the prince flinches to attention,  looking sharply to Brad, “Send one of the footmen to the palace, have them send in a royal surgeon on the swiftest horse they can,” says the Prince. It’s one of these princely lines that has always lurked ready at the back of his mind, but he never imagined himself really using, especially not for someone who pisses him off as much as this asshole.

“It shall be done, your highness,” Brad gives his shallow bow before hurrying off. The prince swears and pulls off the kerchief of his own servant’s livery, quickly wrapping it around the stepsister’s bleeding toe stubs and applying pressure.

“OW!” The stepsister cries out, “That hurts!”

“Just shut up and just focus on not passing out,” the Prince says darkly.

“You’re the prince?” The stepsister winces.

“Yes,” says the prince.

“…and you’re… worried about me?” The stepsister says breathlessly.

“Yeah,” the prince says, looking up at her sharply, “I’m the prince. It’s my fucking job to worry about the subjects of my kingdom.”

The stepsister’s lips purse together and there’s kind of a beat here where she’s almost, almost picking up on the whole, “nobility isn’t just a matter of birth” deal. I don’t know. Maybe give her a couple years. Maybe.

“I hope you will see our family properly compensated for this horrific incident,” the stepmother adds.

“Yes,” the prince says hollowly, his eyes flicking down to all the glass shards on the floor and the blood that’s now staining the knee of his servants’ livery, “Of course.”

It’s a whole thing. The surgeon does arrive extremely quickly because goddamn if the horse they sent them in on isn’t the fastest horse in the kingdom, he honestly looks a little shaken by the time he arrives because holy shit is that horse fast, but he’s able to stitch up the stepsister’s toe stubs—they do look for the stepsister’s toes to reattach them, but they don’t find them. The prince really, really doesn’t want to think that the shoe ate them, and neither does anyone else, but that is absolutely on everyone’s minds as the royal surgeon is carefully wrapping the stepsister’s foot in gauze. The prince apologizes for the incident, and, with everyone deeply uncomfortable and really not wanting to be around each other, they make the arrangements to leave.

The stepfam watches as the carriage takes off.

—-

Cindy, god bless her, has deeply, deeply hoped she is the dastardly criminal that the guard captain thinks she is, because a dastardly criminal would be able to pick this fucking lock. But she isn’t. She’s just a nice girl staring at no less than 9 sewing needles jammed hopelessly into a keyhole and she’s furiously trying to hold back tears. She’s heard a bloodcurdling scream and muffled yelling about toes but she honestly isn’t paying it that much mind because the stepsisters scream like that whenever they see a rat. She has to focus, goddammit but shit, shit shit, there’s no way in fuck she’s picking this lock. And like… why would she?? She’s never picked locks before! The village tinker’s shown her some interesting stuff so she knows tumblers exist but she doesn’t know how to make them do the thing without a key!

If I was half the girl the prince thinks I am, I would be out there, she thinks, If I was half the girl fairy godmother thinks I am, I’d be riding in the prince’s carriage by now.

But then this little furious fire lights up in her heart. The fairy godmother wouldn’t want her to give up. The fairy godmother would want her to go down kicking and screaming, and probably biting someone to the point of drawing blood. The fairy godmother is a manifestation of this goddamn column of PAIN in Cinderella and GODDAMN if Cindy is going to let that agony amount to nothing. She draws in a furious breath through her nostrils, gives a glance toward the cellar door leading to the garden outside and huffs it out. Her hands ball into fists and she descends the stairs.

—

“Highness…” Brad’s words are slow, unsure as the prince is walking back towards the carriage, “I—I know you really cared about her, wherever she is and whoever she is,” Brad casts his eyes downward, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” the prince says the words on reflex.

“If it’s…. worth saying, your highness,” Brad says slowly, “I think.. going through all this, as painful as it has been, I think it’s been really good for you. It’s… it’s been really good to see how much you care about people.”

“It’s one thing to care, Brad,” the prince says quietly, “It’s another thing to actually fucking do something.”

“You’re going to do a lot of things, highness,” Gabe says quietly, “I’m sure of it.”

“Mm,” the Prince just slips into the carriage and closes the door.

He leans his head against the glass of the carriage window as it rattles on, staring out at the woods surrounding the estate, then the fields beyond as the carriage rattles down the road. The prince is weighing Brad’s words in his head like… okay, maybe the idea of someone is enough to get you off your ass to try and put some good in the world, but at the same time… fuck, it hurts. It hurts so bad. Only remembering the idea of a smile, of a laugh…of someone grinning and calling you on your shit… it fucking hurts his heart more than any of you can fucking imagine. The scenery is rolling by, fallow fields, the odd handful of trees set up as a windbreak, and the fence that trails along the road. Wooden, and unassuming, bleached by sunlight. The prince lets his eyes bump over the fenceposts as they roll by. Fencepost… fencepost… fencepost… fencepost with a rat in a little green marching band jacket on it… fencepost…

The prince suddenly jerks to attention and smushes the side of his face against the glass of the carriage window, looking behind him. There is a rat, in a swanky little green band jacket perched on the fencepost that is rapidly rolling behind the royal carriage. Its nose is high and twitching in the air. The prince stares after the rat shrinking In the distance in awe and blinks several times. Just before it falls out of view with the carriage’s progression, it hops back into the grass.

“I suppose with the slipper broken, we’ll have to make an announcement that—prince?” Gabe the valet looks up from his agenda.

The prince means to shout “RAT IN A JACKET” but what comes out sounds more like “RAJACKINRAT” and Brad goes, “What” and the prince just fucking opens the carriage door and fucking jumps out and tucks and rolls out of the full-speed moving carriage, bouncing painfully in the dirt road.

“Your highness?!” Brad yells out the swinging carriage door but the prince has already sprang to his feet and broken into a dead sprint across the field back to the house. He vaults over a fence, clips a hedge hard with his shoulder, stumbles over the roots of several copses of trees, and then hops another fence to find himself at the rear of Cindy’s family estate. His shoes fucking skid hard to a stop in the dirt, and he’s looking around this cute little garden and farm yard. It’s an adorably kept garden for something owned by such horrible people, but he’s not getting too caught up on that detail. He’s feverishly looking around. Where’s the rat? Where did the rat go? The rat in the jacket—where is it??? And then there’s a… whispering, rattling sound and he glanced over to see a hazel tree that seems to be moving… a little too much for it to just be the wind. It’s swaying… pointing? He narrows his eyes for a second but then suddenly flinches hard at a loud, ‘WHUNK’ sound and a pained, muffled grunt, and he glances over to see a cellar door.

A cellar door barred with a criss-crossing shovel and rake.

He rushes over.

Now, okay, maybe the smart thing to do here may have been to yell through the door ‘Who’s in there?’ Or maybe ‘what happened’ or even just ‘Hello?’ But this boy is amped up on enough adrenaline and desperation to kill a younger, bedridden, asthmatic version of himself. So instead, he yanks away the shovel and rake barring the cellar doors and takes hold of both cellar door handles and flings them open, only for Cindy to fucking rush headlong into him.

And like, I need to stress here that the prince is all about horseback riding, fencing, and wrestling. Like, do you know how much that builds up your core and quads? Those are all VERY CORE AND QUAD-FOCUSED SPORTS. This dude is cute but he is STURDY, but now scrappy Cindy has just caught him hard with a bony shoulder/elbow combo right to the solarplexus like a goddamn axehead, so he’s making this “Phwoor” noise on contact and Cindy has maybe a 28% idea of what is currently happening because she’s just fucking SPRUNG UP meaning to literally bust open a cellar door and instead she’s… hit something… not quite soft-ish?? Definitely not a cellar door???

And then WHUMPF they’re both sprawled out with Cinderella on top of the prince in the chicken piss-drenched dirt of the farm.

“Guh..?” The prince makes a noise that’s half-suppressing a gag before glancing down and seeing hair clotted up with soot and ashes. Cindy’s covered in a fresh layer of soot after her last ramming attempt sent her painfully rolling down the stairs and into the ashes near the fireplace.

Cindy’s eyelashes flutter. Her head jerks up because she still has half a mind to race after the carriage that’s just taken off, but then she looks down because she doesn’t know what she just hit.

 And then she sees the prince. 

It’s him! It’s him! Sure he’s wearing (now crooked) glasses, and servant’s livery now, and his hair is all mussed up and there’s the five o’clock shadow (Wow she really likes the five o’ clock shadow), but she knows those eyes from when they were dancing together! It is fucking NOW OR NEVER. It is fucking GO TIME. So she just braces both hands in the dirt on either side of the prince’s face and this whole marvelous gracious script she had in her head goes right out the window and she just shouts, “I HAVE THE SHOE!” In the prince’s face, except it comes out more like “IVETHASHOE!”

“What?” The prince is staring up at her. Oh fuck I don’t know how to explain what he is currently going through right now. You know that whole ‘tip of your tongue’ sensation when like… you know something, you know you know something, but it’s not clicking? It’s just not coming? And it is the worst fucking mental itch. Imagine that, but a million times worse. The weight of her—he knows the weight of her from when they were dancing, from when he was obsessively running through every detail of that night through his head night after night. He knows the feel of her back muscles, and he’s pretty sure it’s the same feel as this fucking battering ram that’s sprung out of that cellar. This face. He has to know this face. He wants to know this face so fucking bad. He can see the fear in her eyes and he knows the fear in her eyes, the fucking timing of her expressions, but every human is capable of having fear in their eyes so there’s just this fucking tidal wave of “is it you? Please, please, is it you?” crashing against these walls of fucking despair.

“I—I have the other shoe,” Cinderella’s voice comes slow and dense to her. 

But then there’s the sound of a door slamming at the front of the house and Cinderella flinches. And fuck, the Prince knows what her flinching feels like in his arms from the sound of that first midnight bell ringing.

“What are you doing?!” The stepmother barks, “Get off of him you wretched little thing!”

Another visible flinch goes through Cindy, but she stays still, her mouth pinches for a second before she says again, “I have… the other shoe.”

“Cinderella, did you not hear me? Do you know how much of an embarrassment you’re making of yourself?” 

Cinderella winces, her eyes squeezing shut, but she feels a gentle hand touching her forearm and she opens one eye.

“You have the other shoe?” The prince is staring up at her. He looks like total shit compared to the ball, but she thinks she likes it more. The five o’ clock shadow, the eye bags, the mussed up hair… this is the fucking dork who snuck off with her and let her have half of his plate of food without hesitation.

“Yeah,” she says, pushing back from him. He props himself up to a kneeling position and she pulls the other glass slipper out of the pocket on her dress. And he recognizes it. This dude has spent hours and hours poring over the other glass slipper, he would recognize its partner in a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat. It’s the other half of the pair, and this girl, this girl who is slamming against some wall in his psyche with the frustration and distrust of one’s own memory, has the other shoe. “Um… here—” she pushes the slipper into his hands and yes, yes, he knows the weight of it. He turns it over in his hands, just marveling.

The stepmother is going on like, “Cinderella, you will listen to me or so help me you will never—that is to say—” The stepmother can’t properly threaten Cindy the way she always does! Not when the prince is fucking there! Oh but the prince picks up on that. Dude has grown up with a complicated web of dynamics of servants and lords and advisors and tutors and he knows, he knows the exact fucking look on someone’s face when they can’t use their usual ammunition. He looks back at Cindy.

“…you have the other one…” he says, very slow, very quiet.

“Your highness, she’s not well, I simply must—” the Stepmother starts but the prince holds up a ‘Shut the fuck up’ hand and she falls silent.

The prince holds the slipper back out to Cinderella and she takes it. 

“Show me,” he says, “Please.” It’s impossible to keep all the desperation in his voice out of that ‘please.’

She turns it over in her hands. So careful, so loving—trying to have as little finger contact as possible even though the Prince has determined through multiple experiments that the slipper doesn’t fucking smudge. The way she looks at this shoe—it’s just as much hope and despair for her—it’s a memory of the best fucking night of her life, and it’s also a manifestation of her fear that she will never again know happiness like she knew at that ball. 

“Do you need more time?” The Prince asks but that just seems to prompt Cindy out of her daze and the complete three-way pile-up of hope and love and terror.

She shakes her head, then pushes back onto her butt, extends one leg, stubs her heel against the dirt to get off her normal shoe, and then stoops forward and pulls the glass slipper on. After so long of watching people furiously try to jam their feet into the slipper, or seeing the slipper awkwardly knock loose against heels, it is so goddamn surreal to see the shoe fit. Without a second thought. Like she’s just pulling it on in the morning like any other shoe.

 The prince is still, dead silent, absolutely dumbfounded. She pushes back onto her hands and extends her leg again, now turning her ankle with a slight ‘Ta-daaaa’ gesture. It’s not bragging or smugness, it’s more like a gesture of respect to the slipper itself, and everything it represents. Brad runs in right at this point but basically the combination of being out of breath from running after the prince and the sight of a girl who he previously thought was a chimney sweep wearing the slipper has rendered him silent save fore some labored, buckled-over panting.

Cindy gives a glance to her Stepmother on reflex, the muscles of her shoulders and neck unconsciously tensing, ready to be seized by the hair and for everything she’s hoped and dreamed of to be torn agonizingly away from her again, but… there’s nothing. The Stepmother has just gone full blue-screen. 404 File Not Found. Mouth hanging open, stunned. Cinderella looks back at the prince, who is staring just as slack-jawed. She looks back at the prince, whose expression is unreadable.

“If you need to try it on other people to make sure, I understand, but I don’t think my stepsisters—“ Cinderella starts.

The prince lunges forward and hugs her. Just, all these years of all this gentlemanly training, all of these social defenses, ‘this spoon goes here,’ ‘maintain this distance and bow at 45 degrees,’ and walking with books stacked on his head just fucking disintegrate and he just whips his arms around her. His head is just a fog of, It’s you. It’s you. It’s you. You’re real. I knew I didn’t dream you. It’s you. And Cinderella just.. freezes. Leggy still stuck out. It’s almost a flinch. Just a few stunned seconds of registering affectionate human contact. He remembered her. He was looking for her. He was worried about her. He turned the entire goddamn kingdom upside-down for her. And somewhere in the midst of these realizations she becomes aware that her cheeks are soaked with tears and her chest is heaving with sobs and at some point they’ve both come together on their knees he’s pulling away like, “Oh god, I’m sorry, are you-? I didn’t mean to—” 

And she’s pushing forward, clawing at the front of his jacket, fingers trying to find purchase—she’s so used to crying against a damn tree— and she’s like, “No—I mean I’m fine—I— mean—“ and then the sobs are rippling through her words and she just kind of slumps against him, arms winding around him like she has to think about where they’re supposed to go. God, how long has it been? His arms find his way around her again and he just kind of sits there for a long while, just letting her cry. 

He strokes her hair lightly. His hands come away sooty and he doesn’t even notice. 

After a minute, maybe two, she pulls away again to snort up a big glob of snot and wipe her face off a little, her tears streaking away the ash and dirt, and she has never looked more beautiful. Her eyes are all puffy and her skin is all red and blotchy but the girl at the ball doesn’t have shit on the girl he’s looking at right now. “I’m sorry—” she says, snorting again, “I’m trying to…” another sob falls out of her and she laughs at herself a little, “I’m really trying—!” 

“You’re fine,” he says, and he tucks back a little strand of hair that’s stuck to her face with snot. Then he smiles, a gentle, lopsided smile, and he hits her with the same line she hit him back at the ball, when they were both at that buffet table and she had a mouth half-full of bacon-wrapped dates, but here it carries so much more weight: “Hey... do you want to get out of here?”

“Uh huh,” her voice is shaking with the force of her nods.

The prince cranes past Cindy and looks at Brad, who is still panting, buckled over from chasing after him. 

“Uh Brad? Could you bring the carriage around?”

“Of—,” Brad huffs, “Course, your highness.” He briskly, but wearily hustles off.

“I—” Cinderella wipes at her face again, sniffles and swallows thickly, “Can I get my stuff? It won’t take too long.” “Yeah,” the Prince says and she’s standing up and pulling away and like… he realizes he isn’t holding her in place but he’s raising his hands to let her wrists slip from them, as if trying to keep the contact as long as possible before she hurries off. 

And he’s just… kind of staring into space there in the dirt, like, Holy fuck, it really is her. That spell, that fog, all that unsureness has just been wiped away and now, ka-CHUNK, this girl is locked in—it is the girl from the ball. It’s mystery girl! Who has rat friends!! In clothes!! That she made!! He has never been more sure of anything in his life. And he’s never known a love like the one that is fucking surging up in him right now.

And the stepmother thinks this is a great time to speak up. “Um, your highness, if I may—“

“You may fucking not,” the Prince says with a pleasant blankness, not even looking at her. 

And the stepmother makes a sound that would have been an assenting ‘Ah,' sound but it comes out more like a strangled, “Eh—“ And she tries to compose herself, “I’m sorry your majesty, I must have misheard—”

“You did not,” and the prince is now gracious enough to glance up at her, still kneeling in the dirt. There is something dark behind the pleasant blankness in his expression. Something that says, I am not going to ask why that cellar door was barred with gardening tools, and I hope for your sake you recognize that as a mercy. We are a progressive kingdom and we are very proud to have banned virtually all forms of corporal punishment. However, it is taking an ungodly amount of self-control to not bring back the most fucked up medieval punishments solely for you, so I suggest you do not fucking push me.

Because like… one thing to keep in mind with the prince is… sure, most of the time he’s a good-hearted (albeit kind of antisocial) dweeb: He likes his books, he likes his horses, and he sees his hobbies of fencing and wrestling as more exercises in athletic ability and camaraderie than really anything martial. However, he is also his mother’s son.

And the queen will not hesitate to absolutely destroy a motherfucker.

And the stepmother recognizes this and quietly clears her throat. “Right,” she says, glancing off again as the carriage once again pulls up to the estate with Brad hanging off the side of it all cool and shit like he didn’t nearly pop a blood vessel chasing after the prince. A breeze blows through the boughs of the hazel tree, and it sounds almost like a snicker. 

“I—oof—I got my stuff!” Cindy comes up out of the cellar, hauling a heavy-looking chest. A rat is perched on the chest, and a rat is perched on each of her shoulders, with a final, fancy green-jacketed  rat sitting sphinx-like on her head.

“Oh—!” The prince rushes over, prompting the chest rat to jump into one of Cindy’s apron pockets, “Here—I can carry that for you.”

“Your highness, I must insist—” Brad cuts in and takes the chest from Cindy, “And…” he looks at Cinderella, “Miss, if I may have a word?”

“Brad—” the Prince says in warning but Cinderella touches his shoulder in an ‘It’s fine’ gesture, and follows after Brad as he carries the chest over to the carriage. 

“So…” Brad says, carrying the chest over, “You’re not a chimney sweep.”

“No, I’m sorry, I should have said so,” says Cinderella.

“No, it’s not your fault—I shouldn’t have made assumptions,” said Brad, “So all the ash is from…?” He studies her for a second and then glances off as they finally reach the carriage.

 Cinderella is looking down at all the soot dusting her ashamedly. “It’s my own fault…” she says quietly, “It.. gets really cold down in the cellar, but I should know when I’m tired enough to get into my own bed.. but…” she trails off.

Brad’s face scrunches with guilt. “I would like to apologize,” Brad says, as he’s strapping the chest to the back of the carriage.

“A-apologize?” Cindy perks up.

“I was convinced you had sinister, ulterior motives, I made many assumptions about your character which I now realize to be unfounded.”

“Oh…” Cindy says quietly. 

“I should have trusted his highness’s judgment.” Brad isn’t looking at her.

“But you were just doing your job!” Cinderella perks up a little.

Brad blinks a few times and tries to re-compose himself. “It was still unjust of me to assume you were… some sort of criminal mastermind.”

“Criminal mastermind…” Cindy breathes, “No one’s ever thought I was a criminal mastermind before!”

“Because… you clearly aren’t?” Brad really wasn’t expecting the conversation to take this turn? He was kind of expecting her to just accept the apology by now.

“Well, I mean, it’s just.. I get called ‘stupid’ a lot—It’s kind of flattering to have someone think I’m a criminal mastermind!”

Brad yanks on the last strap on the chest before saying, “Miss, would you please just accept my apology?”

“Oh! Sorry,” Cindy laughs a little, “I’m not used to people apologizing to me.” 

There’s just a beat and Brad is putting 2 and 2 together of ‘I get called stupid a lot’ and ‘People don’t apologize to me’ and there’s this flicker across his face of ‘Jesus fuck we need to get you out of here.’

“er—I mean,” Cinderella straightens up, clearly trying to imitate Brad’s own impeccable guardsman posture, “I accept your apology, sir.”

“…thanks,” says Brad. He stares at Cindy for a second and makes eye-contact with the rat on her head.. “So the rats are coming—?”

“The rats are coming,” says Cindy, “And… if it’s possible… Chauncey isn’t as good a watchdog as he used to be, so I was thinking, maybe he would be more comfortable at the palace… but if stepmother wants to keep him I under—“

“You want the dog? Why take the dog, my dear! Why would you ever think I would stop you from taking the dog? Take the dog! Take him!” A terrified, manic laugh falls out of the stepmother and there’s a long quiet beat before Cinderella just kind of… shuffles over to Chauncey’s place in the barn and brings her formerly-carriage-driver-dog over to the prince’s carriage. His hips aren’t that good so both she and Brad help the dog into the carriage. 

“Is that everything?” The Prince walks over.

“Oh—! One more thing!” Cinderella rushes away and comes back with one hazelnut from the tree her father planted, pocketing it and then clasping her hands together. “Okay. I’m ready.” The prince holds out a hand to help her up into the carriage.

“I hope you don’t forget all we did to get you here, my dear,” the stepmother coos, and a there’s another visible flinch in Cinderella’s shoulders as she’s pulling herself up into the carriage. The prince looks back at the stepmother, and that shadow passes behind his eyes again, and the Stepmother draws herself in with a prim posture. The prince can just… feel this roiling, seething anger in him, his mother’s righteous fury, his father’s love for all things small, and good and kind, and there’s a three-second beat where he wants to fucking scorch the earth of this godforsaken place.

But then he looks back at Cindy, sitting in the carriage.

And she just looks… so tired. So very, very tired.

So without a word the prince pulls himself up into the carriage, and closes the door. Brad hops on the back, and off the carriage goes. The green-jacketed rat finds its way into the prince’s lap as they ride and he mindlessly traces a finger along the line of its body. The dog is audibly snoring at their feet. 

Cinderella leans her head on his shoulder, her eyelids heavy.

“Prince?” She says quietly, lifting her head.

“Mm?”

“Sorry for um.. tackling you like that.”

He snorts a little. “It’s fine.

“I didn’t give you internal bleeding, did I? You know,” her voice drops a little, “From the hemophilia?”

“…I… don’t have hemophilia,” the prince says squinting a little, “I’m not internally bleeding. I’m fine. Really.”

“You don’t?” Cindy relaxes and snuggles her cheek against his shoulder, “Oh… that’s such a relief…”

A short pause passes between them, filled only with the sound of the rattling carriage. Gabe, for once in his life, is not furiously taking notes. He’s also in the fucking, absolute blank faced ‘who the fuck are you’ mode while Brad is avoiding contact with everyone, staring out the window and quietly chewing on some of the extra pies that he quietly pocketed during all the horror of the shoe straight-up biting off the stepsister’s toes.

“Uhm… hey—” the prince glances at Cindy, “So… okay this is going to sound like… a really weird question, and I swear I’m not trying to be weird it’s just.. I put a whole chart together, but the shoe didn’t go along with the chart, so like—I know it doesn’t matter because the shoe fits but like… just so I don’t go crazy from all this… how big are your feet?” 

“I don’t know,” Cinderella doesn’t lift her head from his shoulder, “Like…big rat-sized, I guess?” 

“Big rat-sized,” the prince repeats.

“Mm-hmm.”

“I can live with that,” the prince settles against the carriage seat cushions. 

 He glances down at Cinderella and then follows her line of sight back to the estate shrinking in the distance. It looks like there’s a swarm of starlings spiraling above it. He glances back at her and her eyes are already closed. The prince leans his cheek on Cindy’s hair. She smells like ash and smoke, but beneath that, beneath the faint smell of sweat, even, there’s another smell: Vegetal, and sweet… pumpkin? He doesn’t dwell too long on the thought before closing his own eyes.

[hansolmates]

jk! crazy rich asians au

rich!jk x middle-class!reader (f) genre/warnings; crazy rich asians!au, nyc!au, chaebol!jk, strangers to lovers, a meet-cute, jk is disgustingly rich, soft slow-lovin sex, lots of profanity, alcohol use w/c; 1.5k a/n; dreamy sighs. remember vic’s black card couple? It totally brought me back to how fun and amazing that series was. I really really enjoyed writing this. thank u for submitting!

“Do you… need help?”

“Uh, no?”

You’re not an employee, but you are an avid Target shopper. The person in question is buying a lot—no, a fuckton of things. The most expensive and best-smelling fabric softeners, over ten pints of Halo Top ice cream, and a twenty dollar toothbrush holder you’ve been eyeing for weeks in the hope it’ll go on sale.

The man looks absolutely clueless, not because he doesn’t know what to buy, but it seems like he doesn’t know how to end his Target run. Fear not, you’re a dedicated master of controlling your stress-induced Target runs, so you do your good deed of the day and decide to help him out.

“Are you furnishing an apartment?” you ask lightly, eyeing copious amounts of cookies and ramen that’s tucked in the very bottom of the cart.

“Um, yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck, looking down sheepishly on the polished white floor. He’s dressed down in a plain white t-shirt and black sweatpants, but you’re impressed that they’re actually clean and creased nicely. “My mom already got me the apartment, and I already told her that’s too much. I told her that I could do everything myself, but she’s so insistent.”

“Ah, overprotective mother?”

“You have no idea,” he grins, “if you have any pointers for a clueless bachelor living alone for the first time, I’d appreciate it.”

This man is sneaky. Under the guise of being completely helpless (and a bachelor, no less!) you can’t help but aid this man.

Most importantly, his smile is completely and utterly heart melting.

With a fake cough, you pat your stomach to quell the aching butterflies smothering your chest. You dare another look into his pretty brown eyes when you quickly spit your name out, which causes Jungkook to smile even wider. “Well Jungkook, for starters,” you pull up your Target app on your phone, “do you have a Red Card? It saves you money on any Target purchase.”

“No, but I have a black card?” he turns his head in confusion, not understanding the use of Target’s loyalty program, “that should work too, right?”

You simply laugh, and reason with him that you’re thinking of two completely different things.

It’s the first time you’re spending a night in Jungkook’s apartment. He never lets you over, reasoning that your apartment is warm and smells like sugar, like what a home is supposed to be. You should be excited to be nosy in Jungkook’s apartment and see all his cute baby pictures and the type of tea he drinks. Normally you’d be over the moon, but you’re love-drunk as shit and all you want to be is wrapped up in your boyfriend’s arms.

He doesn’t bother turning on the light as he weaves through his apartment building, holding you securely in koala style as he makes his way to your bedroom. It’s a blur as you’re currently occupied by the way Jungkook somehow manages to grind his stiff dress pants against your thinly clothed core, so you don’t see much of the rooms. You can only make out the faint scent of leftover lavender incense as Jungkook doesn’t waste time throwing you on his plush bed, following soon to press his body against yours.

“You’re completely, and utterly amazing,” he spreads kisses throughout every part of your body, irons them throughout your skin with warm presses of his champagne coated lips, “gonna love you so good tonight, baby.”

You simply moan in response, shimmying out of your little black dress and tilting your head to give Jungkook more access to your skin.

These past three months have been nothing short of a blissful whirlwind. Jungkook, who moved into the city as a hopeful bachelor, ironically ended up being cuffed by you after two weeks of not-so-accidental Target runs and lunch dates.

As much as you’re enamoured by his sweetness and eagerness to learn how to live on his own, he’s inspired by your independence and charm. A self-made woman, he calls you, proudly showing you off to your friends whenever he can. Oftentimes you try to reason with him that he’ll be self-made too, as he’s working on a start-up that’s just inches off from launching. Every time however, he kisses your forehead and simply says that it’s just not the same as you.

“So lucky to have met you,” he sighs, pumping his dick languidly as he admires your glistening body, “I think Target is my favorite store in the world. Who the fuck needs Gucci or Yves?”

You giggle deliriously, thinking he’s just saying silly shit as he always does. Your giggles soon hasten into whines when you feel the slick head run up and down your engorged folds, eager to have that full and warm feeling eat you up. “Koo,” you run your fingers through his cropped dark hair, “please, fuck me good.”

As Jungkook slowly but firmly pounds you into the mattress, your tipsy haze has you thinking how tonight feels different than most. For one thing, you’re in his apartment. It feels special, like you’ve managed to break through another layer of the reserved yet open Jeon Jungkook. Sure, he’ll tell you from top to bottom his top 10 Greatest Anime Betrayals, but so far he hasn’t told you much about his family and life before coming to the city.

Again, you think it’s the alcohol, but it isn’t just the sex, it’s the vibe. It just feels different than going home to your too-tiny one-room apartment. How is his sex playlist echoing through his walls so seamlessly? It makes The Weeknd’s I Feel It Coming sound so melodious, and you’d never admit that to him. Even the sheets feel luxurious, as if they’ve been crafted by the finest seamers in the country.

When the both of you climax and nuzzle against the sheets, you stop your weird mid-sex overthinking and just let yourself love. Jungkook wipes the sweat off your brow and uses cucumber-scented baby wipes to clean upstairs and downstairs. There’s nothing different, there mustn't be. It must be extra special because you’re with Jeon Jungkook, the most amazing man in the world.

You don’t even remember falling asleep, the mattress is just that damn soft.

The next morning, you have a slight headache and your mouth feels like paper. Smacking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you force yourself out of bed. Pawing at the nightstand for your phone, you’re met with a cool paperweight.

Your eyes bug out as you see that a gold bar is hugging the sensitive documents against the sleek black table. Sparkly, but still dull enough to look authentically expensive. Is that real gold? You have half a mind to put the bar in your mouth and give it a little bite, just to check.

Wide awake, you chance a look at Jungkook, who’s still sleeping soundly and facing the other side of the bedroom. Careful not to wake him, you press a single toe on the cool espresso colored hardwood and move to find his dress shirt to put on.

Buttoning the silky material enough to cover your bits, you step out the door to see if you can make breakfast.

You scream. Where the fuck are you?

“The hell, babe?” Jungkook is all but calm at your shrill attack, his groggy morning voice that normally has you melting all but ignored.

“Jungkook,” you whisper in fear, unable to turn around and face him, “whose house did we break into last night?”

This is the penthouse, AKA, the most expensive fucking floor in the whole building. There are wall-to-wall double windows, with light-blocking curtains that open with a motion of your arm. The television is the width of the wall, with speakers embedded into the ceiling. There’s a wine fridge as tall as Jungkook mounted on the kitchen wall. The countertops are a milky white marble, matching the floor that’s so shiny you can see your coochie clearly from the opening of your button down. You promptly close your legs.

“Wha?” Jungkook steps behind you, a sheet wrapped around his waist to establish a modicum of decency. Now that it’s morning, you can clearly see that the eggshell sheets look so buttery they must be Egyptian. “I told you, I live here.”

“That’s Swarovski Crystal,” you point accusingly at the million-cut vase holding an abundant amount of sunset orange tiger lilies on the kitchen counter, which you’re absolutely sure do not grow naturally in this country. “I’m pretty sure I saw Michelle Obama with that vase on an episode of Home and Garden.”

“It was a gift,” Jungkook shrugs tiredly, and you already know he wants to pull you back to bed.

“Jungkook,” you grit, “what the fuck? Do you sell drugs?”

It’s meant to be a half-joke, but you falter slightly when you see Jungkook deflate. Maybe he hoped you’d be more casual about this, but from the look on your face, Jungkook deduces that it’s wishful thinking. He opens his blanket, and pulls you inside, relishing in the warmth of your body.

“I… have some explaining to do,” he mumbles dejectedly, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

[wallflowerimagines]

Hello! Um... I don’t really know how to start this but say I love your hc! I think you do a fantastic job on them, there all very sweet but being the s.o.b I am I’m here to ask for some angst. How would you think the lords act if their S/O died?

...I'm feeling mean. 😈

Warnings: Angst, Death, Horror Game villains making bad decisions/not coping with tragedy, suicide.

Alcina Dimitrescu

Denial, Denial, Denial

You can't be dead. There has to be something, anything that she can do to save you. Alcina scrambles for a solution, attacking the problem from all sides, despite the reality of the situation staring her in the face.

Immediately injects your body with Cadou in a desperate hope to save you. Any possible chance that he has to save you she's going to take it.

It's not likely that your corpse reanimates, but it does mutate. At the end of the process, what's left of your body hardly even looks like you anymore, and she can't bring herself to look at it.

She builds a gilded crypt for your body-- it's stunning. It's inspired by you, all your favorite colors, styles and hobbies are incorporate to make the room feel full of your spirit. Alcina is an artistic woman, and she throws herself into the project like she's possessed.

It might take years, even decades to complete. It has to be perfect. When it's done she feels accomplished, but twice as empty. It might be one of the most beautiful dedications she's ever made, but it can't replace you. She has the room sealed off with no way to get to it, so she can't be tempted to visit. She just needs a piece of of you still in her home, or she can't get through the day.

...If your corpse does reanimate, it's actually worse for Alcina. Whatever she brought back was a shambling, horrifying mess of mold wearing your face. It couldn't think for itself, or even follow commands--it just wanders in circles and attacks anything that gets too close.

She keeps your reanimated corpse in a cell, unable to bring herself to destroy it completely. Sometimes, she'll go down to the basement and talk to the thing like it is you, telling it about her day, having one-sided conversations and thinking of all the wonderful memories the two of you shared.

When its dead eyes meet hers, her lungs seize in her chest and tears gather in her eyes. Alcina doesn't cry often, but when your corpse meets her gaze she starts to sob. Those eyes used to look at her with life and love and now...

Still, she can't stop herself from visiting it. It's a compulsion she can't stop, and it tears open the wound every time, but some irrational part of her deep, deep down thinks that one day, she'll descend those steps and you'll be there to greet her with a warm smile.

In either scenario, she will never have another partner. You're impossible to replace, and she feels truly, genuinely empty without you. Rest well, Darling. You'll never be forgotten.

Donna Beneviento

There is such a thing as a last straw, and this is it for Donna.

Please remember: this is a woman who has lost everything. Mother Miranda might have given her a new "family", but Donna is not nearly as attached to these new members as she is to her original family. And the loss of her original family has shaped her in such a way that if you died? She would be absolutely devastated.

It's not fair to put this kind of pressure on you, but in a very real way you were her last hope for normalcy. She had all these plans to fix her family with you. You were so instrumental to her hopes for the future that now that you're gone, it feels like she has no hope at all. You were her missing link, her one true love, and now that you're dead...

Donna screams until her throat is raw when she finds out you're gone. Angie can't help her, nothing can. She just can't cope with reality anymore.

She'll build a life sized Doll of you to try to help herself cope, but the minute she tries to implant of piece of her Cadou in it, she is filled with such a vehement hatred of the thing that she starts scream-crying before she takes an axe to it's face and hacks it to pieces. How dare it pretend to be you?!! It's not even close to the real thing, she shouldn't even have tried--

She might try to induce a hallucination of you to help her get through the day to day, but it's not the same. She can't perfectly mimic your laugh, or your smile, or the way you tuck her hair away from her face. It's so obviously not you, and Donna is... alone.

I do hate to say it, but she will absolutely try to kill herself if you died. You were the one person who understood her, empathized with her, and you were her best friend. You were her support system, the one person who could carry her through the worst times in her life, but you're gone. Donna can't believe that anyone else could be there for her like you were.

Salvatore Moreau

Absolutely, irreparably broken.

When the two of you were in a relationship, you busied yourself not only with smothering Salvatore in all of the love and affection that you could, but you also did a lot to help his self-esteem and mental health.

You made sure he knew that he was loved, that you could never hate him, and even on your death bed you make him promise never to forget how wonderful he is.

Once you're gone, though, Salvatore cracks.

He clings to every bit of you felt behind. All of your jewelry, clothing, pictures and sentimental items are preserved to the best of his ability. Your living space is transformed into a shrine dedicated to you.

It's not healthy, but he also deifies you in his memory. Mother Miranda is no longer the only person that he worships-- the memory of you is now sacred to him. You become something holy and perfect in his mind's eye. It doesn't matter how many flaws you had in reality, your death has turned even your worst flaws into traits to be admired and praised. His perception of you is totally twisted.

Speaking of Mother Miranda, he regresses a lot. His adoration of Mother Miranda was something you were helping him work through, but now he's right back at square one, and even worse off than before.

Moreau can't make a decision on his own anymore--from what to say, to what to do, and sometimes even what to eat. After all, it's his fault that you died, isn't it? You were his partner and he used to be is a doctor. How could he possibly trust himself with anything when he couldn't manage to save the most important thing in his life?

To the rest of his family, he's more pathetic than before. His obsession with his Mother was usually limited to when she was in the room, but now it's constant.

If he ever hears the quote "It's better to have loved and lost, then never loved at all," he gets supremely, violently angry. No. No, that's not true, it's bullshit, how dare you even say that to his face.

If he hadn't loved you, you would be alive. He would be alone, but you would be safe. You would be happy.

Now he's alone, and all you are is dead. He can't ever come back from it.

Karl Heisenberg

Rage. Unending, earth shattering Rage.

Whatever killed you better start to fucking pray, because Karl Heisenberg will not quit until it's suffering.

He doesn't kill who or whatever it was. He let's it sit there, mangled beyond belief, and uses his knowledge of mechanics and biology to keep it alive in constant, unending pain.

It's cathartic for him, but not in a healthy way. The more he hurts it, the better he feels, but at the end of the day, you're still gone, and he's still alone.

He's... lost.

Heisenberg should be angry, fuck he wants to be angry more than anything, but the longer he keeps the thing alive... emotions seem like they're too far away anymore. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants... you.

He keeps something of yours in his pocket at all times, just to run his fingers over it and remember you. Your eyes, your laugh, your smile... It's almost like a stress ball, and these days sticking his hand into his pocket to wrap his fingers around the thing is the only way he can calm down.

Sometimes he turns to ask your opinion on something, or tell you a joke with a big smile on his face because this one is going to make you laugh for sure-- and then he freezes when the reality sets in once again. You're not here.

Remember, Heisenberg has idealized the two of you as this perfect partnership. You were the first person who looked at him and loved everything that you saw. You weren't just his first real relationship, the first person that he implicitly trusted, but you were also his very first real friend.

He wasn't the most friendly person to begin with, but he did get better because of you. He was still spoiled, a little socially awkward, and maybe his dark sense of humor would slip and get a little too much, but he grew as a person.

Now that you're gone, he can't even remember what it's like not being a cruel, empty shell of rage. All he has left is his hatred of Mother Miranda.

After a while, it doesn't matter if he's ready to take her on or not. He's going to face that bitch head on and kill her, or die trying.

If he wins, he's finally free. If he doesn't... that's not so bad either. Karl doesn't really believe in an afterlife, but there's something appealing about joining you wherever you might be.

[the-silver-chronicles]

Sylvester "Silva" Omar

Sylvie (by her sister Elsa and one of her friends Sharky Boshaw).

26 (Hope County Arc), 43 (New Dawn Arc).

She/Her.

Demiromantic Homosexual.

Dark hair in a braid tail with slivers of silver dye going down.

Grey.

Either 5'7 or 5'8.

A mix of triangle and hourglass.

Silva is protective of those close to her, calm most of the time, but also hostile to those she doesn't like (whether the hostility is passive or active), compassionate, she's hopeful but also pragmatic, under the guarded, quiet and reserved appearance, there is both a mature woman with dry wit and an innocent fun girl just wanting to be accepted and loved (without compromising her morals or changing the integral parts of herself).

'WRATH' involuntarily tattooed on her chest.

None.

Silva has a lot of scars on her body. Her hands were chemically burned (hence her use of gloves) and her back has healing slashes and fire burns. Her front had plenty of healed cuts and gunshot wounds. She has healed cuts on her face. Spanish accent.

Sewing, cooking, hunting, some mechanics.

Junior Deputy for the Hope County Sheriff's Department

No.

Yes. Can handle beer and wine. But is a lover of piña colada.

Anything long-sleeved.

She would probably wear nice clothes for dates and whatnot (only wears suits during very specific events like weddings, funerals, whatnot). If it was her own wedding (and her partner agreed), she'd wear a traditional Spanish black silk wedding dress (though if her partner disagreed with the black, Silva would go along with white).

Like earth.

Sense of determination.

Early bird and night owl.

Survivor.

"You/They can try." Silva is willing to face whatever opposition is in her way with courage and no fear.

A tie between Autumn and Spring, for the "Fall" and "Rebirth" aspect, given her own character journey up to this point.

Sunny but also likes rain. Detests the snow.

Previously Irene Neon. Currently Faith Seed.

Silva is only really shipped with Faith Seed.

Silva was in a previous relationship with another OC, Irene Neon.

Silva and Faith.

Mostly actions and sometimes words.

Normally. Sometimes with legs crossed.

[I don't understand this question]

Usually nightwear. Sometimes she goes nude (not during the Reaping though). During the Reaping she goes to sleep in whatever she's currently wearing.

Side sleeper, back and fetal position on particularly bad nights.

Holds herself while in a fetal position while also being unable to sleep due to anxiety and insomnia.

Not a lot of the time, no. But rain does make sleep soothing.

Either a Jannah Shrine or Elsa's statue.

Bites her inner cheek.

Silva's pretty good at lying, however, if you ever catch her pausing, that's an indication she's thinking of a lie on the spot (mostly plausible and convincing too, after all, she had to survive under Adam Omar and his Enforcers for majority of her life).

Green.

Red Carnation, it was one of the more prominent flowers Irene used to confess her love to Silva.

Churros.

No pets for Silva. Though she's probably a bunny kind of girl. Maybe a boa too.

Silva's triggers include: situations that might correlate with her trauma (e.g. Jacob's cages and some of Joseph's behaviour are similar to Silva's experiences in Nashira's slave trafficking and her father, Adam's, own behaviour respectively), loud explosions and gunshots (Enforcers did this during the Tumultite's genocide), sudden touches (intimate or otherwise), night terrors, rotting corpses and stress induced hallucinations.

Spain. She's got heritage there but has never been.

Ezekiel's cooking.

Can't stand pickles.

Is alright with sprite or even juice.

Live.

Last One Standing by Skylar Grey, Polo G, Mozzy and Eminem.

(1) Silva has never desired to join Eden's Gate but enjoys listening to their songs, (2) she likes to tinker, (3) Silva believes there are multiple gods not just the one, (4) she had a crush on Jannah, the Tumultite Idealist (who's been dead for 300 years) when she was 10 to 11, and (5) Silva's type (once she gets to know them) are intimidating (probably) evil girls with green eyes.

Silva was created in a lab on an island ruled by a religious fascist cult, her father's best friend convinced him not to kill her at infancy, her little sister Elsa was created a year later, Adam Omar did some horrendous stuff to her (physically, sexually, and psychologically), she was disowned, Paul found her, she became a Tumultite, started a civil revolt against her father, she got the Good Doctor's daughter Irene pregnant, Persephone's birth, Adam's verbal BS (which f-ed her up), Irene's death, Tumultite massacre/genocide, Al's sacrifice (buying her, Elsa and an infant Persephone time to escape by the docks), immigration to America, Burke gets them citizenship, she settles in Montana with her sister and daughter, floristry, Elsa's passing, raising Persephone, Paul's return (and he's evil), 6 month expedition dismantling the Apostles of Zachariah (killing their heralds), reunion with Kamski, meeting Isiah, Gemini and Gavin, Persephone's death, Paul's death, grief and finally the events of Far Cry 5 and divergence into Far Cry The Silver Chronicles.

Silva Omar and Faith Seed have a daughter named Mercy in the New Dawn Arc.

Will add aesthetics later probably.

✨️TELL ME ABOUT YOUR OCS✨️

♡Name

♡Nicknames

♡Age

♡Pronouns

♡Sexuality

♡Hair Color and style

♡Eye Color

♡Height

♡Body Type

♡Personality

♡Tattoos

♡Piercings

♡Any definable features such as: Birthmarks, Scars, Freckles, Beauty Marks, Accent when they talk, Lisp, Natural slurring of words, Walk with a subtle limp, ect.

♡Hobbies

♡Gang/Occupation {Mox, Max Tac, etc}

♡Do they smoke?

♡Do they drink? Is so, what's their poison of choice?

♡What do they usually wear on a normal day?

♡What do they wear when they "Get dressed up"? And what would be considered a "special occasion" to them {such as an "Oh they're gonna be there so I have to look my best." Or an "It's our anniversary".}

♡What do they smell like? {For example: they smell like cinnamon flavored liquor, cigarettes, leather, and motor oil.}

♡How do they walk? Do they sway their hips? Do they walk with a sense of determination? Do they bounce as they walk? Etc.

♡Are they more of an early bird or a night owl?

♡If you had to use one word to define them, what word would you use?

♡What words or catchphrases do they say that's unique to that character?

♡Favorite Season

♡Favorite type of weather {Thunderstorms, sunny, etc}

♡Do they have someone they're with relationship-wise? If so, who?

♡Main Ship/Pairings

♡Side Pairings

♡Favorite/Self-indulgent Pairings

♡How do they show affection to their loved one?

♡How do they sit in a chair?

♡How do they sit in a chair {uncomfortable version}

♡What do they wear to bed?

♡How do they usually sleep? {Side sleeper, back, fetal position, backwards, nest sleeper, blanket mountain, etc}

♡How do they sleep in a place they don't know? {Can't due to anxiety, in small bursts of sleep that are short lived, holding themselves, etc}

♡Do they have to have a form of "white noise" in order to sleep? {The sound of a fan, the sound of rain, the sound of a city, etc}

♡What's a place they go to feel comfortable, that's their "spot" they always go when they're upset?

♡What do they do when they're nervous? {Fidget with jewelry, pick at nails, bite nails/lips, play with knife/zippo lighter, etc}

♡What is their "tell" for lying?

♡What is their favorite color?

♡Favorite flower/plant

♡Favorite sweet of choice

♡Do they have any pets? If so, tell me about them

♡What are their triggers {If they have any}? If so, what calms them down?

♡If they could visit anywhere in the world, where would they go and why?

♡What is their favorite comfort meal?

♡Do they have a food they hate?

♡What is their favorite {non-alcoholic} drink?

♡What are their plans for the future {if they have any}?

♡What's a song that "fits" them?

♡Give me 5 facts/random bits of information about them

♡Give me their backstory {can be long, or brief.}

♡Free Space! Give me any sort of extra information about them you'd like to share

~

Hope you enjoyed this and feel free to attach any images/aesthetics that represents them💕