#So I had someone else help with my Shakespeare scene today and he was talking motivation

[siobhanromee]

When you are trying to figure out characterization and then someone suggests an action your character would take.. and you have to go he would not fucking do that.

[winterscaptain]

infirmity.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: part four of our 100 arc, covering 5x02, haunted! I forgot how much i love this episode, so i really leaned into this one. it’s a labor of love!! i can’t wait to hear what you all think (i crave feedback and affection) and if you reblog, i’d love to see your cheeky lil thoughts in the tags!!

an ajf fic arc that happily stands on its own! one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven

words: 4.3k warnings: language, bad decisions

summary: “a friend should bear his friend’s infirmities” - william shakespeare, julius caesar.

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | requests closed!

You knock on the door at 8:30 sharp. Almost thirty seconds pass before he answers, and you note the hand on his holster as he opens the door. 

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you chirp. “Ready to go?”

He turns, gathering his things. “What do we know about this case in Kentucky?”

Thrown a little by the lack of greeting, you follow him into the apartment. The sight of the Foyet files on his desk aren’t foreign to you, nor are they a surprise. They’ve been there every time you came over during his leave (in fact, you’ve sat on them more than once), so why you expected them to go away once he was back you had no idea.

“Um, no connection between Call and his victims. They’re canvassing, but no sign of him so far.”

“Start with his recent history. Find the stressor.” His voice is flat, impassive, and you frown. 

He was just getting better…

You’re about to head back toward the door when -

“Don’t move.”

Right. The alarm. 

He stands by to arm it. “Ready?”

“Are you?”

+++

You arrive at the tarmac, Hotch in the passenger seat of your car. He looks a little resigned, but straightens and takes a breath before he opens the door, settling into his role as he steps out and straightens his suit jacket. 

It’s always a little funny to watch him transform. You’re honored you get to see it, even if he’s in rough shape. 

Especially then. 

You climb the stairs and follow him in, settling in your usual place. 

“Good to see you,” Dave says as Aaron scoots down the aisle. It makes you smile. 

“You, too.”

Aaron gets settled and you shift, trying not to hover but finding it difficult to be separated from him after his weeks of absence. He greets the rest of the team, exchanging pleasantries and checking in with Reid about his knee. 

“Any other attacks?”

JJ shakes her head, while Spencer elaborates. “Call’s proven hard to track. He’s never had a driver's license so he’s probably still on foot.”

“Or public transportation,” Emily notes.

You hum. “He wouldn’t take the bus. His face is everywhere.”

“Has anyone found a stressor?” You weren’t sure if Aaron’s brusque affect was going to continue once you made it to the plane, but his tone just about answers your question. 

Stepping back into authority quickly, there, Aaron. 

“He just lost his job,” Garcia supplies. “He’s worked at a factory since 1990. Made appliances since forever and not a single promotion.”

Derek tilts his head. “That’s a long time to be bitter.”

“Or he doesn’t care?”

JJ looks at Spencer and shakes her head. “Not if he’s got a family to feed.” 

“Actually, he’s of the hermit variety as far as I can tell. He’s got no one. No wife, no kids, no parents.” You watch Garcia’s eyes flicker around the screen as she talks to you, doing what she does best. 

“Nothing to live for.”  Derek’s looking a little too pointedly at Aaron for your taste, but your evaluation is interrupted. 

“So why hasn’t he killed himself yet?”

Your brain sputters at Aaron’s offhand delivery. “What?”

“Sprees usually end in suicide. If he’s got nothing to live for, why hasn’t he ended it?”

The energy in the room grows uncomfortable, fast. Aaron’s voice is still flat - you might go so far as to say it sounds dead, but that inspires a kind of heavy sullenness in your chest you’d rather not subject yourself to. 

You wish Haley was around for no other reason but to kick his ass. 

You’re thankful for Spencer when he answers Hotch’s question. “Because he isn’t finished, yet. We know he has displaced anger. He took it out on the first victim.”

“Well,” Aaron continues, “the stock boy represents someone. We need to know who.”

You meet Derek’s eyes and you can tell he’s trying to read you - trying to see if you’re as concerned as he is. You don’t give him the satisfaction. 

+++

Later, you corner Morgan on the plane before landing, keeping your voice low. The case is in your lap so there’s a valid distraction when you need one. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

He stops and turns. “I thought Hotch was cleared to drive.” 

“He is.”

“Then why did you pick him up this morning?”

You shrug. “I wanted to.” His eyes bore into the side of your head and you look up with an exasperated huff. “What?”

He sighs. “He’s only had a month off.”

“Well,” you say, aware that you’re being pedantic before you even get there, “thirty-four days. That’s a little more than a month.”

His stare is withering, but you’re impervious. “And you think that’s long enough?”

“Are you asking me as his coworker or as his friend?”

“Is there a difference?”

You shrug. “Maybe.” Yes. “But if you don’t think he’s had enough time, you should tell him.”

He scoffs. “No thanks. I like my job.”

“You like him more.” A little smile crosses your face. “Though, I know you don’t like to think so.”

“No. I like you.” Derek corrects. “He also happens to like you, so I tolerate him for your benefit.”

“Much appreciated.” You return to your work, but Derek’s eyes linger. You don’t look up as you ask, “What?”

“What if he has PTSD?”

Still writing, you answer with a general air of nonchalance. “He was evaluated.”

“Oh, come on. We wrote those questions. Hotch knows exactly -“

You slam your pen down and lean back with your arms crossed. You draw Spencer's eyes and lower your voice again. “So, what? Are you going to pick at me until you get me to say something you want me to say?” You let out a sardonic chuff, settling back to work. “If that’s the case, you’re gonna be here a while.” You tip your head a little toward the little table by the window. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

You admittedly feel a little bad for being short with him, but everything seems to be testing your patience today. 

And if you’re honest, you’re worried about Aaron, too. 

After a few minutes of work in silence, you call out to him again. There’s the smallest of apologies in your voice. “Derek?”

He looks at you, dark eyes open and yielding - concerned and forgiving. “Yeah?”

“He’s back because he has to be. He needs to know we’re here for him.”

“He knows that.”

You offer him a small smile. “Don’t let him forget it.” You pause, your head wavering a little bit as your tone turns a touch facetious. “I can’t do all the heavy lifting around here.”

You get a laugh out of him - just a little one - and it’s enough. “Don’t push it, kid. I remember when you were dead weight.”

You roll your eyes. 

That’s enough, for now. 

+++

Even your seemingly-endless patience with Aaron rapidly wanes as you spend more time at the crime scene. It’s frustrating. 

“He was on an antipsychotic?” You ask with a little frown. 

The pharmacist nods. “Well, that’s why I wanted him to calm down. He’s been off of them at least a month, now.” 

“And when were you going to tell us this?” Aaron asks, harsh and sharp. 

You look at him, your frown deepening. 

What the fuck is that attitude?

“He’s armed, he’s delusional. Who’s his doctor?” Hotch’s tone grows even pointier, somehow, as he pushes harder. 

“I don’t remember - my computer…” She gestures behind the desk, where the computer has been fried by a bullet. 

“Great. That’s great.” He walks away, already making a call. 

“Excuse us,” you say in an attempt to recover. Derek echoes you and you try to avoid running after Hotch as he strides down the aisle. 

Long-legged asshole. Slow down. 

“Hotch,” you call. He doesn’t listen. 

“Call JJ and tell her about the meds.” He’s still walking. You’ve caught up. 

Derek chimes in, gesturing back at the pharmacist. “This is not her fault.”

Aaron turns on him. “Morgan, he’s in a psychotic break. It changes everything.”

“You want to talk about this?” Derek asks, taking another step closer. 

Squaring up to Derek’s shoulder, you’re ready to pull them apart if they get really heated. 

Wouldn’t be the first time.

In some ways, Morgan’s admission on the plane was truer than he let on. You are the link between Derek and Aaron, almost like a balm. You see things in them that they can’t see in each other. It helps. 

With a pang, you think of Haley, for some reason. 

You miss her. 

“No.” Aaron’s interruption is sharp and it startles you out of your thoughts. “I want to find him - Garcia,” he turns, continuing on his warpath forward, “he’s been off his antipsychotic for a month. What else did you miss?”

Your mouth drops open and Derek’s about to deck Aaron while his back is turned. You push in front of Derek, getting between them to give him a chance to cool off. The last thing you want is to handle more wound dressings - for either one of them. 

Aaron hangs up and walks out after what you imagine is a rather unilluminating update from Penelope. You turn, putting your hand on Derek’s shoulder and looking him in the eye. 

Still think he’s alright? His eyes ask.

 You grit your teeth. I don’t know. 

+++

The psychiatrist and patient lay dead on the floor, Call nowhere in sight. Derek directs the local officers to check the perimeter, just in case. 

You look at Hotch, who still doesn’t look completely checked in, himself. 

Or maybe he looks too checked in?

I don’t know. 

You’d be lying if you said his behavior didn’t freak you out. Though he’s standing beside you, you miss him. 

Come back to me. 

You miss the man who pliantly sat under your hands as you washed his wounds and brought him takeout and forced him to take naps in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. 

You miss the man who fought you for the remote and stole far too many of your fries, who would change the channel if you made the mistake of going to the bathroom on a commercial break. 

That man was with you as late as Saturday. Returning has brought something else out in him, the part of him that spent (often very) late nights looking for Foyet has risen to the forefront. 

“We’re too late.” 

Before the rest of you can do anything, Aaron leaves the room, pushing past Dave in his haste to leave. 

Emily calls after him, but he’s long gone down the hallway. They look at you. 

All you can do is shake your head with a downturned curve of your mouth. 

+++

After a little while, you go downstairs and find Hotch outside. Before you can say anything - 

“I should have seen the blinking on the video.” 

You huff at him. “Hotch, it could have been a nervous tic. You couldn’t have known - none of the records were available, yet.” 

“But it wasn’t a tic. It’s a classic sign of long-term antipsychotic use, and I missed it.”

You step in front of him, squarely meeting his eyes. “We all missed it.” 

He’s got another pessimistic jab that you choose to ignore just before Emily and Dave arrive with news from Garcia. 

Oh, Aaron. 

+++

The officer huffs. “I don’t care why he took him.” 

Aaron had, once again, escalated the situation with local police. Tensions are high, and you only hope he can get his shit together at some point. “You should.” 

Goddamn it, Aaron. 

He continues, advancing on the police captain. “Call’s memory is no longer suppressed. He’s reinventing his past and unless we understand how, we’re not going to find either of them.”

“Well, I’m not gonna just sit around and speculate.” 

It’s an old-fashioned Western standoff, now. 

Who’s Clint Eastwood?

Well, Hotch has the looks but -

Quit. 

Fine. 

“Then don’t.”

The captain turns to you, Emily, and Dave. “You don’t think we should chase him either?”

“We need to get ahead of Call,” Dave answers evenly. 

The captain looks at Aaron once more before storming off. The rest of you approach Hotch, and Emily’s a little frustrated when she reminds him, “There’s a kid missing.” 

“They don’t need the extra manpower.” 

You squint at him. “Since when?”

“If we had studied Foyet’s initial crimes -”

Oh for the love of fuck. 

“- we would have known that a survivor didn’t make sense.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

Great question, Emily.

“All we had to do was stop and look at Foyet’s history. But we didn’t, and we lost two couples and a bus full of people. I am not making that mistake again.” He leaves the three of you stunned in his wake. After a moment, you follow him. 

You always do. 

+++

“Let’s go.” 

You’ve got the address to the unsub’s home and you take the car with Aaron, the rest of the team following behind you. 

He drives fast, but that’s nothing new. He throws the siren and floors it. You call SWAT yourself, getting Derek prepared for staging. 

When you get out of the car, you throw your vest on, helping Emily with the straps across her shoulders before she can reach them themselves. 

“Prentiss,” Aaron says, putting his earwig in. “Check in with the lieutenant, see if there’s anything we can use.” 

She nods. “Yes, sir.” 

“You good?” You ask, looking over at him. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” 

You throw your head to the side, and he takes your flank as you get closer to Emily. Her briefing with this particular lieutenant could go sideways, but you don’t want to leave him feeling trapped. 

“...The kid’s in there. We got this. Tactical teams are covering the exits. He’s still focused on the old man.”

Emily squints, adjusting her comm. “For now, but we’re gonna have to figure out the safest way to get that kid out.”

“I’ve got a team in the back and one on the way. We’re going to infiltrate.” 

“You do that and someone else dies.” The balance of firm and collaborative rests delicately on her tone. She’s doing well. 

“Either Call or a child murder. Flip a coin.” 

His tone frustrates you, but you leave Emily to her devices, checking your magazines for the third time. Your sidearm is in place, as is your backup. 

“It doesn’t have to end like that. We get a confession out of Jarvis and he goes away, and Call gets his answers. No one else has to die.” She pauses, and a streak of white flashes in your peripheral. “Hotch!” 

You whirl, ready to sprint after him as he walks decisively past the rest of you, past the gate, and into the house. After a moment’s hesitation, you make a break for it. A wall of arms stops you, and you know Derek’s behind you when you hear, “What the hell is he doing?”

No vest...Is he even carrying his gun? 

“Let him go.” 

You turn on Dave, your face plastered with fear and fury. “What do you mean let him go. Rossi -”

“I’m not letting him go in there solo.” Derek pushes against Dave again, but to your surprise, he’s locked in tight. 

“We have to trust him.” 

That cools Derek off, but not you. You thrash, freeing yourself from one of the local cops. “The hell we do.” 

“Kid - wait, no.” The roles reverse, and Derek catches up to you and locks you in his arms before you can breach the perimeter. Your elbows don’t land against his vest, but you sure try. “You’ll get him killed.” 

There’s only stress and silence as you stop struggling. All you can do is wait. 

Derek keeps his arm around you, but you almost feel like the contact is for both of you. You take deep breaths, trying to slow your heart rate. It’s through the roof. 

“What’s he doing?” Emily asks into her mic. 

Dave leans into his comm. “Stalling.” 

You can almost feel Derek’s jaw tightening. “He has nothing to lose.” 

He has everything to lose. 

You have everything to lose. 

Don’t be a hero, Aaron. Don’t do anything stupid. 

You hope that he can hear you somehow. 

Too late. 

Hotch appears in the window, followed by the boy. 

There’s a quick SWAT conversation in your ear. 

“Do you have the shot?”

“Negative, negative.”

He’s blocking the shot. 

Goddamn you, Aaron. Goddamn you. 

“Bringing the boy out,” a faceless voice on the radio says. The hostage runs down off the porch and you catch a glimpse of Aaron before he disappears behind the door again. 

You turn your head a touch, keeping your eyes on the door. “Get him out of there.” 

Dave shakes his head. “That’s his call.” 

Your body is wound tighter than a coil and you’re not sure if you’re ready to storm in there or just start walking home. 

There’s a gunshot, and you’re out of there like a bat out of hell. You launch yourself over the short fence and attach yourself to the first SWAT agent you see, remembering your training at the last moment. 

You breach the house and find Aaron cuffing Darin, whose father is dead in the armchair in front of him. Your jaw has never been tighter. 

Once you confirm that he is in fact still alive and still only has nine holes in him, you turn on your heel and you storm out of the house. You don’t stop until you’re leaning on the front of one of the cars, trying to catch your breath. Your hands shake and you don’t trust your knees to hold you up. 

The relief wars with something hot and unpleasant, leaving you more exhausted than you’ve been in weeks. 

You keep your head turned away from Aaron as he approaches you. It’s petty, but you also don’t want him to see the fear on your face. 

He calls you with a sigh in his voice and it finally ignites the fear into anger. 

“I can’t fucking believe you,” you spit. Your voice isn’t loud, but it certainly carries. JJ’s eyes flicker to you from the other side of the yard. “What kind of stunt are you trying to pull? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” 

His jaw tightens. “Let’s not do this here.” 

Your brow draws across your eyes and your mouth opens, indignant. “Let’s not do this here? You’re fucking kidding me.”

In his current state, nothing is off the table. His temper is running short and you know you’re capable of pushing him until he breaks. It hasn’t happened yet, but today might be it.  

Much to your surprise, a sigh leaves him, and he knows he’s stepped in it. “It was stupid. I’m sorry.”

You scoff, shaking your head. 

His remorse only stokes your anger. Go figure. 

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry. You could have died, Hotch. What you did was so beyond protocol I don’t even know if I should start with the necessity of your life because we need you as our unit chief or the importance of your safety as my friend -” You cut yourself off and look away from him, frustrated you even got that far. 

He has nothing to say to that. You’re completely right. The guilt might as well be written across his face in Sharpie. 

His absence fucked with you, to say the least. It felt awful, empty, in the field without him. And then when you were home - well, back at the apartment, he was only ever in pain. 

Overall, your anxiety regarding his health and safety is riding high. 

Much to your frustration, your eyes water, and your lower lip shakes - angry tears an ever-present threat. Your arms cross over your chest. “I can’t even look at you right now.” 

He reaches out for your arm, but you throw him off before he can make contact, turning your head. You stare at the ground, watching him flounder out of the corner of your eye. 

“Go. Go do your fucking job, Hotch.” His nickname is acid in your mouth. It feels like a punishment, a lash of a whip. He doesn’t move, and you turn on him, meeting his guilty brown eyes with your flinty ones. “Go. Make the arrest. They’re waiting on you.” You throw your chin to Derek and Emily, who are indeed waiting for him on the porch with the unsub. 

With another heavy sigh, he turns and rejoins the rest of your team. 

You stay where you are, directing coroner and local law enforcement personnel to relevant staging areas as the crime scene is processed and handled. Aaron’s eyes try to find yours, but you avoid them, focusing on someone, anyone else with crisp professionalism that hardly belies your fear. 

You’ve never been so angry in your life. Even if you have, you can’t remember it feeling this wretched.

+++

He sits beside you on the plane once you’re up in the air and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. The rest of the team sleeps scattered around the cabin, but you suspect that at least one of them is faking it, waiting for some kind of spectacle or spectacular blowup between the two of you. 

You haven’t spoken to Aaron since leaving the crime scene. You drove back to the precinct with Emily and Dave, staying close to JJ and Spencer while you packed your things. There’s a part of you that feels bad for creating what Strauss would call a “hostile work environment,” but the other part can’t bring itself to care. 

You can’t even begin to articulate the fear that coursed through you as you waited for him outside that house. You couldn’t begin to explain the extent of your fear, but after the stabbing and the removal of Haley and Jack from your lives, the prospect of losing him in the field was beyond unbearable. 

It’s frustrating to feel so comforted by his proximity while you’re still so angry with him. The familiarity of it all hardly blunts your anger. If anything, the relief at having him back at your side sharpens your anger into something that scares you. 

The impossibility of it is beyond measure. You’ve known for some time now, but this is the first you’re willing to admit it. 

I love him. 

Fuck.

You love him. You love his son. You love his wife. 

You love the weird look he gets on his face when he has to say “penetration” while he’s delivering a profile. You love the way he tries not to smile when Emily beats Spencer at chess. You love the way he twiddles with pens when he’s thinking or nervous or both. You love that each of his smiles feel like a gift just for you. 

There’s nothing you don’t love about him. 

Except, of course, the way he, with profound idiocy, endangered his life today for no particular reason in addition to his generally asshole-ish behavior. 

“I would say I’m sorry, but I’m sure you know that.” 

You do.

He waits on you, quiet and still. 

You take a deep breath, finally looking at him. “You scared the hell out of me.” 

He nods, his jaw flexing. 

“Don’t do it again.” 

He blinks once, slowly. You know he can’t promise that, but you appreciate his acknowledgment nevertheless. There’s quiet for a moment. 

“Aaron…” You look at him, nothing but concern in your tone. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

“I was just going to say…” You swallow, trying to find better words but coming up short. “We’ll get him.”

+++

Derek’s voice echoes down to the bullpen as you finish up the last few pieces of your paperwork. “I will not stand by and watch this man kill himself.” 

Aaron’s door is closed as he works. You’re not sure if you’re thankful for that, or if you’d rather he hear it. You can’t really hear Dave - not that you’d want to, you’re almost as pissed at him as you are at Aaron - but it doesn’t matter. You know what he has to say. 

Derek’s voice drops lower than you can hear. Dave drops his head. 

Moments later, Derek flies back down the stairs, grabs his jacket, and takes his leave with a cursory goodbye thrown in your direction. Dave returns to his desk and Aaron’s door finally opens. 

You look up as his lights turn off, gathering your things at your desk. With a little sigh that looks a bit like defeat, he stops at your desk. The smugness doesn’t completely leave your tone. “Need a ride?”

Of course, he does. “Please.” 

You rise and walk to the elevators together. In the silence, you tell him, “I’m still really mad at you.” 

A sigh. “I know.” 

+++

You walk him upstairs and take care of the alarm while he removes his suit jacket and throws it over the couch. 

“Do you think Call’s gonna be okay?” You ask, still facing the alarm. 

“I don’t know.”

“He got his answers,” you note, turning to him. “He killed the man who haunted him.” 

His eyes are fixed on a spot on the carpet. “And what else is there?”

“Years of torture.” You both know you’re not talking about Call anymore, but it’s nice to pretend. It gives you the opportunity to say things you wouldn’t - shouldn’t - say to him. “Fear. Grief.”

“Think he’ll get over that?” 

“How could he?” A humorless smile pulls at one corner of your mouth. “But at least he doesn't feel like he’s alone.”

He finally meets your eyes. “He doesn’t have anyone.” I don’t have anyone, his brow says. 

“He has Tommy. He’s not alone.” 

You have me. You’re not alone. 

His brows pull low over his eyes, and you take another opportunity as it comes. “Do you want me to stay again tonight?”

“No, I’m alright.” He takes a little breath and you round the corner, pouring him a couple fingers of whiskey before making a slow, purposeful trek across the room. “Thank you,” he says, taking it. 

“Of course. Anytime.” Now, you both know you aren’t talking about the drink. 

Nevertheless, you pat your pockets for your keys, phone, and various federal paraphernalia, finding them all where they belong. “I should head out, then. Call if you need anything.” 

He nods, watching you with quiet eyes as you close and lock the door behind you. 

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @ogmilkis @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @dwellingsofrosie @pan-pride-12 @sunshine-em @word-scribbless​ @jdougl-love​ @sageellsworth05​ @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @buckybau @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @violentvulgarvolatile  @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @cevanswhre @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321 @zizzlekwum @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @this-broken-band-girl @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @winqhster @spencerelds @the-falling-in-the-danger @nattylite49 @crazyshannonigans

[ssa-babygirl]

Out of My League [Part 4]

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Single mom!Reader

Word count: ~3.2k 

Summary: Why on Earth does everyone think you and Spencer are dating? That’s just ridiculous! Right?

Warning(s): the pining is strong with this one, alcohol consumption, i think there were like one or two swear words?? pretty tame

Author’s Note: OH MY GOD WE’RE BACK AGAIN!!!!! yeah it’s been WAyy too long I’m so sorry guys. ON THE BRIGHT SIDE!!! I’m almost done with the next part so the wait won’t be NEARLY as bad this time around. Ok love yall hope you like it!!!

[Previous Part] [Series Masterlist]

The play was a lovely way to spend your evening. You could hear Spencer beside you muttering the words along with the actors. The monologues were beautiful coming from the talent on stage, but it was nothing compared to your best friend’s whispers when he thought you couldn’t hear him. You looked straight ahead to the stage, fearing that he’d stop if you indicated that you were listening, but you still felt his eyes on you as he gently uttered, “I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well.”

Hearing the words you had read and swooned over countless times before coming from Spencer’s soft voice made a shiver run down your spine. 

Spencer Reid did not just give you chills, that did not just happen, you told yourself.

The chill that ran across your body contrasted nicely with heat in your face when you felt his gaze roll over your features. You didn’t always like the feeling when someone’s eyes were on you, but something about it being Spencer’s eyes felt… right. You weren’t uncomfortable, quite the opposite, actually. You found yourself being overjoyed in your seat, but you couldn’t tell yourself why.

Or at least you refused to.

When the show ended, Spencer led you out the door you entered from, and you left the library with a dopey smile on your face as you stepped into the chilly autumn night. The sun had gone down during the play and the streetlamps glowed white against the black sky. 

“You hungry?” Spencer asked.

“Starving.”

“It’s a little late for dinner, you think we’ll find a place?”

“It’s only eight o’clock, there’s gotta be somewhere.”

“A McDonald’s maybe?”

You laughed harder than you normally would, but his smile when he made his joke pulled an airy giggle from your lungs that you had no control over.

You wandered for blocks, finding restaurants that were still busy with long waits. A cute ice cream shop caught both your eyes from across the street and you and Spencer thought the same exact thing.

Some things really didn’t change since you were kids.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Of course I am, Y/N, why are we still on this side of the street?”

You crossed the road together, way too excited for grown adults to be about having ice cream for dinner. There was a line, but it was only a few people long, so you decided to wait for this more than worth it opportunity. As you approached the store, a young family was leaving. The daughter, a young girl in a pink sweater, was so focused on her cake batter flavored cone, she didn’t realize she dropped her stuffed rabbit. Spencer nearly stepped on it, but he picked it up and called after the family. They didn’t hear him, so he went after them and tapped the father on the shoulder.

“Hi, sorry, I think she dropped this.”

“Oh my goodness, Lucy, you dropped your bunny!” The mother shrieked.

“Thank you so much, really,” said Lucy’s dad, “Say thank you, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, sweetheart!” Lucy took the toy from Spencer and smiled.

About ten feet behind the scene, you were losing it. Spencer turned around after the family left and made a face while you laughed your ass off. 

“That was the cutest thing I have ever seen!” You giggled as he held the door open for you, “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Spencer cracked a smile and bit his lips, gaze dropping to the floor as he blushed.

Okay, maybe that was the cutest thing you had ever seen.

“I miss when Jamie was that little. He was so cute!”

“He’s still a cute kid!” The line moves forward, you’re next up. 

“Well, yeah, of course, he is! But now he knows what words mean and that’s not as funny.”

“Children learn through imitation, so it makes sense he copied things you did and said because you're his mom, he looks up to you.”

“He looks up to you, too, you know.” The family in front of you got their ice cream and left, leaving you to order, “Can I get a sugar cone of cookies and cream?” The girl behind the counter nodded and scooped your ice cream. She then turned to a catatonic Spencer, who was staring at you, cheeks flushed and lips parted. He snapped out of it and ordered a cup of rocky road with extra marshmallow fluff on top.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked as you pulled out your credit card.

“Paying for our ice cream, what does it look like?”

“No, I’ll pay—” He reached for his pocket, but was too slow.

“Oops, too late,” you said, swiping your card and smirking. The girl behind the counter smiled and waved to you as you left. 

“Did you mean that? Jamie looks up to me?” 

You turned to look at Spencer, whose eyes were full of stars as he grinned back at you, “Yeah! Of course, he does!”

“Really?”

“Oh, don’t be so surprised, Spencer, you’re like his real-life superhero. You saved his life, genius, he wants to be just like you.”

“He wants to be a profiler?”

“Not necessarily. He thinks you’re a secret agent. Like a spy.”

Spencer chuckled, “And how do you feel about that?”

“Oh, it’s terrifying, I hate it.”

“Yep,” Spencer spooned some ice cream into his mouth, “That’s what I thought.”

“I mean, Jesus, Spence, I get retroactive heart attacks from all the shit you tell me about your cases, I don’t know if I want my kid getting into that. I’d worry even more than I already do.”

“You worry about me?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“What?”

“You’re my best friend, genius! Of course, I worry about you!”

You finished your ice creams on the metro and walked home in comfortable silence. As you turned the corner onto your block, you grinned up at Spencer.

“Thanks for playing tour guide today. I had fun. Haven’t gone out with friends since I moved here.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t have any friends here to go out with.”

His eyebrows jumped as he sputtered out a sentence, “Oh. W-well why don’t you come out with the team and me sometime?”

“No, they’re your friends I wouldn’t wanna intrude—”

“You wouldn't be intruding, you're my friend too.”

“Spence—”

“One of my teammates is having a dinner party tomorrow night. He’s a great cook and would love to meet you.”

You dug around your bag for your keys,  “I don’t know anyone else on the team!”

“You know JJ! And Derek, too. He’s been asking about you.” Spencer’s eyes dropped to his shoes again as your welcome mat became way more interesting than your face.

“Really?” He pursed his lips and nodded. You thought it over for a moment and decided, “Fine. Text me a time and address.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, “No, I-I’ll pick you up.”

“Woah woah woah, you’re gonna drive me around?” You laughed in disbelief, “Sorry, Doc, I know our whole dynamic has changed a bit ‘cuz we’re both grown-ups now, but I’m not sure either of us is quite ready for that.”

His smile finally flashed back across his face, “Come on, I owe you.”

“For what?”

“You bought the ice cream!” His voice was high pitched.

You matched his tone, “You took me to the Shakespeare library!”

“You took me to McDonald’s 106 times in high school! I’m sure the amount of money you spent on my food could buy the whole gift shop!”

Your jaw fell open, “You counted?”

“I can’t help it!”

You rolled your eyes, failing to fight back a grin, “Goodnight, genius.”

He bit his lips and smiled, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You jam the key in your door and push it open, closing it with your body as you sigh, leaning your head back against it.

“That good, huh?” Said a voice from the living room, causing you to jump.

“Jesus, mom, what are you still doing up?” You sigh, clutching your chest.

“Well, I put Jamie to bed, I figured I’d wait up for you so I can hear about your date!”

“Wh- mom, what are you talking about?”

“With Spencer! How was your date?”

“That wasn’t a date!”

“Really? So you guys just walked around for hours in silence doing nothing?”

“We didn’t just walk around!”

“So what’d you guys do?” She asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Oh my god, mom.”

“You’re not denying anything!”

“Mom!” 

“You can tell me, it’s just us girls.”

“He took me to the Shakespeare Library! We got ice cream! That’s it! Nothing happened!”

“Shakespeare Library? Ice cream?” her eyebrows darted up so far it was almost like a cartoon character, “Toots, that’s not nothing!”

“It’s nothing. We just saw a play-”

“What play?”

“Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Your mother closed her book and tossed it next to her on the couch. “Oh! You mean your favorite! Silly me for thinking this was a romantic outing!”

“It wasn’t!”

“Who paid for the ice cream?”

“I did.”

“Did he offer?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t let him.”

Your mother sighed, “You’re telling me it wasn’t a date, but all I’m hearing is that Spencer thought it was.”

“Then why didn’t he make a move?”

“So many reasons! He’s shy! He’s a gentleman! Maybe he thought you weren’t into him.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you so upset?”

Is everyone a profiler now? God!

“Mom, it’s getting late, I walked the length of the city today, I’m going to bed. You can stay over if you don’t wanna drive, but I’m getting some sleep.”

“Right, you need to be rested for tomorrow night. Got a dinner party to go to!”

“Were you listening?”

“The window was open just a crack, I may have heard some of the conversation.”

“Jesus…”

“What? You’re meeting his friends already, this is big.”

You groaned, dragging your feet up the stairs to your bedroom, changing out of your clothes, and hopping in the shower before cozying up for bed. Whether or not you wanted to admit your mom was right, you knew she was. And that terrified you. 

             (Spencer’s POV)

I rang the doorbell of her house at exactly 6:30, just like I said I would. Seconds later, the door swung open and revealed her smiling face shimmering with her makeup. I took in her outfit, a cute floral dress reaching the tops of her knees. I tried to make sure my eyes didn’t linger on the neckline for too long when I noticed a thin silver chain resting on her collarbone. A small heart-shaped pendant dangled from it. 

“Wow.” Was all I could manage, “You look—”

“Totally overdressed, right? Cuz I can dress this down a bit, I just need to change the shoes and throw on a jacket. You know what? I have another dress upstairs I’ll just cha—”

“No, Y/N, you look…” Beautiful, enchanting, stunning, like the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen, I thought about saying all of that, but instead, I just said, “Great.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” I tried to say it as sincerely as possible, “Are you ready to go?”

“Yep!” She reached around the door to take a denim jacket from a hook on the wall, throwing it over her shoulders, “Lemme just get my purse—” she glanced around the room and cut herself off with a groan.

“What?”

“I left my bag in my room. Here, come inside, it’s chilly out.” She rushed down the hall to hurry up the stairs to what I’d assume was her bedroom. I stepped across the threshold and into the warm home. There was a faint glow of light from the kitchen, where a child’s laugh bubbled from the room. I followed the sound and found Jamie and Mrs. L/N sitting at the table doing a puzzle.

“Oh, hi, Spencer!” She called.

“Doctor Spencer!” Jamie jumped up from his seat and ran to me, wrapping his arms around my legs. 

“Hey, little man!” I ruffled his hair and flashed a grin to Y/N’s mom. 

I heard the tapping of shoes descending the stairs behind me, “Okay, got everything, you ready?”

I quickly turned around at the sound of Y/N’s voice and saw her smiling at Jamie beside me.

“Goodnight, Jamie-baby, I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Have fun with grandma,” she cooed as she pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“Goodnight!”

“Bye, buddy!” 

“Bye, Doc!”

“Have fun you two, be safe!” Y/N’s mom grinned as she waved us away.

“Oh my god, mom, stop.”

“Okay! Goodnight, my loves!”

“Goodnight!”

Y/N marched out the door and followed the path down to the street, where my car was parked.

“Last chance, Doc, want me to drive instead?”

I passed her to open the passenger side door for her, “Not a chance, I promised.”

“What a gentleman! Now let’s see if we make it there in one piece first.”

The laugh I let out was half-mockery, half-nerves, as I was not the best driver. I had a Ph.D. in engineering and understood more about physics than most people, but that doesn’t mean I knew how to focus well enough to apply that knowledge. When it is literally impossible for me to forget that I have a 1 in 96 chance of dying in a car accident, my hypervigilance does more harm than good.

“So who am I meeting? Who’s on your team?”

My anxieties were somewhat quelled by the sound of her voice, allowing me to pull my thoughts away from the possibility of becoming one of the 20% of fatal car crashes that occur in intersections.

“Well, you already know JJ and Garcia. Hotch, my boss—”

“Tall, dark, handsome? Never smiles?” 

I chuckled, “That’s the guy.”

“He seems fun at parties.”

“He’s actually not that bad. Just a bit too serious sometimes.”

“Okay, and who haven’t I met?”

“The host, David Rossi, Emily, you’ll love them.”

“Is Derek coming?”

IQ of 187 and I still don’t think anyone could have explained to me why that upset me as much as it did. It’s not like Y/N was my girlfriend or anything, she was allowed to want Derek, most girls did, so there was no reason for me to be jealous. She wasn’t mine to lose.

“Yeah. He’ll be there.”

We pulled up to Rossi’s mansion a few minutes later, after riding in semi-awkward silence. She waited for me next to her side of the car, not wanting to walk up to the door by herself. I reached out to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder as I drew closer. She gave me a tight-lipped smile before dropping her eyes to the ground between us.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m nervous, what if they don’t like me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, what’s not to love?” I didn’t even realize how much I meant those words at the time, so I doubt she understood how serious I was, but her smile softened and her shoulders relaxed slightly under my touch. I led her up to the front porch and rang the doorbell. Shortly after, Garcia opened the door and beamed at the two of us.

“You’re here! Oh my goodness, so nice to see you again!” She pulled Y/N into a hug that she very quickly accepted. 

“Hi, Penelope, good to see you too.” She pulled away and grinned at me, the worry mostly drained from her eyes now. 

“Come here, boy genius, you get one too!” She wrapped her arms around my waist and my face found its place in her blonde curls. We all went inside and saw the whole team sitting around a coffee table with glasses of wine in their hands. JJ put her glass on the table and got up from her seat on the cushy leather couch to hug Y/N. 

“You’re not one of mine, are you?” Rossi sipped his drink and eyed Y/N.

“Um, this is Y/N, my uh, my friend.” I stammered.

“Ah! You’re the doctor’s little lady friend I’ve heard so much about!” Rossi put his scotch down on the table and crossed the room to kiss her on both cheeks, “Lovely to meet you, bella, I’m—”

“David Rossi. Yes, Spencer’s told me about you. Nice to meet you,” she grinned, shaking his hand.

“Ah,” he scoffed, “call me Dave.”

“What? No fair!” Emily piped up, taking a big sip of wine, “You just met her and she gets ‘Dave’ privileges? I’ve worked with you for months!”

“Emily, look me in the eyes and try to call me Dave.” She looked at him and opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but she just took another sip while JJ and Morgan laughed at her.

Hotch flashed a rare smile to Y/N, “Good to see you again.”

“Yes! Glad it’s under better circumstances, Agent Hotchner.”

“Me too. And please,” he extended a hand to her, “call me Aaron.”

This time it was Morgan who spoke up, “No way! Only Rossi calls you by your first name!”

“And me,” Emily mumbled.

“And now Y/N, too.”

“I’m honored, Aaron.”

Looking at her face now all remaining anxiety had just about vanished. I told her she had nothing to worry about, and now she was finally listening to me. Rossi called us all to the kitchen where he told us to grab a plate so he could serve us before we sat down at the table. He gave us each a plate of his famous spaghetti carbonara before taking his seat at the head of the table. The team all chatted about their lives, as we ate. Hotch showed Y/N pictures of Jack on his phone, Emily probed JJ about Will, Morgan, and Rossi poked fun at me for bringing Y/N, but I just rolled my eyes and tried to ignore them. Plates were cleaned, stories were told, and wine bottles were emptied. Mostly by Emily and Y/N.

JJ was the one to try to cut them off, “Don’t you have to drive this one home?” She gestured to me.

She put her hands up defensively, “He picked me up.”

“Reid, you hate driving!” Garcia pointed out, prompting Morgan to spare a knowing glance to Rossi.

“You do?”

“I don’t hate it, I just prefer not to.” I was a profiler, but that didn’t mean I was a good liar.

“Spence, I offered to drive you.”

I shrugged, “I didn’t mind.”

Her eyes lingered on me for another moment before taking another sip of wine and resuming her conversation with Emily. I knew they’d get along. Towards the end of the night, Rossi proposed a toast.

“To familia.”

Y/N smiled, staying quiet.

“Oh, come on now, you too, bella.” He raised his glass to her and clinked the crystal, “You’re stuck with us now, get over it.”

“I’m not complaining, Dave.” Her words were to Rossi, but she never stopped looking at me. Probably just had a bit too much to drink.

Right?

Taglist~~~

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[mistaeq]

Saturday, 26th December

Romeo!Don Giovanna x Juliet!Reader: The Masque

TW // mafia is mentioned, please don't take it lightly. Mista x Trish is implied, but I've aged her up.

Today I offer you this, which I'm proud of, and it doesn't happen often. So I hope you all enjoy this.

A darker point of view on Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare.

WORD COUNT: 3.5k

Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Naples, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life

Whose misadventured piteous overthrows

Do with their death bury their ancient strife.

The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,

Is now the two hours' traffic of my fic;

The which if you with patient eyes attend,

What here shall miss, my toil shall strive to mend.

"I will be honest to thee, if thou do not mind me saying so, Don Giovanna. But I am still struggling to understand why thou wanted to show up to the event." the golden haired signore slightly chuckled, after his councilor's words, who was now helping him with fixing the bow which perfectly fit his elegant braid. He never gave up on styling his hair the same way, and now that he was showing up to an event out of pure spite, he was not going to change that.

"It is not that I wanted it, my dear Guido." the Don said, fixing his cream colored jacket's sleeves, an amused grin animating his relaxed features. "They don't expect me to show up at all, all they did was inviting me, thinking I would have chosen to not to go. And make fun of thy lord's attitude. It would be rude of mine, to not to let them know how good I am doing, despite their several attempts to push me down."

"Indeed, signore. Thy reasonment sounds just right." the young councilor Guido Mista agreed with the Don, crouching to give a better look at the lord's image in the mirror and nodding in satisfaction when he made sure the bow was symmetrical as he wanted. "In addition to this, I am pleased to inform thee about my choice of asking Lord Diavolo's daughter's hand in marriage, as soon as she will turn eighteen. Lady Trish." Giorno's grin, if possibly, widened. His councilor marrying his worst enemy's daughter? Sounded just perfect, since she was gonna move in their mansion. By her own choice. She hated her father, and had agreed to the marriage. Great to hear.

"Thou spoke music to my ears, Guido. And I thank thee for thou fixed my bow properly." the golden haired Don stood up, and started walking towards the door, eyeing at his councilor's outfit. "Get ready, we are going." Believe me, he was about to touch the door handle, when a rough voice, who always allowed itself to speak too much, interrupted his actions.

"What about thy heart, signore? No love story nor marriage for thee?" The gunslinger dared to say, perfectly knowing his Don thought he had to keep on being focused on his own affairs, rather than have love related ones. He just liked to drop the question every now and then, but started being genuinely worried. Guido know how romantic Don Giovanna could get, and the thought of him getting old without getting married, weirded him out. At first, he used to think Giorno needed time to get used to his role as a boss in the neapolitan mafia - the biggest reason of his strife against Diavolo -, but now, years had passed, and it was getting worse.

"Tender is the way love might make this man change. Thy lord is not ready to face such a thing. Unless it is really worth a try." Don Giovanna's hand lingered around the doorknob, caressing it in an attempt to examinate a thin layer of dust. "Do me the favor to tell Ghirga that cleaning up every little thing, even the most insignificant one, is definitely not optional." the blonde said, finally tightening his grip on the door handle and exiting the room. Left in the whistling silence of the place, the councilor proceeded to get ready for the event himself. He knew his signore didn't like to make someone wait.

As soon as he came in the hall, everyone turned around him and his councilor, Guido Mista, who soon blended into the crowd, for his betrothed Trish Una gripped on his arm and pulled him somewhere else. "Bothering thy councilor is not my intention, Don Giovanna. I am asking for thy permission, to take him for a while." What else could the blonde man even answer, if not agreeing with it happening. Without any doubt, he was left alone so fast, he had now nobody to cover him, as his golden hair didn't blend at all into the crowd.

A pleasant smell of cooked food and wooden furniture penetrated the Don's nose, as he gripped a glass of wine from the servant who was walking around with a tray holding some. The man shook the crystal glass a little, before he smelled the alcoholic liquid, and took a sip from it. Then, he quietly snorted. "And this would be wine. I consider myself lucky, being these people's foe. This truly doth be terrible."

Giorno mentally commented almost everything in the hall, judging the furniture... "Outdated.", the people... "Seeing them stare at me pleases me. If they are willing to criticize my appearance and attitude, I will be even more pleased.", and the service as well. "These servants are just what Lord Diavolo likes. Being so useless, it pains me." he took the last sip from his crystal glass of wine. "Let me see how much will it take for some servant to notice."

No wonder, the signore was really full of himself, and he was right, for all the people's voices murmuring when he passed by, were coming from pure envy. Diavolo staring at him, from the top of a huge flight of stairs. Don Giovanna had not noticed him, for he didn't consider necessary the action of looking above his own head. Giorno knew he was the one to be already at the top. If so, it were others who had too look up to him. He had learnt he had to stand up to ferocious beasts too, and he managed, in his life, to dominate the worst out of all the beasts. Humanity.

Plus, he was extremely focused on what was happening in front of himself, for he could see, in the middle of the hall, several couples dancing. No need to specify, that was the place where Lady Trish had brought the councilor Mista. Don Giovanna couldn't help but slightly smirk. That man had always been so loyal to him, and he was genuinely proud of him for he had found a wife and helped his affairs at the same time. He watched at the curly, dark haired councilor moving his betrother around with grace, until they accidentally bumped into another couple who was dancing beside them. The Don was now elegantly chuckling, he was amused, he was...

...Love-struck. The couple who Mista and Una had bumped into, consisted in a young lord and a beautiful creature who probably came from heavens above. The angel apologized to the pink haired Lady with a laughter, and bowed to Guido in apology. The angel... were you. Diavolo's niece/nephew had made the impenetrable heart of Don Giovanna fall in love. Could he talk about love? He wanted to. All in a matter of two seconds, the golden haired man imagined you dressed up for a luxurious wedding. What he did not know, was that there would have also been Diavolo in the crowd, watching his archenemy marry you. He had no idea you were related to him. As the same servant he had taken a glass from before passed by, Giorno gripped her arm, and pulled her closer.

"What angel is that, which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?" he frantically asked, his tone was serious and imposing, as if he was ready to squeeze the information out of the poor servant. But she knew nothing about you, it was not like she was a family servant. She was just there to serve for the event. "I know not, sir", the poor waitress said, holding the tray on her chest and trying to go back into the kitchen. "I apologize. Uh. More wine?" The girl also asked, as Don Giovanna remembered he had ran out of wine. But he shook his head and left the empty glass in the servant's hand, moving towards you to have a better look, not noticing he was right under the flight of stairs where Diavolo and a follower of his were standing. Then, he started to talk to himself, contemplating you.

"O, they doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems they hangs upon the cheek of night." he moved his hands together, in a similar motion as one of a prayer. "Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, as yonder angel o'er their fellows shows." Don Giovanna's fingers intertwined with each other as he spoke. "The measure done, I'll watch their place of stand, and, touching theirs, make blessed my rude hand." with his intense gaze, Giorno's left hand moved to slide on the side of his body, as the right hand touched his chest. "Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."

He made the mistake to melt right under the sight of Diavolo, who smirked in seeing him so vulnerable for such a thing. Nobody was there to tell him that falling in love with you would have been his end. The pink haired lord was not irritated, for even if Giorno had tried to humiliate him, the golden haired boss was humiliating himself now, over a fleeting love. The man on the stairs wouldn't even have needed to do anything. Not that he wanted it in the first place. He would have behaved, to show his superiority off.

But Diavolo's loyal servant, lord Cioccolata, had other ideas. "This, by his voice, should be Giovanna. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What dares the slave come hither, cover'd with an antic face, to fleer and scorn at our solemnity?" the green haired man bent over the banister to take a better look to the supercilious Giorno, who, again, had no clue of what was right above him. "Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, to strike him dead, I hold it not a sin." Cioccolata murmured, but felt his arm get gripped from his boss.

"Why, how now, kinsman. Wherefore storm you so?" the servant's jaw dropped.

"Signore, this is literally Don Giovanna, our foe, a villain that is hither come in spite, to scorn at our solemnity this night." as the same servant who Giorno had talked to approached Diavolo and offered him a glass of wine, the pink haired boss smelled it and took a little sip from it. Then, grinned. He was not in the mood for violence. For now. So he had to keep Cioccolata back from every kind of bad decision. It wasn't easy, to keep such a man from murder. Out of pure honesty.

"Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone, Cioccolata. He bears him like a portly gentleman, and, to say truth, Naples brags of him to be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth." Diavolo explained. It would not have been good if something happened to that man in his mansion. He was part of Naples' pride. "I would not for the wealth of all the town, here in my house do him disparagement: therefore be patient, take no note of him. It is my will, the which if thou respect, show a fair presence and put off these frowns, and ill-beseeming semblance for a feast." was he asking his most violent servant to have... patience over his archenemy? Yes, he was, and Cioccolata was speechless.

"It fits, when such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him." the angered man replied, trying once again to get his signore to reasonate and realize they could get rid of him so easily if they wished so. The councilor Mista was even too distracted by Diavolo's daughter to keep an eye on his boss. It could have been so simple, for Cioccolata, to...

"Am I the master here, or you? You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul! You'll make a mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop! You'll be the man!" the pink haired man slightly raised his voice - not enough for Giorno to hear - and made himself clear, so that if the green haired made any possible mess during his feast, he would have had to take his own responsibility.

"I will withdraw, then." the servant gave up on his ideas, but rudely. His one almost felt like a poisonous gaze. "But this intrusion shall now seeming sweet convert to bitter gall." he said, indirectly threatening an oblivious Giorno. Talking about him, during their conversation between the two men on the stairs, he turned unnoticed until Cioccolata left. When Diavolo looked down on him again, the golden haired boss was now in the middle of a crowded mess of people who was dancing, people who was eating and conversing. He was with you. Finally.

Giorno Giovanna approached you in a way you couldn't help but notice. He looked like the sun, a golden being, it caught your heart as well. Neverending seconds of staring at each other followed, until... "If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this." he gently took your hand in his. It felt warm. "My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." as the man said so, he leaned in to leave a soft kiss on the back of your hand. His sweet scent overwhelming you as he moved. How gentle.

"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this." you withdrew your hand and slightly chuckled, reassuring him it was fine. Someway, the two of you found yourself moving away from the crowd. In a more intimate spot. Diavolo couldn't even find you. "For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch..." your sweet voice was soothing the man more than you would realize. "...and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

Giorno bit his lip in anticipation, and gently exhaled. "Have not saints lips... and holy palmers too?" he asked, leaning down right towards your soft mouth, before you moved aside and, chuckling like an angel playing in a field, avoided the gentleman's kiss, jokingly scolding his mind with a mischievous smile.

"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer." You provoked him. Where had Giorno Giovanna's temperance gone? He had swore to his councilor, just before leaving his house, that he wouldn't have let love blind his senses. And there he was. Plus, you did not know each other. You did not know who you were. You did not know you should have not been there together. Due to this, he gladly accepted your game, and chuckled back. God, he was so ethereal and he did not even realize it.

"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do." he begged, looking almost afraid of touching you, or your waist, or your own hand. How can someone fall so deep in love after having just met someone? Does love at first sight even exist? "They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair." Don Giovanna's tone sounded impatient.

But you had accepted to play his game, and now you would have played it until the very end. You smirked, staring at the blonde man's trembling lips. "Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake." you said, implying the fact that you wouldn't have made the first step. It made sense, though. It was him, who had compared you to a saint first. Little did you know, you were playing with fire, for that man you felt love at first sight for, was your uncle's archenemy.

Giorno grinned, and hid you more against the wall, as your hands automatically wrapped around his figure. Though you didn't move in for a kiss. Until... "Then move not... while my prayer's effect I take.", said the man, grazing with his lips against yours, and finally pressing. You felt all your senses relieve and relax, as your hands grasped on the fabric of the Don's jacket. You didn't like your uncle's crimes. You wouldn't have liked Giorno's ones too. But you had no clue. And he had no clue you were Diavolo's niece/nephew. And you were in love.

His sugary sweet lips clicked against yours a last, neverending time, when he pulled back and thought staring right in your eyes was a good idea. "Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged." Don Giovanna whispered, breathing hard against your giggling mouth. He hadn't stopped playing, you noticed with a pleasant feeling.

"Then have my lips the sin that they have took...?" you slyly asked him, clearly wanting the kiss to continue, clearly wanting more, having no idea of how wrong it was. Having no idea of how dangerous is was. Though his eyes widened, and got even closer, so close to giving you what you wanted for the second time. You felt yourself growing so enamored.

"Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!" he paused for a second, before he bit his own lower lip. "Give me my sin again." Giorno whispered, grabbing your waist with his hand and kissing you, almost desperately, but romantically, against the wall. He had been so focused on anything else, that he had forgotten the true flavor of love, and living it all again after he had swore he wouldn't have done it, was way too intense. Way too beautiful. Better than the art he'd been collecting the latest years.

When he pulled back, you instictively smiled and raised an eyebrow, silently chuckling a little. "You kiss by the book..." you told him, caressing his neck gently and carefully. If it were for him and you, that beautiful moment could go on for hours, days, even an eternity. But beautiful things never last. The two of you almost had a heart attack, when the arm of a blonde, long haired man grabbed your right wrist, ripping your dream in half.

"Madam/sir, your uncle craves a word with you." he almost managed to get you away from Giorno, when the Don grabbed your left wrist, and pulled you towards him, not letting the man, Tiziano to be precise, bring you away.

"What's their uncle?"

At that question, the almond eyed man smirked, as if he was ready to drop a heavy bomb on the snooty Don. "Marry, bachelor, their uncle is the lord of the house, and a good man, wise and virtuous. I nursed his niece/nephew, that you talk'd withal." as if Tiziano had read into Don Giovanna's mind, he added something else, just for the sake of making it even heavier. "I tell you, he that can lay hold of them, shall have the chinks."

Then the blonde haired Don followed the two of you around the hall, until he saw you get pulled upstairs by Tiziano, and connected his brains to what he saw. Diavolo, waiting for you upstairs, and Tiziano holding your arm so that you wouldn't have been able to run away. Four painful words formed on Giorno's whispering lips. "Are they an enemy...?" he asked to himself, looking at you up there, until Trish didn't appear as well behind you.

Trish wasn't happy to be there, she loved Guido Mista, but apparently Diavolo had called all his family back. And your presence there, only confirmed his fear. You were about to step back towards him and say something, but Tiziano caught your shoulder just in time, and pulled you close enough to whisper you the words you would have never wanted to hear. "His name is Giorno." he added more details. "Giorno Giovanna. The only appearance you should match to your great enemy."

You stood there. Empty. You and your forbidden lover had understood what was going on. And both your hearts clenched. And both your hearts suffered. How could love be so beautiful yet so evil, to make a man live and die on the same evening. How...

We all know how this story ends, we know about the pain, we know about the sorrow. But what if this time it made sense. One of the lovers is dirty with criminal blood, running through his veins, and you accept him, in the good and in the bad. Is this right...?

Or is death the punishment, for the sin that in reality your lips hadn't purged at all?

[ssson-of-sparda]

Two Dresses (Dante x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Patty desperately wants to know what happened between Dante and Y/N. Hopefully, Morrison is here to help. (Part 3 of A Tab To Erase) (Part 1) (Part 2)

Tags: Pre DMC3 Dante / Dante is Tony Redgrave / Love / Fluff / Slight ANgst / Implied Sexual Content / Explicit Language

Author’s note: Part 3 is out. Sorry for keeping you waiting. The story is coming to its end. Only one or two chapters left.

MISSION 3

Indifference is the worst form of contempt. But how can you be indifferent when a squeaking tiny voice as unbearable as fingernails on a chalkboard constantly splits your ears with endless whining? Dante wished to know.        “Pleeeeaase Dante. You promised.” Patty begged again as she almost sprawled on the man’s desk, strangely not caring about the grease or the tomato sauce that were disgustingly splattered on the wooden surface.      “I didn’t do such thing.” Dante nonchalantly took a bite of his pizza, trying to ignore Patty’s pleading blue eyes and her feeble attempt at convincing him to tell her the rest of his ‘love story’ (she had decreed it was one) with Y/N. “Come on, Dante! You have to tell me!” The frustration in every single word coming out of her mouth was growing stronger. You could hear it in the way her voice was becoming more and more piercing by the minute. And in spite of all the time spent with Patty, Dante had never succeeded in really ignoring her childish whims. “Don’t you watch TV shows?” She added. “You know full well I don’t.” And it was the truth. Except for adults programs once in a while, Dante cared less about television, contrary to Patty who was a professional binge-watcher capable of watching a dozen of episodes a day and still yearning for more.        “Well, even if you don’t, haven’t you ever experienced the frustration of a cliffhanger? Like, in Bolero in Spring, when Jenna has a car accident right after she decides to run after Josh to finally tell him he is the love of her life and that she loves him too and you know you’ll have to wait a whole week to know what happens next?”                Dante’s brain shut down after the first question, or maybe even before that, finding a not-so-surprising fascination for the slices of salami on his pizza and their perfectly round shapes. “Like I told you, I don’t watch TV.”      “Haven’t you ever longed for anything?”            “Yes actually. Right now, I long for peace … and quiet … and for you to finally shut up.” The girl glared at him, shooting daggers at him as sharp as a thousand Rebellions.

“What’s going on here?” Relief immediately shone in both Patty’s and Dante’s eyes when Morrison pushed the door of Devil May Cry, replacing the tension in the room with paternal warmth that was so like him.                 “Morrison! You got to help me. Dante doesn’t want to tell me what happened between him and Y/N” She complained with her small fists clenched tightly, a childish attitude that would have made Morrison smile if it hadn’t been for his surprise.“ You told Patty about Y/N? How weird of you.” “Not for free.”  “You know her, Morrison?” There was a gleam in Patty’s eyes, one only curiosity and excitement could create.       “By reputation. Everybody in the mercenary business knew who she was and was aware not to touch a hair on her head. I bet even demons knew. Y/N. Tony Redgrave’s beautiful girlfriend. And probably the only girl that could make Dante act somewhat … mature.” He said as he chose his words wisely, though he wasn’t sure they were fit for the memories of Dante he had in mind.                  “ What are you talking about? I’ve always been mature.”        “ Yeah. Because eating strawberry sundaes and pizza everyday is very adult.” Dante frowned, pretty sure he had once heard a similar reprimand coming from someone else’s mean mouth. His mother? No … but close. “Have you been spending time with Trish lately?”           “ Stop changing the subject and tell me the story!” Dante eyed at Morrison with an insisting look that meant ‘Get me the hell out of here.’ but today, he would not receive any help from his friend. “You know she won’t let go, Dante. So, should I tell her or should you?”              Dante sighed. “Two dresses off my tab and it’s yours.”

TWO DRESSES

Two star-crossed lovers in fair Redgrave City, where we lay our scene …

Are you kidding me?! What? I thought you loved that kind of lovey-dovey crap. Dante! Fine …

The rest of the story was no Shakespearian play. There was no betrayal, no sword fighting, no friend or parent tragically murdered, no forbidden love, no unfair ending, no … Who was Dante kidding? There was all that and worse. Another reason why he hated Shakespeare so much.                But when love started to bloom and with it the chances at a normal peaceful life, Dante never considered those dramatic events. Not even a slight second. After all, he was an overly enthusiastic nineteen year-old with the girl of his dreams on his arm and a long-awaited roof above his head. What could go wrong? Especially when all he thought about, all he imagined were simple mornings waking up with the one he loved so dearly and nights with his silver head in between…

“In between what?” “ Y/N’s fingers... Y/N’s fingers of course.” “ You’re not so good at making this story family-friendly you know that, Dante?” “I’m doing my best here, Morrison.”

And his epicurean – though quite lewd - plans were all shared to the utter despair of Y/N’s parents who constantly reminded Y/N of the big mistake she was making in getting involved with a boy like ‘that vermin Tony’.                 “What about college? What about that confortable life we wanted for you? How can you throw all this away for that boy?” Dante remembered the time Y/N’s mother had said that with a menacing finger and a poisonous tongue. That and the infamous “Is breeding with that trash and raising his filthy bastards truly what you want Y/N?”    So long the time that family had generously taken him under their roof for a few days. Guess money does make you stuck-up assholes after all. That’s what he had wanted to reply. But instead, he had just stood still, arms crossed over his chest and had remained silent, out of respect for Y/N and also because, deep down, he was sometimes thinking the same.

He wanted the best for Y/N. He wanted to give her the best life had to offer, all the things she wanted, all the things she needed but he only had a few dollars in his pocket and a list of debts he didn’t really know how the erase. And even though she seemed like she didn’t mind now, what would happen in a few years, or even just a few months. What would happen when the little he had to offer would not be enough anymore?

“Will you love me all the same in a few years?” She asked him, soft hands placed over his strong naked chest and (colour) eyes staring deep in his looking for the truth. “I’m sure I will love you even more if that’s anything possible.”               “Then stop worrying and stop with the silly questions already.” And she kissed him with all the comfort and the love she could gather. She kissed him like there was no tomorrow, like there was just them, only them, together, on that mattress on the floor in this furniture-less and decaying shop he had just been allowed to rent for an astronomical amount of money. “A neon sign.” “ What?” Dante asked a bit confused.                  “You should get a neon sign, like the one my parents had at the restaurant.” She added with a soft smile. “You want me to get a pink neon sign?” He joked and took delight when she laughed. She was so insanely beautiful when she was laughing. “It wasn’t pink. It was red.”                “ My coat is red. That sign was definitely pink. And pink doesn’t scream ‘menacing devil-hunter in the house’?” “Menacing devil-hunter?” She repeated, arching an eyebrow suspiciously. “Where?” Dante looked at her smirking mockingly at him. “Watch it you!” He pushed her on the mattress and went to lie his burning yet still sweaty body over hers to place a multitude of hungry lovely kisses on her neck, wishing this moment would never end.

But it ended, as all good things end eventually. Thanks to Enzo Ferino, once again. That piece of shit had the knack to ruin things after all.                “Tony! Per l’amore di Dio! Tony!” He shouted from downstairs, visibly alarmed if not terrified. “Speaking of the Italian midget.” Dante sighed, his lips still on Y/N’s skin, thinking that maybe ignoring Enzo would make him leave. “Tony!!!”           “Damn it.”          “Pretty sure the menacing devil-hunter hiding in this shop will scare him away?” Y/N taunted again and Dante grinned before pressing his lips on Y/N’s one last time. “Oh, he sure will. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Dante said as he reluctantly left his girl’s loving embrace to put on a pair of pants and go welcome his unwanted guest fidgeting in the hall.                    “ You’d better.”

“It better be important, Enzo.” Dante demanded as he lazily walked down the creaking stairs to show him how annoyed he was to see him here. “You’ve just ruined a perfect moment with my girl.”               “Y/N? Y/N is with you?” The man’s eyes were widened with fear and distress and even though Dante knew how much of a coward Enzo was, he had never seen him that way. “How many girls do you think I have?”  The short man leant against the wall and took a deep sigh. “Well, that’s relief I guess.” Dante frowned, unsure if he should remain annoyed or start asking questions. Hell, why not both. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”     “A man came to Bobby’s Cellar. Looking for you.”          “Not a first.” Dante walked pass Enzo to grab a bottle of whisky he had left early on on one of the many boxes he had not yet unpacked. “One of Denvers’ goons presumably.” He leant against the wall and took a mouthful of amber alcohol, thinking about the girl waiting for him upstairs and how he should have never left her.        “No. Not Denvers. That man was working alone and he asked about a certain Dante.” The half-demon froze for a second and his blue eyes darted a brief astonished glance at his partner. A man looking for Dante - Dante, not Tony - was no good news. “I said I didn’t know any Dante but then he described you and I thought che cacchio è. Then he threatened me and … He was scary, Tony”     “What did you tell him?”  Dante frowned. He had the feeling Enzo had fucked up. He could feel it in his guts. Otherwise he would have never rushed to his new place in the middle of the night to warn him. “That you weren’t here. That you certainly were with Y/N. And then he had me, Tony. I …” “ You mentioned Y/N?” Enzo took an immediate step back when he heard the anger in Dante’s voice. “ I … I’m sorry. He … He tricked me.” Then he took another step and another one, trying to stay as far away as possible from Dante, until his back bumped against the door and he was able to spot a terrifying red flame burning with rage in the mercenary’s eyes who was towering him menacingly. “What did you say about Y/N?”                           If the weird man in Bobby’s Cellar had scared the shit out Enzo early on, what he had felt back then was nothing in comparison to he was feeling right now. Paralysed with fear, he couldn’t move anymore, couldn’t speak. He could only stare at the raging fire in Dante’s eyes and feel a burning warmth emanating from the young man’s body against him. Were those the flames of Hell? Was he about to be punished for his sin? For betraying his partner?    “What did you say?” He shouted and Enzo trembled and squealed like a pig, arms covering his face to protect himself. Yes, his man Tony was about to flay him alive. He was sure of it. “What are you?” He mumbled.

“Tony.” Enzo thanked all the gods for that divine intervention. Though whom he should have truly thanked was Y/N and her soft reassuring voice that had miraculously pulled Dante from his dark rage.

I like her. Dante smiled.

“Stop please.” Enzo felt Dante calm down and when he finally walked away from him, the small man took a deep breath. “If something happens …” Dante didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to and Enzo was already nodding furiously. “I know.” He blindly grabbed the handle behind his back and quickly opened the door to run away as fast as he could.

Dante watched him running in the cold night with a frown until he couldn’t see him anymore. Then he swiftly strode back to Y/N waiting for him on top of the stairs to pull her in a strong protective  embrace. And when his lips pressed in her silky hair and she realized he couldn’t let go, she started worrying. “What is it?” She had never felt him like that.                  “It’s nothing.” He replied softly even though the voice in his head was screaming things like Don’t you get out of my sight, even for a second. I can’t lose you. Not like my mother. I love you so freaking much. “Stay with me tonight.”

But deep down, Dante wasn’t sure this was the smartest decision.

***

“And so was it?” Patty curiously asked as she stared at Dante with her big blue eyes. “ Was it what?” He replied, pretending not to understand. He loved teasing her. “ The smartest decision?” She clarified with an enthusiasm that clearly showed her interest and her will to know more. “ I thought you loved cliffhangers.”

[cecilspeaks]

174 - Radio Jupiter

This is Radio Jupiter calling out to all who hear. Please respond. Awaiting your reply.

[different theme song]

This is Radio Jupiter. I’m not sure who is listening. I’m not sure if there’s anyone to listen. I can only verify my own existence. I can only verify the void around me, the apparent fact of stars, the swirling atmosphere of the planet below me. I cannot verify much. I don’t know who I am or where I came from. I woke up here, and all I have to go on is my call sign. So this is Radio Jupiter, reaching out to whoever there is to be reached out to.

It is so beautiful here on my perch, here in my place, in the cosmos and the universe about which I know nothing but feel everything. I don’t know if everywhere is as beautiful, or even most places. Did I happen onto the one beautiful place in the all of it? Without perspective, there is only what is nearby. Without the burden of comparison, everything is beautiful.

If a person is the sum total of every experience they’ve ever had, is a person without memories still a person? Or are they a different creature altogether, made either limited or limitless by the possibilities of a clean slate? I am either trapped or I am more free than anyone who can hear this. If anyone can hear this.

There is a framed photo in this room. It is an elderly woman. Maybe my mother or my grandmother or an aunt. Perhaps merely a photo I saw in a magazine once and liked for whatever reason. I have no way of knowing what kind of person I am, what kind of photo I would keep. Perhaps it is a photo of you. Do you present as an elderly woman? Would you like to? I think perhaps I would like to, even for just a little while. But I only am what I only am, I ever am, whatever I am.

[distortion] This is Radio Jupiter calling all cars, all (species), all… [fades out]

Cecil: Is that any better? Is that better? Can you hear me? [clears throat] OK, my producer is giving me the signal that we are now back on the air. Sorry about that, not sure what that other signal was, but it completely took over ours, which is rude. We’re currently looking for the source of the signal. We’ve narrowed it down to up. Just right up there somewhere, beaming on down to us. But we’re back in control and we do not expect any more interruptions. Of course, we didn’t expect that interruption either. I don’t expect almost anything that happens to me, my life is full of mystery and surprise, as is yours I’m sure, but still, we seem to have this one technical issue addressed. With that settled, I think we can get to the news.  

Our top story concerns… [reluctantly] Susan Willman. OK. Sure. There has been a lot of talk in town since the whole incident with the Obelisk, in which Susan Willman learned the name of an immortal all knowing being. This name now exist in her head, an object of great power reverberating through her thoughts. She has withdrawn from her duties as director of the Night Vale Community Theater and the Night Vale PTA. Oh darn, we’ll miss her and her prosaic, muddled staging and grandstanding about home-work life balance.

Susan has instead taken residence in a booth at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner. There at all hours, toying with a half drunk coffee and playing with the reflection of the sun in the back of a spoon. At night, the mint light of the sign outside sends strange shadows across her face, and her friends say they sometimes don’t recognize her at all. Steve Carlsberg, who is taking over her role at the Night Vale Community Theater, went to talk to her about some finer details of the casting process, and said that she was less than helpful. She was weeping, and the only thing she said the entire time he was there was that she was afraid to speak, lest the awful name slip past her lips. “No one was meant to carry such death inside of them,” she whispered, and then said no more. “Oh sure, yeah yeah, makes total sense,” said Steve, as he (-) [06:51] down some invisible pie. Well, I think we’ve given Susan enough attention for now, moving on.

In other news, the new beer cave at the Ralphs has been closed for repairs due to occasional time loop issues reported by certain customers. Manager at the Ralphs, Dave Ball, issued a statement by spelling out words with cantaloupes in the parking lot, saying “everything is fine with the beer cave, it’s a great and refreshing addition to Night Vale. Please don’t go inside or even look at it, as we don’t know why it’s doing what it’s doing. Everything is fine, please stay safe and stay away.” Dave then rearranged the cantaloupes to create complex fractal designs that made me dizzy to gaze upon, but were beautiful nonetheless. When reached out for a comment, Ralphs corporate said they had no records of any branch in a town called Night Vale, and were tired of receiving prank calls with bizarre tales about a made up store. When provided with pictoral evidence of Night Vale, a representative at Ralphs corporate began to bleed form the eyes while shouting: “This can’t be real! My god, this can’t be real!” More on the story of the beer cave if anything happens [distortion, fades out]…

Agent N-223: [--] out there, out there? Not sure if any of this is getting thru, but continuing to narrate on the off chance anyone will hear this and come, you know, to collect me. I’ve been doing some digging through the spaceship, and I’m disturbed by what I’ve found. Weapons. Many, many weapons. Racks of guns, cases of grenades and explosives, radar that I instinctively know is for tracking combatant space crafts, even though I have no memory of receiving that training. I am armed to the teeth and ready to wage war. But on what? There are no living beings in sight, and for all I know, there are no other living beings anywhere. Perhaps I’m here to wage war upon the planet below me, that swirling gaseous titan. Maybe someone had enough of it and sent me up here to put Jupiter back in its place. If so, I think the weapons they gave me were insufficient. I experimented by shooting off a round or two out the airlock, but the bullets soared into the upper atmosphere of the planet without slowing at all. My attack had no appreciable effect on my victim. So maybe the planet is not my target. Could it be the stars themselves? I am sent here, a pinprick in the side of God to cast myself as the stars, shouting threats and tossing grenades until the entire (-) [09:42] of the universe cowers and surrenders. Perhaps that.

Or perhaps I am at war with you, whoever is hearing this. Maybe I was given this radio in order to threaten and terrorize before I attack. So be afraid, I am coming. O-once I figure out where you are. I have no idea which direction to start moving and I don’t even know if this space ship has any way of controlling movement or if I’m just stuck in this orbit. Either way, this is Radio Jupiter apparently declaring war. [distortion] Consider it declared and [fades out].

Cecil: Can you hear, they can hear me? OK, I apologize, we’ve been doing all kinds of troubleshooting, including shifting the angle of our broadcasting tower, updating all of our software, and yes before you ask, we did try unplugging it, doing a ritual spilling of blood and plugging it back in. The issue we’re having is that these broadcasts are being sent out on military frequencies, which unfortunately automatically override ours. I’m unclear why the military would be getting into broadcasting, that’s more of a community radio thing, so let’s all stick to what we’re good at. I’ll keep doing radio shows that inform and delight, and the military can spend three trillion dollars on a plane that instantly explodes if anyone tries to fly it.

We have reached out to Rudy DeJardin, the local representative of the military industrial complex. He has a little table set up outside of the hardware shop, and anyone who has any questions for the military can just ask him, and he’ll do his best to answer. Most of the stuff can’t answer because it’s classified or embarrassing, but sometimes he’ll say a few cryptic words. In this case, his only answer was to make “mm-hm” sounds and shake his head frantically, while rolling his eyes toward the heavens. Not clear what to make of that, but I sure love whatever this broadcast is off my frequency, Rudy. Any time you want to get on that.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s show is brought to you by Nature’s Caress Fountain of Youth gentle flushable wipes. Did you know in most of the world, they just wash after using the toilet? They have a whole thing specifically for doing that. It takes a couple of seconds, cleans thoroughly, and doesn’t create mountains of paper waste. If you dirty your hands, do you wipe at them frantically with an even less robust version of tissues, or do you use water and soap? Why would it be different for anything else? Because it just is, that’s why. It’s the American way, love it or leave it. Nature’s Caress Fountain of Youth gentle flushable wipes: clog the world with your debris. This has been a word from our sponsors.

And now, as a special treat, Mr. Lee Marvin himself will perform act 3 scene 5 of Shakespeare’s classic tragedy “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. This is the scene that contains the immortal line “I never knew the meaning of fear until I kissed Becky.” [distortion] OK, Mr. Marvin, take it away!

Agent N-223: This is Radio Jupiter speaking to you from a time of peace. Yes, there was that brief episode of war, and it was regrettable. I fired upon an innocent planet, although that planet seems none the worse for my crimes. In any case, that war is now over, as far as I’m concerned. I have no interest in battles and conflict, especially when I have no memory of what that conflict could involve. I have no interest in killing anyone, and I have no interest in dying quite yet.

So, peace in our time. I’m jettisoning all the guns and other weapons. Let them scatter out harmlessly into the universe, most of them swirling down the gravity well of Jupiter, where the immense pressure of the inner atmosphere will compress them into diamonds. I don’t know if that idea is scientifically sound, but I like the thought of it. All these worthless guns made glittering jewels, swirling in the endless storm of a planet that doesn’t even know they’re there.

As for me, now that I’ve declared peace upon the galaxy, I would like to know what is out there. I have found the controls for the ship and it seems I must have been trained in their use, because whatever I do appears to work as I want it to. I am turning away from the only star I’ve ever known. Because my memory is short and it’s the only star that has been there for the last two hours. I’m turning out to the dark unknown, and I’m casting myself into it. I hope there is a grander universe out there, I’d love to see it. This is Radio Jupiter, letting the cosmos know that I am on my way. I’ll see you soon. Or, given the size of space, most likely I won’t see you. But we’ll both exist, and [distortion] won’t that be nice?

Cecil: [clapping] Wow, wow wow wow. Thank you, Mr. Marvin, truly a performance for the ages, and what a treat… What? What happened? When? Oh not again!

This is Cecil Palmer of the Night Vale community radio station. I don’t know if you can hear these words, but if you can, we have identified the source of these intrusive broadcasts. She is agent N-223, sent during the early years of the space program on a secret mission. She was put into hibernation so that she could wake up and serve as reinforcement in the Blood Space War at some point in the future. But it appears that the hibernation damaged her memory, and anyway the Blood Space War doesn’t happen for another thousands years, so eh, she won’t be much use in that battle yet. Ah, thanks to the anonymous tipster who snuck us this top secret info. We owe you, Rudy.

Oh, uh it looks like we might be having more interference due to some Rough weather.

[“The Faded Red and Blue” by David Berkeley http://davidberkeley.com/]

Agent N-223: This is Radio Jupiter on the tail end of the tail end. If there was anyone listening back near that star, I think I’m getting out of range. I feel you getting out of range. Whatever presence I felt that I was speaking to, that feeling is getting hushed and fuzzy. The way I’m sure my voice is for you now.

You’re gonna have to go on without me, I suppose. Be brave about it. Or be scared. Your feelings are not my problem anymore, if they ever were. I have new problems now, problems of void and cosmos, problems of dark matter and lost memories. I am adrift in a universe that does not know I exist, but then you are too. I don’t know what is out there, but I hope I live to see it. Won’t that be something, if I get to see whatever happens next? I hope I do.

Well, this is Radio Jupiter signing off for the last time. [echoing] Stay safe out there, I’ll try to stay safe out here. Goodbye.

Cecil: The signal has faded out. It seems she has finally left our world and also left my radio frequency. I’m not trying to speak badly of a strange remnant of a war that has not yet happened, floating out into the nothing beyond the nothing, but come on, please, use a different frequency. It’s just rude. The military, through Rudy DeJardin has disavowed any knowledge of Agent N-223 or her mission. “Nope,” Rudy said through clenched teeth, “Never heard of her. Iiii certainly wouldn’t just say her name on the radio, after being asked not to. That’s not something I would do Cecil,” he said. So I dunno. Maybe we got the story wrong.

It is something, isn’t it? We are bits of life floating in a whole lot of non-life. The fact is true for us in both space and time, we are brief on any measure. And yet we can reach out our voice and be heard, even if only for a moment. And that has to mean something, doesn’t it? Doesn’t… it?

Stay tuned next for an angry buzzing from inside your cutlery drawer, but you’ll be too afraid to open it and find out its source.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

Today’s proverb: Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Agate is a girl’s worst enemy. Emerald is a work acquaintance who a girl hung out with once and then it just – never turned into anything more.

[eddiesasspbrak]

When I’m With You: Epilogue

Eddie can’t stand the barista at his favorite coffee shop. Richie has fallen in love with the man he sees twice a week. Stan is dating someone but won’t let his friends meet them. Ben is in love with Beverly, but is so afraid of scaring her away he’s not moving forward. Chaotic friends navigating college together. 

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1k+ words

“Shit, shit, shit.” Eddie cursed, breathless as he rushed down the street. It was warm out, far too warm for a November evening and he was sweating in his jacket but couldn’t slow enough to take it off. He was already running late and couldn’t risk stopping or slowing down for anything. Except maybe cars, he definitely didn’t want to get hit by someone speeding or stopping in the crosswalk rather than before it.

As he stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the red hand to disappear and the little green person to appear, he checked his phone. He officially had five minutes to get the venue and was roughly eight minutes away. Sucking in a deep breath, he sprinted as soon as the light turned (and he was sure no cars were blowing through the red), determined to make it.

With the venue in sight, he pushed his (tired from the six-hour shift) legs to carry him just the last few feet. Once inside, he panted to catch his breath, climbing the stairs from the noisy bar below to the quiet room above with difficulty. He took a puff from his inhaler while searching the seats for his friends. They were easy enough to spot with Bev’s red hair tied up in a bun atop her head. He squeezed between the rows of seats, finally peeling off his jacket after plopping down next to Stan.

“Cutting it close, aren’t we?” He asked.

“Becca was late for her fucking shift again. I told her I needed to leave a little early today. She’s so unreliable I don’t understand how she hasn’t been fired yet.” He sighed, taking the bottle of water Stan held out to him.

“I told you, you need to look for another job and leave that place. They totally take advantage of you.” Bev spoke up, leaning forward to see Eddie across Mike and Stan.

“I know, but the tips are so good there.” He whined.

They immediately stopped talking when the overhead lights were flashed, indicating it was about to begin. Eddie settled back in his chair, the cold air in the room cooling the sweat on his skin and making him shiver.

Richie and two others appeared in the empty space in front of the audience from a back room. He wore suspenders, a white button up with the sleeves rolled up his biceps, his wild hair slicked back. Eddie had already seen this costume at home, but he still got butterflies in the stomach as he took in all that was his handsome love. The room was quiet, and then they began…

*

The group sat at the bar, the tables already claimed by the cast and their friends and family. Rose, Kara and Jen joined them, only staying long enough to greet Richie before they had to head out. They were basically Richie’s family and Eddie knew he’d be happy they’d come to see him and support him. Kara was going on about the little plays he’d put on with Jen when she was smaller. He was her favorite babysitter. One thing Eddie had come to know about Richie was that he was very smart and very academic. So, he’d help her with homework, bake something sweet with her and then act out scenes from whatever Shakespeare play she was obsessed with at the moment. Rose joked that he would make a good dad one day, nudging Eddie with her elbow and giving him a wink. Flustered, he stumbled over his words, assuring them that they were a long, long, long way from anything like that and Rose only laughed, Kara scolding her for teasing him. He really liked them.

Some of the cast began to filter down the stairs and into the bar below. They were smiling, beaming and vibrating with post show excitement. Eddie turned and watched for the mop of black hair he knew oh so well. When he emerged from around the corner, grin in place and chatting with a costar, Eddie once again felt his chest tighten. He’d almost missed it. Almost been late to see the show he was so proud of. They’d been working on it for months, finally securing the bar attic to put it on with promises of business from the cast, crew and audience. He’d have hated himself if he’d missed even a second of it.

Richie stopped near the bottom of the stairs, continuing his conversation. While they spoke, he scanned the crowd, his eyes landing on Eddie and his grin growing upon seeing his face. Eddie waited, watching as they conversed, Richie occasionally looking back over to him. It was maddening. He wanted to see him. Sure, he’d seen him that morning, waking in the same bed even, but he missed him and wanted to congratulate him and tell him how wonderful he’d been in the show. Moving in together only made him want to spend even more time with him.

He longed for the rainy nights, cuddling on the couch they’d stolen from Eddie’s old place, lights turned low and listening to the raindrops hit the window nearby. Movie nights with their friends, the apartment smelling of popcorn and freshly baked cookies, the chatter and laughter of people they loved filling the room. Lying on the bed with Penny, watching her scurry around on the sheet before cuddling in close to Eddie to nap while Richie cleaned out her home. Even when they’d clean together, organizing and doing laundry. Domestic. That’s what it was, and he loved it. He loved him.

When Richie finally ended the conversation, bidding his castmate farewell, he made his way straight through the crowd to Eddie. Before he could even greet him, Richie was pulling him into a tight hug. Eddie could feel his smile against his neck where Richie was placing a chaste kiss. He could practically feel the joy radiating off of him and his eyes were shining when he pulled back to look Eddie in the face.

“Did you like it?” Richie’s smile always made him feel some kind of way, and now he was practically glowing.

“I loved it.” Eddie placed a hand on Richie’s cheek, his fingers pushing into his dark hair. “You were amazing. The best one up there. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

“Can you ever?”

“Nope.” Eddie smiled, pressing a kiss to Richie’s lips.

“Come on you two, you live together and can do that whenever. Let us congratulate the talented thespian too!” Bev called out, standing from her stool at the bar.

The two turned to their friends, smiling and walking hand in hand back to the group. Rose and Kara both got teary eyed as they hugged Richie and told him how proud they were. Jen teased him about his costumes. As early evening turned to night, the sun slipping below the horizon, the friends claimed a table that had become empty, ordering bar food to feed an army, drinking, talking and laughing the night away.

As Eddie looked around the table, his heart felt full. Ben and Stan had pretty much always been there, the two people he could rely on more than anyone else in the world. His brothers. Mike and Bill, who made Stan so much happier than he’d ever seen him. That alone made Eddie love them both. Bev, who was the first girl worthy of Ben’s love and admiration and one of the best friends he’d ever made. And Richie, the person he was sure he was mean to be with. The first person he had ever loved and made him feel worthy of love. He stood by him even when he was rude and dismissive, and through all the bullshit with his mom. He felt strong with Richie by his side. For the first time in his life, he was happy. Truly and completely happy. Sure, things would come up in the future that would hurt and shake his happiness, but for now he felt at peace. He felt like he was home because that’s exactly where he was. His friends, new and old, and Richie…they were home.

[oveliagirlhaditright]

So, I have dialogue in my head of Light (amnesiac Light) and L discussing A Song of Ice and Fire, if anyone wants me to write it up. “A Song of Ice and Fire” is the book series Game of Thrones was based on, if you don’t know.

Edit: Okay, here it is.

L, for once, is laying down on his and Light’s shared bed tiredly, wanting to go to sleep (he’s been up for many hours before this). And is angry that for once, Light is the one staying up--when he always complains about L doing that and keeping him awake, and he’s probably glaring at the phone or kindle Light is using to read or whatever.

L: Light-kun, what are you doing? We had a trying day today. Why not go to bed? And yes, I know. That’s me saying that. Alert the presses.

Light: Just a minute, Ryuzaki. I just got to this really good part in this series I’m reading.

(L drags a hand down his face.) L: And what, pre tell, is this great series, that has someone with such a high sense of justice interested in it? So much so, that they’re willing to stay up, and perhaps wreck their senses tomorrow, so they can’t help in the case about the most prolific serial killer the world has ever seen? ...If it’s “A Song of Ice and Fire”, I’m adding percentages to your Kira total.

This finally gets Light’s attention, and he looks up from the page he was on. Light: Ryuzaki, how many times do I have to tell you I’m not Ki- Wait a minute, why do you seem to have so much disdain for this series? Have you read it?

L: Of course I’ve read it, Light-kun. It’s making quite the name for itself...

(Light only semi-reluctantly puts his kindle away at this point. Because as much as he hates to admit it, this conversation is interesting him now.) Light: So, what’s your problem with it, then? It’s actually about justice--something that seems up your alley--and has a good message about how everyone should band together to stop these ice zombies from killing everyone. So, what-

(At this point, L sobers up a little and maybe feels like a jerk for some of the above. Because, truth be told, he doesn’t hate ASOIAF. He just has some issues with it.) L: Yes, but it’s medieval justice, at that. And too much of this is torture porn. And I just- I, of course, know there were child brides in our world’s history. That, however, does not mean I’m comfortable reading fiction about it, and that I think an author should write about it.

(L was talking about the character Daenerys Targaryen with that last line. Light is a Daenerys fan--because of course he would be--and so he scoots the tiniest bit closer to L, for his having hated the torment his favorite character had to go through.) Light: Yeah, Daenerys having to marry Khal Drogo... just no. But don’t you think everyone’s ideals being medieval justice here is the point? Like, maybe they’re going to realize it doesn't work and create a new form of government that’s at least getting closer to democracy?

L offers Light a small smile at his optimism. It’s nice to see in Light. And almost makes L wish Light wasn’t Kira, like he isn’t right now. L: I think you’re giving Martin too much credit, Light-kun. Even though he says differently, it’s clear that he’s a cynic. I feel this series will end just as grimly as it started. He doesn’t have the talent of Shakespeare--or evenTolkien, who he says he’s a friendly critic of--so there will be no catharsis at the end of this saga. Take my word on it.

Light is bothered by this. Because as much as he doesn’t want L to be right, he’s now worried he is. He wants to debate that more, but decides to go with a safer topic. Light: So is there any plot or character you liked from the books enough to defend?

L thinks about if for a moment, chewing on a nail, and comes to one conclusion. L: Well... Jon Snow, I suppose. He’s made his mistakes... but for the most part, he has a good heart and is trying to protect everyone from the aforementioned ice zombies.

(Light laughs at this. Probably because he’s more a Daenerys fan and L is a Jon one. It’s sort of fitting, since those two are perhaps narrative Foils). Light: Jon Snow? You would like him. ...And on the subject of Jon Snow, I’d like to get back to the part I was just at with him. (Light digs out his kindle again.)

L debates being cruel and telling Light that Jon dies at the end of A Dance With Dragons--which Light is currently reading--but decides to be nice for once. L: Fifteen minutes, Light-kun. Or else I’m shutting the lights out, and you can try and read in the dark, if you must.

Light wants to yell at L here. He really does. Because the man often keeps him up way longer than fifteen minutes, with his bright laptop screen and his tap tap tapping at the keyboard. But he decides to just relent and let this moment stay a nice one. Light: Fine. Fifteen minutes. (And he gets back into the scene where Jon decides he needs to go save Arya... And since this is the part Jon Snow dies in, there’s a good chance they might not stick to this “fifteen minute rule”, because Light’s probably going to want to talk to L about it the moment he reads it. LOL)

IDK.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 265: Tamaki What Did You Eat

Previously on BnHA: The heroes began their invasion of the Ol’ Villain Marriott. Down in the basement, Re-Destro was all “what’s going my fresh villain citizens, what a beautiful day, well I guess we should start that meeting” and they were all “WE’RE UNDER FUCKING ATTACK” and he made a face and I laughed. Class 1-B, Edgeshot, and Midnight then jovially killed some people, and then we cut to Dabi and Hawks! Hawks was all “sorry it has to be this way Bubaigawara but I’m gonna have to arrest you” and Twice got all Harry Potter in that one scene from the Prisoner of Azkaban movie, and then he did the thing, and fucking Hawks just fucking stood there and DID NOTHING. So now he’s gonna have to fight 100,000 Twices I guess, and meanwhile Dabi is running up the stairs on his way to intervene and somehow make things even more chaotic. Also either Hawks or Dabi thinks heroes are scum, and I’m still not clear on which. But basically it’s safe to say that angst is on the way, friends.

Today on BnHA: Tamaki turns into a horse. I have questions. Dark Shadow fights fucking Re-Destro and fucking destroys him in like two seconds flat, like holy shit whaaaaat. Then Tokoyami just hops on inside of Fatgum like a goddamn marsupial, and spends several pages like this, during which I completely can’t focus the entire time but I do remember that we learned that Machia won’t be joining the fight because he apparently only listens to Tomura, so that’s convenient I guess. Then we cut to Twice and Hawks (I literally typed out “Dabi and Hawks” just now and had to go back and change it, so you can see where my mind is at), and Hawks defeats Twice and is all “guess I’ve got no choice” and is seriously going to kill him (hahaha what the fuck), but then DABI FUCKING BURNS THE ENTIRE ROOM DOWN WITH EVERYONE IN IT WHILE LAUGHING AND THEN THE CHAPTER JUST ENDS. I feel like I just got slapped in the face.

so before we start, let me just mention that I got a ton of asks and messages about the whole “HERO SCUM” line, and I appreciate everyone keeping me up to date on the twists and turns of our wild little fandom lol. so as you all probably know, in Viz’s translation of the last page they had Dabi saying the line (“Twice, this isn’t your fault. as always... scummy heroes are to blame”). so naturally everyone was either like “whaaaaat!” or “I KNEW IT!!”, but then Caleb went and deleted his original tweet saying that it was Dabi, and replaced it with a new tweet, the gist of which was basically “I don’t fucking know either” and admitting he wasn’t an authority on the matter. so to sum everything up, we basically don’t know and will never know until the anime airs this in about three years’ time, or until the only man who can actually clear this up decides to stop drawing weird mushroom men for five goddamn minutes so he can clarify for us

anyway, so in the meantime it’s time to see who’s having angst this week! probably everybody! let’s just assume it’s everybody and save some time

ohooo so we finally get to see why they had Tamaki and Tokoyami in the vanguard, eh?

(ETA: gotta say, “you” is an awfully impersonal way to address someone whose entire body you are shortly going to stuff inside your little quirk papoose and tote around like a fanny pack.)

honestly this isn’t much of a mystery though lol. Tokoyami is obvious, and with Tamaki it’s probably because of his kraken thing if I had to guess

...excuse me sir is this leading where I think it’s leading

sir. Mister Gum, sir. please do not tell me you are actually about to lead these children into the building and down into the basement. first of all the thought of you and Tamaki in yet another basement is already giving me PTSD so no thanks. and second of all, ???!?!?!?!?! [gestures incredulously to the two children] ?!?!?!???? [emphatically taps my computer screen with the wiki page showing their respective ages] ???!?!?!?!?!?! [gestures wildly toward a picture of Gigantomachia I pulled up just now in a google search. yeah that’s right. Gigantomachia!! you all forgot about him didn’t you!! well guess who didn’t forget about him?? that’s right. so you’d better explain yourself right the fuck now, Fatgum. oh wait I’m still talking in action brackets whoops]

holy crap is Tokoyami giving orders lmao

well look at you. a general, huh? somebody must’ve told them about his little maneuver at the Battle of Taanab

so now some generic villain guys are all “HOW’D THEY FIND OUR SECRET PATH” and “WE MUST DEFEND IT” and I sure can’t wait to watch them get their asses kicked three panels from now

OH LORDY

EVERYONE TAMAKI HAS JUST TURNED INTO A HORSE. I IMMEDIATELY HAVE SEVERAL QUESTIONS, THE MOST PRESSING OF WHICH ARE (1) WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO HIS PANTS, AND (2) DOES THIS MEAN TAMAKI ATE A FUCKING HORSE. PLEASE STAY TUNED AS WE URGENTLY INVESTIGATE THESE NEW DEVELOPMENTS

lol and the cow horns too. why though. just completes the look I guess

loooooool he’s all “apologies, but please remain still” who are you, Tuxedo Mask??

LOOOOOOL

by the way, I almost skipped right past this, but the text says Tamaki will be a sidekick at the Fatgum agency starting “next year”, which presumably means “in a couple of weeks because the school year is about to end.” our boy is graduating! I’m so proud, and also really pissed off about Mirio all of a sudden, just throwing that out there. how much longer must his dreams be put on hold. where is the justice. man I need a minute

okay! anyway so now Tokoyami is just running into the basement alone!! hooooo boy. I know it’s dark down there and that’s presumably why they’re sending him of all people, but still. hooooooooo boy

ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS NO WAY

IS TOKOYAMI GOING TO TAKE ON FUCKING RE-DESTRO AND IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING AND WHY THE FUCK IS NIGHT ON BALD MOUNTAIN SUDDENLY PLAYING

KDSFLK;L’LLL

AM I IN THE RIGHT MANGA. DID DARK SHADOW REALLY JUST GROW NINETY FEET TALL AND START WRESTLING THE SAME FUCKING GUY WHO ALMOST* BROUGHT DOWN THE ENTIRE LEAGUE OF FUCKING VILLAINS

*except he didn’t, let’s be real. didn’t even come close. but still, on paper the hype looks real good!!

AND DO RE-DESTRO’S ROBOT LEGS SOMEHOW FUCKING CHANGE SIZE ALONG WITH HIM. CHALK ANOTHER ONE UP FOR THE MYSTERY BASKET. PUT YOU RIGHT NEXT TO “BUT FOR REAL THOUGH DID TAMAKI ACTUALLY EAT A FUCKING HORSE”

OOOOOF

LOL DETNERAT’S MERCHANDISE REALLY IS TOTAL SHIT. CAN’T EVEN HANDLE A LITTLE CLASH WITH A GIGANTIC SHADOW DEMON

by the way, check out that one guy in the bottom right corner who just totally doesn’t give the least of fucks. he’s fresh out. he wants to know how much longer this is gonna last so he can go home and get back to playing the new Animal Crossing. did you know they added a new crafting feature. can’t believe he’s stuck here at this boring meeting. this man genuinely doesn’t seem to be at all aware of anything that is currently happening around him and it’s amazing. added to the box of questions

oh man. I don’t quite understand what is happening now but I keep expecting Gigantomachia to just pop up out of nowhere any second and I can’t fucking stand it. Horikoshi please stop showing us these close-ups of destroyed walls

OH GOD OH GOD!!!

(ETA: what a casual fucking line implying that Tokoyami genuinely believed that there was nobody in THE ENTIRE LEAGUE OF PLIFF who stood a chance against his latest super move. don’t mind him everyone, he’s just been lowkey biding his time to become the strongest member of class 1-A offscreen while his loser classmates were having dramatic family dinners. how many High Ends could Dark Shadow take out I wonder. why did I suddenly get a mental image of Toko losing an arm only to sigh and nonsensically quote Shakespeare or some shit before wrapping Dark Shadow around the stump and getting back to the asskicking.)

NO TOKO NOT THE ANGRY BALD MAN, HE’S TALKING ABOUT SOMEONE ELSE!! OH FUCK OH FUCK

LMAO

:) :) :) can we maybe get my solemn bird son out of this fucking DEATH BASEMENT right the fuck now. can we do that, please

holy shit!?

:) :) :) I can’t decide whether I trust these panels or not. why is he so confident. does this mean Machia really will be sitting out the arc, or is a trap. help

(ETA: I guess it’s okay for now. ... dammit I’m still suspicious sob.)

also, Tokoyami’s “?!” face is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen though. the fact that he’s physically incapable of altering his expressions no matter what is true comedy gold here

NEVER MIND, THOSE WERE THE WORDS OF A CALLOW YOUTH WHO KNEW NOTHING OF TRUE COMEDY GOLD

WHAT A FOOL I WAS. PLEASE PARDON MY IGNORANCE. SO HERE WE HAVE TOKOYAMI’S MONOEXPRESSION BIRD HEAD STICKING OUT OF FATGUM’S JOLLY BELLY FOR NO REASON, WHILE FATGUM IS ALL “DON’T YOU FEEL LIKE WE’RE KICKING TOO MUCH ASS AND SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS ABOUT TO HAPPEN”, AND SOME OTHER POOR GUY WITH SCISSORS HANDS IS JUST LYING THERE DEAD IN THE BACKGROUND. MY GOD. I’M IN AWE OF THIS

dfkjkjk oh noooo

“does this young man amuse you,” Horikoshi says as he darkly pencils in the disturbingly concave shadows of Fatgum’s ridiculous fucking quirk. “are his ‘magnificent fellow’ bird antics pleasing for you to watch. I guess it sure would be a shame if I gave him some... angst”

but for real y’all I genuinely can’t take this at all seriously when Tokoyami’s head is still stubbornly and persistently poking its way out of Fatgum like a goddamn baby kangaroo in every fucking panel

we are entering another Tokoyami+Hawks mentor flashback and this is still all I can think about. why is he even in there. why is any of this happening. Tokoyami really just flung Re-Destro into a wall and then climbed inside of Fatgum feet-first so they could run along to freedom. just fucking ensconced himself. do you think it’s cozy in there. do you think Aizawa would fall asleep

hey Toko please stop having ominous thoughts about my other bird son

have you ever heard of an announcer jinx. “now here’s a guy who the fans have loved since the moment he was first introduced. and if you look at the stats, fourth place in his first popularity poll, which was taken only ten chapters after his introduction. heck, he’s so popular they even went and gave him a role in the second movie even before he appeared in the anime! it’s undeniable that this young man has a bright future ahead of him, Al.” now you listen here. I don’t at all like where this is headed and it needs to stop right now

anyway so of course on that note we are cutting back to Hawks

so we’ve confirmed that Hawks has his hands full just melting all of the new clones as they come, and doesn’t have the speed or the excess feathers (or the conviction? :|) to go after the original and put a stop to all this

or you could just ignore everything I say ever because immediately on the next page Horikoshi is all “actually he’s winning lol”

anyway but it sure would be a shame if someone were to run in and set you on fire right about now. that probably sounds sarcastic but it actually would be really bad lol please don’t set Hawks on fire

(ETA: motherfucker. goddamn. fucking --)

and now Hawks is making clones of his fellow League buddies oh shit!! but right when I was about to scroll down I noticed that Hawks is carrying some sort of recording device?? or communications device?? in his hand very conspicuously in that last panel? and so what is going on here, exactly?

oh shit and never mind about those LoV clones

that’s all well and good Hawks, but I need you to please just be very cautious and aware and proactive about not catching on fire okay. watch your six

oh my god oh my god

“now here’s a guy whose rise in popularity was unexpected but just a real pleasure to watch. he just really cares about his friends.” “you said it; he really came into his own a couple arcs back. twenty-third in the most recent poll, and the fans all love him.” fffffff Hawks isn’t a killer Hawks isn’t a killer, I can’t hear you lalala

LA LA LA

maybe... he’ll just... punch a small hole through one of his lungs... ...

...

or... a large hole... ... ,,,

oh THANK GOD he’s jumping on top of him. so clearly he’s fine because Shounen Rules. that’s right, this is a manga where Toga survived blowing up from the inside out and Jeanist survived being murdered and stuffed into a tote bag. (right??) why am I so tense I hate this!!

HEY WHAT IS THIS

or you could just KNOCK HIM OUT??? ?????!??! did they not teach you that in peewee assassin league?! Hawks

I DON’T LIKE THIS I DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS!!

STOP SHOWING US TWICE’S SAD THOUGHTS YOU BASTARD NO I DON’T LIKE THIS YOU’RE GOING TO MAKE ME CRY SO STOP!!

GODDAMMIT HORIKOSHI I FUCKING HATE YOU

“HERE’S A SERIES OF PANELS WITH TWICE CRYING AND THINKING ABOUT TOGA WHILE HAWKS HOLDS A FUCKING KNIFE RIGHT ABOVE HIS EYE,” HORIKOSHI SAYS WHILE IGNORING EVERYTHING I SAY AND DISABLING ALL COMMENTS ON HIS TWITTER, PROBABLY. WOW I JUST LOOKED IT UP AND APPARENTLY YOU CAN’T DO THAT? DAMN, TWITTER REALLY SUCKS, BUT ANYWAY

FINE THEN DABI YOU CAN SET HIM ON FIRE!!

JOKE’S ON YOU ASSHOLES, YOU CAN’T HURT ME IF I CAN’T SEE THE LAST PAGE OF THE CHAPTER THROUGH ALL MY TEARS

FUCK

[SLAMS HANDS ON TABLE] THE FUCK WAS THAT

DON’T YOU EVEN DARE, HORIKOSHI. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY “BUT YOU GAVE HIM PERMISSION”, COME THE FUCK ON, YOU AND I BOTH KNOW THAT DIDN’T MEAN SHIT AND I WAS LIABLE TO CHANGE MY MIND YET AGAIN ONLY A PAGE LATER AS PER USUAL! WHAT SORT OF TWISTED MIND WOULD DECIDE THAT THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE TWICE WAS TO SET THE ENTIRE ROOM ABLAZE AND THEN HAVE DABI GLEEFULLY STOMP ON HAWKS’S FACE. WHAT KIND OF SICK MONSTER WOULD DREAM THIS UP. THIS ISN’T HOT AT ALL. HOW DARE YOU

ALSO WTF DABI, “HERE I COME TO RESCUE TWICE” WHILE BURNING HIM ALIVE AS WELL, JESUS CHRIST THESE FUCKING TODOROKIS I SWEAR TO GOD. DID YOUR BRAIN CELLS CATCH FIRE TOO

I CAN’T BELIEVE I WAITED ALL WEEK IN A FUCKING LOCKDOWN FOR THIS SHIT. THIS CHAPTER WAS A FUCKING TRAIN WRECK, AND I DON’T KNOW IF I WANT TO THANK ITS STUPID CONDUCTOR, OR PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE. it’s not the manga we need, but it’s the one we deserve. I guess

[ussjellyfish]

fic: Work-Life Balance pt 5 | AoS | Philinda | mature

Summary: Phil and Melinda help her cadets learn not to be distracted by kissing. Melinda finally tells him her secret.

read on Ao3

Espionage 418 - committing fully to the mission: intimacy in field work

Melinda already has her notes and her laptop out on the kitchen table when he gets out of the shower. Phil pours himself the rest of the pot of coffee, more out of habit than need for caffeine. It's relaxing, not needing to save the world, having this time with her. He sniffs his coffee with a smile. At least since he's doing the grocery shopping, it's what he likes. 

Her hair's down today, soft in waves on the shoulders of her maroon sweater. She's been favoring sweaters over blazers and there's something so gentle and wonderful about her not having to worry about what's practical to fight in. 

She sips her tea, reading yet another cadet's mock mission report. 

"Did you eat breakfast?"

Melinda shakes her head, smiling without looking up. "You didn't cook it yet."

"That would be a hangup," he agrees, glancing in the fridge before he decides on oatmeal. She didn't finish dinner last night when he made steak so maybe they just need something bland. "What's your seminar today?" 

"Oh it's a fun one, Phil, your favorite." Her eyes never twinkle like that when anything good is going to happen to him. 

"Oh?"

"Kissing you at the fundraiser was so distracting to my cadets that I moved this class up several weeks: use of intimacy during fieldwork."

"You're kidding." He covers the oatmeal on the stove and heads to the table just to make sure. She holds up the seminar schedule and there it is, "Committing fully to the mission: use of intimacy in field work". "They let you name the class, didn't they?"

"It's my class." She touches his shoulder and her fingers slip out towards his neck. She's so distracting. "It would be so helpful if you came."

"I'm here to help." He stares into her intoxicating dark eyes so long that the beep of the stove timer pulls him away before he finds more words. "How are you teaching it?"

She finishes her tea and sets it down. "You and I can start, then they'll pair off and try some of the scenarios and we'll talk about how they can be useful and how to telegraph the type of intimacy you need for the mission." 

"Do I have to take off your bra?"

"Only if that card comes up," she teases, patting a worn set of notecards. "I'm sure Maria put that in here somewhere."

"Maria wasn't available to teach it with you this time?"

"Sadly not." Melinda sighs dramatically over her oatmeal and berries as he hands it over. "You'll have to do."

"I'll do my best." Worst case, he has to kiss her a few times in front of some shocked cadets. Even if it's far from the golden, bittersweet moments in Tahiti, they kissed plenty yesterday, and now she's not wearing lipstick yet. He hasn't kissed Melinda this much since they left the island, though he's making an effort to catch up, and she's just as eager to touch him. 

He remembers that look in her eyes: that amusement, the challenge... Flirting for a cover is one of her favorite types of games. He's in trouble. 

After breakfast, he walks her to class, holding her hand, guiding her through doors. He could get used to this. Maybe get his own office in the same building, have lunch with her, and drop into her classes. He wants her presence, craves her smile like oxygen and it could happen. He could slip into her life and stay. They could do this together. 

The seminar is small, only sixteen students, all close to graduation, all specialists. He recognizes some of them from the fundraiser. These are the some cadets she tasked with being catering staff. The ones who gave themselves away to Mack when she started kissing him. She's right, they need practice before field work on their own. 

Melinda starts with a brief lecture on the importance of intimacy as a distraction and part of cover stories. A married couple who hold hands awkwardly should be part of your cover, not something that happens because you're not ready to give it your all, because all of it needs to be in your control. 

He's not blushing. Dammit. He is entirely good at hand holding now, thank you. The last time they were undercover together as husband and wife, they were fine. Completely convincing. He's never been married but it seems more possible every time it comes up. 

Melinda sits on the table in the front of the room, feet on the chair, smiling as the students laugh nervously at the idea of kissing each other. 

"Agent May-" 

He looks up at her, surprised. Agent May is him. They're going with this. She said it. He's Mr. May now. What else was he going to call himself? Can't really walk around being the Academy's namesake.

"-and I will demonstrate a few scenarios, then we'll dissect what we're doing as a class, then you'll try some with your partner. Tomorrow we'll show some scenarios to each other and work on the little things that make it real."

One of the cadets holds out the pile of notecards to Melinda but she waves the student to Phil. Making a point not to look, he shuffles a little and draws one. 

"Comfortably married couple on vacation," he reads aloud, burying his relief. Knowing Maria there are some incredibly steamy ones he doesn't want to demonstrate in public. He's not going to think about kissing Melinda breathless without an audience, or undoing her bra just to prove he can. Later, much later. 

He's kidding himself. Later means after class in her office, because she's so beautiful today that his newly repaired heart can barely handle it. She'll laugh that laugh if he tells her and he can already imagine her legs wrapped around his waist. 

Melinda holds out her hand and pulls him over. She slips off the table, standing facing him. She touches his cheek, smiling so gently that his chest aches. Later, you get her later. He strokes her hair, then kisses her forehead. 

"I had a really nice time yesterday."

"You love looking at old things."

"I don't consider you old."

Melinda smirks, taking his hand. "And here I thought you were distracted by the architecture."

Running his thumb over her collarbone, he leans in close. The cadets stare silently, as if watching Shakespeare. "I was." 

She rewards that with a kiss, warm and full. When they part, the students start raising their hands. 

Melinda releases him and his heart beats in his ears.  "Tell me what you noticed, then what you're wondering."

The first cadet talks about the way he touched her hair, and a second adds that their flirting showed a level of comfort with each other because age could be sensitive, but it obviously wasn't.

"What made it obvious?" Melinda prompts and he takes the chair beside her, listening and watching her work. 

"The way you touched each other was very gentle, familiar, without any tension. That made it seem like you'd been doing it a long time." 

"Good, good observation." 

The discussion flies by before Melinda draws another card. "Intoxicated newlyweds who don't speak the language," she reads, chuckling. "All right, honey, you ready?"

He dredges up the memories of being intoxicated, letting his body go loose as he stands up. Melinda takes a moment, then starts to giggle, nearly tripping against him. He doesn't even have to say anything, and it's as if he's said the funniest thing she's ever heard. 

"That's not true," he improvises. This time when he touches her face, he pulls her closer, makes it needy, hungry. Pretending she's the most beautiful woman alive is easy, too easy, because that's true, and the way she tugs at his shirt makes his skin tingle as they kiss, nearly pushing him into the table. 

"It is true." Throwing her arms around his neck, she examines his lips with clumsy obsession. "Most couples don't leave their bed on their honeymoon."

Lifting her up to the table, he slips between her knees. "Well that just sounds boring, kind of limits your options a little, doesn't it?"

Melinda's giggle deepens into almost a growl and she reaches for his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders as he grabs her hips. He pulls her in closer, almost a little rough. She grabs at his crotch, nearly missing his belt. 

A flush rises in his face and it's entirely unfair that this is work because he could just pull her into her office now and... 

"Time," the cadet with the stopwatch calls out. 

Her lipstick's smudged and her hair's mussed. The light in her eyes could be from being dragged from bed, and her cheeks are pink. She's beautiful in a way that claws at him. What is he missing? Something demands his attention and he just hasn't grasped it yet. 

"Wow," says one of the students. "You were totally different people."

"That's the point. Change your outfit, change your hair, or even change the way you touch someone and suddenly you're not the same person. You get noticed differently, or ignored when you want to be." She leads them through a discussion about how no one really wants to watch newlyweds and it's a good way to be ignored as you case a room, or head through somewhere with lots of people. 

"The first scene is about comfort, you're boring them with how much you love each other. You're not a threat. The newlywed cover is about making whoever is watching uncomfortable because it feels too intimate, too personal." She holds up the stack of notecards. "Take one with your partner and try it, then we'll discuss." 

Phil follows her lead, walking around the room, explaining how to tilt a chin in a way that speaks of old intimacy, or how to grab a thigh in a way that oozes with want. These are good students, advanced, and he's distracted watching more than one couple. They'll be good in the field, and better with practice. 

Melinda leads another discussion, guiding Phil's hands over her body to showcase new desire and old longing, what an abusive relationship might look like, and what to look for to give away other agents. She doesn't tell the bra story, and instead talks about dancing with him in that sequined dress and smiling until her face hurt. 

"I highly recommend the dance elective, even if you think it's stupid. It's very useful." 

That earns him a smile and they're about to do another round of student practice but one in the back raises his hand. "Could you two do one more? It's so helpful to be able to watch what choices you make." 

"Sure." Melinda offers him the cards and he draws. This time the handwritten words on the card catch in his throat as if he's choking on them. "Confessing a pregnancy to your partner."  Why is that one so intense? What did she say two days ago? 

Melinda blinks once in surprise, then nods. "All right, I guess I should take partner A?" Her joke amuses the class but for some reason her eyes are soft, not bright with mirth. 

She nods to the student with the stopwatch and stares down at her hands. One hand rests on her stomach, as if protecting something and his chest burns. She never got to have a child. She had Robin, for a time, and Daisy's theirs as much as anyone, but she never got this part.

She wanted it so much once. She deserved it. She'd be an incredible mother. 

"Can I talk to you for a moment, honey?"

He sets down his copy of the syllabus as if it's a newspaper. "Of course." 

"I know the timing isn't--" she stops, licking her lips as if she's terrified. 

Phil has no choice but to respond to that fear. She shouldn't be afraid, she should be thrilled. "The timing of what?" Of course the husband doesn't know, he never notices. 

"I know we talked about it, but it awhile ago, and then we didn't think about it because work was just so busy. We weren't but I--" she stops again, voice softer, throat tighter. She stares at his hands instead of at him, then grabs his hands, her palms damp against his. How'd she make herself so nervous? She's so good at this it's like it's real. 

"It's all right." He squeezes her hands and guides her to the chair. "Sit." He hands her the glass of water from the table and crouches down, his hands on her knees. "Maybe start at the beginning."

"It is a beginning," she says, hands trembling around the water glass. "It's the beginning and I don't know how to tell you." Setting the glass down, she takes his hand and brings it to her belly. Her stomach's firm against his hand, but soft somehow. He should stumble through some words, make sure she's all right, but her heart's pounding so fast he can feel it. She wouldn't fake that, would she? Why bother being that nervous?

This is real. 

His throat goes dry. Her exhaustion, the afternoon naps he teases her for, her lack of appetite, the way she's so careful standing up yet dizzy sometimes. 

"I know it's a surprise, hopefully it's a good one." 

"Heidi--" he starts, but she doesn't let him finish. He barely made himself use the cover, he almost slipped and said her name. 

"I'm pregnant." 

Everything stops. All of his senses collapse into her thudding heartbeat, echoing his own. 

That's the missing piece. Her hesitance, her fear what they have isn't what he wants. She's not afraid of them being together, it's that he won't want her and a baby. "You are," he whispers in awe. "Oh my god--" he adds so softly that no one else can hear. 

"You can't get me pregnant right now." She tried to tell him and he missed it. 

Melinda kisses his cheek, lingering against him and the heat of her feeling washes over him, rushing up in a torrent of apprehension, fear and joy. 

She's crying, he's crying, and there's not a dry eye in the room as her empathy carries her feelings over all of the cadets like a river cascading over its banks.

The stopwatch beeps, forgotten. 

He wants to demand how, why, when, are you all right, but that seems too crude. It's too simplistic. This is not something he needs to pull out of her. He can just be happy. She has something she's wanted since before Bahrain. 

"Who?" He asks without sound. 

"Yours," she replies silently, then shuts her eyes. This isn't a public discussion. "Class dismissed until tomorrow." She wipes her eyes and covers his hand on her belly with hers. Somehow, this is their baby. 

"Remember to practice your scene with your partner so we can discuss them."

The students start to file out, then on the way out they walk up, touching her shoulder, smiling, whispering their congratulations as if paying homage to a saint. One or two of the braver ones even hug her and her tears run faster once they're gone. She deserves every bit of their respect, and she has it. 

She strokes his cheek after they're gone, pulling him into her arms. 

"I was ready," she murmurs. "I couldn't wait."

He loses himself in her eyes, then touches her belly again, holding her with both hands. Her eyes drown him in affection, and warmth. "You've waited long enough."

"I didn't know you were coming back, we could have- but I didn't know if you'd want this and I didn't know what to say."

He has to swallow, then he laughs. "It's wonderful." Affection wells in his stomach, thick like honey and just as warm. Is this his feeling? Hers? Can she feel his confusion? 

"Who?" he starts but shakes his head. "It's not important." He can't press. It doesn't matter. They're together and he'll be everything she wants him to be.

"You," she answers before he can walk away from the question. "When you died, you left me everything. Your parents' old house in Wisconsin, Lola, your old DNA samples, from when we started field work."

"I was.going to say, we just had sex Wednesday, it would be pretty quick."

She smiles at that and wipes her eyes. "IVF is pretty unsexy."

"It was brave of you."

"Oh?"

"I know how long you've wanted this, and doing it alone..."

Years and several lifetimes ago, she wanted a baby with Andrew. They had so many conversations about what that child might be like. How she'd work around childcare and school plays and Phil had been so happy for her. He wanted her to have what made her complete.

"I didn't think he'd- you- would mind...I didn't want anyone else."

"I'm honored." He rubs his thumb over her sweater once, then pulls his hand back.

Melinda nods, struggling with her tears. 

He aches, wistful and worn. "I'm so sorry you were so alone." He left her that way. He didn't fight to stay with her even when she begged him. No wonder she was afraid to tell him. He lets her down, over and over. 

"It wasn't going to work." She fidgets with the note cards as she picks them up, unable to look at him. "It's like doing a vertical landing inside a cave during a hurricane. It shouldn't have--"

He touches her back, then her hair. "Hey, it's okay to be happy that it did."

She takes a breath, shivering. "Is it? I don't deserve it, I've never thought I'd be happy like this."

"You are everything." He touches her shoulders. Reassurance comes to both of them when he hugs her, wrapping their arms tight. "I want to be with you, and this doesn't change that. This is more, and that's beautiful."

"You keep talking about the future, and I didn't know how to tell you."

That clicks. "You stacked the deck."

Melinda laughs, kissing his neck. "Just the last time. I had to give myself a kick."

He lets go of her just to see her face, and kisses her, long and slow. "My future is you, if you'll have me, a baby is a wonderful addition to that."

"If I'll--' she repeats, scoffing. "Stay with me this time."

"As long as I can."

Nodding, she shuts her eyes and kisses him again, pulling him closer so his tears join her own. 

This requires no clarification. He loves and it pours out of him, she loves and it fills him, rich and vivid, overriding his senses. She loves him like the blinding sun, so warm and bright that his eyes sting and his heart feels like a candle in comparison. He has to earn her, love her like she should be loved, every day, all of his days. She deserves that. She needs it. 

Hopefully his determination to do that is as loud as the rest of his thoughts. 

The way she melts into him suggests that it got through. 

"This is why you're so tired." 

"I could sleep for days and my breasts hurt..." she trails off and shrugs. "The dizziness is morefrustrating."

"I knew something was different." He cups her breasts, gentle and smiling. "They're beautiful."

"They ache." She takes another breath, calming herself in a way that echoes through both of them. "It's like I can fall asleep standing up and my head keeps spinning."

"No nausea?"

"Not yet." She gives him that don't worry about me look. "You've made balancing much easier this week."

"Thanks." 

Maybe that's all he can do. Try to fill in what she needs, offer what he has. He doesn't have to have all the pieces. He brushes her hair back away from her face and smiles, really smiles in the way that exposes his whole heart. "You are extraordinary, Melinda May."

She takes a tissue out of her briefcase and fixes her smudged lipstick, then tosses it away. He picks up the case and waves towards the door. The seminar took most of the morning and her cadets have electives this afternoon. 

"How long?" He asks, keeping her in the classroom with her hand on the door. 

"Eight weeks they say, which is really six, but they-"

"Have the most ridiculous way of timing it." 

"Yes." She shakes her head. "Very inexact." Melinda closes her eyes, centering herself. Maybe she's dizzy. Now that he knows he can worry about that. Help her take it easy sometimes.  

"Come on," he says into her hair, "show me this cafeteria you frequent so often." 

She chuckles. "It's nice."

"I don't doubt it." 

Chuckling, she leans into him. She must have wanted this so deeply to do it on her own, and she's not alone now. "I wanted to tell you so many times."

"You're worth waiting for."

Melinda kisses him one more time. Her cadets know and spies are terrible at keeping secrets. They have maybe a day before it gets to Mack, Elena, then Daisy, Fitz and Simmons. Might as well enjoy it while it’s just theirs.

"Takes you long enough to figure that out." 

He takes her hand. "Well, honey, lead the way." 

[nerdypanda3126]

MariChat May Day 17 - Balcony

Shakespeare, anyone? (Sorry, when I saw the prompt I couldn't resist.) 

Chat has the role of Romeo in his school's play and Marinette was cast as Juliet. It's only natural they would practice together, right?

Read on Ao3 

Marinette leaned over her balcony railing, sighing deeply. Another day gone. Another failed attempt to talk to Adrien. Alya had set them up to play Romeo and Juliet in the class play. How had Alya thought she’d be able to talk to him in English—not to mention iambic pentameter—when she can’t even get her words straight in French? She sighed again. It hadn’t gone well.

“She speaks, yet she says nothing, what of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it.”

Her head popped up at the familiar voice, although she couldn’t quite figure out where it was coming from. The English hit her ear in a familiar pattern. Chat was quoting Shakespeare. What an odd coincidence.

“I am too bold, ‘tis not to me she speaks: two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.”

She spotted him then, perched on his baton in mid-air and holding out a rose for her. She chuckled, shaking her head at his nonsense and leaning her cheek into her hand on the railing.

“See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!”

She could practically picture him waggling his eyebrows at her. Show off. He stood, tipping the baton towards her balcony and landing gracefully to hang on the other side of her railing, his baton collapsing automatically. He spun it around with a flourish before latching it onto his back, offering her the rose.

“Chat!” She tried to admonish him through her giggles, but she took the rose all the same.

“She speaks: O, speak again, bright angel!”

Two could play at this. She clasped her hands dramatically, kicking a heel up to be the perfect picture of a damsel in distress. “O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?”

“That’s good,” he purred, “keep going.”

Her cheeks flushed. She hadn’t really done that well with these lines in class. But she did know them. It had been delivering them to Adrien that had made her collapse into a stuttering mess.

“Deny thy father and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

Chat pulled himself up over the railing, landing neatly beside her. “Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?”

“Chat, this is stupid.”

“Oh, come on, princess, I just need to practice.”

“Why would you need to practice Shakespeare?”

“I got the role of Romeo in my school’s play.” He practically crowed, his chest puffing out proudly.

“My school is doing that one, too.” Marinette sighed again. “I’m playing Juliet.”

“That’s... a fascinating coincidence...”  

“But I think I might let someone else take the part.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

His hands fell on her shoulders, and she looked up at him in surprise. “You’ll be great. Who could possibly be a better Juliet to my Romeo?” His eyes were soft as he smiled at her.

Her eyes widened. He’s not… that’s not… oh no.

“You know, to help me practice?” His smile shifted into a smirk, but her suspicion hadn’t faded.  

“What man art thou that thus bescreen’d in night so stumblest on my council?” She started the scene they had done in class today, at once hoping and not hoping he would play along.

His eyes lit up as he caught his cue. “By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee; had I it written, I would tear the word.”

His delivery is a little more flamboyant than Adrien’s, with more flourishing of his hands, but the way the words fall was so similar. The coincidences were starting to stack up in her mind.

“My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?” She whispered the last line. Her heart started hammering in her chest. Are you not Adrien Agreste?

“Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.” He had shed his theatrical tone. Either his acting was phenomenal, or he was just as serious as she was.

“If they do see thee, they will murder thee.” This was bad. This was so bad. If she had figured it out, had anyone else?

“Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords; look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity.”

He was teasing her again. Damn right she had peril in her eyes. “I would not for the world they saw thee here.” Her voice wavered. Didn’t he know how dangerous this was? For both of them?

“I have night’s cloak to hide me from their sight.” He dropped to his knee to take her hand, pressing it to his lips like he’s done so many times before. “And but thou love me,” he looked up at her, the sincerity in his eyes overwhelming her, “let them find me here: my life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.”

Chat definitely wasn’t acting. Any more than she had been. Which meant that was not Chat pretending to confess his love. Pretending to tell her he would risk everything to be with her. Heat rose to her face. Chat was Adrien and Adrien had just confessed his love for her. He stood again, still holding her hand in his. She couldn’t answer. Like always around Adrien, her words seemed stuck in her throat. She couldn’t even pull up her next line.

“O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” He prompted her, but she heard his real question wavering underneath the poetry. Do you love me, too?

She cleared her throat, but her voice still came out as a whisper. “What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?”

“The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.”

When she looked into his eyes, she saw Adrien for the first time behind Chat’s mask. Hopeful, his heart on his sleeve, offering it to her. She nodded, unable to remember Juliet’s next line, but knowing what it was anyways.

Her answer slipped out in French. “I gave you mine before you even asked for it.”

[anxious-cosplayer]

Break a leg - Prinxiety (Roman x Virgil) Chapter Three

Word count: 1.3k Chapter One - Chapter Two -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The new light worked fine, and the performance went on to be a success once again. Virgil sat in his light booth, watching scene after scene of rehearsed lines and songs before the show came to an end with a loud and thunderous applause. The emo couldn’t help but smirk a little as he saw how much Roman lived for the applause. 

Virgil turned on the house lights as the curtain fell and waited for the audience to start clearing out. He wanted to go home as he was certainly ready to climb under the covers and stay up watching YouTube and scrolling through Tumblr. The audience quickly cleared out in hopes that they could catch some of the cast before they left. Virgil turned all the rigging off and left the booth, locking the door behind him. 

Virgil pulled his hood back up and over his head and left the theatre, headphones firmly on his ears. People were already swarming the cast members for photos and Virgil had to weave his way through the crowd to the exit. What he didn’t notice was that Roman was trying to catch his attention. But they were too far away from each other and it was much too loud to hear each other. Roman had missed his chance. 

Virgil went home safely that night and did stay up way too late watching conspiracy theories and looking at new Good Omens fanart. Did you know that Avril Lavigne died and was replaced by another person back in 2003? 

On Monday, Virgil was awoken by his alarm and quickly rushed to get ready for school that day. Sunday was the day off for the cast and crew so Virgil had tonight to look forward to. He found that he actually liked the theatre now. 

One walk later, Virgil arrived at school. Patton and Logan were waiting for him. And as soon as they saw him, Virgil did give them a guilty smile.

“Virgil you have got to stop skipping breakfast, young man!” Patton scolded him and handed him one of the muffins that he had in his bag. That was the great thing about Patton. He and his parents loved to bake so he almost always had some baked goodies on him. 

“I know, I know. Thanks, Pat,” Virgil took the muffin gratefully. Apple and cinnamon. His favourite. 

The bell rang and all the students started to scramble to class. Virgil went class after class, time passing by him quite quickly as he worked quietly. After all, no one really bothered him. I guess that was the advantage of being a social outcast. Patton and Logan would sit next to him when they had classes together and met up with him at lunch and recess. It was a normal school day.

Until that afternoon. 

English was an okay subject for Virgil. He liked writing stories and reading the plays but he hated writing essays. They were very time consuming and not interesting. It was also the class where Logan and Patton sat with him. Virgil walked into the classroom to find that everyone was staring at him. Was he late? He glanced over to his seat. 

Oh, come on.

Where he and Logan would sit, he found the space occupied by Roman. Patton and Logan were seated behind him instead. Virgil slowly walked over to see if there were any other seats but it was the only one left. He sat next to Roman, while everyone else in the class glared daggers at him. Oh god, this was so humiliating!

“Hey!”

“Hi.”

The tension was palpable. Everyone must hate him so much right now. This was really scary. Virgil sunk back into his hoodie and seat. Roman opened his mouth to talk to Virgil some more but then the teacher walked in announcing they would be starting Shakespeare today.

Virgil took this opportunity to try and block Roman’s attempt at conversation by concentrating on reading Romeo and Juliet but soon the teacher said they should discuss the story and characters in pairs. So Virgil was forced to cooperate.

“I tried to talk to you on Saturday night but you left,” Roman began. Virgil started to spiral. Does this mean he hates him now? But he didn’t notice him. There were so many people! How was Virgil meant to know!? And now Roman probably wants nothing to do with him.

“I-I’m sorry-”

“Don’t apologise! I can talk to you now!” Roman gave him a dazzling smile. Virgil was almost blinded by it. “I just wanted to get to know you better.”

Now Virgil was confused, “me? Why do you want to get to know me?” 

“You intrigue me. I want to know what you do when you aren’t in the theatre. Like what your favourite subject is! Or what you do in your spare time when you aren’t buried in assignments.” Roman quickly glanced to see if the teacher noticed what they were doing but it was clear that they were too engrossed in their computer to care. Roman attention remained on Virgil, waiting for him to answer.

Virgil stayed silent, too embarrassed to answer, and Roman was a little taken back. Patton was not having this and kicked the back of Virgil’s chair, prompting him to speak. Virgil cleared his throat a little, “well, I like art.”

Roman eyes sparked. He had an answer! Virgil then proceeded to mumble things that he likes to do, “I watch a lot of conspiracy theories and listen to My Chemical Romance.” 

“My Chemical Romance? That emo band from 2009?” Roman meant it jokingly but Virgil kind of took it the wrong way.

“If you’re just gonna make fun of me then don’t bother asking to get to know me.”

Roman panicked, “no! I didn’t mean it like that! Prssh! My Chemical Romance is MY favourite band! I love their music!”

Virgil could tell that Roman had never listened to an MCR song in his life. “Who’s the lead singer?”

“Um… G-Gerald? Gerald Wayne?”

Virgil burst out in laughter. “Gerald Wayne?!” He quickly shut up when he saw the other students stared at him for laughing. Roman thought his laugh was beautiful. 

“It’s Gerard Way,” Virgil mumbled. The silence was hung between the pair as the other classmates chatted away. 

“Did you know that Avril Lavigne probably died in 2003 and they replaced her with a similar person so they could keep the brand alive?”

Virgil was a little shocked that Roman knew about such conspiracy theories. They soon started to rebuttal theories and Virgil (somehow) fell even more for the theatre boy. 

The bell shrilly rang and Virgil started to pack his bag, ready to leave. Roman stopped him before he could go.

“Hey! Are you gonna go to the afterparty for the musical at the end of the week?” Roman gave him the most dazzling smile. Virgil was a little overwhelmed by it, to be honest. So bright!

After he recovered from that, Virgil finally processed what he said. The afterparty? No way! His anxiety was bad enough with everyone in the class staring at him. There was no way in fresh hell he was gonna go to any party.

“Um, no.”

Roman stuttered a little, “o-oh.”

“Yeah, I’m not really one for parties. Too loud and too many people.”

“Well, please tell me if you do reconsider. It would feel wrong without you there.”

Roman flashed Virgil one last smile and Virgil sheepishly nodded as Roman left the room. My god. Virgil finally let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. 

Logan and Patton finally joined him.

“So?” Patton pestered, “did it go well?” Virgil smiled as Patton squealed a little.

“He did ask if I was going to the afterparty but I said no.” It was at that point Logan had something to offer.

“Fascinating. I had heard he was planning on taking someone to that. I wonder who he was going to ask.”

Virgil shrugged it off, “it’s probably just a rumour.”

Patton resisted the urge to roll his eyes all the way back into his head.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

I am so so SO sorry this took so long to come out but I certainly hope it was worth it! Schoolwork does sometimes get in the way of my projects but oh well. Let me know your thoughts! Requests are still open - Anx

[piccolina-mina]

The Taste of Ink

Fandom: Roswell, New Mexico

Characters: Alex Manes, Max Evans

Pairing: Manevans

A/N: *long sighs* You know, it’s not cool how you found a tiny hole and now poke the squishy part just to get what you want because you know you’ll usually get it. Anyway, to mischief makers @faithtrustaliendust, @suzteel, and @queenrikki on this Manevans Monday. 

Because our multishipping arses have had a soft spot for an emo punk vet and a soft nerdy cowboy since they exchanged one look in high school. #ManevansRights If they don’t give us Manevans scenes next season, we riot! 

Warning: so much sh!tty poetry. Teen poet Max is not good, but Teen Emo Alex is weak for him anyway. 

 Anyway, enjoy, or not. 

—-

He slammed his locker shut, music blaring in his ears and drowning out the chaotic energy of the halls of Roswell High.

I’ll be your number one with a bullet A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it

If he could make it through his last class, he could hit the music room and retrieve his guitar, maybe work out a melody that had been scratching in the recesses of his mind, dying to get out.

He sighed at the Letterman jackets closing in, a sense of dread over which pea-brained jock would start shit today.

He wasn’t in the mood.

They swerved him, which was fine until one rammed into Max Evans knocking his books down and throwing that stupid baseball cap he always wore to the floor.

Admittedly, Austin Farrell stomping the hell out of the thing was him doing Max a favor, but the rest was just uncalled for.

Max was an odd one. On the surface, he was tall and fit enough to be a jock, and if he had anything that resembled coordination, he would have made a hell of a basketball player.

But he had P.E with him last year and quickly realized Max and sports didn’t mix.

He was tall, a bit dopey, and walked around hunched over and hiding behind books and baseball caps.

He always wondered why Max carried himself like he was afraid to take up space. Like he was too big, and the world was too small. Deep down, he knew what it felt like to want to hide –blend into the background and be left alone. So could he really judge him?

The jocks watched Max scramble to retrieve his things, one of them snatching up an opened notebook and scanning its contents.

“A shared glance, ephemeral, unlike the all-consuming inferno within for you. Relentless, like the curve of your smile – Oh shit, Shakespeare here is writing love letters!” Farrell crowed.

More mocking ensued, and by then, Max’s cheeks flushed crimson. A tuft of hair fell in his eyes as the notebook landed on the heap with the rest of his belongings.

He knelt down and helped Max gather his books, and nodded in acknowledgment of Max’s bashful smile.

But then he felt someone shove him from behind. He rose to his feet, turned and narrowed his eyes at Farrell. He could tell the brute was attempting to taunt him, but he refused to take his earbuds out to hear it.

He signaled at his ears, flashed a “f*ck you” smile, and waited for Farrell and his crew of nimrods to get out the way.

Some days, he discovered not giving them anything to work with bored them. Fortunately, it was one of those days.

He still had the opened notebook in his hands and couldn’t help scanning over the rest, his interest semi-piqued.

“Hey, could you…” Max’s embarrassment was transparent as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and reached for the worn, leather-bound notebook.

He flashed him a sympathetic smile. The last bell sounded, and they stood outside their final class: study hall.

The prospect of spending the next 45 minutes in a room with Kyle and his friends wasn’t appealing, but something else definitely was.

He pulled his earphones out of his ear, cocked his head to the side studying the awkward boy in front of him, and made a decision.

“You wanna get outta here?” He asked.

Max was startled, or maybe he was too focused staring moony-eyed through the window.

“You– Me? You’re talking to me?” He stammered, pressing a large hand to his chest in askance. “Blow off study hall?”

Alex shook his head and snorted softly to himself. He jerked his head in the direction of the class.

“Or you could spend the next hour imagining that’s you slobbering on Liz’s neck and not Kyle. I’m out either way.”

“I wasn’t–” Max protested. “I was going to work on chemistry.”

“I bet you were,” he deadpanned.

“Actually, yeah,” Max tightened the single strap over his shoulder and stepped closer to him. “I’m quite flexible.”

He raised a brow – watched Max’s reaction when his own statement landed and his face flushed again.

“I meant, um, with my schedule,” Max stammered. “I, yeah, just,” he scratched at the back of his neck and ducked his head down awkward and shy as ever.

He was starting to wonder if that cap Max wore had some mystical abilities that made the guy less of a puppy. At the very least it rendered him capable of basic forms of communication and a latent ability for prose.

Max released a puff of air and flashed a smile that Alex found endearing. “Um, just, after you…”

He felt Max’s presence behind him as they walked down the hall. For someone so tall he was light on his feet. He wasn’t taller than him by much, but with close proximity came a comfort he hadn’t felt in some time.

Not since Cutter, who ironically, had a gift for words too. He had a gift for a few things.

Their makeshift band fell apart around the time Cutter moved away, and he hadn’t been able to get the gang to agree on much of anything ever since.

He didn’t have too many sanctuaries at Roswell High, but the music room was one of them. He slipped in with ease, wrapped his hands around his guitar and relished the feel of it in his hands.

It was like an extension of him. He hopped onto a desk and begin strumming away, trying to chase the melody that had been taunting him for hours.

Max wandered around the room gently gliding his hands across instruments and staring around.

“You play?” He studied Max as he played.

“Nah,” Max snorted. He held his hands up as if they were answer enough. “My br-best friend tried to teach me, but I have big, clumsy hands. No technique.”

“Somehow I doubt with hands like those you lack technique,” he tossed out.

Admittedly, he got a kick out of making Max blush. He made it so easy. Max turned away, fiddled with the cap in his hands, and sighed knowing it was ruined.

“It’s for the best,” he teased staring pointedly at the cap. “If it’s any consolation, you look better without it.”

Another shade. He really was having too much fun.

“Hey, it’s part of my style just like you and your …” Max waved at Alex before deciding on. “Septum ring.”

“You’d look good with one, too. I can get you a deal,” he leaned on the desk next to Max.

Max scoffed. “I can’t pull it off like you. I would look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hot,” Alex quipped with a shrug. “Who knows? Maybe it would get Liz’s attention.”

Max sunk further onto the desk. Falling back into that habit of making himself small with shitty posture.

“It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Evans, they can see it from the moon, man.”

“I didn’t realize I was that obvious. I’m usually better at hiding,” he dug his fingers into the leatherbound notebook and sighed.

“You’re a poet,” he said bluntly, cutting to the chase.

“I’m really not,” Max contested. “I like writing, but I’m not a writer.”

“Max, that’s the definition of a writer.”

“I’m not, like, good. I just…” his voice trailed off as if he didn’t know what else to say.

“Is everything you write about her?” He went back to strumming the same couple of notes.

Max shrugged.

“You mind?” He asked. His hand enclosed around Max’s as hoping Max would relinquish the book.

Max was hesitant. He felt him squirm beside him likely terrified of sharing such a vulnerable part of himself.

He tried to give his best reassuring look, squeezed Max’s hand in comfort. “I promise,” he whispered softly. “I won’t laugh.”

Max swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple he still hadn’t grown into bobbing. He gave a brief nod.

He pried the book from Max’s grip and flashed a sincere smile. Max closed his eyes falling back until he was sprawled across a couple of desks as if he was trying to disappear into the furniture.

He pegged him for a sensitive type, but the melodrama caught him off guard.

He thumbed through the book, worn pages filled with scratchy notes and fanciful words.

Spilled ink and a bared soul, nearly as intimate as a diary. He hummed to himself, words painting pictures in his mind and pictures becoming sounds in his head.

A specific line caught him, and he twirled it around in his head. His hands were clutching the guitar again, his fingers gripping the guitar pick firm as his sounds playing in his head came through his fingers.

He sang quietly, hauntingly a tale of lost love, the ache of being peered through in a busy hallway and not gazed at. A soft brushing of fingers, accidental in lab, and a half-smile. He sang of deep, profound loneliness, and an aching for something unattainable.

He sang Max’s words, his own half-grin forming when Max opened his eyes, stared at him with a dropped jaw their eyes locked in the familiar way that they do when something inexplicable clicks into place.

The last chord died out in the room, and silence replaced it. Max stared, awed.

“That was good.”

“That was you,” he replied. “Like I said, you’re a poet. Even better, you’re a songwriter. I could use one of those.”

“You want me to write songs with you?”

“Only if you’re up for it,” he shrugged noncommittally.

“I suppose it’s better than pining,” Max muttered.

“It’s still pining, just with kickass music behind it,” he smirked.

The final bell of the day sounded, and Alex hopped off the desk and gathered his things.

“But, we don’t listen to the same things,” Max slung his backpack over his shoulder and gripped his notebook like a lifeline. “At least, I’m assuming we don’t.”

“You got something to say about my look, Evans?”

“What? No, I, think you look nice…”

He really had to stop amusing himself by getting Max flustered.

“Music is universal, Max. If you keep writing, I’ll keep playing.” He shoved his earbuds in his ears. “I think we could make some killer music together.

— 

 If you’d have told him Max Evans would become one of his closest friends, he would have snorted in disbelief.

They were different, at least, he assumed they were, but in reality, they were more alike than the surface implied.

He had grown used to the notes Max slipped in his locker. Sometimes it was a full poem, and others it was only a line or two.

Sometimes Max would slide them across his desk – scribbled notes on frayed pages, Max’s script delicate and neat.

He kept them in a box in the shed – piled them up, scraps and whole pages of prose.

He’d pass Max in the hall, and Max would give him that dopey grin that made him smile. He tried not to, he did, but somehow, Evans always pulled a small one out of him anyway.

Max was non-judgmental. He didn’t understand some things, but it didn’t stop him from trying to, with rapt and genuine interest and attention.

He would cautiously wander to the bleachers sometimes, visibly wary of Alex’s friends, not sure how he would be received among the mishmash of metalheads and burnouts, a few stoners, and drama geeks, and a goth or two.

His musical taste was questionable, devoid of any real identity that set him apart from anyone like he was going along to get along.

He often wondered why Max was so determined to disappear into the background.

He was funny, kind, and personable. He was easily someone who others would gravitate to if they ever got the chance to know him, but Max Evans didn’t make himself known. Not really.

He showed people what he wanted them to see, a small peek into who he was, just enough to appear non-threatening but not enough to lure people in.

Yet, that’s precisely what made Max so alluring to him. He knew a chameleon when he saw one – a kindred, someone adaptable when they had to be.

Max seemed genuinely surprised by how easy he was welcomed into their mix, and it was nothing for him to hang out with the group sometimes if only to show his sister he did, in fact, have friends.

Study halls they would spend in the music room jamming out.

He introduced him to My Chemical Romance and was pleasantly surprised that Max dabbled with Green Day and Fallout Boy.

They shared a mutual appreciation for Johnny Cash, which is something he wouldn’t cop to in public. But they wore out his cover of Nine Inch Nail’s "Hurt” like it was an anthem.

Max was expressive. Far more than him, but still subdued enough to not be overwhelming.

They’d sit side by side, an earbud between them, Max’s eyes closed when a particular song struck a chord with him.

For Max, the music was about the words. Lyrics spoke to him more than anything else. He learned to predict which songs would speak to Max most.

He taught Max a thing or two with the guitar.

Max had a natural ability for percussion, which surprised him, and the way his eyes lit up when he pulled off a minute drum solo actually made him laugh.

He wasn’t used to that kind of enthusiasm. But Max’s quiet darkness spoke to him more.

He spent enough time around him to pick up on how Max would slip away into the dark caverns of his mind, introspective and deep.

His eyes would get stormy then like he was fighting battles that would never reach the light of day.

If he was honest with himself, he liked that Max best. There was a story there itching to be told, but he better than anyone understood untold stories and secrets, so he’d never pry. Maybe that’s why Max came back to him time and again too.

He saw more of Max than most, but he didn’t push. He’s pretty certain Max saw him too. They held entire conversations with a single loaded look.

Some weekends they’d go for a drive, hit the desert, and fuck around with music until dusk.

Max’s lip would curl up in that half-smile as he drove, peeking over on occasion as if wondering if Alex was actually enjoying his company.

Max was proud of himself for blaring “Jesus of Suburbia,” which had become one of his latest obsessions, and he admittedly was impressed that he did, in fact, know the entire song from start to finish.

They’d hang until dusk and went their separate ways after grabbing a bite at the Crashdown.

On those days, he figured Max needed to lay eyes on his muse.

One weekend they drove a town over, he hit the stage during amateur night at some underground coffee shop, and for five minutes their joint efforts came to life on stage.

He’s not much of a singer, but the feeling was right. It was worth it just to see Max’s face light up as he beamed with pride and breathed about making something so beautiful.

Some days Max was absent. He’d get caught up in something with his sister or Guerin, but if he worked on something, he would slip that leatherbound notebook in Alex’s hands like he was entrusting him with his life.

Maybe in some way he was.

They didn’t talk, but then, they never needed to … there was something about their silence that was comfortable.

But sometimes his curiosity got the best of him.

They sat on the hood of Max’s jeep, stretched out, takeout between them after he hitched a ride with Max to the record store to meet up with his friends – their friends. He supposed they were Max’s too now.

He couldn’t help stealing a few glances Max’s way. The guy was a bit of a pushover, and Roni spent two hours making him her latest project.

She stole that godforsaken baseball cap and left him with wind tousled dark hair that kept slipping into his eyes because he hadn’t cut it in a while.

He faults himself for that. He told him it looked good longer, and shockingly, Max took it to heart.

Smudged black eyeliner made Max look a bit edgier. The silver choker around his neck did too, but fortunately, Roni reined it in.

To him, Max still looked like a puppy, with sad Bassett hound eyes, but that’s how he liked him.

Galaxies behind every gaze and a black hole heart.

It was something Max alluded to in the latest scrap of paper he left inside his locker.

Months later, and he already could tell he had an influence on him. His prose lost some of the flowery edges and shifted into something darker, caustic but no less beautiful.

“You ever think of telling her?” He took a long pull of his soda and squinted into the distance.

He felt Max’s gaze on him.“What?”

“You ever think about actually sharing the things you write with the person it’s about?”

Max ducked his head down, that familiar demure action that Alex had grown fond of.

“Who says I haven’t?” He answered after a while.

He scoffed. He knew Liz well enough to know if she had known for a second about half the things Max wrote about her, he’d have heard about it.

Even if she let Max down gently, she would have had quite the reaction.

“I’m pretty observant, Evans,” he shook his head. “I would’ve noticed.”

“You sure about that,” Max muttered under his breath.

At least, it’s what it sounded like he said. He knew Max had a snarky streak, but it was rarely directed at him.

Max wouldn’t look at him, but he bore an unreadable expression. He slurped the last of his drink more out of habit than need, but then reached for Alex’s too.

He handed it over with a frown, Max’s large hand wrapping around his briefly before he sucked down the rest of Alex’s drink, too.

“Are you embarrassed?” He asked after a while.

The silence between then had stretched on for a bit, however, it wasn’t their comfortable kind. It was something else, something tenser, and he could only guess bringing up Liz was a sore spot.

He knew what it was like to have feelings for someone without them being reciprocated.

He hopped off the truck and reached into the passenger seat. He rummaged through his bag until he pulled out the box he kept all of Max’s poetry– his lyrics.

He climbed back on the truck, holding the box in his hand grateful he brought it along for the day.

He didn’t miss the small smile on Max’s face at the box in his hand, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Putting yourself out there sucks,” he shrugged. “I know better than anyone.”

Max didn’t say anything. Between the two of them, he was used to Max being the one to fill the silence, or at least respond when he talked to him. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear Max was channeling him.

“I’m not the best at … feelings,” he struggled even uttering the word.

“But you are. Have you read your work? All these bits and pieces – I know Liz, and if she just knew… if she read these … ”

He went through the most recent scraps on the top and felt Max tense up beside him.

“There are galaxies behind your eyes, infinite and wise all the things you hide.

"The darker you are the more I see what if we were meant to be something more…

"Short desert nights and long silence just you and me next to you is where I’m free

My name a low melody on your lips I wonder if you should know. How I dream of taking the risk. A shot at true bliss in kissing you hello,” his mind raced as he dug through more.

“You helped me see me the way that you do if only you saw how I do the same for you”

“I"ll follow you through the dark because you’re the light”

“Over the edge, but I’ve never been afraid of falling only that you won’t be there, you’ll disappear when I do”

“Jagged smiles that don’t come easily, each one burned in my memory, my pulse races staccato, breath caught you saved one for me, just maybe … ” he felt like he was punched in the gut.

He sneaked a glance at Max, a strong profile, hunched forward. The only giveaway that his nerves got the better of him was how he wrung his large hands, ink-stained and trembling.

“These aren’t about Liz,” his voice caught in his throat, and her name came out like a whisper.

                                         "Who says I haven’t?”

                                                “You sure about that?“

Full smiles in the hallway. The way Max’s eyes crinkled in the corner when he laughed, how they deepened when he made Alex laugh too.

The way Max stood by his side, solid, warm, close all-consuming making him feel small but also safe.

Brushed knuckles while playing guitar. Late-night phone calls, and long desert drives. Study notes and tutoring, long days at the record store.

Grabbing a bite to eat and rotating who paid, stolen fries and shared drinks. Notes, every other day.

He looked down at the treasure chest of spilled ink."Shit.”

He played back snippets of the past few months, saw them through a different lens.

Max stopped staring at Liz months ago, but he never stopped looking at –“Shit. These aren’t about Liz.”

“They’re not about Liz,” Max agreed his voice low and husky.

“They’re about –”

“You,” Max supplied. “You’re not that observant, Manes,” Max joked softly. “You’ll see a dozen different angles however obscure but miss what’s directly in front of you.” Max chuckled low and deep.

He sat in stunned silence, and Max, the bastard, let him. He gave him the time to process, not that his proximity helped, warm, solid, pressed against him from shoulder to pinkies a ghost of an interlock as the hood of Max’s truck suddenly felt too small.

He never had anyone write about him before, write for him, and he didn’t realize that confession slipped from his lips another on top of the others until Max responded just as quietly.

“You should,” Max whispered. Max looked down at his hands as if sparing himself the heat of Alex’s gaze.

“You deserve songs written about you, Alex. You’re,” he exhaled resigned. “You’re amazing, and any guy who doesn’t see it doesn’t deserve you.”

Max turned the full force of his gaze on Alex, heated and open, vulnerability laid bare for Alex to see.

How could he have not seen it before?

“You wrote me poetry,” he breathed. He opened and shut his mouth feeling like a guppy.

Max shrugged, a sad half-smile. “You sang me songs,” he countered.

Max peeked down at him beneath lashes, bashful and sweet.

“They made you happy, ” Max whispered into the night air, trusting the wind would carry his words for him. 

“They made you happy, and that made me happy. I liked surprising you, the way the curve of your lip turns up,” Max whispered, eyes slipping to Alex’s mouth for a brief moment. “And your eyes,” he reached his hand out as if to touch Alex’s face but caught himself.

His breath hitched in anticipation that quickly became a disappointment. He felt the loss of a touch that never reached him.

“It’s OK, though” Max murmured softly in that voice that haunted his dreams at night.

“Max,” he pushed past the lump in his throat and cursed this tall, dopey, adorable boy for drinking the last of his soda.

“I don’t expect anything, Alex,” Max breathed out, nervous energy tinging his voice. “Nothing has to change.”

Determined brown eyes fell upon him and he knew just how much Max meant that.

“It’s OK,” Max continued, and he couldn’t tell if the desperation in Max’s voice was an attempt to convince himself or him.

“Max–”

“I promise, Alex,” Max’s voice was desperate but sincere. “Everything this is, I – it’s more than enough, I swear. I –I’m really good at pining.”

He let out a startled laugh.

“You’re laughing at me,” a flash of hurt crossed Max’s eyes but he schooled his expression.

“No,” he breathed. “Yes, I mean,” he exhaled long and slow reaching out to grab Max’s hand in reassurance.

His mouth worked, open and closed as he struggled with what he wanted to say, how much of himself was he willing to give in that moment?

“I–” he squinted out in the distance, pinks fading into the blue. He shivered and wished he could only blame it on the cool evening air.

“I–,” he tangled his hand with Max’s, slightly callused, warm, comforting. He looked up, smiled a little at Max’s expression as he stared at their entwined fingers. “Why would I settle for enough, when you’re telling me I can have more?”

He watched Max’s head slowly lift, his expression openly hopeful. No half-measure. He felt it and felt it fully, openly. It’s what Max always gave to him.

He wasn’t used to letting others see him like that, but Max understood that, didn’t seem to hold it against him. He found ways to slip through the cracks.

He swallowed as Max’s thumb rubbed circles into his skin driving him crazy without even realizing it. Quintessential Max.

“I’m really good at pining too,” he muttered. He thought the confession would cost him something, but it left him lighter, freer.

It gave him something instead, that spark in Max’s eye, darkened pupils, goofy grin becoming something far more alluring, sexier. His breath caught.

“I really want to kiss you,” Max murmured, his face closing in, eyes slipping to Alex’s lips before meeting his eyes. It wasn’t until they were a couple of centimeters apart before he breathed. “But only if you want me t–”

He surged forward, capturing Max’s lips with his. He was urgent, needy, but Max’s hand cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, slowing them down.

Long, lazy, languid kisses dizzying in their delivery. Max’s tongue warm and wet was on the verge of driving him insane.

“Fuck,” he gasped. He clutched Max’s hair, moaned as Max trailed kisses down his jawline and neck, suckled at sensitive spots he didn’t know existed.

Max pulled away, the pads of his thumbs feather-light against Alex’s cheeks.

“Sorry,” Max stammered. “Am I not doing this right?”

For a moment he was gobsmacked, the only thing more shocking than the soft-spoken, awkward poet being such an incredible kisser was him thinking for a second that the sweet torture he inflicted on Alex was anything other than just fucking right.

Max flashed a crooked smile – a glint of mischief in his eye confirmed Max was screwing with him.

“You’re such a shit,” he smirked.

He rested his forehead against Max’s sighed when Max pulled them back until he was hovering over Max.

“You gonna write about this?” He ran his nose along the side of Max’s jawline, nipped along the bone before pulling back.

Their hands entwined rested on Max’s chest, a tangle of black fingernails, silver rings, and ink-stained skin.

The intensity of the adoration in Max’s eyes scared the shit out of him. But it was a fear he could get used to.

Max’s hand slipped to the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair pulling him forward, chasing his lips.

“I’m gonna dream about this,” Max whispered against his lips.

“Me fucking too,” he panted breathlessly as they made out beneath the stars.

                                             –Fin–

[companionjones]

Friends Made Along The Way

Requested by: @damedevon

Request: This is the second request in case you don't want to do the first one :)  NCIS universe: Reader, genius level IQ that is a talented artist (painting, sculpting, all the things) is brought in to consult on a case. (S)he meets Spencer and they hit it off, talking about cultured literature and time period specific art and history.

Fandoms: NCIS, Criminal Minds

Pairings: Spencer Reid x NCISAgent!Reader, Platonic!BAU Team x NCISAgent!Reader, Platonic!NCIS Team x NCISAgent!Reader, Specifically Platonic!Gibbs x NCISAgent!Reader

Warnings: Extreme descriptions of blood and gore

Author’s Note: This takes place around season 5 for both NCIS and Criminal Minds. Idk if that lines up chronologically, sorry if it doesn’t.

*******

    “We got a case,” informed Gibbs as he headed to his desk for his gun and badge.

    Yourself and the rest of your team moved to gather your individual things and meet in the elevator.

    Gibbs gave more details about the case. “A former marine was found dead outside a Cheesy Cheese.”

    Timothy McGee asked, awkwardly, “Uh, Boss? Don’t you mean Chuck E. Cheese?”

    “Does it look like I know the difference, McGee?” Gibbs returned.

    The younger agent was clearly uncomfortable. “No, Boss. It’s just...I didn’t--”

    Ziva’s voice was as sly as ever. “It’s best to stop now, McGee.”

    As you headed out of the bull-pen, you opened your mouth to say something.

    DiNozzo cut you off instead. “L/n, I swear to God, if you make one more Shakespeare reference today, Ziva’s driving to the crime scene.”

    “Tony,” you rolled your eyes, “How could I possibly make a reference to the Bard from this?”

    All DiNozzo had to do was give you a look.

    “Fine, I’ll shut up,” you sighed, exiting your team’s area.

    Abruptly, Gibbs turned and stopped you. “Not you.”

    “What?” You were shocked.

    Gibbs gruffly explained, “Fornell called. Apparently, a friend of his wants you on his case. It’s ten miles out.”

    Forgetting your usual respect for your superior, you groaned.

    Again, all it took was a look.

    “Yes, sir,” you childishly agreed.

***

    “Excuse me, Agent Aaron Hotchner?” I’m Agent Y/n L/n, from NCIS.” You stuck your hand out when the man confirmed his name.

    He took your offer, and shook your hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” The senior FBI agent spent the following few minutes explaining the details of the case to you.

    So far, three murders had been committed. The odd thing about the murders was that the killer was recreating paintings by an artist from the 1800s by posing the victims how the muses were posed in certain paintings. You had read about the strange murders in the paper.

    “Gustave Courbet,” you named the original artist. “I realized that after the first murder. I didn’t think it was going to take you guys this long to figure it out.”

    Hotchner knew not to take your words personally. “That’s why we called you in. We need an expert on Courbet on this case.” He noticed an agent from his team walking up to where the two of you were in the living room of the apartment/crime scene. “This is Dr. Reid. He’s the one on our team who recognized the pattern in the first place.”

    The younger man greeted you by giving you his first name. “Spencer.” He then admitted, “I don't shake hands.”

    “Oh, okay. Call me Y/n,” you politely offered.

    Another agent was making his way to the three of you. Two female agents and an older male agent were trailing behind him.

    The darker-skinned agent smiled. “We’re very proud of our Dr. Reid, here. Kid has an IQ of 187.”

    “You’ve got me beat, then,” you admitted, turning back to Dr. Reid. “My score is 186.”

    Everyone seemed pretty blown away by that. You could tell it was rare that the team came across anyone that was as smart as their resident genius.

    You never liked the term ‘genius,’ especially when it was used on you. On the contrary, you mostly kept your skills under the radar. Except for a few literary references here and there, you rarely talked about your smarts. Actually, you never really got the chance to.

    The rest of the agents on the team introduced themselves, and Hotch explained, “We’re the BAU at the FBI. It stands for--”

    “Behavioral Analysis Unit. I know. But here’s an acronym you guys probably don’t know-NCIS. It’s where I work.”

    Hotch obviously knew what it meant. He was the one who called you in. You got a marine vibe from Rossi, so he probably knew, too. They weren’t the kind of men to just blurt out the answer, however. The rest of the team seemed to be having trouble with the acronym.

    Spencer was different. “Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” he said almost immediately.

    “Good! It’s rare someone just knows that. I’m assuming you don’t have any prior connections...Maybe you do know what you’re talking about.”

    You noticed a prolonged look Agent Morgan gave Spencer. Spencer furrowed his eyebrows, and moved his gaze elsewhere. You didn’t understand the exchange.

    Hotchner began, “Okay,. Now that introductions are out of the way, we were hoping you could take a look at this crime scene.”

    Two minutes later, you were two inches away from a body. The poor woman was a hunched over in a chair. She was a brunette, and looked to weigh about 200 pounds. Like the other victims, she was dressed in middle class mid-1800s clothing. The chair she was in was next to a spindle. She had some raw wool wrapped around a distaff sitting on her lap. You swallowed hard when the thought crossed your mind that it almost seemed like she was sleeping.

    Agent Jareau (she preferred the nickname JJ) informed you, “She was found early this morning by a mother and daughter returning from a trip. This apartment is theirs. They don’t own a spinning wheel.”

    Rossi continued, “We got a positive I.D., her name is Suzanne Welling. No relation to the family that live here.”

    “I hope the daughter is young. There’s more of a chance of her forgetting this tragedy when she gets older,” you quickly added that last part when you realized how harsh you sounded. You never broke your studying of the remains.

    JJ confirmed, “The girl’s 4 years old.” It was a tone you could tell clearly was a mother’s. You wondered how many kids she had. You also hoped your words weren’t too harsh.

    “The painting this is based on is The Sleeping Spinner, painted in 1853. It looks like he’s going in chronological order.” You dragged your index finger over your bottom lip. It was a thinking habit you had.

    Emily Prentiss, the other female agent on the team, inquired, “Why do you think he’s male?”

    “The first painting--er...murder.” You straightened up onto your feet. “The Wounded Man, originally painted in 1844. It’s a self-portrait. A lot of Courbet’s early works were. The killer sees himself as Courbet. The first muse--victim probably looks like the murderer.”

    A new voice entered the room. “Unsub.” It was Spencer. “Unknown suspect. We call our suspects unsubs. You can, too...if you want to.”

    “...Unsub.” You smiled slightly while you tested out the name for Spencer.

    He expressed the same sentiment to you.

    The rest of the day was spent working the case. It was explained to you that the team would usually split up with some of them heading to the local police department when first arriving for an assignment. It was just how things worked out in that particular instance that the whole team went straight to the crime scene.

    Soon enough, you found out Spencer was the agent who spent most of his time in the local police stations. You were the agent who spent most of your time with Spencer.

    “What’re you up to, Agent Reid?” you asked with a somewhat playful tone.

    He had been pinning a map to the board you and the BAU team had borrowed for the case. He started marking it up. “I’m making a geological profile of the area. We usually see if the locations of the crime scenes give us any clues to where the unsub is living or where he might kill next.”

    “At NCIS, we do the same thing to see if we can find out where the killer lives--”

    Spencer distractedly corrected you, “Unsub.”

    “Unsub. But we don’t really have cases where we have to predict where the unsub may strike next.”

    The young FBI agent reasoned, “It’s crazy, but you get used to it. Soon, it’s just another part of life.”

    “I don’t think I would want to get used to this kind of stuff.” You couldn’t help your mind from drifting to the deceivingly peaceful form you had observed earlier that day.

    For a moment, Spencer stopped his efficient actions. He was thinking. “... ‘Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me. The Carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.’ Emily Dickinson.”

    “She looked at death like it was such a peaceful thing. Like it was a new beginning.” Your tone was more bittersweet than you had ever heard it sound.

    He turned toward you. Spencer headed for a seat next to yours at the conference room table. “Maybe that’s what it is: just another part of life.”

   “We investigate death everyday...but we never talk about what comes after.”

    The young man smirked slightly, “They obsessed over it enough in the 1800s. Is there even a need to think too much about it anymore?”

    Surprisingly, that got you to laugh. You and Spencer Reid sat there in the conference room, laughing about your elders’ morbid curiosities.

***

    “Happy Monday,” you greeted as you descended the stairs into the basement.

    Gibbs looked up from his fifth boat-in-progress. “Happy Monday, L/n.”

    Similar to everyone else on the team, Gibbs had a unique relationship with you. You hadn’t known Gibbs as long as he’d known Ducky, but the two of you were very close. However, you didn’t think you’d ever be as important to him as Abby.

    Anyway, you and Gibbs had a standing arrangement for dinner every Monday night. It was never anything fancy, nothing with Gibbs ever was. Dinner with the senior agent usually consisted of two orders of Chinese food in his basement.

    “Making slow progress with this one, aren’t you?” you questioned, referring to Gibbs’ latest woodwork.

    He responded, “Doesn’t matter how long it takes, as long as it’s done right.”

    “Yes, sir,” you chuckled. You pulled out the meals while Gibbs set up a makeshift table and chairs.

    About ten minutes later, your boss interrupted what you though was your usual, comfortable silence. “You seem preoccupied.”

    “I am,” you admitted, “It’s the FBI case.”

    He looked you over, then went back to eating. Then, Gibbs easily stated, “It’s not just that.”

    You stared at him hard, trying to come up with something else to say besides the truth. You sighed and repeated him, “It’s not just that, but this isn’t your area of expertise.”

    Once more, all it took was a look.

    “It’s a guy, Gibbs. A cute, kind, and smart guy.” You met his gaze because you expected that that would be enough for him to back off.

    Jarringly (for you, anyway), Gibbs didn’t give up. He continued to stare is Gibbs stare right into your soul.

    “Agent Spencer Reid,” you gave in, revealing the boy’s name. “Has a higher IQ than me...Eh, he has 187. I have--”

    He gave your score for you, “186.”

    “So, it doesn’t really count.”

    Gibbs chuckled, then agreed, “No, it doesn’t.”

    After about an hour, dinner was done. You headed home, but not before mulling over the fact that you had just talked romance with Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Maybe you were closer with him than you had previously thought.

***

    The next morning, you were woken up at 5 A.M. with a phone call from Hotch. At first, you were concerned as to why you weren't notified earlier. You launched out of bed and began to quickly get dressed. Hotch grew hesitant. He didn't seem to want you to go to the crime scene. You didn’t know why. You insisted that you were a federal agent just as he was, and that you had every right to be at any crime scene that had to do with a case you were legally working.

    On your way to where the BAU was, you continued to think about the team. They apparently took you in as one of their own after just one day of working with you. It reminded you of your connections with your almost-family at NCIS. You didn’t mind it, and you were actually warming up to the idea. The only thing you had a problem with was when it interfered with your job. Hotch did that when he tried to keep you from a crime scene. You knew he was trying to protect you, but you were wondering from what.

    The newest crime scene was an abandoned warehouse. Spencer was standing outside, on the phone with someone as you pulled up. When you got out of your car, he handed the phone to Agent Morgan.

    Morgan smiled to himself as he walked away. “Baby, how you always bring such beautiful light in this world is beyond me...Love you, sweetheart.”

    “Who was that on the phone?” you inquired.

    Spencer answered, “Penelope Garcia...Our technical analyst.”

    “Co-workers are allowed to date each other on your side?”

    That last question made him smile. “Nope. And they’re not dating.”

    “...Huh.”

    “Huh indeed.”

    Sighing, you then cracked your neck. “Alright. In we go.” You brushed around Spencer and headed toward the entrance of the warehouse.

    You were surprised when Spencer took hold of your shoulders and stepped back in front of you.

    He seemed as concerned as Hotchner, if not more. “Listen, Y/n. Remember that conversation we had yesterday? You said that you didn’t think you ever wanted to get used to the death that we see. Y/n, there’s a lot of death in there.”

    “No one in this hemisphere can tell you what the unsub is aiming for in there besides me. If we catch this guy, it’ll save everyone from more death than what could be in there.”

    Still, Spencer didn’t let you go.

    “...Please, Spencer.”

    The boy gave you a look that reminded you of a puppy. He stepped aside.

    A few steps later, you were inside. Turns out, a few steps were all you could take. Fifteen people. Three of them were children. It was a long time before you were able to breathe again.

    When you did take a breath, JJ and Emily were at your side. Not that you were complaining. You would need someone to steady you if your knees buckled.

    Hotch came up to the three of you. “This is why I didn’t want you coming here, L/n.”

    “...I’ve never seen a massacre like this...” You still weren’t sure you could remain on your feet.

    Rossi approached. “Do you need to leave for a second?”

    “The Preparation of a Dead Girl...and/or Wife...all the public knows is that it was released sometime in the 1850s,” you slowly breathed out the words after you swallowed. With your knees shaking, you made your way closer to the scene. “He put rods in them to pose them correctly compared to the painting...They were still alive when he put the rods in place.”

    It was hard for you to understand how, but you made it through the rest of the day. Everyone in the BAU could obviously tell you continued to be affected by the most recent crime scene, and you hated that they were all walking on eggshells around you. The bottom line was that you didn’t let it affect your job, and you didn’t see why everyone was treating you differently. Okay, maybe you did see why. It was the same reason why Gibbs let Abby ramble on about the little things sometimes. Family. You were already part of the BAU’s family.

***

    Later that night, you were back home. Your apartment was small, but you didn’t mind. You still found a way to fit all the books and art supplies you wanted in your home.

    There was a knock at your door.

    “Hiya, Spencer,” you softly greeted. You left your door open for him to enter through. You returned to your seat at your pottery wheel. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep working on this while you’re here. It centers me.” You got quieter. “...It calms me down.”

    For a moment, Spencer was silent. “How long have you been in the field?” His question was gentle, unaccusing.

    “Do people get annoyed when you profile them in social situations, Dr. Reid?” Your tone didn’t hold any malice, either.

    He smirked, “All the time.”

    It was your turn to be silent as you resolved to answer Spencer’s question. “Gibbs and I first met when he and his team were working a case at the University I taught at. He came to see me for some time after that. Most of the time it was to use my intellect on other cases he was working...I’m quite proud to say I was one of the few friends he had outside of the agency. Well, until I joined the agency.” You paused as you chuckled. “He recruited me back in ‘03, and I’ve been with the team ever since.”

    Spencer waited. He could tell you weren’t finished.

    “Only...,” you sighed, accepting that you couldn’t hide the following fact from him. “I’ve only been allowed at crime scenes for about a year or so. Gibbs is fiercely protective of me, and it took me years to get him to let me into the field...Man, I hope he doesn’t find out I acted today. He would never let me see a dead body again...not even in Ducky’s autopsy.” You said that last part more to yourself.

    He smiled at you from his chair. “I think you acted perfectly fine today, Y/n.”

    “Betcha Agent Rossi didn’t think so,” you chuckled, “He was read to dodge my vomit when I showed up today.” You stopped talking for a moment when your mind jumped back to the bloody warehouse. “...Your team doesn’t think I’m fit to be in the field.”

    Spencer almost matter-of-factly stated, “They don’t think that.”

    “Well, what do they think?” The vase you had been working on was thrown off balance on the pottery wheel. You set to work fixing it.

    The male agent never moved his eyes from you. “They care about you, Y/n...I do, too.”

    You were thankful you had your craft to focus on, it helped you hide your smile. “I know that, Spencer...I know that.”

    Spencer stayed for the next few hours. Nothing physical happened. You eventually put away your pottery and broke out some wine. The two of you spent the night talking about arts, literature, and maybe other things that the two of you needed to discuss.

***

    The following day, you made it to the local police station by 7 A.M. You first stop was the conference room where Spencer was already studying the map as closely as the last time the two of you had been in that room.

    “Did you even sleep last night?” You inquired as you set your things down in one of the chairs.

    As expected, Spencer barely glanced in your direction as you found a seat for yourself. He was already too immersed in his work. “I actually kind of slept in today...I have you and Walt Whitman to thank for that.” Surprising you, Spencer glanced over his shoulder and caught your gaze.

    His inside joke got you to throw your head back in laughter. “Alright, Spencer. Here’s what I want you to do.” You hurled yourself out of your chair, and moved to stand next to the young agent. “I want you to explain this map to me. You don’t even have a key for it.”

    Spencer shrugged, “It’s easy enough. These are parks, these are obviously areas of water, and this right here is a Chuck E. Cheese, so these marks mean places entertainment--”

    “What?”

    He pointed to a part of the map that was less than five blocks away from the second crime scene. “This mark right here is a Chuck E. Cheese. Which means--”

    “No Spencer, you don’t understand. NCIS had a body at a Chuck E. Cheese. There can’t be too many of these in this area. This is very close to the second crime scene, but not close enough that it would make sense for the unsub to still be on foot. What if the unsub was walking home and the former marine saw the weapon? The unsub has used the same gun in every killing. He would have to take it home with him. The unsub could live in this area!” You drew a circle with your finger of a quarter mile radius around the second crime scene.

    Spencer didn’t agree. “I don’t know, Y/n. All of this seems highly circumstantial. Couldn’t this all be a coincidence?”

    “There are no such thing as coincidences,” you shook your head.

    It was enough to get Gibbs and the rest of the team to work with the BAU on the case. Within the hour, most of your NCIS family were present in the local police department.

    Hotch greeted Gibbs with a handshake. “Pleasure to meet you, Agent Gibbs. I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

    Gibbs nodded, “The feeling is mutual, Agent Hotchner.”

    “Your Agent Y/n has proven to be very impressive.”

    There was a blink-and-you-miss-it twitch of the lips for Gibbs. For half of a moment, he smiled. “That’s why I recruited them.”

    Meanwhile, you were still in the conference room with Spencer. Tony, Ziva, and McGee had joined the two of you. You were explaining the details of he case to your three coworkers.

    As usual, Tony got off topic as soon as he could. “So, Agent Reid” Tony was nose to nose with the uncomfortable FBI agent, “you’re just a hybrid of McGeek and L/n, aren’t you?” He sniffed the air. “I think I smell a bit of Palmer on you as well.”

    Spencer looked anywhere but Tony. “I don’t know who Palmer is.”

    “He’s our medical examiner’s assistant, Spencer,” you clarified, “Tony, what the hell are you doing?”

    Ziva tried to help you out. “Leave the poor kid alone.”

    Suddenly, Gibbs entered the room with Hotch. The rest of the BAU were behind them. Before Tony noticed their presence, Gibbs was already behind the movie expert. Tony received a slap to the back of the head.

    Gibbs leveled voice suggested, “Yeah, Tony. Leave Agent Reid alone.”

    Tony grimaced, “Yes, sir.” As he moved to the conference room table, Tony passed by you. He whispered in your ear in his usual, quick way, “You’ll be the dominate one in the relationship.”

    Naturally, you were mortified by his words. How had he figured out so quickly what was going on between you and Spencer? Was it really that obvious? Was it distracting from the case? You hoped it wasn’t. You glanced around. No one seemed to notice Tony’s exchange with you. Except for maybe Gibbs, whom you could’ve almost sworn that he’d shot a knowing smirk in your direction.

    Hotch directed, “Agent L/n, could you tell everyone what you’ve put together?”

    "NCIS’s victim was murdered less that five blocks away from the BAU’s second crime scene. Eleven of the fifteen victims in the fourth crime scene were taken from the same quarter mile radius.”

    Emily Prentiss added, “All of our earlier victims were from all over the state. Do you think our unsub is devolving in that he can’t wait long enough to go too far to find his victims anymore?”

    “Yes,” you agreed, “It would also explain how Colonel Wilfred, the victim from NCIS connects to the other murders without reflecting any of Courbet’s paintings.”

    JJ, suddenly got a notification on her phone. “There’s been two more reports of missing individuals in the same area. Both were white women in their twenties...about 220 ponds...they look like our second and third victims.” She looked worriedly from her phone to you.

    “The Hammock and The Sleeping Spinner...,” you whispered the second and third crimes to yourself in order. “...He could be going after Young Ladies on the Banks of Seine. It makes sense with his running chronological theme. The reason why they look so alike with the previous victims is because it was rumored Courbet used his sisters for a lot of his portraits. Out unsub might be trying to replicate the likeness in Gustave’s muses.”

    Hotch directed, “Alright. We may have some time to save these two women. Spencer, stick with the geographical profiling. Rossi, Prentiss, canvass Jones Avenue through Tenth Boulevard. JJ, Morgan, take Damien Road through Johnson Street. I’ll stay here and run point.”

    Gibbs instructed his own team, “Y/n, stay here and work with Reid. McGee, Tony: Dischem through Clark. Ziva, you and I will take Harren to Williams.”

    With the whole police department, along with most of Gibbs and Hotch’s team canvassing, it was likely the unsub’s house would be found within the following few hours.

    Meanwhile, you and Spencer were back in the nearly empty police station. The two of you were in separate conference room chairs, and you both were staring at that map. It had delivered an extremely helpful break in the case, but it seemed to have done all it could. Hotch was in another room with the police captain, so you and Spencer were left to your own devices.

    That was, until a secretary came running into the conference room. “Help! We need help!”

    Both you and Spencer launched out of your respective seats.

    “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, alarmed.

    The secretary elaborated, “A girl called the tip line. She sounds terrified. She claims to be Samantha Hawford, one of--”

    “the missing women,” both you and Spencer finished with the secretary.

    “Connect us, please,” you requested as calmly as you could.

    She silently nodded, and quickly left the room.

    Seconds later, a line lit up on the phone in the conference room. It turned out to actually be Samantha. She was hysterical, but you eventually got her to calm down enough to communicate.

    Earlier, she had stolen the unsub’s phone, and she was waiting for a safe time to call the tip line she had seen a lot on T.V.

    While you encouraged Samantha to keep talking, Spencer called Garcia. She traced the phone call for the two of you.

    A minute later, you knew where Samantha was. You were on your way out with Spencer when Hotch gave you his blessing to go. It was obvious neither you nor Spencer were going to wait for Hotchner’s agreement.

    You and Spencer were able to get to Samantha's location in fifteen minutes. Which was good because five minutes into your journey, the unsub found Samantha and hung up the phone. You prayed the unsub kept her alive long enough for you and Spencer to get there.

    When the two of you did arrive, the unsub was about to stab the other girl with the first metal rod when you and Spencer found them. He had both the girls tied up as he prepared to stab them with the metal rods and shoot them in the heart.

    At first, Spencer tried to talk him down. It was obvious that it was going no where.

    “I can make sure the world knows of your works of art,” you suddenly lied, surprising yourself. “People took pictures of your crime--masterpieces. They could be hung anywhere and everywhere. You could become even more famous than Corbet. But let me tell you: if you hurt these two girls, no one will ever know who you are. Not your name, and not your face.”

    Chillingly, there was hope in the killer’s eyes. As you’d guessed, he looked a lot like Gustave Courbet himself. You could see why he wanted to use Courbet’s image to make himself famous.

    Eventually, you got the killer to turn over his weapons, and turn himself in. You cuffed him yourself. By then, your team, the local police, and the BAU had arrived. You turned the killer over to the local P.D. The two girls were crying as they thanked you profusely for saving them. You tried to push their attention away from you. It didn’t work too well.

    Once all the chaos was over, you were back at the police station, gathering your things.

    Hotch addressed you, making you turn around. “Agent L/n.”

    “Uh...Yes, sir?”

    His whole team was with him. “We would like to thank you for your work on this case.”

    Morgan complimented, “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

    “Oh, I don’t think that’s true,” you reasoned, “I mean, you guys have Spencer. He probably would've figured things out just as fast as me.. Well, almost as fast  as me.”

    Spencer smiled in a way that was contagious. “Don’t try to brush this off, Y/n. You know how important you are.”

    Hotch continued, “That’s actually what we wanted to talk to you about. You’ve shown promising capabilities as a profiler, and we want you to know that there’s a place for you on our team.”

    “Wait. On your guys’ team? In the FBI?” You were nearly in shock. “I...I don’t know what to say.”

    JJ offered, “Well, we would really like it if you agreed.”

    “...I can’t. I’m sorry guys, but NCIS is my home. They’re my family there. I mean, honestly, in these past few days, you guys have kind become my family to, but I don’t think I could leave NCIS. At least not right now.”

    For the first time, you saw Aaron Hotchner truly smile. “It’s alright. The job’s here for you whenever you want it.”

    “Thank you.” You were sincerely grateful.

    Thee rest of the team left, but Spencer hung back.

    “You know,” you sweetly took his hand in yours, ”my not joining has nothing to do with you.”

    He squeezed your hand in his. “I know, but it would’ve been nice to see you more often.”

    “I guess we’re going to have to make it work as is,” you smirked.

    Keeping his gaze on your intertwined hands, Spencer chuckled. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

    Slowly, you leaned in to kiss the boy.

    At first, Spencer kept his hand in yours. Then, he moved both arms around you, pulling you in close.

    Your hands were o his chest, but you soon snaked them around his neck to get lost in his hair.

    Okay, so you were beginning to regret your choice not to join the BAU just a little bit.

***

    Before you went home that night, you went back to NCIS. Spencer had to go back to Quantico to get some paperwork done, so you couldn’t spend the night with him. You decided to go back to NCIS to do the same thing.

    “Y/n! Y/n, Y/n, Y/n!” Right outside the elevator doors, a certain adorable forensic scientist was waiting for you.

    Practically catching the incoming woman, you tried to keep her steady on her feet. “Hi, Abby! How’ve you been?”

    She was almost vibrating with excitement. “I’m completely fine. It’s you I wanna know about! How were Fornell’s friends at the FBI? Were they mean? They treated you nicely, right?” Abby continued on with the onslaught of questions until you got to your desk.

    When you sat down, you looked up to Abby as you searched your mind for a way to tell her you needed quiet right then.

    Gibbs beat you to it. He had been sitting at his desk. You only noticed him when he gathered his few things to leave. He stopped by your desk and explained, “Abby, it’s late and they’re tired. Leave them alone.”

    With a quick, slightly intimidated glance to Gibbs and a “Sorry, Y/n,” and wave to you, Abby was gone.

    However, Gibbs stayed behind a bit longer to knowingly ask, “So, you didn’t take the job, huh?”

    “No,” you tiredly smiled, “I’m staying right here, boss.”

    It was then that Gibbs did something that he very rarely did. He returned a smile. “Good,” was his final statement before Gibbs left for the night.

***

    In the end, you made sure the killer’s name was never released to the public. You didn’t want anything to be given to the distributed criminal mind. However, you knew that some name needed to be given to the person behind the painting-based murders. You just expected it to have something to do with Gustave Courbet himself. You didn’t expect the previously unknown subject to be called The Chuck E. Cheese Killer. The nickname ended a pizza franchise.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it! If you would like to read more, I have more fics over on my page. You should go check it out. Also, REQUESTS ARE OPEN. I take requests for one-shots, multi-chapters, headcannons, and preferences. No smut, please. I write for a variety of fandoms. If you’re wondering if I write for a specific fandom, please ask me. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you.<3

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(Behind the scenes stuff)

Proofreader: @girl-of-many-faces

Crime scene #1 here

Crime scene #2 here

Crime scene #3 here

Crime scene #4 here

What would’ve been crime scene #5 here

[saraa-lancee]

So what issues would you like them to tackle that hasn’t already been done on the show before?

(I just want to say this is my first ask ever and I've been here since... God maybe 2013? So thank you!!)

I would LOVE to see a new dimension to sexuality. I'm also casually of the team that's "Sara herself should say Bisexual" because Bisexual has only been said once on screen and Nate said it casually.. We have a scene where Sara says tells Nurse Lindsay that Lesbian isn't a bad word yet the show kinda doesn't act that way about Bi. Bi erasure is an issue that would be interesting-- since Sara is with Ava, it would be neat to have some line of "i didn't pick a team" or just along the lines of Still Bi With A Woman.

(They also missed an opertunity with Charlie to use neutral pronouns of some kind)--> a discussion further on gender identity would be cool too. There are casual set ups for this with Charlie, like in the Shakespeare episode, but nothing is ever really taken completely seriously or honestly even explicitly. I would really enjoy a nonbinary or intersex narrative in this particular context because I feel like the team of legends (as the people the characters are) would fit really nicely with that. But it would be cool to have a trans character that Gideon helps? Because the arrowverse trans character (in Supergirl-- Nia) is already transitioned. It would be cool to have a transitioning characer in a really casual way even (a particular scenario would be New Character leaving sickbey while someone else walks in. Other person asked if New is feeling OK and New just says like "oh yeah, just my hormones.). But yeah anything with gender identity.

I always hunger for more disability stories, but based on how they Wrote Sara's blindness... yikes. I remember watching a panel or something on YouTube about how Caity was hoping that Sara was at least going to have a cane or be shown to struggle with some stuff, but the writers ignored all of that. So its kind of touchy based on that but I think it would be really neat to have someone with a prosthetic (or even just an amputation, someone born without a limb, etc.)-- it would be a beautiful narrative about 'Gideon can literally grow you a new arm' and that character firmly saying no, this is me, having this difference doesn't make me less, you aren't "fixing" me because I'm not broken, I like myself, etc, whatever.

I know that for me personally one of the best things about the show is that Sara and Ava don't have to come out, and everyone just treats them like normal, but I think some kind of homophobia narrative would be good, not to a big extent but just to the extent like in S1 when Kendra and Ray move in 1950s and that dynamic only with the girls. Like, for the show to acknowledge homophobia in such a direct way, as they did with interracial relationships. This beyond the obvious homophobia of the Nazis. (I personally can't think of an aspect where its implied, but sometimes I can miss or misinterpret implicated stuff like that).

I would love to see a return to POC cultures and narratives (narratives outside of racism) S1 with Kendra and Carter and the Egyptian culture aspect, Amaya and Zambesi aspect. We see a tad bit of this with Zari and the bollywood scene, and Japan post WW2, but they are more side aspects now. It would be neat to go to India or other places in southeast Asia (culturally), or Central/South America. Overall, I would just like to see more of that cultural aspect because human culture is something that interests me a lot and I feel like can be easily casually thrown in with time travel--- traditional clothes, buildings, and ideals (an example of the ideals is the discussion in feudal Japan about the cultures views on death).

I feel like there was a lot of potential with Hank and Sara to continue that discussion about women in power. Yes, we have discussed this before. We do it a lot in second season with the JSA and even Jonah Hex but I think Hank had a lot of potential to add a dimension to that discussion. (honestly see next paragraph for more). That whole episode with the Minotaur i would have loved if they'd been a bit more explicit with that-- yes, obviously a woman can be in charge (in Hanks mind) but he has the right to walk in there and take over because her experience doesn't matter and also we will do whatever he wants. Sara spends almost the whole time just rolling her eyes and bitting her tongue besides a light quip in the beginning asking if a girls ever punched him. in the past Sara has literally exerted dominance over men so I was just kind of disappointed with that dynamic. I love the character of Sara as an "unconventional woman" or a "strange friend" and I've noticed comments like that pretty much stopped after the 3rd season. I know some people hated those comments but I think they can be good. I enjoyed them and would like to see them again because it's literally just Sara being unapologetically herself, a strong woman, doing whatever she does, no matter how weird or unconventional it is. (Which is an integral part of Saras character to me)

BUT its also not necessarily "new" issues. Issues don't go away in real life-- we had multiple issues about Race in America with Jax, from different points in history (Slavery and the 1950s). Jax even mentions how he still experiences Rascism today. The issues don't go away and just because they are mentioned once doesn't mean they can't (and shouldn't) be examined from other points in history. IE just because the show has talked about it before doesn't mean we can't talk about it again from a different angle and/or perspective.

I see a lot of potential with Astra with the racism thing (people are nicer to me in literal Hell) but it also would have been interesting with Mona, to show a different type of racism would have been INCREDIBLE.

I also can think of maybe a scene or two that would have just been a nice touch with Zari (either one, but I have a soft spot for Zari 1.0, and I think with her life as an illegal Muslim would have been an enriching perspective) as a Muslim. They are very good to her character in the way that she obviously abstains from Liquor and Pork, and observes Ramadan. But one thing that would have been interesting is for Zari to experience early 2000s (or honesty still right now) xenophobia. Especially Z1 since being a Muslim is Illegal in 2045 there was a lot of emotional potential there. (Although I feel like I can understand why the writers didn't want to touch that because of current conflicts).

Since we're going to outer space (that was actually confirmed right? Or was it just hinted and I misread??), I think issues will have to be character driven rather than time period driven. But therin we have a lot of potential-- a race of aliens without distinct genders (wait, so your worth can be dictated based off of your genitals?? Plus sexuality stuff there), aliens confused about race (I don't understand some of your skins are different colors... and your people treat each other differently based on this?). We could introduce a matriarchal society, which the crew with Captain Lance feel particularly unphased by. Perhaps we have a completely pacifist society or aliens made of inorganic materials (debates about what constitutes as alive, what lives are meaningful, etc.) You get the idea(I adore star trek so you can imagine my glee thinking about some of those scenarios).

I think for me, the hard shift to comedy was at the expense of some of my favorite aspects of the show and also things that set it apart. This Found Family is so rewarding because they are all so so different but those differences enrich each other. They become better people and feel at home without having to change who they fundamentally are. And they are whoever they want to be. I feel like now the show has simply had an incredibly jarring tone shift thats trying too hard to be a comedy. (This one is just an opinion but a joke among all the serious is always just a lot more funny to me. I find myself laughing more at one liners and random stuff in the early seasons. Now it feels like 'ok, what's the next ridiculous thing.')

I think... humanity is pretty dark. But humanity also rises above. This is why I adore the episode from post WW2 Japan and to me it personally really stands out from other episodes in s4/s5. The idea of creating and destroying, pain and sadness locked inside, terror and hatred for the beings you share the planet with. That pain creates monsters. Sometimes by accident. (Sara's pain turned her into the version of herself she called a monster.). And also about embracing your passions (Mick hiding his writing). In that episode, we still have jokes about Godzilla. Garima appears and its hilarious. But it's also an incredibly powerful narrative about pain and fear and shame and gives a perspective that the western audience wouldnt... necessarily think about (the actual consequences and what the bomb actually literally did.).

That darkness makes the light so much more meaningful. If everything becomes light... than why are we still fighting?

Sorry if this is jumbled, I'm on mobile so.

Also, sorry if this is a rant or whatever. I am very passionate about this topic and oh boy if I was on a computer and had the time I'd probably repondd with a link to a doc.

[qqueenofhades]

Hello I see that your ask is open. I imagine from what I've seen that you know and like the Tennant Richard II and I only recently experienced it (had it forever but the Tenaissance is upon us at the heels of Good Omens) and I would like to invite you to share any feels or flails or complexities you might have in terms of the relationship of Shakespeare to History or Kingship to Divinity or the conflation of Queerness with Otherness etc in the context of that performance

OH NO. YOU REALLY WANT ME TO GO THERE DO YOU. 

First of all: yes, the Tennant Richard II changed my life, after I watched it with @oldshrewsburyian whilst on vacation at the start of June and had to yell at her about my feelings for like ten minutes afterward. I was just SO FASCINATED by the things it did with gender and kingship and queerness (god! It was SO GAY! I was NOT PREPARED! The kiss with Aumerle broke my brain the first time I saw it). I was compiling a preliminary bibliography for my new queer medieval book project a couple weeks ago (which is very interesting, if I do say so myself, and I am really trying to get someone to give me money to research it at their institution) and I discovered an article basically arguing that the RSC Richard II was bad because Richard was portrayed as effeminate and openly queer/bi. Now, to be mostly fair, I think it was because it wanted to critique the association of queer men with effeminacy, rather than being homophobic, but it was still…. a bad take? Or at least a substantially underdeveloped one. It never said why this was bad, it never really got into the gender politics of what it wanted to say about this performance and the queerness thereof, and I was left looking at it like… uh huh, so… what’s your point here pal? (It griped about Gregory Dolan changing the script to have Aumerle kill Richard, but given as every Shakespeare play alters the script or staging or whatever else, I was still waiting for it to say something more about that too. But no. Anyway).

My feelings about Shakespeare, queerness, and queer Shakespeare have recently been noted. I have been working my way through Shakesqueer, which is undoubtedly fascinating, though as a historian I sometimes find all this theoretical vagueness a little TOO broad and am like DEFINE SOMETHING AND SAY SOMETHING ABOUT IT RATHER THAN SAYING THAT YOU CAN’T SAY SOMETHING. But that’s a personal methodological thing on my part, and it certainly has been delightfully helpful in pointing out how none of Shakespeare’s plays are in the least Straight ™ by modern standards, even if technically none of his characters are LGBT. Obviously, they would not be constructed as such by sixteenth-century terms, but that’s another debate. He absolutely left the exact interpretative space that many productions have taken advantage of, some plays are VERY heavy on the subtext, and while critics have argued that the gender subversion and sexual fluidity is introduced only to re-establish heteronormative supremacy at the end, I think that is a fairly shallow reading. Why otherwise HAVE it so consistently, when its negotiation and presence is part of the ways in which these characters can and often have been read? Just because everyone gets married at the end of the comedies doesn’t mean that the queerness has been negated or made irrelevant. Arguably, the opposite.

Anyway, one of my main contentions in this premodern queer lives book project that I’m developing is that when we read the past as queer, we have to take care that we’re not only considering it as thus in comparison to modern heteronormativity, which we consider to be monolithic and transhistorical and applicable to all times and places. Richard Zeikowitz (among others) has made this point in Homoeroticism and Chivalry: Discourses of Male Same-Sex Desire in the 14th Century. Male desire that we would consider “queer” either in its affection or formulation was solidly mainstream, and if we read that as Queer/Other, we risk imposing an estrangement on medieval/early modern queerness that may not have necessarily existed within its community. Yes, we’re all aware of the anti-sodomitical polemics of clerical writers, but consider: why did those guys (the equivalent of right-wing religious commentators today) keep having to write things complaining about it if nobody was doing it, if it wasn’t visible or accepted at all in society, or it was only a theoretical concern that had no relevance to anyone’s daily lives? This is why it drives me so batty when the Straight Historians inevitably try the “just because it was being written about doesn’t mean anyone was doing it!!!” erasure tactic. My dude my guys my pals. How do you think rhetoric even works?

In the particular case of Richard II, there was absolutely a queer discourse/suspicion of queerness around him in his own time (see Sylvia Federico, ‘Queer Times: Richard II in thePoems and Chronicles of Late Fourteenth-Century England’) and it was part of a larger late-medieval discourse of suspected sodomy around kings and their favourites, not just in England but in other places across Europe. (Henric Bagerius and Christine Ekholst, ‘Kingsand Favourites: Politics and Sexuality in Late Medieval Europe’, and E. Amanda McVitty also talks about Richard, his favourites, chivalric masculinity and homosociality in ‘False Knights and True Men: Contesting ChivalricMasculinity in English Treason Trials, 1388–1415′). So…. yes, there is considerable leeway to depict him as queer, and Shakespeare does write it in the text in the scene where Bushy and Green are accused, prior to their execution by Bolingbroke:

You have misled a prince, a royal king,A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,By you unhappied and disfigured clean:You have in manner with your sinful hoursMade a divorce betwixt his queen and him,Broke the possession of a royal bedAnd stain’d the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeksWith tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs.

“Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him/Broke the possession of a royal bed.” Yeah, they’re Richard’s boyfriends. Both we and the Elizabethan audience would have understood it that way. Bushy, Bagot, and Green are fictional, but Robert de Vere, duke of Ireland, was Richard’s real-life favourite and was accused by Thomas Walsingham at least of sleeping with him or otherwise having some taint of an “obscene relationship”. But Richard was also notably devoted to his first wife, Anne of Bohemia, so as ever, bisexuality exists, my pals. It can go both ways.

….anyway, this swiftly got away from me, so in conclusion, let me relate an actual dream I had last night, for which we can 100% blame the heat. In it, I was watching some Shakespeare play or other, and there was a scene in which the villain dramatically pushed the blonde heroine into the arms of his muscle-bound henchmen in their flowing trousers, then turned to the hero and announced that he would do the same to him. To this, in what was supposed to probably be a defiant “you just try it” moment in other versions of fictional Shakespeare plays that my subconscious writes, the hero stared him dead in the eye, whisked his tunic off to reveal he was wearing nothing but a jeweled G-string underneath, and announced that lo, NOW HE WAS PREPARED. DO THY WORST.

I can only think that this is exactly what Shakespeare would have wanted.