#bareil thoughts

[its-always-sunny-in-city17]

why was his earring so fucking complex. you are not some gyaru teen decorating ther flip phone. be fucking serious.

[fantasticalleigh]

punk mentioning he still takes the fucking blue line is wild i take it all the time and i'd lose my shit (in a respectful not-bothering people way) if i was on my way home from work or a show or some shit and i look over and there's fucking cm punk just a couple feet away

[onthewaytosomewhere]

on today's episode of 'what the heck you talking about girlie'

ok so this morning as i was jumping around the house playing Brave by Sarah Bareilles and singing it like my life depended upon it - because is there any other way to sing this one??!!!?!?!?

i had an epiphany!!!!!

this song would make an absolutely wonderful firstprince edit - which i don't do

- but oh it would be so good!!!!

and as i've been typing this i was also struck by fic inspo bcuz of this song lolz (but for anyone who knows anything about my process - there is no doc opened - so i guess we'll see how much it sticks in my brain and if that changes lolz)

[breaklights]

Turn Me Down, Julia Jacklin / Alex, Wild Child / She Screams Christmas, Frightened Rabbit / Poke, Frightened Rabbit / Gravity, Sara Bareilles

[wickedhawtwexler]

i think it's gonna be middle school jams night at karaoke tonight

[unholysails]

Im crying bc i thought about kira nerys for 4 seconds.

She went from an orphaned child soldier to the liberator of Cardassia. She freed the people that oppressed her and took her childhood and her parents and countless friends. And she did it all even tho she was sure she was going to die and didn’t even WANT to help them. But she did it because she knew it was the RIGHT thing to do. And then she immediately lost her partner and best friend, Odo, when she went home. And then all but one of her other friends left as well.

She lost her partner, Bareil, in like the worst way possible, a piece at a time. She lost her new father figure, Tekeny. She lost her sister/daughter Ziyal. She lost Jadzia. She lost her close friend and religious figure, Sisko.

The universe took everything from you and your faith never wavered, your kindness only grew with time. You took no shit from anyone and you slayed the whole time. Nerys you are everything to me.

[gpcwsl]

Alessia Russo x Reader

I don’t want you to go

WC: 1.5k

MasterList

Warnings: making out, kissing.

Song: Gravity - Sara Bareilles (I know it’s not the same as the picture just listen to this one instead, lol.)

The evening air was crisp, the soft hum of streetlights casting a golden glow along the pavement as you and Alessia walked side by side. Your third date had been perfect—simple but memorable. The laughter at the small Italian restaurant, the way she’d brushed her blonde hair behind her ear when you complimented her, the accidental touch of her hand against yours that lingered longer than necessary. Every moment felt like it carried a weight, a pull that you weren’t sure you could resist much longer.

Alessia walked close enough for your arms to occasionally bump, and each time it happened, her cheeks flushed a little deeper. Her eyes, soft and shining, darted toward you when she thought you weren’t looking. The conversation flowed naturally, but you couldn’t ignore the tension in the air—unspoken, undeniable, electric. It had been there since the moment you picked her up, simmering beneath the surface.

As her flat came into view, your heart began to race. The walk felt shorter tonight, or maybe it was just the anticipation building with every step. The thought of saying goodnight, of letting her go back inside without… something more, filled your chest with an ache you couldn’t ignore. But then again, what if you were reading this wrong? What if the spark you felt so strongly wasn’t mutual? The thought made your steps falter slightly, but Alessia didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, judging by the way her fingers brushed against yours in what felt like a deliberate motion.

When you finally reached her door, Alessia turned to face you fully. She was so close now, her bright blue eyes meeting yours, and you could feel the warmth radiating from her despite the cool night air. She smiled, that shy, almost hesitant smile she gave when she was nervous. It was one of your favorite things about her.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said softly, her voice just above a whisper. “I had a really good time.”

“So did I,” you replied, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of nerves threatening to take over. “You’re… amazing, Alessia.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked down for a moment, biting her lip as if trying to find the right words. When her eyes met yours again, there was something different in them—something you couldn’t quite place but that sent a shiver down your spine.

Neither of you moved. The air felt heavier now, the world around you fading into the background as you stood there, locked in this moment. You wanted to kiss her. God, you wanted to kiss her more than anything. But should you? Would she want you to?

As if reading your mind, Alessia took a small step closer, her hand hesitating before reaching out to lightly touch your arm. “I…” She paused, her voice trailing off as she seemed to gather her courage. Then, before you could overthink it, she leaned in—soft, tentative, testing the waters.

Her lips brushed against yours, warm and gentle, and every thought in your mind dissolved into nothing. It was soft at first, a question rather than a statement, but when you responded, leaning into her, the kiss deepened. Her hand slid up to your shoulder, pulling you closer, and you felt your own hands finding her waist, holding her steady as the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

The kiss grew more urgent, the unspoken tension of the past few weeks unraveling with every movement. When you finally pulled back, breathless and wide-eyed, Alessia’s lips were parted, her face flushed. But she didn’t give you time to say anything. Instead, she grabbed your hand, pulling you inside her flat and kicking the door shut behind her in one swift motion.

She was on you again before you could process it, her lips finding yours with a fervor that took your breath away. Her hands, now resting on your face, slid into your hair, holding you to her as if she were afraid to let you go. You could feel the heat of her body against yours, the softness of her touch contrasting with the urgency of her kiss.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Alessia whispered against your lips, her voice low and breathless. Her forehead rested against yours, and her eyes searched yours as if she were looking for reassurance, for permission to keep going.

You smiled, your hands still resting on her waist. “I think I have an idea,” you replied, your voice just as unsteady as hers.

And with that, she kissed you again, her lips capturing yours in a way that made your knees weak. Every touch, every movement, felt like a revelation, and you couldn’t help but wonder how you’d gone this long without her.

The two of you stumbled further into the flat, your focus entirely on each other as the door remained shut behind you, the rest of the world forgotten.

Alessia guided you further into her flat, her hand still holding yours as if she was afraid to let go. The space was warm and inviting, dimly lit by the soft glow of a single lamp in the corner. You barely had time to take it all in before Alessia turned to face you, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes sparkling with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

She hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer, her hands finding their way to your chest. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered, her voice soft but filled with emotion. Then, with the same boldness she’d shown at the door, she leaned in and kissed you again.

This time, the kiss was different—deeper, slower, but no less intense. It wasn’t rushed or uncertain. It was deliberate, as though she wanted to savor every moment, every touch. Her hands slid up to your shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as you wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her closer.

You could feel her body relax against yours, the tension from earlier melting away as the kiss intensified. The faint citrus-vanilla scent of her shampoo surrounded you, and you couldn’t help but lose yourself in the softness of her lips, the way they molded perfectly to yours. Time seemed to blur as the world outside her flat faded into insignificance.

Without breaking the kiss, Alessia gently tugged at your hand, guiding you toward the couch. You followed willingly, your lips still locked with hers as you stumbled together, laughing softly between kisses when you bumped into the armrest. She sank down onto the cushions, pulling you with her, and you ended up sitting side by side, your knees brushing as you leaned into each other.

Alessia’s hands found their way to your face, her thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as she kissed you again—harder this time, with more urgency. You responded in kind, your fingers slipping to her waist, holding her like she might vanish if you let go. The couch creaked faintly as the two of you shifted closer, your bodies pressed together as if the space between you was unbearable.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless. Her lips were slightly swollen, her hair a little mussed from your fingers running through it, but she looked radiant. She rested her forehead against yours, her eyes fluttering closed as she let out a shaky laugh.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted this,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, brushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I think I have an idea,” you repeated-teased, earning a quiet laugh from her.

Her fingers trailed down your arm, intertwining with yours. She looked at you then, her gaze soft but filled with something deeper—something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Stay,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly but steady enough to leave no doubt about her sincerity. “Stay the night. I don’t want you to go.”

The vulnerability in her words made your chest ache in the best way. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before replying. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

Her smile widened, relief and joy flashing across her face as she pulled you into another kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, but no less passionate. It felt like a promise, like the beginning of something neither of you fully understood yet but were more than willing to explore.

The two of you stayed there on the couch for what felt like hours, wrapped up in each other, sharing kisses and quiet laughter. It wasn’t long before Alessia rested her head on your shoulder, her fingers lightly tracing patterns on your arm as you sat together in comfortable silence. The night stretched on, but neither of you seemed to notice—or care. For the first time in a long time, everything felt perfect.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

BREATHE AGAIN.

PAIRING — lumberjack!bucky barnes x f!reader

CONTENTS — one-shot(?); alternate universe—small town; lumberjack au; angst angst angst; mentions re: death of a loved one; estranged childhood friends; bucky has lots of self-deprecating thoughts, but honestly what’s new?

SUMMARY — Bucky could never bear to look at you for too long because of how brightly you shone. But now, it’s somehow unbearable for the same and entirely different reasons.

WORD COUNT — 3.0k

NOTES — this is my last entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo’s bucky barnes birthday bingo event. i didn’t think i’d make it, but i made it by the skin of my teeth! thank you to everyone who expressed love for the stories i wrote for this, i had a lot of fun writing for my first bingo!

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog ✩ bingo event masterlist

Out of breath, I am left hoping someday I’ll breathe again. —SARA BAREILLES, “Breathe Again”

Thin shafts of pale light creep through a gap in the faded curtains, stretching across his face and tugging him from a restless sleep. 

A few seconds later, a calloused hand sneaks out from beneath the threadbare covers and fumbles for the blaring alarm clock on the bedside table, silencing its ear-splitting toll with one firm tap. 

Bucky blinks his clearly eyes a few times, squinting against the intruding brightness, and pushes himself up onto his right elbow. The covers are then thrown off, and he doesn’t even flinch at the bite of chilled air against his bare skin. The springs of the narrow bed creaking under his shifting weight as he swings his legs over the side, bare feet finding the cool floorboards. 

Pushing himself to his feet with a soft grunt, Bucky pads over to the bathroom with his eyes still half-closed. After brushing his teeth and a quick shower, he heads back to his room and dresses quickly, pulling on some clean underwear, a trusty pair of Levi’s, and a form-fitting t-shirt. 

He searches around for his flannel, only to find it hanging off the back of a wooden chair in the kitchen. Bucky grabs it, shaking it once, then twice, before shrugging it on. His fingers move automatically doing up the buttons, but they slow as they reach the left sleeve, hovering for a heartbeat over the pinned-up fabric covering the space where his arm used to be. 

Shit. He should probably wear the arm today. 

He normally goes without, especially on days when he’s got nothing better to do but hole himself up in the squat brick building of Barnes, Torres & Wilson Logging. It’s easier not wearing it, much less hassle—never mind that the damn thing hurts him more often than not. 

Besides, if people were going to whisper and stare anyway, he might as well give them something to talk about. 

But things are different today, he’s got a job to do and people to meet… and the last thing he wants is to see that look of pity on your face when you realize that, in the years since you’d left Cobble Hill, he’s become mangled and broken and incomplete. 

He didn’t want to see it on you, the same look everyone had given him when he woke up in the hospital after his surgery, when he’d sweated through the nights that followed in excruciating pain no matter how many painkillers they’d pumped into him. 

Bucky had made everyone promise, especially Wanda and Natasha, not to call you. He made threats not to forgive them if they did, closing his eyes against the burn of shame and agony, swearing that he’d rather die than let you see just how damaged he’d become.

So Bucky grits his teeth now, grabbing the metal limb propped up in the corner of his bedroom that’s gathering dust—Jesus, he thinks he actually pulls it out of a cobweb—and shrugs out of his shirt again. 

It takes him a moment to remember where he keeps his socks and liners, sighing in mild frustration as he takes the extra time to put them on before attaching the arm and putting his shirt back on. 

He flexes the false fingers a few times, trying to familiarize himself with the prosthesis again after not wearing it for so long. Bucky doesn’t take the time to check his reflection in the spotted mirror propped up against the wall. He already knows what he’ll see—eyes shadowed from too little sleep, his long hair shaggy and unkempt, the lines around his mouth carved a little deeper, harsher. 

Gone is the boy from the dust-covered pictures on his dresser, the ones that captured moments of carefree laughter from years and a lifetime ago—back when he was still whole—and in his place is an angry and resentful man Bucky doesn’t recognize or like. He’d rather not look. 

For good measure, he tucks a pair of work gloves into his toolbox. With those, you’ll be none the wiser, even he does have to spend all morning at your house. Sam had mentioned you needed help clearing those old dead trees in your backyard, so you could finally put the place on the market.Just another reminder that even though you are back, it doesn’t mean you’re staying. 

However, they didn’t have enough hands… Sam and Joaquin would be busy on another job, which just left Bucky. 

“You sure?” Joaquin asked carefully when he ultimately volunteered to go in their place. “I mean, we can—” 

“It’ll be fine, alright?” Bucky barked, rougher than he intended, regretting it instantly. His business partner just patted his shoulder in understanding. 

Bucky grabs his tools and stomps into his heavy work boots, not bothering with the laces. The chill of winter takes its time moving on despite the dawning of spring, but he simply drapes his old Carhartt jacket over his good arm before heading out the door, snagging his keys from a bent nail driven crudely into the frame. 

The pink of sunrise is long gone, replaced with a vast and clear blue sky, golden light from the sun reflecting off windows and pooling on sidewalks. 

The stairs creak underfoot on his way down, his truck’s faded red door groaning in protest as Bucky wrenches it open and hoists himself up into the cab. He twists the key in the ignition and the old Ford grumbles to life, then he guides it out of the driveway and onto the main road. 

It doesn’t even take ten minutes to reach Orchard Street, the road soon giving way to gravel and then dirt. The houses around these parts are older, painted clapboard with wide porches and overgrown yards. He’d been to most of them in his youth, bringing homemade pies to neighbours, visiting friends and classmates, coaxing them out to play until the sky darkened. 

But it’s the old Victorian at the end of the road that’s the most familiar, its blue paint peeling and shutters slightly crooked. Bucky pulls up next to the curb rather than parking in the driveway, as there’s another car already parked there, a shiny black sedan sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the ancient-looking buildings and weed-choked lawns. 

Shutting off the ignition, Bucky jumps out of the truck and grabs his tools from the trunk. There are butterflies gnawing at his stomach as he balances the handle of an axe over his shoulder, the nervous feeling growing sharper and sharper with each step up the driveway. 

The yard is overgrown now, the grass, although still slightly matted from a long winter, is so tall and unruly it almost reaches his knees. Dead weeds crowd the path to the front door, dotting the cracks in the porch. 

It didn’t used to be this way. It used to be tidy and trimmed, with small beds of pink and white impatiens lining the path. Your mother’s garden, besides you, was always her pride and joy. 

An old tire swing sways from the large oak out front, its large sturdy branches still bare as they snake towards the sky, the thick rope hanging from one of them all frayed and worn. 

Memories push against his ribs, of laughter and skinned knees and the buzz of cicadas in the heavy summer air. Your mother, wearing her big sun hat, would be humming to herself while she gardened. Bucky would be lying in the grass next to you watching the clouds roll by, laughing when you grabbed his arm and screamed at a big fat dragonfly buzzing overhead. 

But that was a long time ago now, before everything changed… before it all went wrong. 

Finally reaching the door, Bucky raises his hand to knock and hesitates, his fist hovering an inch from the weathered wood. His jaw tightens, a muscle flickering in his cheek. He curls his fingers, nails biting into his palm, and drops his hand to the side. 

Regardless, the curtain in the front window twitches, a face appearing briefly in the gap. Eyes meet his, widening a fraction before the fabric falls back into place. There’s a beat, then the sound of the lock turning. The door opens, its hinges whining. 

And just like when he was that hopeless teenage boy so long ago, not so secretly in love with his best friend, Bucky almost forgets how to breathe. 

High school feels like a million years ago, but the memories come so easily. All those walks together on your shared lunch periods to the ice cream parlour just a few minutes from school. He’d open the door for you, calling out to the shop owner your usual order—two scoops of strawberry in a waffle cone, maraschino cherry on top. 

The two of you at Joaquin’s baseball games in a show of support, but always ending up in your own little world, sitting side by side on a picnic blanket next to the bleachers, hands so close to touching but never quite. 

And despite your fears of leaving Cobble Hill’s safe and quiet borders, the only ones you’d ever known, he had been the one to tell you to go. Bucky had placed his hands on your shoulders, lowering his head so your eyes were level with his, and insisted that you weren’t allowed to be afraid of success. 

“You’re too good for that, you know?” And even though it felt like his half of the world was ending, you beamed up at him through tears because you knew that he’d never lie to you. 

He decided in that moment he’d be brave for you. Four years will go by so quickly, you’ll see. You could call, and so could he. Maybe you could come home during your breaks, or maybe he could go visit you in New York for a weekend. You could show him all the sights, wouldn’t that be fun?  

And when news came that you would be staying in New York for a little bit longer, Bucky tried not to be discouraged. Then as he, Sam, and Joaquin decided to start their own logging business, and as you painstakingly climbed up the corporate ladder, the calls became less frequent. After your mom got sick, plans to visit one another had to be put on hold—just until she got better. 

Regrettably, she did not. And regrettably, all of it stopped after he lost his arm.

It didn’t matter that he once promised himself he’d wait for you. It didn’t matter that you once had a way of making him feel invincible, regardless of the fact that he knew himself to be anything but. It no longer mattered that you were once able to make him feel like he’d been struck by lightning, with just one look. 

“Bucky,” you breathe, the cadence of your voice so familiar it’s like he’s being transported back in time. He swallows hard, not saying your name back. He doesn’t think he can handle the sound of it out loud, and certainly doesn’t feel like he deserves the taste of it on his own tongue. “It’s really nice to see you.” 

Still a sweetheart, he thinks, even if he doesn’t call you that anymore. Bucky can’t bring himself to look at you. Even now, you still shine so bright. He dips his chin in greeting instead, not meeting your eyes. 

“Thanks for coming, I really appreciate it,” you say when you invite him inside, closing the door once he’s in the foyer. It’s so formal, not at all how like the two of you used to be. 

“Sure,” is all he says, bristling under your stare, the air thick with unspoken words and fractured history. Bucky can feel your eyes scanning him even as he turns away, trying to ignore the fact that he hasn’t been this close to you in so long. He gestures towards the backyard, the reason he’s here—to help you prepare this place for sale, so you can go back to your life in New York. “I should… get to work.” 

“Oh, right,” he tries not to lean into the idea that you sound disappointed, as though you were expecting him to stay and chat. “Yeah. Thanks again.” 

He doesn’t know what to say, so he strides away without another word towards the sliding glass doors. The backyard is just as familiar, though so much smaller than he remembers. There is a haphazard row of half-dead pines standing sentinel along the back fence, their needles carpeting the ground. 

The screen door bangs shut behind him as he steps out into the morning sun. Dew soaks through the toe of his boots as he crosses the yard, gleaming on the overgrown half-dead grass like scattered diamonds.

He keeps his eyes on the trees, not letting them stray to the old shed where you used to hide to scare him when you were kids, not letting the memories crowd in like hungry ghosts. 

He sets down his tools near the deck, rolls his shoulders, and gets to work. The first swing of his axe cuts deep into the trunk of the smallest tree, sending a judder up his arm. He welcomes the sting in his good palm, the stretch of muscles long unused. 

Bucky loses himself in the rhythm of the work, in the strain of his breath and the heat building under his flannel. The air fills with the clean, sharp scent of resin and the drumbeat of the axe finding its mark over and over. Each impact of steel on wood feels like a small, necessary violence—both a penance and a promise. 

To your mother whom he remembers fondly as an affectionate woman with a kind smile she’d passed on to you, and a pair of warm hands in which flowers always seemed to grow. 

He’s sorry that she had to go so soon and so painfully, that he couldn’t be there for you when you needed a friend the most. He promises that you’ll have no reason to feel sad because of him again. 

When the first tree finally falls, he barely notices the burn in his arms, the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. He moves onto the next tree, and the next, until—at least for these short moments—his world narrows to the bite of the axe and the shivering pines and the distant ache that never quite leaves his chest. 

But as he goes to lift the axe again, pain lances through the ghost of his missing limb, hot shards of agony stabbing into an arm that’s no longer there. 

A gasp rips from his throat, his shoulder spasming. The phantom sensations intensify, invisible muscles clenching, nonexistent tendons straining. Bucky braces himself agains the trunk of a nearby pine with his good hand, knuckles white, as a wave of nausea washes over him. 

He should be used to these by now, but the episodes never seem to get easier no matter how much time has passed. More beads of sweat trickle down the side of his face as he tries to breathe through the pain. Don’t let her see, he tells himself, damn near pleading. 

Bucky’s eyes dart towards the glass doors, his fingers fumbling for the axe again, determined to keep working and to act normal. But his movements are jerky, uncoordinated. His tools clatter to the ground, unnaturally loud in his ears even as it lands on the softening earth. He makes a frustrated noise, halfway between a growl and a whimper. Then he hears the sound of the sliding door open. No. Please, anything but that. 

“Bucky?” Your voice, laced with concern. He looks up to see you hurrying towards him, setting down a glass of water on a nearby stump. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” he grits out, but another bolt of pain makes him hunch over involuntarily, jaw clenched. 

“What’s wrong?” You reach his side, your hands fluttering helplessly. You frown at the sight of his distress. “What can I do?” 

“Nothing,” he says a little too harshly, flinching away from you instinctively. “You can’t do anything.” 

This is exactly what he didn’t want, for you to see him like this—weak, diminished. Bucky straightens with effort, trying to shove the pain down to where it can’t reach him. His left shoulder aches, the muscles around his prosthesis socket sore and tight.

“Is it your arm?” You ask carefully, and his eyes snap to yours. 

“What?” 

“Steve told me,” you confess, your hand finding its place on his, a hundred emotions flickering through your eyes—sadness and compassion, two things he does not want right now, and then something a bit fiercer. “Don’t be angry with him. He was afraid this would happen and wanted to warn me.”

 “Of fucking course, the punk could never keep his mouth shut.” 

“In his defence, he only told me two days ago.” 

“Forget it,” Bucky jerks out of your grip, turning away as shame simmers louder in his gut, hot and sour. “Just… I’ll be fine. Go back inside.” 

“I really think you should take a break—”

“I mean it, just go. Please,” he hates the way his voice cracks on the last word, but after a tense beat of silence, the soft scruff of your footsteps cross the yard, fading into the distance. The bang of the door closing behind you has a horrible finality. 

Alone again, Bucky slumps against the tree, all the strength draining out of him, and finally lets the tears come. His nonexistent left arm throbs and tingles, a cruel reminder of everything he’s lost. He wonders if he’ll ever stop feeling like a ghost in his own life, haunted by the past and unable to grasp the future. 

He tries, as he closes his eyes against the pain, to remember what it was like to hold you with two good hands.

Or will he spend the rest of his life reaching for things he can no longer have?

fin…?

AFTERWORD — this may turn into a miniseries eventually… i honestly can’t say either way lmao. not for a while though, so… yeah 😇

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[lonelymoonrambles]

I've just finished season 6 of deep space nine as a first time viewer and here are my thoughts:

- did Dukat grow out his hair

- Garak is so bitchy with Julian about his augmentation... is this foreplay

- did Garak grow out his hair

- Worf being a bad father does not surprise me AT ALL (#justice4Alexander)

- General Martok is a good daddy! I mean father!

- ziyal is being willfully ignorant...sorry ur dad sucks and you're in love with a gay guy

- as usual, Quark B plot goes hard

- y'all were right, I love Weyoun!!! What a bitch!

- now why do I kinda wanna write a damar/quark fic...

- Rom is A MAN. 🤤👍🙏🤪

- omg ziyal! sorry about what I said before, I actually liked your gentle energy :'(

- Jadzia's wedding dress :') i love her sm

- mirror!Bareil was only marginally less boring than regular Bareil

- love Julian meeting other autistic people and becoming even more powerful

- only thing harder than a quark B plot than a quark A plot! Magnificent Ferengi was so good lol

- they're really trying to make Dukat unredeemable but it won't work on me! I listen to Lana Del Rey! Bad guys forever! 😘

- Are there so many Quark episodes to cut the war stuff or am I just super into Quark.

- ps. My non-trekkie roommate said Quark has "something" and she "totally gets it" GIRL welcome to the club

- honey, i shrunk the ship

- Ok, dont love that dukat/kira's mom situation but my biggest question this ep was: can Bajorans time travel at any time???

- Sloan wants Julian carnally

- "So I lied. I cheated. I bribed men to cover the crimes of other men. I am an accessory to murder. I ate and left no crumbs in this episode."

-- Vic Fontaine...I don't understand you but I like your singing. Duet with Gaga when

- QUARK IN DRAG. FEMME QUARK. TRANS ICON QUARK.

- yay Keiko's back! But what is this episode (the feral Molly one) 🙃

- please no one speak to me about Jadzia ever again, I can't handle it, I miss her more than Worf does

Final thoughts: Quark has become my favourite character! Xoxoxo

And gimme more garashir you cowards!

[its-always-sunny-in-city17]

his awkward ass stance calls to me so profoundly. like a frightened little deer. i want to feed him white bread.

[janeyseymour]

You Matter To Me

Summary: Based off of the stunningly and hauntingly beautiful song in the musical Waitress, by Sara Bareilles. After years of hiding, you're going to let yourself free, with the help of Melissa.

If you haven't heard this song, I highly suggest listening to it, and crying like I do.

WC: ~2.9k

Your life hasn’t been good for… as long as you can remember, if you’re being honest. It’s been train wreck after train wreck. But unlike some of those around you (your mother, your sister, your brother), you’ve changed the cycle and changed the game- or at least tried to. You took all of those years of abuse and neglect from your father and became a teacher at Abbott Elementary. Your only goal in life is to make sure those kids are as loved and as cared for as they can possibly be by you. Teachers saved your life all those years ago, so if you can be that person for even just one student, you know you’ve made your mark on this world.

The only thing that’s the same about your life compared to your family’s is that you… you made a choice, a not so great choice, when it came to who you were going to marry.

It started back in high school when you fell for a boy who used to sing and play guitar, serenading you. You, in true teenager fashion (and maybe a little naivety), fell for a boy and his boyish charm. He’s been by your side since. Mason has been by your side since, and while you’ve grown up, he hasn’t.

When your mother died, he stuck by you though. He took you in when you were faced with either barely scraping by on your own or moving back in with your father… he saved you from poverty for the rest of your life and from the abuse that your father would without a doubt hurl at you if you were to go back to him. 

He proposed to you with a lousy ring, and because you figured that you were lucky enough to find what you thought was love, you stayed. You married him. And you wish you wouldn’t have.

Because now, what were once warm kisses and sweet songs dedicated to you have morphed into hungry, horny kisses and smashed guitars during fits of rage. And it… it’s turned into an almost perfect side by side of what your mother’s marriage was before she passed away tragically.

You hold what happens at home to yourself- there’s no need to burden those around you with you problems. So, you throw yourself into teaching and making the world a bit brighter in the small ways that you can.

At school, you’re a part of quite the crew: a veteran kindergarten teacher who is as regal as the queen, a quirky man who is all about social justice (and you’re sure if you went to him for help, he would have resources for you in a flash, a custodian who lives life to the fullest, two younger teachers who have finally found each other, a principal that is all play, and then… a fiery redhead known for being tough as nails but turns to butter for you.

You’re quiet, timid- you always have been. That’s just been part of your personality for as long as you can remember. Or maybe the lively and effervescent side of you was beaten out of you by your father. Any normal person would not pick up on the subtle signs of abuse that you show.

But Melissa Schemmenti does. And it breaks her heart to know that you’re hurting, or at least to think that she knows you’re hurting. It’s part of why she puts her ‘tough as nails’ act aside when you’re around- she doesn’t want to startle you. She doesn’t want you to feel as unsafe as you usually do when you aren’t within the confines of the school.

During your preps, Melissa finds her way into your room quite often for an extra cup of coffee and to discuss things that happen at the school. But today, you really aren’t feeling it.

Mason was brutal last night. You’re hurting all over, and you really don’t feel like having to cover up what is happening off school grounds. So, instead of keeping your door open during prep as you usually do, the door is shut. Your lights are off, and you gently hold an ice pack to the bruises on your ribs inflicted on you from the previous night. You have a heating pad on your back for the soreness that you feel from an injury in the past. You settle into your chair, prop your feet up on a student chair, and try to get as comfortable as possible before resting your head against the back of your chair. Your eyes close as you try to adjust to the cool sensation on your front and the hot sensation on your back, hoping to get at least a few minutes of shuteye in before you have to pick your kids up again. Your husband kept you up most of last night- first with his actions, then with the consequences of his actions on your aching body, and finally his incessant snoring.

You feel like you’ve rested your eyes for about thirty seconds before you hear the door to your classroom open. Your body can’t take you moving too quickly at the moment though, so you just come to terms with the fact that whoever is at the door caught you with your feet propped up and eyes closed. At least they can’t see the bag of ice you have under your sweatshirt, or the heating pad that you’re leaning against.

“Hun?” Melissa knocks on your doorframe softly before taking a few steps into the room. “You okay?”

I could find the whole meaning of life in those sad eyes. They’ve seen things you never quite say, but I hear. Come out of hiding, I’m right here beside you. And I’ll stay there as long as you’ll let me.

You open your eyes and turn your head just slightly to look at her, and… she wasn’t quite ready for you to look at her the way you do. As you look at her tiredly, she can see the pain and exhaustion of the things that you refuse to say aloud. She hears the things that you never quite say, but she can hear it clearly in her head. She knows those eyes aren’t just perpetual exhaustion.

“Just tired,” you say softly as you subconsciously pull at your sweatshirt, making sure that she can’t see the slight bulge of the ice pack. “Mason and I were up late last night.”

The redhead lifts a brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you sigh quietly. “Just… tired is all.”

The second grade teacher catches the way that you hesitate in your response, and she wants to beg you to just tell her the truth- to come out of hiding. Tell her everything that she thinks is happening is true so that she can help you get away from the situation you’ve found yourself in. Instead, she just holds up the cup of coffee she brought you and steps in a few paces further. Melissa sets the coffee mug on your desk and pulls up a chair next to you before taking your hand softly.

You look at her with a confused look. Why is she holding your hand suddenly? The two of you have flirted innocently, but she knows you have a husband.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m right here beside you,” Melissa tells you with as much heart as she can pour into those few words.

You hum quietly as you reach forward just slightly to grab the cup of liquid gold. In doing so, the icepack crinkles under your shirt. Your eyes widen just slightly as you go to adjust it quickly.

“Y/N,” she whispers. And in that moment, you know she knows. Fuck.

“I- I bumped into my counter on the way out the door this morning,” you try to excuse weakly. It doesn’t do you much good, because the green eyes that you’ve looked into so often see right through your lie.

It’s odd to see a few tears prick at the corner of Melissa’s eyes, and it’s an even worse feeling to know that you’re the one who caused them. “Mel, I- Don’t cry. I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” the usually tough teacher’s voice cracks ever so slightly. “I wish you would just… come out of hiding. Tell me what I think I already know. I’ll- I’ll be right here beside you through it all, and I’ll stay there as long as you’ll let me.”

Because you matter to me, simple and plain and not much to ask from somebody. You matter to me. I promise you do, you, you matter too. I promise you do, you see? You matter to me.

You bite the bottom of your lip before nodding, just barely. “But I’ll be fine. I’ve always been fine.”

“You are not fine right now,” Melissa counters.

“I’m used to not being fine,” you mumble. “But I will be… just keep having to hold out hope, and I’ll get there.”

“What if you aren’t?”

“As long as my kids here are safe and okay for as long as I’m here, I will be,” is all you can tell her.

“Do you not understand that you matter to me?” your colleague asks you quietly. “That you matter to all of us here? It’s simple and plain as that. I promise you- the way that those kids matter to you is the way that you matter to us, and we need you to be okay.”

“I will be,” is all you can offer. “Now, if you’ll leave me be…” you request softly, as much as you don’t want her to go away. But you know that if you don’t ask her to exit the room, everything will finally come tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop it. And with Melissa and her connections, who knows what could happen to Mason. For as much shit as he’s put you through, he’s still your husband. He still saved you from hell all those years ago. You… you still love him. Through good times and bad, right?

The redhead doesn’t want to leave you alone right now- afraid that if she does, something horrible will happen to you- something more horrible than what is now confirmed to her. But you asked her to leave you be for your prep, so she nods silently. You feel a gentle hand squeeze your own again before the warmth of it fades away. You close your eyes again and try to relax into your chair, but a pair of lips just barely brush against your temple, and a soft voice tells you that she will always be there for you whenever you’re ready.

The rest of the day passes by as you simply give into your body’s desire to teach from your chair. You pack your things and quietly make your way out of the building without running into any of your coworkers, by some miracle.

As you pull up to your house, your bright and beautiful and non-assuming home, you breathe out a sigh. The outside looks like a happy couple lives there- decorated with beautiful landscaping and flowers. You allow yourself to reminisce about how life used to be when you were a happy and healthy couple, and for a few minutes you pretend that you are still that happy woman, dreaming about a different life from the rest of your family. But as you open up the front door and see the shattered plates, the smashed guitar, and the angry fist shaped hole in the wall, reality crashes down on you.

With a few pained grunts and groans, you’re able to clean up the wreck that lies in your kitchen- that seems to be where most of your troubles find you these days. And it sucks, because the kitchen used to be your favorite room in the house. Cooking and baking used to be the one thing that would take you from the hellish place on Earth you found yourself in and transport you to a world where everything was okay- even just for a few minutes. You’ve come to hate being in the kitchen.

You settle on the couch with a slice of leftover pizza and a beer, although you then realize that the television remote is not where you usually leave it. So, as you munch on your dinner, an ice pack pressed delicately to your ribs, you allow your mind to wander. 

It’s addictive the minute you let yourself think, the things that I say just might matter to someone. All of this time I’ve been keeping my mind on the running away, and for the first time I think I’d consider the stay.

Your thoughts take you to what had taken place during your prep today. Melissa knows. You know Melissa knows. And she’s still telling you she’ll stand by you. She practically begged you to verbally confirm what she knows, and then to come out of hiding and tell her everything. She promised you that she would be there for you for as long as you would let her. And… and you believe her. You believe that if you told her about your life away from the school and outside of being Miss Y/N, the things that you would tell her would matter to her. And that… that thought becomes addicting.

All of this time, you’ve been thinking about the day where you would finally be able to get away from your husband- the second bank account that you secretly open is finally starting to look like something that you could fall back onto as you begin your new life. You’ve been thinking about just faking your death and running away to another place far, far away from here to get away from Mason. Of course, in doing that, you would have to leave Abbott and the city that has captured your heart from the time that you could walk, but it would be worth it to get away- at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

But now, you’re considering the stay for the first time. Not staying with your husband of course- but staying in Philadelphia. You’re imagining a life where you could maybe… just maybe, still be able to make it here in this city. You have a support system behind you apparently. It shouldn’t come as a shock to you that the Abbott crew would have your back, but after being alone in this world for so long, after being told time and time again that he is the only person who could love someone like you, it takes you by surprise.

Because you matter to me, simple and plain and not much to ask from somebody. You matter to me. I promise you do, you, you matter too. I promise you do, you see? You matter to me.

You’re not quite sure when you picked up your phone, as your finger hovers over your redheaded coworkers number. Before you lose your nerve, you call her.

She picks up after just one ring, and she sounds concerned. “Y/N?”

You weren’t really expecting her to pick up, but she did. And you have no idea what to say. You know what you want to say, but you still can’t quite get those words out. So you settle for a, “You matter to me too.”

Her low voice whispers out a, “Are you okay?”

Your shoulders shrug, as if she could see you through the phone call. You don’t answer her question. Instead you say, “It’s simple, and plain, and not much to ask from somebody, but you matter to me too. I promise. You matter to me.”

“Hun,” Melissa breathes quietly. “Hun, you aren’t making sense. Are you okay?”

You just repeat the sentiment again, letting her know how much you care for her. You let her know that your heart loves Abbott.

“Y/N,” the second grade teacher stops your rambling. “Y/N, I need you to tell me what’s happening right now. Do I- Do I need to come over there? Call the police? Are you okay?”

“I-” The dam breaks, and you begin to hiccup sobs out in earnest.

“Hun,” Melissa’s voice is soft, warm. “I- Can you tell me where you are?”

“My house,” you choke out. “I- I don’t know why I called. I’m sorry.”

“Stay where you are,” the redhead tells you. “I’m on my way over.”

Before you can protest, telling her that you don’t want her to see the dark and dismal space that you inhabit, she hangs up.

After threatening your boss, Melissa is given your address, and she speeds her way to your house. She doesn’t even have to knock on the door before you open it and fling yourself at her. Your body tries to tell you how much you shouldn’t be doing this- your heart racing, your ribs on fire. But as you hold onto her, and the tears pour down your face and hit her leather jacket, you can’t find it in you to hold back anymore.

After years of hiding and being afraid of your own shadow, not knowing if it was yours or someone else’s, you’re about to come out of hiding. You’re about to attempt to claw your way out of this hellhole that you call a life. Hopefully, everything will change with the help of Melissa.

Part 2

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo @m1lflov3rrr @ricejucie

[starryluminary]

You Matter To Me

Sara Bareilles (ft. Jason Mraz)

╾━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━╼

◃◃ II ▹▹

Noah and Cody have a quick chat.

Cody really didn't expect to like Noah as much as he does. He also didn't expect Noah to make him this happy. That's why it hurts when he realizes Noah's better off without him. Without his baggage, without his adversity, without his mess. Man what a mess it is. He wouldn't blame Noah in the least if he thought it was too much to handle and left without looking back.

Fortunately, Cody matters too much to Noah to let him go so easily. Cody couldn't be more grateful. Maybe one day he'll learn to tell him.

[withleeknow]

hiya! I noticed you have your requests open and if you don't mind, could I please suggest: "for once... I was right" with "don't you dare walk away from me" for Lee Know - maybe angsty but I don't mind you just going with the flow.

thank you!

blue hour.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: exes au, exes to ...? 🫢, angst; minho's pov mostly, open ending kinda, some light cursing, unedited don't look at me word count: 2.2k (i got carried away a little bit) listen to 🎧: breathe again - sara bareilles

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

“this should be the last of your things.”

“thanks,” you say, rummaging through the box that minho hands over to you. everything that you left at his place throughout the entire time you were together; every sweatshirt of yours in his closet, every piece of jewelry on his nightstand, every bottle of nail polish that you kept in his bathroom reserved for nights where you two would pamper each other. they're all here, except for... “did you see my red scarf though? i can’t find it anywhere.”

“no, i checked,” he says. “this is everything.”

“hmm, okay.”

you hold the box between your arms, and minho can’t help but feel something twist painfully in his chest. it’s like you're holding your relationship, or what’s left of it anyway, ready to make your swift exit from his life. two years of love, all dumped into one stupid cardboard box.

you both stand there in silence for what feels like forever, just staring at each other, then at your surroundings, neither of you saying anything. minho knows why he hasn’t bid you a farewell goodnight yet; it’s because he doesn’t want this to end. even though it’s a sad occasion, the finale to your story, he still wants to the seconds to stretch on, for the minutes to last longer. after all, isn’t this the last time he'll ever see you?

why you haven’t left him to his devices and gone upstairs, he isn’t sure.

another moment passes. life goes on but it seems like you two are in your own bubble where nothing moves forward. everything stays rooted to the spot.

“do you want to go for a walk?” you ask after a while. the question surprises minho enough that he lets it show, and it makes you quickly tack on an excuse. “the weather is nice and i... i don’t want to be on my own.”

yes, he does want to go for a walk with you. anything to be with you even if it’s only for a moment longer.

“sure,” he says. “let’s go for a walk.”

“okay. i’ll leave this upstairs and get my jacket.”

he watches as you disappear inside your building, only to reemerge momentarily afterward, a wool jacket draped over your frame. he wishes you’d worn something lighter, just so he could have an excuse to wrap his arm around your shoulders if it gets colder.

you walk side by side around your neighborhood, a distance between your bodies that never used to be there before. it’s strange, of course it is. but minho supposes this is yours and his new reality now.

“how are the cats?” you ask.

“they’re okay. dori had a cold a couple weeks ago, but everything’s fine now,” he tells you. “they... they miss you.”

i miss you too - that's a thought that he doesn’t say out loud, only keeps it to himself because it feels too humiliating to utter those words to you.

“they’re cats. how can you tell?”

“i can always tell.” he shrugs. “they wait by the door when i’m already home. they sleep on your-... they sleep on the other side of the bed.”

if you notice his slip up, you don’t say anything. you purse your lips and nod somberly, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “they’ll forget about me soon enough,” you say.

minho glances at you. he wants to rebuke that statement, to argue with you over something as silly as whether or not his freaking cats will retain their memories of you in the future. but he just bites his tongue and swallows down the lump in his throat, humming to let you know that he’s heard what you said. not a hum of agreement, just one of acknowledgement.

“how’s work?” he asks. god, it’s just so fucking weird to be asking you these things. you know each other inside and out and yet, you’re here making small talk.

torn apart when all you two should be is together.

“it’s alright. still the same, kinda boring. you know there’s not a lot that can happen in that place in one month.”

yes, because it’s been a little over a month since you parted ways, since you moved back into your old apartment and left his home perpetually cold and empty. he can’t blame you for leaving when he was the one who agreed to break up. he can’t blame you for his heartache when he was the one who broke your heart first.

he didn’t mean to, but isn’t that what they all say?

“do you still want to leave?”

“sure,” you reply. “if i can find something better, i’d leave that place in a heartbeat. but for now, it’ll have to do. it used to be a bit more bearable though.”

“i hope you find something that makes you happier.”

“thanks.” you give him a smile but it doesn't reach your eyes. “how about you? how’s life?”

minho almost says the first thing that comes into mind. life is terrible without you. i think about you every single minute of every day but you're not here and it’s my own damn fault.

he could lie and come up with something much more palatable, because he doesn’t reckon his truth is something you’d like to hear right now.

but he doesn’t want to lie to you. in the time that you were together, minho never lied to you, not even once, not even over something stupid and insignificant. beside, he’s got a feeling that you would see through his bullshit anyway.

his answer ends up being a sad shrug, then, “it’s life. i’m hanging in there.”

your footsteps slow until you stop completely. this makes him stop too, turning around to look at you with his head tilted to one side, confused.

“it’s not like you to sound so defeated,” you comment.

“what?” he asks with a sigh. “it’s the truth.”

“it’s not the whole truth.”

“what do you want me to say?”

“i want you to be honest with me,” you tell him, your shoulders slumping just slightly. “i still care about you. i want to know you’re okay.”

minho takes a step closer until he’s right in front of you, the closest that you two have been all night. his body feels the warmth radiating from yours but he has to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching out and touching you.

“if you really want to know, i haven’t been myself since you left.”

guilt flashes in your eyes. it wasn’t his intention at all.

you bite your bottom lip, inhale a shaky breath, before you speak, “i’m sorry for leaving.”

“don’t apologize. i’m sorry for driving you away.”

then he watches the tears well up as you look at him. he’s been wondering this the whole night, how you seem so cavalier about it all, how you’re able to speak to him so casually as if you’re just old friends with some shared history, and not as though the wound is still fresh. he’s still bleeding and you’re acting like you’ve already healed.

but he sees it now. you’re just as sad as he is, just as miserable. the only difference is you’re better at hiding it, or maybe you’ve just had more time to get used to the way it hurts.

is this how you felt in the weeks, the months, leading up to your departure? every time he neglected you, prioritized something else over you, missed every date and overlooked every text message? every single instance where he was too busy for you?

he never wanted to break your heart, but alas, here you are.

he didn’t want you to go, and yet, when you felt like you couldn’t handle the loneliness anymore, he hadn’t stopped you from walking out the door. he gave up, and he gave up so easily.

nothing along the lines of ‘don’t you dare walk away from me’, no tearful argument, no explosive and definitive end to your relationship. minho just let your love slip away.

how must that have made you feel on top of everything that he did - or didn’t do - to you?

minho has been called every variation of ‘cold’ before. to everyone else, he’s callous, rough, intimidating and unapproachable. but to you, he’s kind, soft, gentle and loving. it never mattered what anyone thought of him, as long as you always knew that he loved you, that you saw him for who he was.

but toward the end, what if you saw him how the others did? what if you had deemed him cold too?

the mere thought makes him sick to his stomach.

you sniffle, wiping at your eyes. “you don’t have to say that. it’s in the past now.”

fracture upon fracture upon fracture. minho doesn’t know how much more of this his heart can take.

his fingers twitch, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching for your hands. to his surprise, you let him.

your hands, so delicate in his, so warm.

“i should’ve fought harder for you,” he says, his voice so small that you barely catch the words at all.

but his eyes… he hopes you can see it in his eyes - the regret, the longing, the pain of losing you dimming the light of the stars he holds there.

giving his hands a light squeeze, you say, “and maybe i should’ve held on tighter instead of letting go.”

“i made you feel like you weren’t enough. it’s the worst thing i ever did to you. i understand why you left.”

you try to calm your breathing, because you really don’t feel like breaking down in front of him right now. you don’t say anything in response; what are you even supposed to say? you told him everything that you wanted to the night that you two broke up. everything that you tried to bottle up for months was laid on the table that night. you watched as he listened to you, watched as his heart broke alongside yours. that was it.

“i… i’m sorry,” minho stutters, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks scared. “i’m sorry. can’t we try again? i swear i won’t let you down again. i swear to you.”

“min…” the nickname slips out of habit and for a second there, minho thinks you would say yes. but then… “i know you’re sorry. i know we didn’t break things off because we fell out of love. but i don’t think you’re at a point in your life where i can be the most important thing right now. you may not mean to, but there’ll be things that you prioritize over me… and i’m not at a place in my life where i can settle for being on someone’s back burner either. the timing’s just off. it’s not your fault, life just got in the way.”

minho stares at you, the stars dying out one by one. the hurt is beyond what any word can describe but in a way, he understands. it fucking sucks, but he gets it. he has to accept it now.

he nods solemnly, tracing odd patterns on your palms. then he asks, quietly, “can i hold you? just for a while.”

please indulge me, he thinks. this is the last thing i’ll ever ask from you.

you don’t reply with words. instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into you. you two stay there in each other’s embrace for god knows how long. it could’ve been minutes or it could’ve been hours. you always lose track of time when you’re wrapped up together.

you hold him like he - tough and intimidating minho - is made of glass, and he holds you like he doesn’t ever want to let you go.

but he has to eventually.

you untangle yourself from him to find that he’s been crying. the tears on his cheeks catch the light from the street lamps, reflecting like crystals in the night. when you wipe them away, you tell him, “for once, i was right.”

“about what?” he sniffles.

“you really are a hopeless romantic,” you smile, trying to lighten the mood. as much as you can anyway. “i knew you’d prove me right one day.”

minho wants to scoff but his eyes are burning from the tears and his throat feels like it's closing up, so he lets you have this one. the last one, right?

maybe he is a romantic, and maybe it’s only for you. maybe it makes him a little hopeless.

the walk back to yours ends too quickly. but truth be told, even if you had walked together until the sun came up, it still wouldn’t have been long enough for him.

you both stand there, two heavy hearts looking at each other, looking for one another.

there’s no goodbye, only goodnight.

and you’re the one who says it first.

minho returns your sentiment with a choked up voice, a brush of his fingers against yours, and when you finally turn to walk up the steps, his gaze lingers on your retreating figure.

then he calls your name softly. “hey, uhm... i’ll let you know if the scarf turns up, okay?”

you turn back with a knowing smile. it’s still sad, but there’s some faith hidden there.

“i hope it will.”

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos @mjnhoz @caitlyn98s @piercidh34rts  @stayceebs97 @linocz @yaorzu-blog @biribarabiribbaem @kayleefriedchicken

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 16.01.2024]

[sirellas]

i don't mind vedek bareil and i even think having him and kira get entangled was an interesting character development for her but (s2e1-3 when they were having their naked visions or whatever) li nalas was RIGHT THERE. like who better to force kira to examine how her everything is changing now in post-occupation life than the coward war hero?? he's not really a coward but kira sure would have seen it that way if she had ever been forced to deal with the fact that the guy she idolized didn't actually do what everyone thought he did and tried to run away from bajor. and he took over her job! sooo much potential wasted. the pacifist war hero with no interest in politics and the former terrorist forced to help outsiders keep the peace, think of the clashes they could have had......

[sweatervest-obsessed]

You're Keeping Me Down

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (she/her)

WC: ~5.8k

TW: mentions of trauma, mentions of Maeve, kissing, previous relationships, swearing, alcohol, so much crying, bad decisions, girlbossing

A/N: ayo....angsty teehee. I hope y'all like it! It's a sequel to Dedicated to New Lovers and was inspired mainly by Sara Bareilles's Gravity, some Harry Styles, and other sad songs. I hope y'all enjoy it!! I really do love reading all of your comments, and tags, and feedback because it makes me so happy to know you guys are enjoying the writing!! <3

“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” ~Maya Angelou

Something always brought you back to Doctor Spencer Reid. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you fought it, something about the universe could not keep you away from him for too long. 

It was like the two of you were attached at opposite ends of a string, always pulling you towards one another, ignoring whatever you had been feeling beforehand. 

There was nothing you could do to escape him. You had tried traversing the globe, studying in Greece and Turkey, or taking vacations in the most remote villages of China; you had even done a two-week expedition traveling to Antarctica. But somehow, some way, Spencer Reid stayed in the back of your mind. 

Sometimes, it was like he was right next to you. You could still feel him next to you in your bed, or if you were alone in your car, your hand was absently reaching toward the passenger seat, only to feel the leather and not his leg. 

Maybe it was because all of those stupid little facts he had spouted to you were resting in the back of your mind, popping up when you’d come across anything he would have told you about. 

It was something you missed. He would just ramble on about anything to you, watching the joy on his face as he continued to speak, so grateful to have an audience, to have someone who cared. But you’d have to remind yourself that Spencer chose her as his audience instead of you. 

Her. 

The guilt of Maeve’s death followed you around more than Spencer did. At first, it was anything to do with therapists. The thought of choosing someone to speak to outside of your circle was a betrayal you had felt, and you couldn’t bring yourself to do the same. Then it was your distrust of your friends, watching as they became less and less frequent in your life. 

Work was all-consuming. You knew this fact well. Being one of the top profilers in the FBI meant that news of your transfer went fast, and the job offers came even quicker. But you decided to take some time off to rediscover the girl you once knew, someone outside her job. 

The BAU was simply your life for the past eight years. You worked at the BAU, you dated inside of the BAU, and your friends were all within the BAU–It was honestly a joke that it all had decided to come crumbling down once you felt secure in your life, in your job, in your relationship. 

You had filed the paperwork that allowed you to take two months of paid leave, not to leave the department. Your social media suddenly became filled with images of Ancient Greek monuments, Italian Vineyards, the French and Swiss Alps, and cities you once only visited in your wildest dreams. 

Escaping reality was the best way to rediscover who you are. And so you tried.

When you returned from your two months, you had walked into the BAU bullpen and straight to Hotch’s office. Your skin was tanner, and your hair was a bit lighter from all of the sun. You were suddenly this confident woman again, but you weren’t who you were before, making you nearly unrecognizable. 

“Y/N, please come in.” 

You smiled warmly at Hotch, giving him a quick hug. 

“You look good. How were your travels?” 

You smiled and leaned against the wall, not wanting to sit since that meant you would be here longer than you wanted. 

“It was everything I needed it to be, Hotch .” You nodded to the file on his desk with your name on it. “I take it Garcia ‘accidentally’ discovered my file and decided to drop it off?” 

Hotch sighed and opened the file, looking over at you. “Of course she did. I thought you were just transferring after your leave; I didn’t know you were leaving the Bureau entirely.” 

You nodded, a sad smile making its way onto your face. 

Hotch looked at you, replicating the same sad smile. 

“I wanted to tell you in person since I didn’t want you to find out via paperwork, but I should have known to come to your office first and then file it instead of filing it on my way to your office.” 

A soft chuckle passed through Hotch’s lips as he nodded. “We’re going to miss you more than before, Y/N.” 

“I won't be gone forever, Hotch. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

“I know.” He rounded the desk, giving you a quick hug, arm on your shoulder. “You have my number.” 

You gave him a quick smile, nodding, “Don’t worry, Jack will still be getting weekly updates about my travels, and expect a box of goodies occasionally. I have to uphold my reigning title of the coolest aunt ever.” 

As you left Hotch’s office, you didn’t notice Spencer at the coffee station. You didn’t see as he watched you quickly drop a note off on Emily’s desk and another on Derek’s desk before stepping into the elevator for the last time for the next two years. 

You didn’t notice the heartbreak in his eyes, and you didn’t notice the fact that he had overheard as you told Hotch you weren’t coming back to the FBI at all. 

But somehow, you found yourself back in that same elevator, visitor badge clipped to the new dress you had received as a gift from a friend during your month-long stay in India last year. The fabric draped across your body, highlighting how beautiful your curves were, and the colors brought out this newfound radiance in your skin, your eyes, your smile...

Color was the newest development in your life. The BAU meant that everything was in professional shades of blue, black, white, or maybe a subdued purple or green if you felt risky. But suddenly, your wardrobe burst through the rainbow as you experimented with patterns and shades, basking in this newfound joy beyond the world of suits. 

Eighteen months of experimenting–with life, with colors, with places you called home, with love.

You had two brief “love affairs” as Garcia lovingly called them. One was only two weeks long, but the other was a few months. Yet both were missing something special and could barely converse with you. Maybe that was how Spencer felt. And the sex wasn’t all that great either.  

And yet, after Eighteen months, an award, four nominations, a cat, a mediocre short-term relationship, and one groundbreaking dissertation that led to a Ph.D. later, you found yourself back in that damned elevator. 

You inhaled sharply as you heard the tiny ding, doors opening up to a sight that made your stomach twist. It was truly bittersweet to be back, to visit the place that once carried everything in your life, and to have it be so foreign to you. 

But what was not so foreign was how one Derek Morgan looked up as the door opened and his eyes filled to the brim with light. 

“Well, well, well, look who it is.” He dropped his file on his desk and met you in the middle of the side aisle of the bullpen, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. “My woman.” He muttered into your hair, giving you an extra squeeze before pulling away slightly. 

“What’s up, sexy.” You laughed, thrilled to hear he hadn’t changed too much while you were away. 

“I’m sexy? Have you seen yourself recently?” He laughed, and you gave him a twirl, eager to show off one of your favorite dresses. “And where did you get this? Wait, wait, let me guess.” 

You pursed your lips, failing to hide the smile that was beaming across your face. 

“Was it your time in Taiwan? No no…Pakistan?” 

“So close. India. Maybe next time, champ.” You patted his arm, turning your head at the gasp behind me. 

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Doctor Y/N Y/L/N, world traveler extraordinaire?” 

“JJ, you saw me three days ago.” 

JJ pulled you into a hug. “Yeah, over Facetime,” she grumbled, not even trying to pretend she was upset at the sight of you in person. “You seriously have to stop sending Henry so much stuff.” 

“Some of it is for the other one, too.” You muttered to her, knowing she wasn’t fully public with her pregnancy at the BAU just yet. 

“I’ll be right back, I promise, I just have to say hi to Hotch first.” You placed your hands on their arms, turning towards Hotch’s office. As you went to knock on the door, it opened, leaving you face to face with the only person you weren’t ready to confront just yet. 

“Hi.” He breathed out.

And fuck you, he looked so good. 

“Hi, Spencer.” 

You watched as a wave of emotion rippled across his face. His name almost tasted weird in your mouth, not something you’ve often said in the two years apart. 

“I’ll, um..” He moved to step out of the way, letting you maneuver into Hotch’s office. 

But you had also tried to move, causing you and Spencer to almost collide, causing his hand to barely grace your waist. A spark flew through your skin at the thought of his touch, causing goosebumps up and down your body. 

You both muttered an apology, eyes not leaving the other until you quickly moved into Hotch’s office, causing him to move back, still watching as you closed the door in his face.

While you spoke to Hotch, catching up, Spencer was down in the bullpen at his desk, barely even trying to move them away from the windows. 

JJ and Derek stood around his desk, looking from the office to Spencer and back again. 

“She’s back.” He said simply when Kate approached them, wondering why they were all standing around, staring at Hotch’s office. 

“Who?” Kate crossed her arms, looking between the agents, hoping for an answer.

Spencer said your name for the first time in a very long time. And it was almost as if his brain whirred to life, like some part of him had been dormant for a long time. 

“Doctor.” 

Spencer gave Derek a weird look. “What?” 

“It’s Doctor Y/N Y/L/N now, Pretty Boy.” 

Spencer let his mouth fall into a small oh, letting his mind sink deeper and deeper into the pit of you. 

When you had originally left, Spencer decided to try and ignore you. It didn’t work, but he wouldn’t seek you out purposefully. He never looked up your name and tried to steer clear of the conversations involving you. But he wondered why you had never mentioned wanting to get a doctorate beforehand. He would have remembered something like that. He should have remembered something like that. ______________________________________________________________

The thought of Spencer’s fingers on your waist was the only thing you could think about for the rest of the day. Your skin hadn’t stopped tingling, and suddenly you wanted to drown in his touch, let his hands roam over your body and— “Stop it.” You said out loud as you put in your earrings. 

Your mind wasn’t playing far. 

“What did you say, sweetheart?” 

“Nothing, just talking to myself!” You called back, sighing as you smoothed out the front of the dress you had changed into. 

The team had decided to throw you a welcome-back party that night, generously hosted by David Rossi. And since they had all wanted an excuse to get dressed up, you gave them that much, meaning you had to dawn heels and a touch of makeup to accentuate the features you wanted. It also meant you got to pull out another stunning dress you had bought. 

Celebrating your doctorate, which you completed a year early, you had flown to Milan with Emily Prentiss and decided to go shopping, which is how you ended up with the current dress you were wearing. 

It fits you in all the right places, showing off just enough cleavage to be tasteful but maybe tempt something a bit more. You wondered if Spencer would like—

“God, I forgot how hot you look in that dress.” 

“Emily Prentiss, I could kiss you on the mouth.” 

Emily laughed and looped her arm through yours, staring at the two of you in the mirror. 

“Thank you for flying in on such short notice.” You whispered, unable to take your eyes off of the reflection staring back at you.

“We can call the whole thing off right now…”

You shook your head and smiled at her. “It’s for me. And I really want some of Rossi’s cooking right about now. Especially now that I can compare my worldly experiences with the Italian Masterchef himself.” You laughed, causing Emily to laugh with you. 

“Let's get going, yeah?” 

The ride to Rossi’s house on the outskirts of Washington D.C. made for a relaxing drive, filled with updates from your best friend about each other’s lives, even though it had only been a month since you had seen each other last. 

“I think you’re being perfectly reasonable, hun.” 

“You’re saying that because all I do is cry these days,” you grumbled, kissing the head of the black cat in your lap. 

Emily laughed and took a sip of her wine. “Or maybe I just know that you need a change of scenery. You’ve dedicated your entire life to the BAU and now you need to explore the entire rest of the world.” 

“I think you just want to go to Greece with me.” 

“You know how much I love Mamma Mia….”

You cracked a smile and picked up your glass. “Maybe Em, I’m not sure…I just…”

Emily watched as you looked up, trying to keep the tears from your eyes. 

“I know he’s not worth the tears,” you mumbled, but you exhaled slowly. “It’ll just hit me sometimes.” 

She stayed quiet, watching as you slowly worked through whatever was happening in your head. 

“It’s like he’s right next to me sometimes. I…It’s like sometimes my own head is against me for not talking to him. I heard a song the other day, and I immediately turned to tell him something about it and–It’s like he’s ruling over my mind—” You huffed angrily. “I feel like I’m not making any sense–god.” You downed your wine and placed the glass on the table. “Maybe I’m just meant to wallow and drink wine and be completely useless for the rest of my life…past my prime, past my worth. I was so—I was so fucking sure he was the one…Like there's this strong attachment to my chest and I’m connected to him for eternity, regardless of whether he loves me or not.” 

Emily pulled you into her arms while you cried, rubbing your back. 

“You are so much more than him, hun. You will go out in the world, figure out who you are again, and stand so tall, just how you’re supposed to.”

“So tall.” Emily looked at you as she parked the car in Rossi’s driveway. 

“Just the way I’m supposed to be.” You whispered, looking over at her, smiling.  ______________________________________________________________

You’ve been to Rossi’s more times than you could ever admit, but it managed to take your breath away every single time. After his first wife had passed away, he had put in a garden near the edge of his backyard, providing beautiful color for you to look at from the porch. 

Somehow, you always had a half-full glass, managing to have someone always get you a new drink when you seemed low. 

You managed to talk to Jack and Henry, telling them all about the wonders of the world you had seen, then being pulled away by Garcia to discuss that brief love affair you had in Argentina, which then led to telling Derek about your time in England, studying for your doctorate. 

Gratefully, you excused yourself when Rossi announced that dinner had been served, leading you to the tables set up in the backyard, filled to the brim with all your favorite foods. He had simply done too much. 

Dinner was filled with smiles, laughs, and chatter about the ‘good ol days’ and the newer memories being made. You had become acquainted with Kate Callahan, Emily’s replacement. She seemed nice enough, but you both were hesitant of one another. 

Spencer was sitting across the table from you. The two of you would catch glances at one another, passing moments where you couldn’t help but notice the way the wind ruffled his hair or the way the garden’s fairy lights reflected in his eyes. 

“So, what brings you back to Washington,” Hotch asks you the question every person at the table has been dying to hear the answer to. 

“Oh! Well…” You blushed slightly and shrugged. “It’s not that big of a deal, but I was just offered a position at Georgetown as an adjunct professor. If I take it, I’ll teach classes for at least the next semester. That is if I like it more than King’s College in London..”

The table erupted into congratulations, ending with a toast from Rossi.

You all raised your glass in “Salut”, and took a sip from your drink, but you couldn't help but look at Spencer, who was already looking at you. 

Excusing yourself from the table, you went inside quickly, walking towards the kitchen sink. You ran your hands under the cool water before splashing it across your face. 

“Y/n…”

There it was. The moment you had been dreading. The two of you were alone, no one else to buffer you, no one else to take your arm and drag you to the dance floor. 

“Spencer.” You turned around, your body leaning against the sink. God, you felt so small, so unable to watch yourself. 

“That’s a–that’s a beautiful dress.” 

“Milan.” You mused, fiddling with the ring on your pinky finger, unable to look away from the man before you. 

“Ah.” 

The silence hurt. Watching the two of you must have been painful because you could feel it. You once told this man everything about yourself; he once knew how your day went by one singular sigh. He could have told you what you were in the mood to eat for breakfast just by how you woke up. 

But now, you didn’t even know what to say. 

“Georgetown.” 

You nodded and looked down at your nails, seeming that they felt like a safer bet to look at. “Yeah, uh…should be fun. Can I–” You looked up at him. “Can I ask you something?” 

Spencer’s head nodded, and you pursed your lips, looking out the window and watching as your friends and family all laughed together and ate together. 

“When I was…um.” You cleared your throat, willing away the tears that had instantly sprung to your eyes. “When I was packing up all my stuff two years ago…I found the…W-Was it for her or…” You braced yourself for impact. Waiting for him to respond. 

Spencer’s eyes glassed over, and his mouth formed a small oh. He fiddled with his ring finger and looked out past you through the window. He couldn’t bear to watch the travesty he was about to cause. 

“You.” 

“Oh.” Fuck this. Fuck. You had sobbed over finding it for three hours while packing and then  sobbed again as you moved out. Somehow, hearing it out loud was worse. 

He was going to propose to you.

Spencer Reid had wanted to marry you. And god, that hurt. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, and then he told you that he wasn’t in love with you anymore. 

You didn’t care if you were reserving a spot in hell for yourself by damning an already dead woman. Her death meant Spencer could feel an ounce of the grief you just dug up. A sliver of the pain. 

Suddenly, you felt his hand on your jaw, a thumb on your cheek, wiping away the tear that had escaped your eye. “I am so sorry.” He whispered. 

And that broke the damn. 

He pulled you into his arms, and you let him, surrounding yourself with Spencer. Letting the smell of his cologne wash over you, letting him squeeze you tightly like he used to so long ago. The feeling of his chest rising and falling gave you such comfort that your brain was screaming at you to run away from it. You had finally built all your walls back up; you felt as if you could finally exist, but here in his arms, the world was silent. 

In his arms, you felt fragile; you felt so small. All of the strength you had was gone. And it felt so fucking good to not have to be the strong one, the person with the brave face. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

His lips kissed your hair, arm running up and down your back, trying so desperately to bring back that sense of comfort he once could provide you. And it was fucking working. God, why was it working. Why did it feel good? Why couldn’t you pull away? 

“Spence…” You mumbled into his shirt, that had been stained by your tears. You shook your head. “I can’t…We can’t…”

He pulled away from you slightly, eyes saddened, and you couldn’t tell if it was because you were rejecting him or because he still loved you just as much as you loved him. 

“I love you.” 

You pulled away from the kiss, hand on his chest, smiling brightly at him. “What?”

It was the most beautiful you had ever looked, Spencer decided. 

Your lips were puffy from how much the two of you were kissing, hair messy from his hands running through it, eyes wide with just as much love repeated in his own. 

“I love you.” He repeated, smiling beyond measure.

“Say it again.” You mumbled, yanking him back down to your lips, kissing him again and again. 

“I love you so much, y/n y/l/n.” 

You pulled away, laughter filling up the entire room. Pure joy echoed and bounced off of the walls. 

Spencer bit his lip, pulling away slightly. You hadn’t set it back. 

“Spence…” You cupped both cheeks with your hand, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip. “I love you too.” 

Just saying it caused you to giggle, full of love and pure joy. 

Loving anyone else would have caused you to gag–it still does. 

But the memory makes you shudder, causing you to step out of his arms, quickly wiping away your tears or trying your best to. 

The thought of love made you want to rip your head off. It made you want to sink to the bottom of the ocean and never resurface. 

Spencer said your name, making you shake your head. 

“You don’t love me Spencer. You haven’t for a long time.” The admission caused a resurgence of tears, making him take a step towards you. “No, Spencer, no.” 

You shook your head again. “I-I can’t…you hurt me. You…you left me for someone you had never even met. She was–god.” 

“I never loved her the way I love you.” 

“No.” You whispered, chest heaving. “No, no. You can’t..fuck. Don’t say that shit–why would you say that shit to me.” 

“Because it's the truth.” He said softly, too calmly for you to just ignore it. 

“How can you stand there and say that to me? You don’t mean it—You can’t..” The past two year’s worth of therapy, of moving on, of becoming your own, came crumbling down because fuck, you didn’t know what to believe anymore. “How can you just…You don’t fucking mean it.” 

“I know you don’t believe me, but I–”

“Don’t believe you?” You laughed at that, tears mixing with the stabs in your chest, dropping past your mouth as it laughed and laughed and laughed. “Then why did you fucking leave me. Why–Why–Why did you tell me to move out and…God Spencer, why did you come here tonight.” 

You were almost hysterical at that point; all Spencer could do was watch. He couldn't touch you because every time he tried, you’d move away or lose some part of your mind even more. 

“What about me was so–so–so, so boring, so understimulating to you, so desperately ignorant that you told me you didn’t love me anymore, that you kicked me out of our home, that made you reconsider wanting to marry me. And you know, I get it, I do. You found someone on your level intellectually, I get it. But still, I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life–what did she have that I didn’t, huh? What about her made her more appealing to talk to than me? ” 

“She…”

“She what, Spencer.”

“I wasn’t–”

“No.” You were leaning back against the counter, trying to gain some semblance of yourself back from the spiral you were on. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t give me some ‘unworthy’ thought process because maybe you’re fucking eidetic memory doesn’t remember all of the conversations we used to have, but I fucking do. I couldn’t cut them out of my skin if I tried, and god did I try.” 

Spencer stared at you, dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to do; he couldn’t function. All he could do was watch the pieces of you shatter all over, reliving the exact moments you were, but instead of being able to make it right, all he could watch as you closed yourself off more and more. 

“Y-you tried?” 

“God, Spencer, did you even look at me during those months.” 

“I…” He just looked at you, really looked at you. “I couldn’t.”

You scoffed, wiping away the tears on your cheeks, and straightened out your dress. 

“The only fucking thing I know is that if I don’t walk away now, then I will hate myself for the rest of my life for letting you talk me back into loving you again. And the worst part is, I still do. I don’t think I could ever love anyone again because of how much love I have for you, after everything we had been through, but—”

He kissed you.

Or you kissed him. 

You weren’t sure. 

But all you knew was that his hands were on your waist, and your hands were on his cheeks, and his lips were touching yours, and everything felt so right within the world, and your body was against his and just–

“Fuck.” You quickly pulled away, both of you panting, staring at one another, unsure about what happened. 

You two just stared at one another for what felt like forever until you heard Emily call your name from the porch. You took another step away, back against the kitchen counter, smoothing your hair and crossing your arms. 

Emily walked in and eyed the two of you, misreading the tension as something more antagonistic from before than what had actually happened. 

“Uh, Rossi made you a cake…” She looked between the both of you, watching as you nodded at her, standing up fully. You followed behind her, sparing one last look at Spencer, who was just looking at where you were standing. 

______________________________________________________________

“Uh, hi, sorry, could you point me toward Agent Hotchner’s Office.” 

The person whose shoulder you tapped turned around and gave you one of the most beautiful smiles you had ever seen. 

“Well hello, gorg–”

“Derek. Don’t be rude.” The woman next to Derek had elbowed him in the ribs, preventing more HR training for the both of them. “Hi. You must be Y/n. I’m Penelope, and that’s Derek, don’t mind him.” She looped her arm through yours and started to lead you towards the little staircase on the side of the room. 

“Hotch’s office is right up here.” 

“I–Thank you, Penelope.” You smiled at her. 

“I’ve read your file.” She whispered, smiling back at you. “I’m really excited to work with you because you are one impressive woman, let me tell you.” 

You blushed slightly, about to respond, but Penelope had knocked on Hotch’s door, causing a voice to tell you to “come in.” 

“Welcome to the team.” She pulled away, leaving you to enter Aaron Hotchner’s office for the first of many times. 

You opened the door and smiled at the man at the desk. “Hi, I’m–”

“Y/n Y/l/n, You have a very impressive resume. Please, take a seat.” He stood to shake your hand, gesturing to the chair before his desk. You quickly scanned the photos along the walls, the books on his shelves. 

“Everyone knows who I am before I know who they are.” You laughed slightly, taking the seat. 

“Yes, well, We’re all very excited to have you join us here.” 

The memory of your first day hit you like a wave when Aaron pulled your seat out for you back at the table outside. You stalled for only a second, but it was long enough for any of the various profilers at the table to notice something was off. 

You smiled through the speeches, and you laughed at the jokes and cried at the sweetness of your friends, but you were somewhere far away, dreaming about the moments that led you up to where you were. 

“And that is why I am glad to have you back because clearly, the universe respects you enough to let us all come together to celebrate the return of our Y/n.” You raised your glass and cheer with Rossi, standing up to hug him. 

“Now.” You smiled at all of the faces that looked up at you. “Let us eat cake!!” 

The table erupted and while Rossi cut slices for each of you, you sat back down, listening to what Garcia was telling you, but your eyes kept darting to the person directly across from you. 

You could feel his eyes any time they were on you, and you knew they were fleeting glances, but it was just too much. 

“Want to take a walk with me through the rose garden?” 

You nodded, standing up and accepting Derek’s arm, letting him lead you towards the garden, enjoying the fresh air and the sudden weight off of your shoulders. You couldn’t feel his gaze anymore but you knew he was still looking at you. 

“What’s next on your list of adventures.” Derek looked at you, watching the millions of emotions race across your face before settling on a smile and a shrug. 

“I’m not sure yet. You know about Georgetown, but I don’t know about D.C. anymore….”

Derek nodded and pulled out the chair at the small wire table. It sat under a trellis filled with gorgeously bloomed roses and baby’s breath. The smell was almost overwhelmingly fragrant. 

You gratefully took it and watched as he went and sat across from you. 

“You looked like you got a bit overwhelmed back there.” 

“What happened to not profiling me like I asked?” 

Derek chuckled, “It’s not profiling if it’s written on your sleeve.” 

You sighed and looked out at some of the flowers. “I don't…”

He let you work through it in your mind, just glad to keep you company while you figured your shit out. 

Eventually, you spoke up. “It’s weird.” 

Derek hummed in agreement. 

“I don’t know. Just. I felt like I was doing so well, and I was becoming my own person, figuring out who I was, and then I come back here, and suddenly I’m back to being that twenty-two-year-old kid who breezed her way through the academy. It’s like I did everything in my power to end up where I did, and then the universe told me I fucked up and should have done something else.” 

“I don’t think you fucked up in the slightest. Do you know how many people you saved?”

You went to brush off his comment, but Derek didn’t let you get a word in. 

“I know your entire world got completely fucked over, but you were meant to be in BAU. You were supposed to be there. I cannot think of my life without you, I know Garcia can’t, and I know Emily would tear you a new one if you even brought up to her the possibility that you being in her life was a mistake.” 

“Yeah, and now I’m thirty, with a doctorate and a cat, and no idea what to do with my life.” 

“But you also just spent the last two years seeing the world–how many countries did you go to…”

You pursued your lips, trying to count in your head. A blush spread across your face as you mumbled the number. 

“Sorry, wanna repeat that for me?” 

“At least fifty…” 

“That’s what I thought.” A very proud look crossed Derek's face, smiling at you. 

You looked down at your left hand, fiddling with your ring finger. No matter how hard Derek tried, no matter how much you enjoyed his company and the way he was keeping your ego healthily inflated, you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that you could have been married–you could have been happy. 

“He told me when he bought it.” 

Your eyes snapped to Derek’s, and he looked at you with such soft eyes. 

That was something you had always loved about Derek. No matter how much he cared for you, no matter how gently he was being, he never treated you like a piece of glass.

“He, uh, I was the only one he told.” 

You nodded, waiting for him to continue. 

“When did you find it?” 

“When I was moving my things out of the apartment.” 

“Damn…” 

“Yeah.” You laughed. It was colder than usual but still antagonistic at the whole situation. “I…um. I found it on the last day when I was cleaning out my bedside table. He knew I never went into the bottom drawer because I literally never kept anything in there, but I checked because, you know, I was asked to leave, and…there it was. It was just…It’s ironic, really, how perfect it was, too. They say that if a guy can’t get the ring right, then he’s not the one for you, but no one preps you on if it’s the perfect ring, perfect size, but you had just broken up two days before you found it…” 

Derek nodded, letting you ramble. 

“I feel like I’m being weighed down by a million different things, yet they’re all him.” 

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I have no fucking idea.” 

"Sometimes good things fall apart, so that better things can fall together." ~ Marilyn Monroe

Part 3

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Tags: @lilrios-world @gubzgirl @mynameisnotokay @hereforfun22-blog @yoursarahg @mega-kittyglitter-1 @onlyspence

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Why did my brain decide to focus on ranking every version of “I Don’t Know How To Love Him” on Spotify instead of the fucking driving test I have to take in 48 hours?!?