#and then remembered most people are probably sleeping in

[nereidprinc3ss]

mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it. 

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street. 

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out. 

And then, you. 

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this. 

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching. 

I know you, I know you. 

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you. 

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you. 

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in. 

“Hi.” 

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside. 

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name. 

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat. 

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. 

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork. 

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing. 

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates. 

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you. 

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.  

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger. 

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him. 

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks. 

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced. 

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else. 

But maybe he’s projecting. 

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again. 

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else. 

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability. 

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost. 

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing. 

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt. 

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve. 

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done. 

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line. 

Sleeping with you was unforgivable. 

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue. 

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in. 

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see. 

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up. 

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions. 

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview. 

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not. 

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is. 

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true. 

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open. 

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep. 

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious. 

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star. 

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again. 

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze. 

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher. 

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair. 

“What do you really do?” 

He expects you to be asleep. 

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open. 

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep. 

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them. 

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye. 

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache. 

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before. 

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does. 

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art. 

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply. 

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once. 

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey. 

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better? 

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it. 

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek. 

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect. 

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory. 

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia. 

So he begins to walk. 

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise. 

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace. 

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air. 

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect. 

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost. 

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately. 

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out. 

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name. 

It’s been a long time. 

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried? 

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like. 

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up. 

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again. 

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing. 

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides. 

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go. 

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water. 

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants. 

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would. 

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles. 

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night. 

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust. 

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since. 

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed. 

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow. 

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back. 

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert. 

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet. 

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark. 

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him. 

lyrics from my life in art <3

[strawberrystepmom]

bakugou x f!reader. part 3 of a mini series called by heart. part 1 can be found here, part 2 can be found here cw: mentions of alcohol, implied sexual content, weddings. | word count: 2.8k, reading time: ~12 minutes

The morning after. 

You managed to rise at the same time as Katsuki, his incredibly loud alarm blaring through the wall that both of your beds are against on opposite sides. It only sounded once, naturally, yet you found it impossible to go back to sleep knowing he was stirring just a few feet away. 

He robbed you of the opportunity to witness him covered in dawn’s first light. Does he look like he’s on fire, a mythical hero from an old tale when the sun streams through his downy blonde body hair and tinges it red? Could you ever convince him to linger between the sheets after that alarm goes off, wrapping your thigh over his and kissing the planes of his chest?

Shooting up, you decided to simply start your day instead of following such a dangerous line of thinking down an unknown path. 

One workout, shower, and ‘got frustrated while getting dressed and left a tornado of sequins and leather shoes behind’ scenario later and you are finally making your way down to the resort’s restaurant for brunch. 

Katsuki, of course, is already sitting at the place designated as his with his name. Yours is directly next to him. 

You’re in a better mood today and didn’t concoct any plans to make him grovel for forgiveness overnight. It’s like turning over a new page in a fresh book, getting to know each other all over again for the first time. 

Right?

Sighing to yourself, you guess that probably only works with people whose secretions you don’t remember the taste of. Or something.

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts, you inhale in and out for one beat and hold your head high walking toward the table. There’s no reason not to take last night at face value and see the hatchet as buried. You’re a few steps away from finding out if it is or not either way. 

“Morning,” he offers as you come closer.

His table setting has only minimally been rearranged, tea on the left and water on the right. You pause for a moment to watch him slowly start to change your setting too, moving your coffee mug and water glass around and fluffing your napkin.  

“Good morning, I hope you slept well.”

He snorts at your formality and refuses to encourage it further, instead reaching for the sugar he knows you take in your coffee and tearing the wrappers in half, pouring a stack of three into the bottom of your mug. 

“I can’t believe they’re using sugar packets at a place like this.”

Giggling, you pull out your chair to sit down, leaning close to him in the process. 

“You’re such a snob.”

If this assessment were coming from anyone else he’d be wildly insulted but it’s you. So you get the ‘he’s used to your incessant ribbing’ eye roll. 

“Is it really that horrible to want to see people get what they pay for?” 

Steadying your chair by pushing the toe of his dress shoe against the leg of it that rests closest to him, he pours coffee over the sugar while you sit. He leans over the table and picks up a spoon, stirring your drink to make sure everything is distributed the way it should be (read: the way he thinks it should be), tapping it delicately on the ceramic lip when he’s finished. 

“Look around this place and imagine how much it costs - it’s absolute bullshit there are packets instead of cubes.”

It never fails that you forget how refined he is between your periods of time spent together so it’s a treat to see the careful consideration he puts into nearly every move he makes. What he lacks in soft skills with his words he makes up for in impeccable manners when they matter the most, habits you’re sure his mother gave him no choice but to adopt to offset his natural unruliness. 

Finally situated and seated, you turn toward your male counterpart and grace him with a wry half-smile. 

“Better let Deku know they’re slighting him out of at least one yen per grain of sugar.”

The tension that flared during your conversation last night appears to have been put to rest if you’re comfortable enough to make a joke. Unfunny as it is, it’s a good sign that you’re ready to move on. Finally discarding the spoon, Katsuki folds his arms over his chest and glowers in your general direction.

“Are we…?” 

He doesn’t want to be any more of an asshole than he’s already been and assume, so he trails off. You pick up your coffee and sip, placing it down with a smile. 

“Good?”

A solemn nod from him, arms still folded. “Yeah.”

Pretending to waffle for a minute, you puff out your lips and look around the dining room, humming to yourself. 

“Hmm…I have a few more questions but consider yourself off the hook. For now.”

Exhaling loudly through his nose, you find yourself wondering if it isn’t a sigh of relief. What, exactly, he’s feeling relieved about is anyone’s guess. You have no plans of letting it derail your day that is going to be filled with brunch, hugs, and girl time with the rest of the bridesmaids that will be arriving today so you change the subject.

“How was Midoriya this morning?”

You place perfectly made coffee down and reach across the table to dish up berries onto his plate and yours, subtly reminding Bakugou that the groom to be isn’t only his friend, turning your body to fully face him. 

There’s no sense in asking how you even knew the two of them went for their usual morning run together, he’s well aware that info came directly from the bride. The blonde shakes his head thinking of his lifelong friend’s ear to ear grin when discussing his soon to be wife. Even while feeling a little anxious he didn’t bother to hide his joy and how lucky he feels to spend the rest of his life with a woman he unashamedly called his other half. 

Clearing his throat upon realizing it feels a little heavy with emotion, he decides to choose his words carefully. The term other half has danced around in his mind since Izuku said it hours earlier.

What does it mean to be someone’s other half? Is it to make them better? To fill in their gaps and let them do like in return? 

It’s a lot to consider. Too much, actually. He reaches for his water and takes a sip, coming to senses enough to speak. 

“I can tell he’s excited, he asked me to read over his vo—-“

“There you are!”

Before he can finish that thought, another sound Katsuki wasn’t looking forward to hearing all weekend captures the attention of the other guests who turn their heads to see the source. 

His mother. 

“And you too!” She calls, pointing at the occupied spot next to her son to which you respond with a wiggly fingered wave and a lazy grin.

Mitsuki Bakugou, aging gracefully and claiming naturally, approaches the two of you with the same determined smile you’ve seen her son wear on a few occasions. She and Masaru made it last night between the welcome dinner and his time at the bar with you. Their son welcomed them with mostly fake reluctance. 

Truthfully, he’s happy they’re here. They’ve cared about Izuku as much as they have him throughout their lives and it seems only right they witness the newest beautiful branch of the Midoriya family tree sprout. 

He simply doesn’t want to deal with both you and his mom at the same time. You’re high maintenance in different ways - she with her fierce spirit and you with your unfortunately difficult to ignore nature - and he has a duty to fulfill. 

“I asked her to tone it down this weekend,” he mumbles under his breath and sips from the water he’s now nearly white knuckle gripping.

You fake pout in his direction, reaching to pat one of his cheeks but he dodges you at the final second.

“She’s just excited to see her handsome baby boy. Have a heart.”

If side-eyes could kill, you’d be a cadaver yet it doesn’t deter you from leaning in closer, the space between your chest and his shoulder getting too small for comfort. 

“Oh that’s perfect! Hold on, let me get my camera…” 

The woman of the hour has finally made her way over. Her son grits his teeth and looks away, refusing to bother hiding his annoyance. It’s the most childish habit of his that has hung over into adulthood. If it were seen as less uncouth to simply physically remove yourself from situations you don’t want to be in, he’d just do that. 

“Hurry up,” he warns with arms folded over his chest. 

“Not until you uncross your arms,” his mother sing-songs from in front of the two of you, phone covering her features. 

He unfolds his arms and lets them dangle rebelliously at his sides. You lean in as close as you can without potentially getting bit, putting on your very best photo smile, sitting frozen. 

“Pull that woman closer to you or so help me...”

Without any warning, Bakugou’s arm snakes its way around your shoulders and pulls you against his side. Attempting to keep your smile and show no surprise, you clench your jaw tightly knowing he’s almost certainly doing the same. Big fingers cup your shoulder, almost tenderly, and his smile is tight but there when you steal a glance at him and just like that the flash goes off. 

Backing her phone away from her face, his mother beams. “I might need to frame that one!” She flips her phone around to show off the photo.

His arm around your shoulder, the trace of a real smile on his face and not just the fake one you assumed he had. You, face turned to look at him with tenderness you’d usually reserve for a man you’d be calling your lover. 

To the unfamiliar, you two would look shockingly…together. 

“It’s good, mom. Thanks for taking it.” 

He pushes the phone away, hoping to get this ordeal over with sooner rather than later. His mother is insisting on sticking around, picking around the table and making little notes about what she sees aloud. Of course this is no big deal to her.

“Sugar packets?” 

The Bakugou matriarch wrinkles her nose in disgust while plucking one from their ceramic home causing you to swallow a laugh. Katsuki throws up his hands as if to say “told you so”.

“I said the same thing and she acted like I was crazy.”

Mitsuki hums to herself, placing the packet back in its cradle and zeroing in on you with a smile. “Well when it’s finally you two’s turn we’ll make sure there are cubes, won’t we?”

The warmth drains from your face, eyes widening and before you can catch yourself to prevent the horrified expression from being seen you’ve been spotted. Such open disgust has told him more than you ever will. The blonde next to you snorts bitterly and looks away yet again in an effort to distance himself from the situation. 

“Lighten up, I’m just messin’ with you both.” She digs in her purse, eventually giving up and dropping her phone inside. “Anyway, I need to go find Inko. I need to see how she’s handling all of this for when it’s finally my turn.”

Kissing her son atop his head and ruffling his hair, she wiggles her fingers at you while taking her leave with no idea about the mess she’s left behind. 

“Are we…?”

It’s you asking it this time, a little alarmed by his distance and silence and that his eyes haven’t even bothered to turn toward you since you were caught.  

“Yup,” he emphasizes the “p” with a popping noise while leaning across the table to dish up his plate. “Have some questions just like you but we are so fucking good.”

Despite his obvious annoyance and the way he speaks through gritted teeth, he spoons out portions of each of the dishes on the table onto your plate alongside his own. 

The meal is consumed wordless and awkwardly, his eyes staying glued to the edges of the room until it’s time for you to go join the bridesmaids at the spa. 

[leiakenobi]

norstappen + wings or animal parts (catboys👀)

catboys brand new thing for me let's go (from this prompt list)

The first thing Lando registers is fingers gently raking through his curls and then trailing, even more carefully, over his ears. Thumb and forefinger tracing smooth up to the very point of one ear, and then down through his hair and across his head to tenderly stroke the other.

It's heavenly—so good that Lando squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, nestles closer to the hand as he feels a purr building heavy in his chest. He thinks he could fall back to sleep for hours like this, with gentle pets and the rich, comforting smell of Max deep in his nose, around and all over him.

Only. Only Lando's senses begin to really kick in then. He feels the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath him. It echoes with a thunderous purr and is covered in a spectacularly soft t-shirt that absolutely smells like Max Verstappen.

Probably because Max Verstappen is wearing it.

Lando's eyes burst open as he springs up and back onto his knees.

"Good morning," Max says. His features are still a little bogged down with sleep, but he's smiling easily. Evidently he feels more calm and collected than Lando does right about now. (But when doesn't he?)

In fact, the calmest, most collected thing Lando can manage is a weak, "Uh."

Max's ears twist forward a little in amusement. Given the circumstances, it helps Lando not to take it personally when he says, "I think most people would say something like, 'good morning to you too.'"

Lando laughs weakly. "Good morning to you too."

He looks around the room and tries to find his bearings, mostly because the alternative would be looking at Max. It's not that he doesn't remember coming here—they'd had quite a bit to drink at Jimmy'z before stumbling into a car, and then stumbling into Max's apartment-- bedroom-- bed. They'd had a lot of fun. Funny how the things they'd only ever gotten up to in cramped toilets and aboard Air Max were suddenly so much less strenuous when they were able to spread out and take their time.

And then when it was over, Lando had sworn up and down that he ought to head home. Except he was worn out, obviously, and Max was warm and comfortable and stroking absent-mindedly at his tail in this way that Lando always likes (with people he likes) and so he'd made a fatal mistake:

Just gonna rest my eyes a few minutes.

Now the sun is stretching out across the bed and Max is looking at Lando like he's a bit of an idiot, which he does a lot. But he's also looking quite fond about it, which he does a lot, too.

It's all very confusing.

"I just feel bad," Lando explains lamely. "Meant to get out of your way."

"Didn't I tell you you could stay?"

Well, yeah, but that was just like. a nice gesture, Lando knows those when he hears them. Some tender part of him on the inside wilts at the very thought, and then he winces as he feels his ears wilt a little, too. His tail flickers weakly behind him, but maybe Max can't see that. Maybe he can keep from being too obscenely obvious. "I mean, yeah."

"Well I wouldn't have said that if you'd be in my way." Max stretches his limbs out with a soft groan, making his shirt ride up just enough to expose his belly. Lando barely looks – honest – but when he meets Max's gaze again, he's confronted with a deeper sort of amusement in his eyes. "I kept trying to tell you my meeting isn't 'til this afternoon anyway. I've got loads of time."

"Okay."

"And even if I had to leave early, you could stick around, okay?" Lando suddenly registers a gentle thump of Max's tail against the mattress as his expression grows playful. "If it makes you smell more like me, I'd never complain."

Lando wrinkles his nose. "Maybe I'd just roll around on all your furniture and make it smell like me."

As though to make his point, Lando flops backward and burrows into the covers at Max's feet. At first blush, at least, it's not working; he can practically feel Max's scent nestling into him deeper and deeper.

But Max giggles and springs up after Lando, slotting comfortably on top of him. "Why not both?"

"Yeah," Lando breathes, already a little thoughtless as Max ducks down to kiss him because Max is promptly petting him again, which is unfair play. There's not even any sort of expectation or immediate wanting in it—it's just soft, and a little tender, and when Max pulls away Lando misses it at once.

"Now would you stop being weird?" Max asks. "I'll make us some breakfast and then maybe I can blow you again."

Lando nearly chokes on his tongue. "Yeah, alright."

[numinousmysteries]

The Baying of the Six-Pound Hound

For the @twocakesficfest (several months too late) prompt:

immortal / invincible queeqeg who likes to show up and mess up a case or two (probably by eating the victim - e.g. Mulder: the victim walked away, cut to a tiny dog dragging a leg away)

A very special thank you to @leiascully for catching all my nauseating tense changes, ensuring I didn't accidentally summon any evil spirits, and making me work a tiny bit more to get them smooching.

[on Ao3]

1. 

He'd been in an uncharacteristically deep sleep when the yapping woke him up, which made it all the more annoying. It was rare for him to be so fully disconnected from the waking world. Typically, he'd float just below the surface of consciousness, the smallest noise enough to rouse him. But on this night, in a narrow, single-story motor lodge wedged up in the Colorado mountains, Fox Mulder had been completely, deeply, aslumber.

He'd been dreaming, too. Not his usual fretful nightmare but a rather sweet dream that featured his partner. It wasn't the first time he dreamt about her, although those dreams were typically of a more erotic nature and would leave him waking up feeling filthy with guilt—and more often than not, rock hard. He'd dream of bending her over the desk in their basement office, burying himself in her, and hearing her soft little moans as he gripped the curves of her hips. Or they'd be on the couch in his apartment and she'd be in his lap, riding him as he watched the smooth undulation of her breasts. These dreams would send him to the shower full of shame. He'd shut his eyes and take himself in his fist, gripping his cock with a firmness that bordered on pain to break the mounting tension with enough self-punishment that he could face Scully in the morning.

But this most recent dream left nothing to be ashamed of. They were walking hand-in-hand, fully-clothed, down a Georgetown street near her apartment. The sun warmed his face and Scully's small hand fit perfectly in his. They weren't in pursuit of a suspect or off to meet an informant, just strolling aimlessly like two people in love. In a way, this mundane dream felt more illicit than his most perverse fantasies because it seemed like more than anything he deserved. He could better imagine a tense moment, even an argument between them, dissolving into frenzied sex than allow himself to indulge the idea of a happy, out-in-the-open relationship with Scully. Which was why this dream was so lovely—and why it had been so frustrating when the yapping shocked him awake.

It sounded like Queequeg. But Scully didn't bring the dog with her on cases, not since– Shit , he remembered. Scully's annoying little furball of a dog, whom she inexplicably loved (which, he considered fleetingly, might bode well for her capacity to love other irritating beings), had died on the shore of Heuvelmans Lake, eaten by an alligator, or Big Blue, depending on who you asked.

The barking must have been coming from one of the neighboring rooms. But Scully was in the room to his left and the room to his right had appeared to be unoccupied when they arrived. 

By the time he showered, dressed, and made it outside to meet Scully at the rental car, she was already waiting for him with a cup of bitter coffee from the urn in the motel lobby. 

"That dog wake you up, too?" he asked.

She arched an eyebrow at him as she sipped from her styrofoam cup. "What dog?"

"Nevermind," he said, unlocking the car door.

They snaked around the mountain to the ranger station where they'd planned to meet the park ranger who’d supposedly spotted the Slide Rock Bolter. The Bolter, according to legend, was a giant landfish with a forked tail that could pick up a lumberjack and split him in two. It also had the jaw of a whale, the teeth of a shark, and the power to cause avalanche-like rock slides, hence the name. The ranger who contacted Mulder claimed that his partner, who’d gone missing the previous week, had been swallowed whole by the Bolter.

Their interview proved to be less than illuminating and they spent the rest of the afternoon hiking the mountain on their own searching for the creature. The high altitude left them both breathless so they were slower than usual as they ascended. Mulder was annoyed that they couldn't cover more ground before the sun started to set. Their descent was even slower as neither had brought the right shoes and they found themselves stumbling down the rocks and grasping onto each other for support.

Then, he saw it. A flash of auburn darting between a row of skeletal aspen trees. He gasped. 

"What is it?" she asked, turning back to face him. 

"I saw something," he said. 

"The Slide Rock Bolter?"

He frowned and shook his head. "Probably just a fox. Maybe a coyote.” Although, if he were being honest,  it kind of looked like a small dog.

Scully shrugged, turned away from him, and started heading back down the mountain. 

2.

He didn’t want to say anything, but Scully's apartment smelled bad. It normally smelled nice. Like the candles she lights or even freshly baked bread, even though he knows she doesn't bake bread. But now, it smelled like wet dog. He specifically wouldn't bring that up because she hadn't owned a dog in nearly a year now. For reasons that might have been, depending on who you asked, his fault.

He tried to hide his disgust as he spread open a file of photographs on her kitchen table, but the odor was truly overpowering. It was as if Queequeg—or let's say any anonymous dog who had not been eaten by, depending on who was telling the story, Big Blue or an alligator—had been mucking around in sewer water after not bathing for several weeks.

"Sorry, Scully, but what's that smell?" he asked finally. He felt his stomach contents rising to his throat, and it wasn’t because of the gruesome crime scene photos on the table.

She paused and tilted her chin up to the ceiling. He watched as she sniffed the air in sharp, short inhales through her perfectly proportioned nose.

"I don't smell anything," she said. 

"Really?" he asked, stunned. "It smells like—and I don't mean to bring up any unpleasant memories—wet dog in here."

She sniffed again, then shrugged. "I really don't smell it," she said, shaking her head. "But I can open a window if you want."

"Nah, it's okay."

He tried to run through his explanation of the case as quickly as possible. Three victims found without tongues, but no evidence of any procedure or act that would've resulted in the loss of said tongues which, their friends and family members insisted, were surely present before their deaths.

"The killer could be a surgeon and have access to fine tools or even lasers for seamless cuttage," she said, examining the autopsy photos.

"Mmmhmm, mmhmm," he nodded, trying to open his mouth as little as possible to keep the scent out. "But there's no sign of cutting or scarring. Which there surely would be if the procedure was performed so recently? None of the victims were missing for more than 24 hours—and all had been seen, with tongue no less, within a day. No wound could heal that fast, right?"

"So, what's your theory?" she asked. "Cat got their tongue?"

She was pleased with her little joke and gave him a rare, precious Scully grin. He wanted to at least humor her with a laugh but the mention of a cat—so close to a dog that smelled like crap—made his stomach gurgle yet again and he had to swallow sharply to keep the acidic bile down.

"You okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah, it's just...that smell. It's nauseating."

She shook her head again, that long neck taunting him. "I'm a little concerned," she said. "Are you feeling alright? A sinus infection could cause phantosmia. Or a head injury. Although you weren't banged up much on our last case."

"I'm fine," he said. "Anyway, it's not a cat I'm thinking of, but a cannibalistic spirit documented by Algonquian-speaking Native American tribes in the Northern US and Canadian wilderness.” 

"A wendigo?" she asked, eyebrow arched and ready to fire.

“Very impressive, Scully,” he grinned. “Although you should know that merely saying the spirit’s name is considered taboo. Some believe doing so could summon it into being.” 

She rolled her eyes.

He swallowed hard, and continued. “The spirit possesses a man, who then becomes unable to resist the temptation to eat human flesh. Specifically, the delicacy of the tongue."

"So you think a possessed person ate the victims' tongues?"

"Perhaps," he says. "And the legend goes that because it's actually the spirit feasting on human flesh—not the killer himself—there are no wounds where the tongue is removed. It also explains how these victims lost more than half their blood volume with no signs of trauma."

"It could be severe gastrointestinal bleeding," she said, ignoring his theory. "Perhaps as the result of a communicable illness which would explain why three members of the same community died in the same manner."

"So you think they shat out all their blood?"

"It's not unheard of," she shrugged. “Have any of the victims traveled to a region where ebola is endemic?” 

It was all making him nauseous now. He thought he'd gotten used to it after being in the room for a few minutes but the smell, if anything, was getting worse.

He felt vomit rising into his mouth and cupped  his hand over his lips. "Sorry, Scully. I gotta--" he started before bolting to her bathroom and puking into the toilet. 

"Are you okay?" she asked when he re-entered the room, eyes bloodshot.

"I think I'm coming down with something," he said. "Listen, why don't you take a look at those photos and we'll discuss more in the office tomorrow. I better get going."

"Jeez, Mulder, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were pregnant, between the heightened sense of smell and the vomiting. But that sounds like one of your theories, not mine."

"Very funny, Scully," he said, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and heading to the door.

In the hallway, he gasped a sigh of relief. Whatever disgusting dog odor permeated Scully's apartment fortunately hadn't made its way out here. 

3.

At first, he thought the sharp prick at his heel was Scully's toenails. He was about to tease her about trimming them when he realized she was sitting beside him on her couch with her feet tucked underneath her. They were back at her apartment a week later debriefing their previous case. He hadn’t been able to prove the existence of a cannibalistic spirit and she hadn’t been able to come up with a plausible scientific explanation so they were left in their typical stalemate. Although the animal smell had dissipated, he couldn’t shake the sense that something was off. 

He was listening to her recount her autopsy findings when— fuck , there was that sharp biting sensation again. He involuntarily kicked out his foot as if fending off an invisible ankle-height assailant. 

"What's wrong?" Her eyes popped open. 

"Shit, sorry Scully," he said, trying to settle back down. "I could've sworn something was biting my ankle.”

"Biting?" she asked skeptically.

"Yeah," he trailed off, folding in half to examine the carpet underneath the sofa. "Almost like a little dog."

"Like Queequeg?" She smirked. 

"Actually, yeah, I think that's exactly what it was like. Like that fur ball was nibbling at my heels.” 

“I don’t have to tell you that’s impossible.” He detected a hint of sadness in her voice and his heart sank, not for the first time, for all that their work had taken from her.

He opened his mouth to tell her about the other recent events—the barking sound, the flash of auburn in the Colorado wilderness, the wet fur smell of her apartment—but he knew she’d just dismiss it all.

“What?” she asked, sensing he was on the verge of revealing something. As if they were on a case and he was holding back a vital piece of information. Something he had been guilty of doing in the past, he knew, but he usually had a valid reason. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Mulder….” She dipped her chin down as her eyes bore into his.

Powerless against her, he told her everything. "Maybe he's haunting you," he concluded.

"Oh, no, Mulder," she said definitively. "I don't think it's me he's haunting."

4.

They decided to hold a seance the next day. Scully sneered at first but ultimately went along with it without needing too much convincing. She still had Queequeg’s leash and collar, so they set up a small shrine on her coffee table. She gathered a mismatched array of candles from the bathroom and living room and put them around Queequeg's memorabilia.

"How does this work?" she asked. 

He considered reminding her that she'd demonstrated the ability to transcend the boundary between the living and the dead in the past, but that would have required bringing up her father, which would have put a damper on this otherwise delightful evening. Scully felt warm next to him and they were essentially hanging out without the pretense of a case. Sure, they were having a seance for a dead dog, but how else would the two of them bond after hours?

"Let's just close our eyes, hold hands, and try to summon his spirit."

"Is this just an excuse to hold hands, Mulder?"

"Any excuse I can get," he said, as he reached out to take her hand in his. He hoped it came off as a joke, but he really did mean it. It felt so good to hold her hand when neither of them were near death. 

"Mary Todd Lincoln used to host the nation's most renowned spiritualists at the White House for seances to speak with her late son," Mulder said, trying to lend an air of legitimacy to their makeshift session. "Even honest Abe would sometimes make an appearance."

"Don't we need a medium?" Scully asked, keeping a firm hold on his hand. 

"I figure you could play the role, Madame Scully," he said, tipping his chin in her direction. She smiled. He liked making her smile. Her smile always had the effect of flicking a switch deep in his belly that felt like the delicate flutter of a butterfly's wings.

"I think Melissa and I had a Ouija board back in the day."

"Pfft," he snorted. "The Ouija board is a purely commercial invention. I don't think anything made in the same factory as Chutes and Ladders can be trusted to commune with the dead."

Scully smirked. "I assumed Ouijia boards would fit right in with the Fox Mulder cosmology."

"Then, Scully," he said, shaking his head, "I don't think you know me at all."

He grinned at her and she smiled back. 

"So, how do we start this thing?" she asked.

"First, we have to close the circle." He extended his free hand to hers and she squeezed tightly onto it.

They stood silently for a beat, facing each other, holding hands. He wasn't actually sure if there was a spiritualist reason for creating the closed circle, but it had to have roots in ancient concepts of energy channeling. He'd done silly little seances in college, typically led by witchy girls with dyed black hair and crystal jewelry, and they always stressed the importance of not breaking the circle. Once he had taken the time to dive into the occult and 19th century spiritualism—the heyday of the modern seance—he couldn't find anything on the importance of maintaining a circle. But then again, if holding one of Scully's hands was nice, holding both of them was even better.

He closed his eyes and, without saying anything, sensed that she'd closed hers, too. He relished the trust she placed in him, listening as her breathing slowed and deepened. He inhaled the heady mix of candles they'd gathered from around the apartment. Vanilla and eucalyptus mingled in the air with musk and gardenia and he suspected these weren't all supposed to be lit at once, but somehow it worked. 

"Do you want me to say something?" she asked, her soft voice drifting over to him in the dark.

"Um, if you want," he said.

She paused, then began. "Queequeg, we welcome your spirit into our circle. If you're near us, please make your presence known."

"Not bad, Scully," he said, giving her hands a squeeze.

"Melissa used to do this crap all the time."

"Hey, don't rain on my parade over here."

"Sorry," she said with a giggle that set his soul aflame.

"We miss you, Queequeg, you were a good dog," she went on. "You didn't always smell the best, especially when you were flatulent, which seemed to be more often than not—"

"What were you feeding that dog?" Mulder interrupted.

"Shut up," she said. "But no matter how poorly you smelled at times, I loved you very much and truly enjoyed the time we spent together. If you've come back because you're angry at Mulder for leading you to your demise at the hands of an alligator—"

"Or Big Blue," he piped up.

She tugged on his hands and ignored him. "If you're angry at Mulder, he'd like to take this chance to apologize and request your forgiveness so you can transition on to the next plane in peace."

"Scully, this isn't half bad," he said, genuinely impressed. 

"It's your turn now—go on, apologize."

"Are you serious?"

"Do you want him to stop haunting you or not?"

Mulder smiled and tried to convey his happiness through their grasped hands.

"Queequeg, this is Mulder speaking. I want to apologize for calling you names and dragging you out to Heuvelmans Lake where you met your untimely demise. I wish we could have spent more time together with Scully—” 

She cut him off with an adorable snort of a laugh.

"—listening to Scully talk. And have Scully check us for fleas and ticks."

Her giggle was a full-blown laugh now. He was desperate to open his eyes and see her face light up. but he’d bought into this seance, so he wasn’t about to break it now.

"I checked you for ticks once , Mulder," she said. "And that was because we'd just spent the night in the woods."

"Well, you're welcome to check again any time."

"I think we're getting off topic," she said, collecting herself. "Keep talking to Queequeg."

5.

There was no gust of wind, flickering light, or even jingling collar bells ringing through the room after he finished speaking, but they both sensed a change. It was as if a six-pound weight had been lifted. 

"I think his spirit is free," Scully whispered to him, solemnly. 

"Run free, Queequeg," he said. He gently opened his eyes and found that hers were open too, and she was looking at him warmly. Despite her reputation for being cold and closed off, he knew that Scully emanated warmth. Once she let someone into her life, she’d hold them in her warmth and protect them with her loyalty. He was only slightly peeved that she had opened herself up to Queequeg before him.

She loved with a fierceness and dedication outsized for her tiny frame. Then again, everything about Scully was larger than her small size would suggest. Her brilliance, her strength, and yes, her love, all seemed like they should overwhelm someone so tiny, but Scully managed to contain it all in just a few inches over five feet.

In that way, she was  like Queequeg. An outsized force stuffed into a small package, with a tuft of auburn hair, who would bite if necessary. He wouldn't dare compare her to Queequeg out loud, though.

Instead, he said, "He was a good dog."

"I thought you couldn't stand him."

"I don't know if we ever saw eye to eye, per se, although that might've been more of a height issue." He gave her a crooked smile. "But I know you liked him, that he kept you company."

"That makes me sound pretty pathetic," she sighed. 

"I didn't mean that. Just that—" he paused to choose his words carefully—"it's nice to come home to someone. I know fish aren't really the same as dogs, but sometimes it's soothing to see them after a long day of the shit we deal with. It just helps me put things in perspective—I'm dealing with lies and gaslighting and conspiracies, and they're just obliviously swimming along and enjoying their lives. A dog must be similar, I imagine."

"Yeah," she nodded. "It was like that with Queequeg. Whenever I'd get frustrated with work or with you"— he gasped in mock outrage and she just smiled and continued—"he'd always be here and look so excited to go for a walk or get his dinner. The consistency was comforting. And he was good at cuddling. He'd get so warm, like a little ball of heat."

"You know, Scully," he started, "I'm available for cuddling if you're ever feeling cold."

“I’ll keep that under consideration.” She smiled. “For now, want to stick around for a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” he said, and she disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a bottle and glasses. 

"I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to speak with Queequeg's spirit," he said when she returned,  accepting a glass of red wine from her. 

Settled into the opposite corner of the couch, Scully sat with her legs scrunched up underneath herself with her own glass of wine. He couldn't deal with how precious she looked—nor with how far away she sat.

"Get over here, Scully," he said, patting the cushion next to him.

She smiled, untucked her legs, and moved to scoot over next to him. He transferred his wine glass to his left hand so he could drape his right arm over her shoulder. 

"Maybe Queequeg just has to realize that I'm not a threat to you," he said. Emboldened by her lack of response to his arm over hers, he started lazily tracing circles on her tricep. "Then he'll stop haunting me."

"You're not a threat to me," she said, seriously.

"Come on, Scully." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I'm responsible for so much shit that's happened to you over the years. If I were a little Pomeranian in love with you, I'd do everything in my six-pound power to make this Mulder guy's life a living hell."

She raised an eyebrow. "You think Queequeg was in love with me?"

"How could he not be?" he spit out without even thinking. "I mean—" he tried to recover—"you took good care of him."

Scully just gave him a Cheshire cat grin. She wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

"You think that's all it takes to fall in love with me? If I take care of you?"

"Well, there are lots of reasons a guy—or a dog—could fall in love with you. You're loyal, kind, and caring. You're fucking brilliant. And you're not half-bad to look at either."

"’Not half-bad,’” she repeated, frowning. “I’m flattered, really.” 

“Give me a break. I’m trying to play it cool here,” he admitted. 

She blushed and took a sip of her wine. He did, too, as if trying to use the alcohol to mask his sudden confession. Although it was his first sip and he'd been drunk in love with her for longer than he cared to admit.

"Oh, fuck it," he said. He leaned forward to set the wine glass on the coffee table and pivoted to face her. Bravely, he delved into uncharted territory. "You're breathtakingly beautiful, Scully. I'm not about to speculate on what got Queequeg's gears going, but if he's anything like me, he wouldn't be able to resist you. Frankly, I'm jealous of how many nights he got to spend in your bed."

"I didn't allow him in the bed."

He smiled wide. “Of course you didn't," he said. "Because you know about things like pet dander and how sleeping with a dog in your bed can interrupt your REM cycle and that's another reason why you're so lovable.”

“You’re making me sound more anal-retentive than lovable.” She looked up at him with sad eyes before quickly glancing down again. 

“Oh, Scully, you know that’s now what I mean.” He leaned forward to nudge her shoulder with his. 

“What do you mean?” She asked, her eyes still downcast. 

“Just that—” He paused, struggling to find the words. “You’re so you , Scully. You’re so fully realized, so completely yourself, but not in a way that makes you predictable or boring. It just makes it all the more thrilling when I learn something new about you that somehow both surprises me and fits into the puzzle of what makes you you.”

“And that fact that I didn’t let a dog sleep in my bed somehow makes me more lovable?” 

“It does to me.” He brought the tip of his pointer finger to her chin, softly encouraging her to look back toward him. “What I’m trying, and apparently failing, to say is that I love everything about you. I love that you’re particular and exacting. I love that you force me to be honest and vigorous in our work, and I love that you’re part of my life outside of work, too. And while there’s nothing I value more than our friendship, I hope I’m not being too presumptive to say that I’m getting the feeling we’d both like to be more than friends.”

Terrified, he searched her eyes for confirmation, any sign that his feelings were reciprocated. But she simply stared back at him, her chin wrinkling as she considered his words.

“Although, I suppose, sharing your bed with a creature a lot larger than a Pomeranian might be much more disruptive to your sleep cycle,” he added. 

“I might not mind the interruption,” she said finally, her voice low and breathy, her eyes still locked on his.  

“Even from your defiant, alien-chasing, nutjob of a partner?” 

“Do you mean my incredibly tenacious, intelligent, and loyal partner for whom I might just harbor similar feelings?” 

"Do you think Queequeg would approve?" he asked.

"Let's find out," she said. Before he could question her, Scully's lips were pressed against his. She tasted like tannin-rich wine but also something deeper and more Scully-like: warm and tangy with other unidentifiable undertones that he could drink from his whole life and never get enough of.

He took her wine glass from her and placed it next to his on the coffee table. With both hands free, she felt her way up his arms to frame his face. His own hands wandered wildly, up her back, through her hair, on her soft and tender cheeks. She opened her mouth to him and he tasted her tongue with his. He felt his body responding to her kiss—and judging on how she was squirming and shifting her hips towards him, he knew she was responding as well.

Just as he was about to slip a hand up and underneath her feather-soft sweater to caress the even softer skin underneath, he heard a low, deep growl off in the distance.

He pulled away and faced Scully, puzzled.

“That couldn’t be—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I heard it, too. I think my neighbors down the hall got an English bulldog. It’s not a ghost.” 

“Good enough for me.”

“I should kiss you more often if it gets you to agree so easily.” She smiled at him, inching even closer on the couch.

“I think you should test that theory, Agent Scully.” 

She leaned in again. This time, there were no howls or growls interrupting them.

[tentakilly]

Dr Glass headcannons part ?????

I have no idea how I form these. Excuse the fact my version of the character is fucking wild.

You know how everyone has that one friend that is like held together by a coconut jpeg. Yea that’s Simon lol

If you followed me before during the Dr Titanic era of my dumbassery then you probably don’t remember Grass. It’s basically just me shipping Glass and Gerald(queer platonicly). Anyways I still ship that lowkey.

Favorite animals in order are: Duck, cat, and opossum. Honorable mention for crows.

Basically cannon but he keeps snacks in his desk. Sometimes he throws like a packet of goldfish at you if notices you haven’t eaten. He doesn’t toss it normally he like straight up smacks you in the back of the head with it(unintentionally but it’s still funny).

Doesn’t sleep. That man is on 12 non consecutive minutes of sleep at the most.

Speaking of opossums. He kinda looks like what you’d think a human opossum looks like. If everyone else can be slightly ugly why can’t he.

His favorite holiday is Halloween and he takes the whole day off for spooky movies.

He doesn’t really remember anything before he turned 17 so like what he does and can remember is very important to him. He literally writes everything down so he never forgets anything(impossible task btw).

For the most part he doesn’t even know what hes grieving on some days.

He associates certain places and things with people and experiences. Not like in a normal person way though.

Owns the Motherfucker Freud shirt.

Agent Diogenes loves him back just not romantically.

He has a hard time distinguishing between different relationship types making his close relationships very very confusing to navigate.

[awonderfulliar]

Tangerine flavored

As if you didn't have enough problems already... You sighed as the man behind you pushed his gun in your rib to make you move faster. Your hands were up in the air and you were breathing slowly, focused on the sounds around you. Why did so many people want you dead again? You chuckled a bit, remembering all of the stupid decisions that brought you here. You kept smiling. Quite funny how most of your survival instinct can shut down when you've been sleep deprived and stressed long enough. The big bad man standing in front of you must not have liked that as he ordered his men to knock you unconscious.

When you woke up, your hands were tied to a rusty radiator with dried bloodstains. You weren't quite smiling anymore. Especially when you saw the instruments in a metal bowl lying on the ground not far from you. The room was dark and only a ray of light slipped through a metal door on the opposite wall. You blinked as someone opened the door, letting all of the brightness from outside reach your tired eyes.

-Sleep well darling? did a male voice say in a mocking tone

-Where were you all night? Off to another girl's bed I take it.

The man grinned a bit and you knew your sarcasm would sooner be beaten out of you then you could get a laugh out of this tall caricature of a gangster's handyman.

-A lot of money has been paid for your pretty head, you know.

-Always knew I could be a face model.

-I don't think that's so true anymore, bloody mary.

You wipped your cheek and looked at your hand. Dried blood and dirt covered your fingers.

-Anyway, sweetheart, my boss wants to know how you were able to piss off all of these people.

-Can't he ask me himself?

-You're not that important.

-Well it seems I am actually. And you guys are the only ones unaware of why apparently.

A voice coming from outside shouted "We have a fresh one!". The man in front of you harshly took your hands to tie them. Then he turned around calmly and left the room with the door still open. You tried to get up, but were too slow as he quickly came back with two other men. One was almost unconscious, beaten up, and bloody all other. His messy brown curls hid most of his face and a golden chain hang around his neck as his head was tilted towards the floor. The two men handling him threw him on the ground next to you and his already torn blue suit soiled with the grey dust of the room.

-Alright, we'll let you two rest for now, but don't worry, darling, I'll be back soon enough. And you better have an answer for me by then.

The two men left the room and you stared at your new now completely unconscious companion.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-Where the fuck am I?

He said in a raspy voice, waking you up from your very light sleep. You didn't answer and looked his way for the second time today. He was quite handsome, actually, with piercing blue eyes, a sharp jawline, and a nice British mustache. You stared more than you were meant to because that's how he took notice of you. As the weird girl staring at him.

-They locked me up with the crazys?? What the fuck is wrong with these people?! I'm a respectable sane man, I am. Fucking pricks.

You chukled, your eyes still lingering on his figure. You liked his accent too. You turned your head to the door, finally leaving the man some privacy as you closed your eyes. You heard him standing up with difficulty and reaching the other side of the room probably while leaning on the wall. He was grunting in pain. You opened your eyes.

-Yeah, they probably forgot to lock the door. Or maybe they left us the key. Oh, wait, what if this is just an elaborated escape room, uh?

-Your hands are tied, mines aren't. So maybe try that again in a nicer tone, uh love?

-Kinky...

He threw you a mean glance from across the room. That smug smile that earned you all those problems was still on your lips.

He slid on the wall and fell back in a sitting position. He looked exhausted. As you were trying to think of what to say, the door opened.

-So, are you ready to talk? Or do I need to deal with you in a less calm manner?

That man from earlier was back, smiling and clearly on a power trip.

-I don't know what you want me to tell you.

He walked across the room, past the handsom exhausted man, and stood straight like a stick in front of you.

-Maybe start by what you did to deserve one of the highest price I've ever seen on someone's head.

The british looking man, who was starting to fall asleep, began to pay attention at those words. His blue eyes were on you except you doubted it was to take in the sight of your face. Too bad...

-Would you believe me if I said I didn't do anything?

The handyman squat down, looked at you, and slapped you in the face harshly. Even the other guy flinched.

-Start speaking now or...

-Or what?! You'll kill me?? You're going to do that either way! So what's the point of figuring out why others wanted to do it themselves?! You'll collect the prize with or without knowing why it was put on my head in the first place. You don't need the info. You just need an excuse to keep me alive until the client comes in and sees me alive. I know they want proof. Live proof. They want to see you guys kill me. You're not doing me a favor by letting me live, you're just doing it to get the bigger bag.

The man stood up, hummered something that sounded like "smart cookie", chuckled, and left.

-Jeez... what did you do? *did british hottie say*

This time it was your turn to throw a mean look his way.

-You really think I'm gonna tell you.

-I can untie your hands for starters. And I can help you get out of there. However I like to know who I'm doing business with, so if you wouldn't mind disclosing the information that guy was looking for...

-Get me out of there and I might.

-Doesn't work like that love.

-Then leave me here. I never asked you to help me, did I?

-Obviously, it's going to be harder to escape alone.

-So untie me and I'll help you.

-What if you're actually crazy and will turn on me the first chance you'll get.

You chuckled. Smiled a bit, a sad look on your face.

-A big tough buy.. scared of me... scared I'll be the one to hurt him. It's crazy how life turns out, uh? One minute you're scared to walk home alone after the sun goes down. The other, the guy you would have been scared of on those streets at night turns out to be the one distrusting you.

His eyes were locked on you. Watching you as if you were some lab rat. An eyebrow raised in interest. A serious look that meant he wasn't taking this scientific anaylisis lightly. He rose back up, slowly walked up to you with the difficulty of a hurt man, and lowered to your level when he came close enough.

-What's your name?

-Is it important?

-It is to me. You thought of pointing out the implications of that answer, but were scared of where that would lead the two of you.

-Y/n.

-I'm Tangerine.

-That's a fruit.

-Good observation skills. A real detective.

-I'm just saying.

As you were talking, he came even closer and untied your hands. His fingers were grazing your skin. You smiled again, this time without the sad look on your face but a more embarassed one. Like a young girl with a crush in 6th grade recess. It wasn't that he was touching you (not entirely at least). It was that he was helping you.

He stood back up, straightened his back, and extended his arm towards you, opening his hand. You were looking elsewhere as he gestured to you.

-It is a fruit's name though... you're named after a fucking fruit... and I'm the crazy one...

You take his hand, get off the floor, and smile big this time, confidently, and with a mysteriously cocky look in your eyes.

-Alright, time to get out of here.

-Look love, I appreciate the confidence and all, but let me take the lead on this. You're obviously a bit slowed down by all the beating and like you said, I'm the big tough guy here.

-I'm not slowed down! *You said while starting to walk towards the door, damn your leg hurt...*

-You're limping...

You smiled a bit awkardly. "Nothing serious... just haven't stretched out yet is all". Tangerine smirked and walked (shall I mention a lot faster than you as he wasn't limping) towards the side of the door.

-Could you get your friend back in the room please? Just him though.

-HEY ASSHOLE!! COME BACK HERE I'M READY TO TALK!

And just like that, you heard footsteps advancing. The door opened 40 seconds later, and you locked eyes with the bitch slapping dumb looking goon. In shock of seeing you standing up, free of your ties, he took a milisecond to stare you down during which Tangerine grabbed his head in his hands, quickly broke his neck, and picked up the riffle.

-Could you pass me his handgun?

-You're not gonna kill me are you love?

-I don't eat tangerines... always preferred oranges.

-You do realize that there are other ways to interpete this right?

You laughed silently, murmuring "Yeah well I don't mean it like that obviously...". To your surprise he heard.

-Obviously?... *He smirked at you with a very cocky look on his face which made you blush a tiniest bit, but under the dirt and blood, you were almost sure he couldn't see it. He handed you the deceased goon's gun*.

But, time for banter quickly came to an end as your british eye candy advanced in the dark and gloomy hallway, on his gard. You followed after him. Quick story short: he shot most of the gards himself, and you had to fire the gun maybe 5 times total, surely hitting your target, but not contributing much to the team's effort as there was a little bit more than only 5 gards between you and the exit. To be completely fair though, you guys managed to not alert every guard there thanks to you, as you killed quickly the ones running for help.

All of this came to an end in a backalley of a London restaurant where the fire escape you took led. You were free. Somehow. Still limping and in a quite awful condition. But free.

-Well this is where we say goodbye Y/N. I don't know what you did to get that prize on your head, but surely you must be a terrible person. Get yourself out of trouble though, love, this isn't a life for a sarcastic humorist tangerine hater such as yourself.

-So no one believed me when I said I didn't do anything wrong?

He looked at you, a bit surprised, but you didn't look back. You just started walking (in that case limping) towards the Main Street. It must have been quite a pathetic show as he walked up to you and put his arm under yours to help you. You didn't say anything. Didn't look at him. Just starred at the ground before you, wincing quietly at each step.

-Where shall I drop you off love?

You stopped moving. Chuckled. Looked the other way. And with a sad but desperately trying to be funny tone, said:

-I'm not sure to be quite honest...

He didn't respond. Took a deep breath for a minute. Then put his arm back in place and you both walked towards a phone booth. There he let go again and went in. Made a phone call, went out, starred at you, you starred back.

-Hungry?

You nodded your head to say yes and, wonderful timing as it was, your stomach started growling just then. You put your hand on your stomach as to silence it and Tangerine chuckled which showed off his extraordinary jaw definition.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You both sat on the same side of the table, apparently waiting for someone. As your british knight in a shining armor looked around the diner, you ordered fish and chips, chocolate milkshake, and a banana split. Once you were finished talking to the waiter (who was very disturbed by your bloody appearance by the way), Tangerine looked at you.

-That is the weirdest order I've seen placed in a while.

-Well what did you want me to order?

-Lemon! *Did he exclaim*

-Lemon for dinner? I don't think so, that would be terrible...

Tangerine stood up and hugged the man that came in. Both took a minute to catch up as you continued to mutter on how dumb ordering lemon would be for diner...

They both sat down, and Lemon starred at you.

-Who's that? A bit roughed up are you? Do you need a tissue or something? To wipe all that off...

You looked up from the menu.

-Ah, I look fine, haven't slept in a bit is all.

-Who is she Tangerine?

-That's Y/N, she needs a place to crash and we have a couch, so I thought...

-When did you meet?

-At least 24 hours ago. *You said in all honesty*

-Tangerine are you fucking mental?? Do you know how many people want us dead for what happened last year? We're not inviting a bloody stranger to the hotel. Hell no...

-Lemon... She seems to be on her own and it's not like she couldn't have killed me earlier had she wanted to... Jim's men wanted to sell her off to some kind of client, she's a bit lost is all*He said whispering*

-No! What are we?! A fucking adoption shelter taking in strays like that? She's a liability is all she is... You can't help a girl just cause she's pretty and seems harmless. She could be a hired assassin for all we know.

-I should probably go... I'll just wait for the food though, if it's okay with everyone. *You said looking down and with a low voice.*

You all sat in silence for a minute.

-Why did they want you dead so badly? Jim's clients? *asked Tangerine*

You didn't respond, just looked down. The food came. You ate the fish and chips quite quickly, then the banana split. All in silence. As you sipped on the milkshake, you noticed they were both still starring at you, waiting for you to answer probably.

-Well I meant it... I didn't do anything wrong.

-No one ever does... *sighed Lemon, visibly distrusting of you*

-I'm not an assassin okay? I don't kill people for a living... I find things, things people want. Like antics, or old military files.

-But you're a good shot, and quite calm for a civilian. *Raised Tangerine*

-When I started the job, I was just an academic looking for pretty random stuff, but the work wasn't just adventures and detective work, sometimes criminal organizations looked to acquire the same objects as I was. So I got help from hired gunsmen and sometimes even official special forces. They didn't want me to be helpless without them so they trained me a bit. Once I got a few skills added to my resume, my clients started asking me for more valuable objects, that more and more people wanted. So of course my skillset kind of diverged to dealing with the competition. But it wasn't on the job description when I applied.

-Jim specializes in assassination though? Why would he want you? *Asked Lemon*

-Because there's a bid on my head...

-And why is there a bid on your head?

-Because they think I stole something...

-What did you steal?

You finished the milkshake. You were about to stand up but Tangerine was looking at you a bit too concerned.

-Look Love, if you tell us what happened, and you didn't actually do anything wrong, then we might agree to help you. We're not complete assholes...

-Aren't we?! Now why would we help?

-Because Jim is a prick and anything to piss him off is worth the effort.

-Fair point... Alright Y/N, tell us, what happened?

-They think I stole the key to the MI6 database.

-Wait... don't tell me they have one key that can access...

-All datas on past, present, and future missions, on British government security, on british criminal organizations, on undercover agents, what they have on the CIA, on the FBI, on every other country's secret services, on the nuclear codes... Yeah all of that. Yes it exists.

-And they think you have it...

-No, they think I stole it.

-But then why would they want you dead?

-Because they also think I destroyed it after looking at it.

-And no one wants their secrets spilled out by you...

-Yep.

-But you didn't steal it?

-Not exactly...

-What did you do?

-My client wanted me to recover a file of the MI6. It was practially undoable. So I digged and I digged until I found this hardrive in an old vacant MI6 hideout. It was weird because it looked top secret but didn't have anyone around it to gard it, it was like it was handed to me. I looked at it, didn't have that much protection, just enough for me to think it was valuable, but easy enough to crack down. Then when I accessed it, it was a whole database of incredibly sensible documents. Yeah I looked at it, but not for long, got the file I needed, but before I could send it to my client, someone knocked me unconscious and I woke up without the hard drive but with a billion dollar target on my back. Somehow the information got out that I stole the hard drive from the MI6 super super secret base, which I never even set foot int.

-So someone set you up?

-Yes.

You stopped talking. Looked at them. Lemon looked sorry for you, Tangerine looked concerned, and you... chuckled.

-The bill's on you, right? *You asked in all seriousness.*

Tangerine smiled, and lemon was about to refuse, but his brother replied first.

-Yeah, the bill's on us love, but maybe let me eat first, okay?

-Are you gonna eat a fruit?

-You know I've already ordered right, and this joke's old already.

You waited for the two brothers' food to arrive while Lemon changed the subject to whatever happened to Tangerine. Apparently Jim and his men had some beef with the fruit brothers, and those nice lads had a plan to take down Jim's goons except it all went wrong when Lemon made one too many references to Thomas the train... ah no, it went wrong when Tangerine took too long in the bathroom to check his hair, well something went wrong, and, ah the food arrived!

-Where's your family Y/N? *Lemon asked*

-Countryside.

-So you have one. Do you want us to drop you off with them?

You didn't reply right away. They were almost fininshed with their food. You waited until the plates were clean to say:

-Look, if you want to drop me off somewhere and forget I ever existed, take me to the airport, I can look after myself, but don't think my story is gonna have some fairytale ending. Obviously I'm gonna get killed at some point or another, I'm just trying to enjoy my time until then.

-It's not like we can make the entire criminal world stop looking for you. I would help you, you see, but I don't know how. Honestly, you're kinda fucked...

-Don't listen to him -*Tangerine jumped in*- You're not fucked, you just have to diverge the attention to whoever has the key. Once people start looking for them, they'll forget about you.

-The problem is, I don't know who has the key. If I did, not only would I be off the hook, I'd be damn rich.

-Hold on... *Lemon stared at you for a moment* How much money is in the game?

-More than a billion that's for sure...

The two brothers starred at each other not sure what to say for a minute. Tangerine turns back to you and is about to speak when Lemon says:

-Let's make a deal, we help you find whoever got the key, it gets the target off your back, and we get 2/3rds of the money. You get the rest.

-I'll make you one better. *You smile fully, showing your teeth and visibly amused* You get all the money, as long as I'm still alive.

-Deal! *Lemon extands the palm of his hand which you clap right away*

As the three of you head to whichever hotel the brothers booked in a cab, Tangerine whispers to you:

-For the record, I was ready to help you regardless of the money.

-That's stupid. You shouldn't do that.

-What's stupid is being a big though guy and not helping people who so clearly need it.

You looked at him for bit. The same look you gave him in that cell when you first saw him. "Fuck you're actually so beautiful" you thought.

-Thanks. Not the reply I would have expected, but thanks.

Sleep deprivation clearly made you a tad bit lunatic, saying stuff you weren't supposed to. You looked away immediately and rested your head against the window. Closing your eyes felt like heaven.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hotel was old and cheap, the late 80s style still intact. You liked it. Starred at the curtains of the room as the sound of the shower filled the silence. You closed your eyes.

-The shower is free. May I suggest you take one before going to bed love?

You woke up with a dizzy head, you really wanted to go back to your nap, but the guy standing in front of you wasn't budging.

-Are you saying I smell bad?

-Yeah, I am. Get up now.

You did, he held up a hand for you to take it which you did as you were more than tired. He didn't let go when you were up though and led you to the bathroom. You weren't sure where Lemon had gone to. He turned the shower on, pointed to the soap, and said:

-I reckon you know how to shower. Won't need my help for the next part then.

You grinned a bit and looked at him, he smiled. After he left, (and only after), you started undressing and finally took the shower. Once you turned the water off, he knocked on the door.

-Are you decent?

You grabbed a towel and answered positively. He came in, took a glance at you, closed the door, and stood in front of you for a second. His eyes went from your wet hair whose natural color was finally visible, your face which was now recognizable, your clean skin, your bruises, and then back to your face. He had some medical products in his hand and gestured to the bathtub. You took a seat on the edge of it. He dabbed a cotton in disinfectant, and slowly went over every single one of your cuts. They were quite a lot of them.

-Jesus, how many days did you stay in that place?

-Just a couple hours before you came in.

-Where are all these marks from then?

-Other people.

The last injury was your cut lip. He went over it delicately and you just starred at him for the third time this week.

-You're quite sweet for an assassin.

-Are you gonna make another fruit joke?

-Saw right through me... No but really, why the kindness?

-Just because you do some bad stuff for money doesn't mean you have to be an asshole for free too now does it?

-Thank you.

-You're not saved yet, thank me when you are.

-I will.

You both smiled, this time he was looking right back at you. Nice blue eyes like antartic ice. Really, really nice eyes.

-I'm back. *Lemon shouted from the room. He then entered the bathroom looking for his brother and his gaze settled on you.* You look quite nice without all the blood and dirt on you. Oh, wait, guys... Did I walk in on something?

Tangerine scoffs, gets up, and pushes Lemon out the bathroom. You hear them banter for a second before Tangerine comes back with a bag that he hands you. He politely smiles at you and exits the room, closing the door behind him. You go through the bag to realize your old clothes are no longer in condition to be worn and two men who were complete strangers a week ago just had to guess the size of your bras and panties. What was even more awkward is that the ones they bought fit quite well. The rest of the bag was some blue jeans, a black halter top, and a loose shoulder black sweater which you liked. You didn't put it on though, opened the door without getting out and asked for a t shirt. No way you were sleeping in jeans for 12 hours straight. A t shirt flew right to your face a second after. Probably Tangerine's guessing by the smell. He smelled nice. But not the point. You put it on and finally got to fully crash out on the couch. You couldn't move anymore, too tired, too comfy, you were just there. Before falling asleep, you saw the handsome brit throw a blanket on you trying not to look at your figure.

You woke up a bit lost, not sure where you were or how long you had slept for. A few seconds brought your memory back and your eyes adjusted to the light. Tangerine was there. Sitting at the desk typing away on a computer, his back turned to you. You got up and walked towards him. You were standing just a few centimeters away as you leaned over his shoulder and stared at the screen.

-What's that? *You asked*

-Holy... fuck, have you heard of heart attacks??

-You're that old? Don't look a day over 50. Are you trying to hack into the MI6?

-Well obviously yes.

-From a cheap retro looking computer?

-Do you have a better idea?

He then realized you weren't wearing pants. To which he gave you a disapproving look over his mustache and continued:

-Maybe start by wearing some pants before attacking the cheapness of my computer.

-Pants are overrated.

-I'm sure they are. *He turned back to the screen. You sat on the desk, facing him.*

-If my legs disturb you so much, stop looking at them.

-Get off the desk. You know for someone getting threats from half the criminal population, you're surely quite calm.

You hummed, got off the desk as prompted, and went to get the jeans from yesterday. However, he stood up and grabbed your hand before you could get fully away.

-Alright maybe you don't need to put pants on right away. *You turned your face to him, starring into his eyes* I was right though, when we met. You are really crazy.

-For not wearing jeans to sleep?

-For flirting in the middle of a life or death situation. *He pulled you in closer.*

-Who said I was flirting? *You closed the last gap between you two*

-Me. *He leaned in to kiss your lips*

[watcheraurora]

Ooh fun!

So, the Watcher part is probably pretty obvious for a MCYT blog. The reason I started really delving more into the fandom side of Hermitcraft/Life Series despite being a fan for years longer was honestly Martyn's Watcher lore for his Life Series stuff. Before that I was a fan but just a casual viewer of only a handful of CCs (Grian and Mumbo because my husband watched them, then I dragged husband into Scar, and Tango somewhere along the way kinda just became another huge pillar of my watch time)(Decked Out 2. I started watching his streams out of idle curiosity on its progress because it was this nebulous "game Tango's making" talked about by the other Hermits and I was curious about its progress and along the way my brain just latched on to Tango's sense of humor and I went "Oh. No you're my favorite actually"). But the concept of, like, Watcher!Grian and Watchers in general absolutely slaps and I love it (plus the art is always super creative). So I slapped Watcher to the front of this blog title because, well, I am a Watcher, aren't I? I watch the videos XD

The Aurora bit takes some explaining.

So my Minecraft username is MidnightAurora14 because it sounded whimsical and fantastical and pretty - and was also a username that probably wouldn't be taken XD And I figured "Oh. My Minecraft blog. It should reflect my Minecraft username"

But Aurora specifically came from my 2019 obsession with Final Fantasy XV, where all the main characters have Latin names.

I spent most of my early time in fandom writing Canon X OC fics. But as I got older, I started doing a thing where I kept telling different stories with the same OC for one character but from story to story, the other stories didn't happen, it was just another random idea, I just didn't want to make a new OC for every single random fic, so I'd use the same one over and over again.

Which is only relevant because the OC for one of the FFXV characters that I wrote was named Aurora. Because, again, all the FFXV main characters have Latin names and Aurora is Latin for Dawn. (And the main character I made her to ship with was "the sunshine one" so it felt fitting)

And even after I fell out of fandom with FFXV (still love the game despite sucking at it and the music f*^%ing slaps), I really loved the name Aurora so I just kinda kept using it XD

I also took a "Which Disney Princess are you?" quiz and got Sleeping Beauty (Aurora) after all that, and was like "oh that's a funny coincidence" (and also inaccurate... I'm more of a Rapunzel-Belle-Aurora mix, probably in that order)

So Aurora just kinda became my default username for stuff

Now, the name Rora (rather than Rory, which was going to be my intended nickname), comes from my wonderful friend @soemthingsparkly, who used it on their Tumblr post with the first art of Deepfrost for Ice Walls and I was like "This is an unexpected nickname, but I love it" and now it has stuck and now people in the Ice Walls Discord have a "RORA!" emoji to yell at me for my writing breaking their hearts or making them angry or happy or whatnot XD

No Pressure Tagging: @infernafiresword @soemthingsparkly @viriv @slooopes (and anyone who wants to play... I think most the URLs I remember of friends have already done this)

Tag game🎉

Tag your moots and ask them where they got the idea for their tumblr accounts name!

For my name it was a nickname I was giving back in middleschool! One of our teacher had a system where we worked with 'wifi' eachtime we talked in class we lost a bar of the "wifi" (was a weird joke and we never held count on that) All the kids usually joked if they needed 'wifi' , they would borrow mine if they wanted to talk more. (I was incredibly shy in middle school, I only talked to like 3 people at school;^;)

They called me Ms. Wifi because of that. I just thought it would be funny if I put 'miss' instead of 'ms' because of my terrible actual wifi connection I have at home lol.

That's my story! Now moots, only if you guys want to, tell us your story.

Tags-> @slipping-lately @firequeenofficial @noagskryf @twinklstarrrr @halfbakedspuds @polterwasteist @rokushi-san @mygedagtes +anyone that sees this and wants to do this as well

[clonerightsagenda]

Since it is self-indulgence Saturday, even though this is not podcast girls related in its entirety, I decided to follow in Kate's footsteps and post the outline for a Wolf 359 PMV I have been thinking about for years but can't make to shake everyone by the shoulders and say "do you understand my vision".

It's set to Marianas Trench's "Masterpiece Theatre III." If you are asking yourself 'Hey Kat was this inspired by that one really big lyricst-" what about it. The first and last lines are perfect fits when taken literally, idk what to tell you.

I got a new disease in me Eiffel coughing, Hilbert offering ‘nicotine’ lozenges I got a friend that's losing sleep Hilbert bent over a microscope, Minkowski’s silhouette peering in through the lab door I take it hard, it's hard to take Minkowski frowning and writing a letter starting with Dear Dominik I'm wide awake Hera surrounded by screens showing all three of those previous scenes I'm wide awake Outside shot of the station framed against the star

One more confession, Eiffel speaking into the recorder discretion's not what I need to sell his words broadcasting into deep space I never needed a reason for keeping secrets from myself Anne’s photo taped under his console And now that's just how I tell Hilbert leaning over Eiffel’s shoulder as music plays. Hilbert’s gaze flicks toward him I'm wide awake Eiffel with the gas mask surrounded by knockout gas

I'll wreck this if I have to Minkowski outside the station pounding on the airlock door Tell me what good would that do Eiffel lighting his last cigarette I'll wreck this if I have to Hilbert ripping out Hera’s personality matrix

(I'd be so good to you) Carter shaking Dmitri Volodin’s hand in his Russian apartment (I'd be so good to you) Rachel introducing Minkowski to Hilbert as her science officer at Canaveral

You get separated, somebody's gone Eiffel playing chess with the auto program And I don't know how this is wrong The crew arguing over Hilbert, Hera with a skull speech bubble and Eiffel with handcuffs And I'm so frustrated, falling behind Disheveled Minkowski hunting the plant monster You were a friend of mine Lovelace pushing Hilbert up against the wall, her hands around his throat

I'd be so good to you Lovelace taking Hilbert to lunch at her insistence 'Cause they don't know you like I do Flashbacks to Lovelace’s mission They don't know you like I do Lovelace horrified seeing Eiffel getting sick, flashback to Lambert sick the same way They don't know you like I do Hera viewing Eiffel in the medbay through her screens, a bunch of metrics on blood ox, heartrate, etc. pulled up They don't know you like I do The whole crew staring at the comms as it speaks with Eiffel’s voice

*** Instrumentals: Star changes color ***

There's a difference from me to them Lovelace shoving Minkowski out of the way and getting impaled And the road home is paved in star fuckers requiem Eiffel desperately piloting the rickety shuttle I can never go, go back home again Lovelace’s monitor flatlining (Acadia is gone) Acadia is gone The shuttle exploding and disappearing into the distance

All my indecision, all of my excess Don't you ever tell me I'm not loving you best Cutter in his swanky office receiving the distress call, juxtaposed with Minkowski, breath puffing out from the cold, placing the call. Cutter is dominant in the visuals, with Minkowski as an afterthought And I just need a minute, I just need a breath It's very hard to drink to my continued success and I, I will Rachel Young handing a mission dossier to a shadowy figure. Again Hera’s schematics showing the percentage of the station systems in crisis are present but pushed to the side, peripheral slow down, slow Eiffel half dead slumped over the shuttle console It's better in the worst way The Urania overshadows Eiffel’s shuttle It's getting better in the worst way SI5 looming over him in the open hatch, smiling unpleasantly

(Look around, round, look around, round, look around) (Look around, round, look around, round, look around) (Look around, round, look around, round, look around) (Look around, round, look around, round, look around) Timelapse showing an external view of the station changing – original layout, stress fractures, Urania parked next to it, wing getting blown off (rip Blessie… or not???), Urania getting integrated into the structure

So here's another day, I'll spend away from you Minkowski floating leaning her head against a window. Maybe holding a wedding ring Another night I'm on another broken avenue Eiffel’s mugshot on the console Trading in who I've been for shiny celebrity skin Hilbert getting his wrist slammed in the drawer, his careful samples going flying I like to push it and push it until my luck is over Lovelace staring down Kepler over the chess board

I wonder what you're doing, I wonder if you doubt it Kepler sipping his scotch and gesturing to it, presumably giving The Whiskey Speech. Maxwell and Jacobi in the background pretending to gag I wonder how we used to ever go so long without it Kepler handing Jacobi his business card at the bar All the work to impress, charming girls out of their dresses Maxwell at Hyperion’s house with Kepler surrounded by fancy readouts Smiling pretty and pretty Maxwell and Hera looking at each other on the mindscape beach

I am right beside you, right (I thought you wanted me) (What you want, what you need) Jacobi outside pounding on the capsule, Jacobi inside horrified, Maxwell indecisive I am right beside you, right (I thought you wanted me) Lovelace and Hilbert vs the dentist chair from hell (What you want, what you need) Minkowski attempting to phone home I'll make this perfect again Minkowski slamming her fist into her palm in the hidden room, decision to mutiny (I thought you wanted me) (What you want, what you need) (Cross my heart, I hope to die, hope to die) If I burn out and slip away Lovelace tied to a chair next to Eiffel in the armory, expression defiant. Countdown ticking over the image: 10, 9, 8, 7, 3, 2, 1. When the countdown gets to 1, Lovelace closes her eyes. (What you want, what you need) (Cross my heart, I hope to die, hope to die) (I thought you wanted me) (What you want, what you need) You're beautiful, you are A bloodspattered Lovelace’s eyes snapping open as she’s wreathed in blue light

I've been here so very long Eiffel facing Bob in the hotel room. Stars popping up in Bob's speech bubble to indicate the many systems they've done this with (I could slip into you, it's so easy to come back into you) Restraining bolted crewmembers smiling at an imprisoned Lovelace I'll hide it, can I hide in you a while? Eiffel screaming at a Pryce-piloted Minkowski through the airlock/ the two of them escaping into the vents (I'm not sick of you yet, is that as good as it gets?) Lovelace and Jacobi firing on the Sol capsule with the launcher I never took you for a trick but Lovelace and Kepler staring each other down over the negotiations table sometimes I don't know what you want Cutter and Minkowski superimposed over them I could take it if you need to take this out on someone Rapidfire: Minkowski sending Eiffel home, Jacobi’s fight with Reimann, Lovelace shooting Minkowski, Kepler in the airlock (And this is just the part I portray) Hera in the mindscape facing off against Pryce with Eiffel behind her (And this is just the part I portray) The picture dissolving into shards strobed with jagged electricity I don't know how it got this way Picture resolving into Doug holding a recorder in his hand

[sluckythewizard]

[PUT INTO PLACE, TIED DOWN AND ARRANGED, AND IS NEVER THE SAME, AGAIN.]<-listen to my favorite songs. VAMPIRES ARE WONDERFUL ARENT THEY. THE FLESH IS SO MUCH MORE DURABLE. SO MUCH STRETCHIER THAN HUMANS. THE STRESS DOESNT KILL A VAMPIRE THE SAME WAY IT DOES A HUMAN. YOU CAN TAKE THEM APART THREAD BY THREAD AND LEAVE THEM WIDE AWAKE WITHOUT WORRY OF THE BRAINMATTER SPOILING UNDER VINEGARY AGONY.

[sweetlullabyebye]

Just realized that there are not one, there are not two, there are THREE scenes of Moonjo peeking at Jongwoo

[spontaneousglitterbees]

[mantisgodsdomain]

Anyways, to those who have been wondering what we've been doing during our impromptu Tumblr Vacation or whatever we're calling it, we've been trying to find a playthrough of Baldur's Gate 3 that is made by someone who doesn't annoy the shit out of us, and also tormenting Karlach Cliffgate (as you do)

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

something about that whole incident must have changed something in my brain chemistry cause my insomnia’s gotten bad again

the past few days i’ve getting to sleep at two or three. kinda sucks i guess, but i don’t really want to resort to taking melatonin again

[adore-gregor]

ayyy

[tenthdocter]

God writing a wedding is actually harder than it seems! Especially if you're trying to make it relaistic and use the proper phrases and processes and everything

[pikachu-deluxe]

literally no idea how i am even supposed to know where i land on the neurodivergent or neurotypical thing when i don't even know myself all that well. like, how am i supposed to answer when people ask me things about how i think. idk it just happens lol is probably not the response people are looking for