#from which they are forever barred and yet which they inevitably long for even if it means their own obsolescence

[nostalgia-tblr]

My Next Attempt At Long Fic (by which I mean more than 10000 words and it has chapters) Should Be...

Poll and the (actually quite long) gist of each option below le cut:

The Sylki Con Artists AU

This one I have a wee bit written of already but I go back and forth on this one because it's Alternative Universe - Modern Setting and I feel like there's already a lot of those (which I also complain about a lot), and I have to justify it to myself as an experiment in whether I can do a Sylki Modern AU that doesn't just end up as "two people called Loki and Sylvie do normal stuff together". That's why they are con artists in this! Because 1) MISCHIEF (or crime, or whatever) and 2) if they have the same 'job' for similar reasons and I go on about them being similar a lot then that's maybe as close as reality can get to selfcest. (The selfcest is not just a feature of sylki, I feel it is THE feature and to admit to being Bad At Shipping (again) I'm just not that interested in it if they're different people who aren't even aliens. The same alien.) (You can tell me they are gods all you want but I've seen enough Doctor Who to know that must be A LIE so I reject it as such.)

The plot is that they meet in a bar one night and shag (obviously!) and then the reader discovers that Loki is trying to buy a painting from an old woman (planning on ripping off both her and his own buyer) and Sylvie is an artist who is selling a forged painting to some posh twat on the internet who she knows is trying to rip off her fake old lady persona on the deal but she's selling him a fake painting anyway so at least he deserves to be conned. They meet up a few times before finally realising that they are in fact conning each other under fake names on the internet, and then I have to try and fix it when they inevitably get mad at each other because of it. Also, Thor works in a shop because the brodinsons are Downwardly Mobile (dad spent all their inheritance, oh no!) Plotwise Loki is going to actually need Sylvie's painting for reasons I have not yet entirely worked out so one way or another they will have to eventually forgive each other for being con artists as they themselves are and for having attempted to con each other.

Ideally I will be able to make this one funny in some way, as I think the concept can get absurd enough to make a rom-com out of it.

2. The Jotun Heat Fic (also sylki)

I was into this one for about a day and now I have second thoughts because I am not sure I care enough about Frost Giant Biology to have to write an entire fic about it. It would continue my tradition (I did it once, that's enough for it to be a tradition) of turning a tiny ficlet into a much longer thing. This one: The Opposite of Heat, in which Loki and Sylvie go into whatever the Jotun equivalent of the fandom fave 'mating cycles/in heat' trope is, having never done so before because (see if you can guess...) they've never previously spent enough time around another Jotun for the hormones to kick in properly. They have no idea this can happen, and what starts out as Fun Porno-Fic Times soon gets a bit worrying and then I suppose they have to Investigate and that's the bit I fear might end up boring me.

This is set in an AU where S2!Loki did not instantly demand that Sylvie help him with his cop friends' problems and instead just went to live in Oklahoma with her, so the other/'real' plot is them getting used to living together and the weird-but-sexy medical issue bringing them into conflict because of course the first place Loki wants to go for help is the TVA (this not unreasonable of him, as they have a lot of info in their archives and he has no other friends anyway), which Sylvie is not keen on as she would rather just avoid them for the rest of forever. Gosh, I hope nobody goes to the TVA for help behind anyone else's back!

I need a way to make this one stay interesting once it gets to the Find Out What Is Happening part and also it needs to not just immediately end with a sensible solution like just going to Jotunheim and asking someone there for a talk about the frost-birds and the frost-bees.

Also I think they should fuck in that McDonalds. Just because.

3. Jotunheim Rejects The Guy Who Cannot Possibly Be Its Rightful King, Because I'm Annoying Like That AU (not thorki)

Speaking of going to Jotunheim, you know all those fics where Loki goes to be the Rightful King Of Frostland, as Odin apparently planned all along? That but it doesn't work, because I am not at all convinced he can have been Laufey's heir (who the fuck infanticides their only male heir?!) and even if he was well it'd just look awful, wouldn't it? Crusty Old Odin, worst friend to Jotunheim for several years running, sends back your kingdom's heir having raised him as one of his own family. (I hope at least one of you is thinking "US-Backed Puppet Ruler Who Will Do Whatever The CIA Tells Them To" because I did too! Ooh, geopolitical barely-subtext!)

The problem with this one for me is it requires a fairly large cast of Original Jotun Characters, and I still fear writing OCs because of the constant 'Mary-Sue' complaints in my fannish youth. Also I would Controversially (LOL not really) make some of them women, including Angrboda the ambitious would-be consort and Laufey's tragically spurned lover who on finding out that her long-dead son is not dead makes the most of it by insisting everyone call her 'My Lady, the King's Mother' (yes, I stole that from History but I do that sort of thing now, for the LOLs). So I have a bit of an idea what happens in this one, though I'd need to think of more political type plot stuff and also I just finished writing a multichapter fic that involved the Jotun succession so maybe I'd be overdoing it if I did this one now as well.

The other problem is Jotuns are too fucking tall. I mean really. This doesn't seem to bother anyone else but they are Too Fucking Tall to interact with the shorter characters, to the point that it just seems accidentally comedic to me. Just imagine the totally-not-a-puppet king of Jotunheim sitting on a massive throne, swinging his wee legs in the air. And I don't know how to work around that other than just saying "they are Less Fucking Tall in this fic" and I don't know if that would just annoy people. Also it does feel a bit incendiary to go against the general fandom insistence that Loki Is Totally The Rightful King Of Jotunheim. Though I suppose in this he is, it's just that he attempts to become so in the sort of circumstances that make everyone start saying things like "are we really that keen on our monarchy?" or at least "surely there's a cousin or an uncle we could give the crown to instead? yeah, even a woman would do. no, she doesn't have to be alive if there are only dead ones available."

(It was a mistake to let me read books about the Wars of the Roses, wasn't it?)

Oh and this isn't a thorki fic, but Thor is going to go to Jotunheim with his bro to help him settle in and also he will be going back to rescue him from it at the end. Bros before snows!!!!

[taylortruther]

I've been following the discourse on The Alcott, which I love, and I couldn't resist chiming in (long-time reader, first time sending an ask hehe). I agree a lot with everything that has been said, and even though The Alcott is canonically about Matt and his wife, I do think aspects of Taylor's dynamic with Joe towards the end inevitably bled into it.

In the song, The Alcott is a place sacred to the lovers bc it's where one of them runs off after a fight and the other one chases after them, and in the Alcott (could be a bar or cafe), they manage to reconcile. To me, "I get myself twisted in threads to meet you at The Alcott" is the charcater saying that he will do whatever is neccessary to meet his lover at this place of reconciliation in order to fix things after a fight, no matter how hard it might be, but in a way it's also the character saying that he will pick fights over silly things, as in having to do mental gymnastics ("get twisted in threads") to find something to fight over just to get the chance to meet her at the Alcott, bc even if the rs is going through a horrible rough patch where they're emotionally distanced from each other, causing a fight would force them to at least feel something towards the other and talk, and that is better than feeling nothing, even if the emotion is anger. He knows exactly where she will be bc that's where she retreats to when they fight ("I'd go to the corner in the back, where you'd always be"), and seeing her there reassures him that that's where she (and him) will continue to run to in the future: not away from each other, but to this place of reconciliation. She's "writing something about someone that used to be me [him]", which could be a way of saying that she's now writing about someone else that she might be falling in love with as she's falling out of love with him. However, to me it feels more like a reference to how in the last couple of years (see the Joe songs on Midnights) Taylor reverted to writing about the beginning of their rs, back when things were good and joyful, bc at the present things were very bad and she desperately wanted to get back to how good it once was; hence why she's writing about it. I agree that "the last thing you wanted" and "the first thing I do" is referring to saying "I love you"; the reason why it's the last thing she wants could be bc that's how he usually tries to fix his wrongs in an easy way and she's tired of him saying that but not actually making an effort with his actions, which I do think Joe was guilty of towards the end. Or, alternatively, it could be bc the charcater has fallen out of love with him and therefore doesn't want him to say "I love you" bc she can't truthfully say it back. "I tell you my problems, you tell me the truth" could also be in this context: he tries to apologize by telling her his issues, she tells him that the truth is she no longer loves him. In the context of Joever, however, imo it refers to Joe telling her all the problems he has with her excessive fame and the public attention on them that it implies etc, and Taylor being honest about how songwriting and performing are an essential part of who she is, and giving it up forever would be devastating to her. But that she would do it for him if it could save them.

The fact that he waits for her to look up makes me think that he's cautious bc she might still be angry and/or that he doesn't have the courage to initiate the apology, and instead waits for her to do it or tries figure out what to say that will earn her forgiveness. "How many times will I do this and you'll still believe?" shows that he knows he screwed up badly and has done so repeatedly, yet she still always forgives him bc that's how much she believes in their love and wants to fight for it. How long can the relationship withstand and survive his repeated offenses again and again though? (which goes back to "how long could we be a sad song till we were too far gone to bring back to life?").

"Tell me which side are you on" is very interesting in reference to the "you fire off missiles cos you hate yourself" in Renegade and the "I tried to be your bravest soldier, fighting in only your army, frontlines don't you ignore me" in YLM. She's saying "why are you fighting against me, when we're supposed to be fighting together? I'm not the enemy, I'm always on your side and fighting for you", yet he still (consciously or subconsciously) treated her like the enemy, blaming her for things that were completely out of her control and all the outside stuff that they thought was the cause of their rs problems, instead of being on her side and fighting for her too. He left her all alone on the frontlines and not only ignored her efforts but also contributed to the missiles fired her way. Will be very interesting if she further develops the Archer metaphor in TTPD, under the theme of "I had only arrows as defense from your angry missiles and your love bombs" or something akin.

"Have I become one of your problems?" seems like her conclusion to him telling her his problems: apparently, they all have to do with her/her career. Yet, she's clearly exhausted and drained by their fights, and desperately wants it to be easy for once, so she puts the blame on herself ("everything that's mine is a landmine"), knowing that her continued forgiveness and desire to love him could redeem and heal him but it could also very much enable him to keep hurting her ("did my love aid and abet you?").

Then, as the lovers sing "I'll ruin it all over for you" together, they're both accepting the blame for the fight equally, which is the ideal conflict resolution (but sadly, not at all how I think it went with Taylor and Joe towards the end).

The back and forth in the last chorus is particularly gut wrenching to me. In a way, it echos the desperate begging and pleading in the bridge of YLM, but in this case it's softer, more hopeful perhaps, and as you and anon said, it alludes to pain and pleasure (both emotional and sexual): she's telling him "go ahead, shit on my art and my job, rip it off me, set the terms and conditions you want ("read my sentence out loud"); anything to save our love" but there's also a darkness to this, where she would rather he use her for his own physical pleasure even when still mad at her bc that way he at least feels something for her, which is very 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 but it goes to back to how in the beginning of the song he says he will pick fights in order to at least make her feel something (anger/rage) towards him, instead of remaining in the coldness and disconnect in which they were before. Florence + The Machine's song "Dream Girl Evil" describes this type of dynamic very well imo (which is even more😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫), where sex is used as both a weapon during conflict and as a means of resolution. I do think this was the case with Taylor and Joe after their honeymoon phase (False God, Afterglow) and also towards the very end, hence the TTPD cover. During folkmore it seems like they had a couple of years where they learned to use their words to resolve arguments instead of resorting to sex, but unfortunately went back to that dynamic when the rs started to fall apart.

In this way, the metaphorical Alcott for Taylor and Joe was the bedroom ("you had turned my bed into a sacred oasis"): it became their sacred place of reconciliation. Their love, once a blessing, is now a curse, but a curse that she loves and cherishes bc it's theirs, it keeps them together, within this home (both physical and metaphorical) they have built together over the years; she sees no other option but loving him (as we know, Taylor thought she would die if she lost him). All of this is emulated in the beautiful yet vulnerable and almost sad way in which Taylor sings the last "back in love with you": in The Alcott, sacred place for the lovers, they reconcile and fall back in love with each other.

I didn't mean for this to turn into an essay but oh well 😅 those are my two (or twenty) cents. Would love to hear what you and the anons think! Also, I love reading your blog, your takes are brilliant :)

i don't have much to add, because i like just letting this interpretation just sit on its own! but i do love that your interpretation of the alcott being the bedroom fits in perfectly with the discussions we've been having the last 2-3 days.

other things i really liked here:

Will be very interesting if she further develops the Archer metaphor in TTPD, under the theme of "I had only arrows as defense from your angry missiles and your love bombs" or something akin.

me too!!! how will the combat theme she discusses so often evolve in ttpd?

also intrigued by this:

"Tell me which side are you on" is very interesting [...] She's saying "why are you fighting against me, when we're supposed to be fighting together? I'm not the enemy, I'm always on your side and fighting for you",

and:

Or, alternatively, it could be bc the charcater has fallen out of love with him and therefore doesn't want him to say "I love you" bc she can't truthfully say it back. "I tell you my problems, you tell me the truth" could also be in this context: he tries to apologize by telling her his issues, she tells him that the truth is she no longer loves him

this was my first take!

but what i've noticed is that everyone has a different opinion on which role taylor is occupying (the one going to the alcott and confessing, or the one receiving the confession.)

also, i feel the need to address this for the readers: no, we do not know which parts specifically that taylor wrote, and she did write this from the pov of matt berninger's wife. acknowledged!

[insane-control-room]

catalyst

Transformation can be a wonderful thing. It can be a terrible thing. There must, however, be a basis.

ink demonth - exhibit

Base Game - during chapter 4 Rated: T Warnings: Non-consensual body modification, non consensual surgery AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58527871 Length: 1500

To be transformed is, generally, a mixed bag. Some individuals yearn for change, for shifting into something new, to match who they are within their soul. Others fear such a shift, a holistic destroying of what was before, never to rise again. And then, there are those who seek to enhance others, to cause that anatomical rebirth, forging something anew from the old.

There is an innate bond between the creator and the creation.

A vulnerability, the whispering knowledge that there is one that will forever know you better than yourself. The animator knew that well, the discomfort of his craft assuaged by the fact, or what should have been the fact, that their creation would never live in a way to be aware of its miniscule place in the world; of its sheer pointlessness - a cartoon.

No, it would never be aware, sentient of the futility to carve out for itself a new meaning.

That was how it was supposed to be, at least.

However, regardless if the creature was truly a doodle come to life, there were... other people irreversibly changed in this gaping abyss. The obsession with change and perfection made Henry uncomfortable, certainly, though as long as he was left alone, he was content. As content as a man in a personal Hell could be.

The prophet - seeking to change himself for the Demon, for his Lord. Eviscerated by his own ambition, comprehending his own desires too late.

The angel - seeking to change herself for herself, to become Perfection and thus destroy everything. Already thrice dead from her relentless pursuit of her own reincarnation, she continued with tools of iron and bleeding ink.

And the park maker...

The architect...

The octopus....

There was an unnerving, disquieting aspect to that silent ride as Henry entered the room.

Silent and overbearing.

The obvious trap was almost humorous what with how transparent it was, like a thin sheet of paper illuminated by a light table. Yet there was no way but forward, onward into oblivion. With a soft breath, a whispering wind in and out, Henry approached the slumbering giant. His hand reached for the audio player on the table (such a clear, unmistakable snare) and waited.

No, he felt no serious desire to actually touch it. On second thought, why bother? There was no need - he had his ax, the blade honed and sharpened to cut through metal. With ease, he could simply break through the door sealing him in this tomb. Resolved, Henry turned his back to the still sleeping hulk of metal and made his way towards the exit.

A nigh silent creak behind him had Henry gradually turn back toward the ride. There was not a single sign of any motion, however, not even a puff of dust. Apprehensive, Henry continued to edge his way to the door.

Faster than a viper, a leg of the mechanism shot forwards, whipping Henry in the back. It was sheer luck alone which kept him from slicing off his own hand. Breathless, and knocked to the floor, the old man was incapacitated swiftly, ax flung out of his grip. It embedded itself in a cart across the room, and Henry grimaced as he prepared to retrieve it. Now that the fight was inevitable, he had to defend himself or die.

Ended up being a pipe dream- or even, a dream for a pipe with which to fend off the arms that assailed him. Instantaneously, he was swarmed, an uncomfortable grip that lifted him clear off the ground. Eventually, he found himself tumbling into one of the seats, nauseated and off kilter. The brass bar kept him in place as he was dizzyingly pitched forward to the front of the ride.

The doors hiding that waterlogged face swung forward to greet him, Henry lurching back as it felt as though they were eager to crack open his skull.

"If it isn't Henry!" the hulking mass cried, the bloated head staring at him unblinkingly. "I'm so very glad to see you, old friend. Dear me, you look worse for wear!"

Henry did not reply, only stared silently back at Bertrum. The bodiless man's smile, that of an electrocuted man, did not fade.

"It's been some time since I've worked on an upgrade," the rideman mused, bringing Henry closer for inspection. "I doubt that I've gotten rusty, though. Let's give it a shot, eh?"

The arm holding Henry spun around rapidly, then twisted to the side- all the way upside down. It deposited him atop Bertrum's tape player as he tumbled out, knocking the device to the ground as he tried to scramble away and escape. To prevent that, the bars on two carts cinched tight over his wrists, nearly cutting off the circulation. A quiet grunt of pain escaped him, converted into a huff of air as he was slammed back onto the table. A screeching, creaking groan followed the table being dragged across the room towards Bertrum. The man smiled down at him, with that empty, blown-eyed gaze.

"My, time has been kind to you, hasn't it?" Bertrum murmured, a sort of delighted lilt to his tone. Henry kicked and tried to use his legs as leverage to escape, but the bars pressed tighter, pain lancing up the center of his wrist, skyrocketing up his arm to the nerves in his elbow. A half-choked whimper of pain, and he went limp (yet uncomfortable) in the pinching grip. "Your muscle structure appears to be in remarkable shape, and your stamina is rather unyielding from what I've seen. Yes, you would make a fine basis for a roboticized specimen."

Henry decided that he very much did not like what Bertrum was suggesting.

With a renewed effort, he attempted to break free vigorously, only to gasp with the sharp pain of one of his wrists fracturing under the pressure of metal winches. Horrified, his head swiveled to face the limb, seeing red oozing into his flesh- the burst vein seeping through his body. The nausea from before resurfaced violently, swallowing down the need to retch. 

“It’s been quite some time since I’ve done this,” Bertrum hummed, raising another limb- and to Henry’s rapidly increasing horror, he saw the ax tucked between two carts. Without thinking, Henry desperately tried to escape once more. A cart pressed on his chest, pushing him back down, gradually winding him as it crushed his lungs. He gasped, feeling his ribs creaking under the force of pressure. “If you would stop squirming, Henry, it would be much easier for the both of us, you know.” 

He tried to reply, but the cart pressed down once more and winded him. Then, he held his breath unwittingly as the ax pressed to his sternum, directly above his solar plexus. Oh, hell no. If there was one thing worse than a non consensual surgery without anesthetics, it was non consensual surgery without anesthetics by a man turned octopus ride with an extremely limited range of motion and practically no precision at all. 

The ax cut surprisingly straight for those facts, tearing through fabric, skin, bone, and flesh with ease- just as Henry knew it could. Blood welled up in the cavity, spilling out over his side. It was both hot and cold at the same instant, the chills of blood loss shock hitting him- especially with his broken hand; and the lava-like warmth of his ichor. Henry ceased any and all attempts at escaping, understanding now that it was futile. 

Bertrum used a corner of one of the carts to spread open the wound left, the bulky mass pressing now directly on Henry’s lung. It was electrified ice along his exposed veins. 

A giant hydraulic made itself visible, gripped to the point of cracking between another pair of carts. Henry stared at it, unable to even muster any horror as the cloudy shock took over. The hydraulic was carefully placed at the space made in Henry’s chest, not quite a cavity- yet. The pressure of the metal entering his body was unbearable, forcing a space for a huge, heavy cylinder that did not belong in his flesh. 

Bertrum, losing patience, slammed the cart onto the hydraulic. Henry’s vision went black as it jammed fully within his corpus. The ringing in his ears only slightly faded as the ax pressed against his arm. Henry was far too delirious in pain to fight as Bertrum slowly tore into each of his limbs, replacing the bones with those massive hydraulics. Blood splattered along the ground, pooling around the table. Henry could only hear the crack of his bones, the dripping of blood, his own heartbeat in his ears, his groans of pain, and Bertrum’s quiet humming. 

Cut, open, hydraulic. Cut, open, hydraulic. 

Eventually, each and every bone in Henry’s body was replaced. Against his will, he stood. 

“Behold!” Bertrum announced to the void. “The animating automaton!”

The husk of Henry stood, without paper nor pen to draw with, a silent and unmoving exhibit forevermore.

[regenderate-fic]

Let Me Spin and Excite You

Fandom: Doctor Who Ships: Fifteenth Doctor/Rose Tyler Characters: Fifteenth Doctor, Rose Tyler Rating: General Word Count: 1,932 Other Tags: Reunions, Immortal Rose, Bad Wolf as Disability

Read on AO3

Summary: After years of looking for the Doctor, Rose meets a strange-but-familiar man at the club.

NOTES: i happened to finish this on esther's birthday so it's for him now. everyone say happy birthday @nounpolycule

anyway i have a ton of long wips that are going super slowly because of how grad school owns my entire soul now so this is my attempt to remind myself that i can write things that are short sometimes.

title from may i have this dance by francis and the lights. which has some of my favorite lyrics of any song and i'm forever mad at spotify for not telling me the version of it i first discovered is a cover (by meadowlark)

Rose leaned against the bar, drink in hand. 

The glass was full. Half an hour, and she hadn't even taken a sip. She'd meant to try and relax a bit, let loose, but it just wasn't happening. Her head hurt, her bones ached, and she felt the ever-present exhaustion hovering over her, threatening to take her out at the knees. 

Not to mention—ten years.

She'd been back in this universe for ten years. And she still hadn’t found the Doctor. 

She'd tried, of course. She'd looked for unusual happenings, bumps in the timeline, anything that might indicate the presence of a haphazardly landed time ship and its ridiculous occupant. She'd chased a million leads, ironed out as many of time’s odd little wrinkles as she could manage, followed timelines across millennia—running into the Doctor should've been inevitable, after all that. And yet she still hadn’t seen them. 

And now here she was, slumped against the wall, trying to convince herself that this was still the sort of thing she enjoyed. 

She sighed. Maybe it was time to go. She tipped what was left of her drink into her mouth and turned to leave. 

But just as she started for the door, a flurry of motion caught her eye. 

She disregarded it at first. It was coming from the dance floor, for goodness sake. Surely there was enough movement there to turn anyone’s head. But—no, this was an unexpected movement. Something out of time. 

Rose turned to look. 

Immediately, she was transfixed. 

The densely-packed crowd of dancers all but faded away around the dancer who'd caught her eye. 

Beautiful was the only word for him. He practically gleamed in the club lights—the sheen of sweat on his skin somehow made him more entrancing. He moved with a fluid ease, even as the moves themselves were unlike anything anyone else was doing. And there was something about him… Rose couldn't tear her eyes away. He just looked so joyful. 

Tears startled her at the corners of her eyes, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. She missed that sort of joy—that carefree movement, lost in a sea of people. 

To hell with it. One dance wouldn't kill her. Rose took a step towards the dance floor. 

Never mind. Maybe it would kill her, figuratively speaking. The bright lights and loud noises were doing nothing for her headache. Why had she come here again? She'd enjoyed nightclubs, once, but since then every cell in her body had surely changed, fallen away only to be wholly replaced. She could hardly expect to be the same person she was.

Still. It was nice to indulge the fantasy. 

The dancing man had his hands above his head, skirt fanning out as he twirled. As Rose watched, he came to a stop, and then—

Was he looking at her? 

Rose fiddled with the hem of her jacket. She probably looked out of place, in long pants and a full-on leather jacket, with barely any makeup. She hadn't minded, but now she'd been caught out, staring unabashedly at this man, and her usual armor wasn't quite right for the scenario.

The man stepped off the dance floor. He walked like he was still dancing, with graceful, deliberate steps. Rose forced her eyes to stay trained on the dance floor as he walked past her, presumably to the bar. 

She'd been standing for too long. If she wasn't going to leave the club, she needed to find a place to sit. She looked around. Most of the tables were completely full—but then she noticed a group of people getting up, and Rose hurried over to take their table before anyone else could claim it. She kept an idle eye on the dance floor. She wasn’t up for it now—but a hundred years ago, she would've been there, carefree and having the time of her life. 

There was movement in her periphery. She looked towards it only to see the man from earlier, now lowering himself into the chair next to her. He was holding two glasses. 

“This your drink?” he asked, offering one to her. 

Rose eyed him. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.” He settled into the chair. “D’you come here a lot, then?”

Rose burst out laughing. “You're really opening with the oldest line in the book?”

“I didn't mean it like that.” He flashed a smile. “I'm not from around here. Don't know the scene.”

Rose hesitated. “It's not my usual haunt, no.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “Where are you from, then?”

He waved a hand. “Here and there.”

“How specific.” Rose felt herself start to smile. “And, I have to ask. Why are you here?”

“What?”

Rose nodded at the dance floor. “You've got a whole club to talk to. What are you doing here?”

He pointed at her. “You were looking at me.”

“Can't imagine I'm the only one,” Rose said, and then she blushed. She hadn't meant to be flirting—but, well, why shouldn't she? It would be ludicrous to pretend she wasn't attracted. “Why me?”

“Why not you?” He raised his eyebrows. “Got a big old skeleton in your closet, have you?”

“I've barely got a closet,” Rose said, truthfully. She kept a small flat, but it wasn't really home to her. No need for closet space, not when she hadn't bought new clothes in four years. “No room for skeletons.”

“That's a shame.” The man grinned. “There's always under the bed, I suppose.”

The space under Rose’s bed was full of random bits of alien tech she hadn't gotten around to investigating. “Not my bed,” she said. “No room, what with all the doodads I've got.”

“That's a technical term, is it?” He was smiling. 

Rose smiled back. “Oh, yeah, definitely. I'm great with doodads.”

“How about thingamajigs?”

“Absolutely. One hundred percent. I'm there.” 

He and Rose grinned at each other, and suddenly Rose was sitting in a chippy just off the Powell Estate, her feet knocking against the Doctor’s as they laughed. 

She blinked. 

That feeling—the fizzy joy of an easy back-and-forth—it had been at least ten years since she’d felt that way. It was nearly alien to her now.

But… it was nice. And there was no harm in it, was there? If this frankly gorgeous man wanted to buy her a drink and have a bit of flirty banter—well, she wasn't exactly going to say no. 

The man gestured towards the dance floor with a flourish. “Would you like to dance?” 

Rose weighed her options. There was a reason she’d held back, before. But… this was different. Unwise as dancing may be, this man was very quickly beginning to seem worth the sacrifice.

“Yeah, all right,” she said. She smiled. “Show me your moves.”

The man’s face lit up. He held out a hand to Rose, and she took it, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor. Before, when she was watching him, she’d felt like he reflected light outward, shining on the whole club, and now she shared in his glow, moving without care, lost in the light and sound, anchored entirely by this strange man’s hands at her waist. 

It was the most she’d been touched in years. She felt a bit intoxicated—or maybe that was the alcohol—a bit light-headed—or maybe she’d just been upright too long—a bit exhilarated—and there was no way to explain that away. 

The dance felt like it lasted forever, but both common sense and time sense told Rose it could've only been a few minutes before she started to feel out of breath. 

“You all right?” He had to yell in her ear to be heard. 

“Yeah, fine!” Rose hesitated. “D’you want to get out of here?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” His hand fit wonderfully around hers, and they stepped out onto the street together. The cool evening air was a welcome respite from the warm fervor of the club. Rose laughed to feel it on her face. 

“Where are we going?” she asked. 

The man gestured. “My place is just around the corner, if that's all right with you.”

Rose glanced at him. He was still grinning, still gorgeous, his face illuminated by the bright neon of the club’s sign. This night had been strange in the best way—she hardly objected to continuing it. “Lead the way, then.”

His grin grew, as if that was even possible, as if he had infinite capacity for joy. Together, they walked to the street corner—turned—

Rose felt it before she saw it. A rushing familiarity, a glorious sense of home, a giant weight lifted from her bones. She blinked. There it was: a wooden blue police box, innocently positioned in the center of a streetlight’s beam. 

The TARDIS. 

Her brain was short-circuiting. She'd stopped walking. She was staring. The TARDIS was here. The TARDIS was here, which meant the Doctor was here. The Doctor was—

She looked back at the man she was walking with. He was still grinning, his gaze fixed entirely, expectantly, on Rose. 

Rose gasped. Her body felt like it was on fire. She looked from him to the TARDIS—back to him—her lips parted—she breathed out—and on her breath there was a name. 

“Doctor?” 

The look in his eyes was so achingly tender she wanted to cry. When he said her name, it sounded the same as it always had—low, soft, with an echo of reverence. “Rose Tyler.”

She fell into him. Immediately, instinctively, his arms wrapped around her waist, and she closed her eyes. 

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

She felt the vibrations in his chest when he laughed. 

“Thought it would be more fun if you figured it out for yourself. And I was right, if you were wondering.” 

He pulled back. His eyes met hers, and she stared, trying her hardest to take in the collection of features that made up this Doctor’s face. 

“Oh, I missed you,” he breathed. 

The words sank into Rose, settled into her bones.

“Not even going to ask how you got here,” he added. “Or how long it's been.”

“Dimension cannon,” Rose said. “And—hundred years?” 

“Oh! Because—”

“Bad wolf, yeah.” Rose grimaced. “Turns out looking into all of time has some side effects.”

“Oh, Rose, I'm so sorry. I should've known.”

Rose shook her head. “Water under the bridge. Don’t apologize for that.” She raised her eyebrows. “Apologize for being so bloody hard to find. Been looking for years, I have, and best I can manage is a chance encounter?”

“Ah, the TARDIS knew what she was doing, landing here.” 

“Typical. Blaming the TARDIS.” Rose scoffed. “Still haven’t forgotten about twelve months.”

“That was one time!” 

“Scotland? Queen Victoria? Where were we trying to go then?”

“Oi, I made it to Sheffield eventually—”

“Not with me you didn’t!”

Their eyes met, and suddenly they were both laughing, falling into each other, and the Doctor’s arm curled around Rose’s waist as he asked, “What do you say, then? Fancy a trip?”

Rose let her head fall against his side. “Fancy a good night’s sleep first.”

“Hey, I've got beds.”

Rose smiled. “I've missed that time machine of yours.”

“Just between you and me? I think she's missed you too.” The Doctor dropped his arm from Rose’s waist in favor of taking her hand, and as he entwined his fingers with hers, they stepped together in the direction of the TARDIS. 

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - August 6th

I have a request, friends! I’m going on a trip soon--8/17--and I’d love some recs for the flight. Send me an ask if you have anything. As a reminder, I only read finished fics. 

Ok, now moving on to this week’s fic recs. 

~*~ 

a myth to many by nanasekei 

“What I’m about to ask you has no relation to our alliance,” Rogers continues, his voice a lot steadier now. “I come here only in behalf of myself, and what I’m about to ask, I ask as a man, not as a soldier.”

Howard feels as if he can see the anticipation growing in the room, almost as a cloud forming over them. The guards don’t bother hiding the shock in their expressions, and even Jarvis can’t fully disguise the curiosity, his eyebrows quirked.

Rogers takes one short breath before locking his eyes with Howard’s. His blue gaze is almost peaceful in its resoluteness, as if there’s an element of inevitability in what he’s about to say.

“I’m here to ask for your son’s hand.”

In All the World by wallhaditcoming (uvcatastrophe)

In a world where Sentinels, people with five heightened senses, bond mentally and spiritually with Guides, people gifted with empathetic powers, Tony Stark has spent thirty-three years overwhelmed by the emotions of those around him and running from his own. Sentinel Steve Rogers wakes up sixty years out of his own time and struggles to deal with the massive amount of new sensory input while trying to find his footing in a New York very different from the one he knew. When they finally find each other, how will their bond change them?

Electric Touch by iam93percentstardust 

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

Got a feelin' your electric touch could fill this ghost town up with life

And I want you now, wanna need you forever

In the heat of your electric touch

~

But with Tony…

He looks at him, and he wonders if Tony can bring him back to life. Every lingering touch, every smoldering glance, every knowing smirk makes Steve feel like he’s been lit up inside and they’ve haven’t even kissed. And he’s still scared, but he’s hoping—he’s hoping—that this story has a happy ending.

Bugfuck Crazy (In Love With You) by Sadisticsparkle (sadisticsparkle)

It's the Avengers' first mission in a long time. Everything is familiar but awkward, but Steve is sure they'll find their groove.

And then Tony is turned into a giant bug.

Things get a little out of hand after that.

Down to Zero by Sineala

After a battle against the Controller goes awry, Steve is bewildered and guilt-ridden when Tony begins to treat him exactly the same as he treats everyone else.

In Every Way That Matters by Sineala

There are bright things about the future, and Steve's friendship with Iron Man is one of the brightest. So what if he doesn't know who the man under the mask is? That's not going to stop Steve from wanting his friendship, or even from wanting something more.

"death by coffee" and other search queries by goodmorningbeloved (3799steps)

In which Steve's feelings are hopelessly obvious through his Google searches. JARVIS decides to step in.

Hiding all of our sins from the daylight by Anonymous

Two incredibly attractive people met in a bar, they had a good night, made decent plans to see eachother again, yet things dont turn out how expected.

Crash Landing (The Mile High Club Remix) by wynnesome

Steve wants to join the mile high club, so he and Tony take Tony's new jet prototype for a private test flight. An alien craft crashes their private party. Steve goes down -- and not in the sexy way.

Tony smiles, the grin that lets him feel lazy and but also razor-edged at the same time.

"Official test flight's tomorrow, but what if I said I'm in the mood for a joyride today?"

Surprise colors Steve's face a deepening sunset pink. He licks his lips, shining them up. "You mean..."

Some time back, he'd confided in Tony that the idea of "the mile high club" was probably silly, but still sounded sexy. "We will absolutely make that happen," Tony had told him, rock-solid certain. "Right time and place. That is a promise."

"Unless you're not in the mood?" Tony's just toying. He knows the answer.

Steve's posture hasn't changed, but it's telling in the way Steve's almost visibly thrumming now, and those sky-soft jeans are showing it in stretch lines that frame the hard truth happening behind Steve's button fly.

"Yeah," Steve says. "I'm in the mood."

Under Pressure by KandiSheek

In order to make Steve's pain threshold as high as it is the serum reduced his sensitivity in all other areas. Because of that Steve has to be very creative in order to make himself come, use so much pressure that it has scared every partner he's had right off.

He's terrified that the same will happen with Tony, but luckily Tony is always up for a challenge.

Bugfuck Crazy (In Love With You) by Sadisticsparkle (sadisticsparkle)

It's the Avengers' first mission in a long time. Everything is familiar but awkward, but Steve is sure they'll find their groove.

And then Tony is turned into a giant bug.

Things get a little out of hand after that.

I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world by Missy_dee811 

Cooking, he learned, was an art, and he was an artist.

Alternatively, Steve and Tony have no idea they're dating.

Somebody's Darling by laireshi 

Steve wasn't always a sheriff, and Tony didn't always spend his days halfway down a bottle. They met long before Timely.

Captain America, Undone by laireshi for faite, navaan 

Steve thinks he can seduce Tony before Tony seduces him.

He's very, very wrong.

If At First You Don't Succeed by cchristie32

Steve's lost his mind. Really, because everyone knows you can't marry Tony Stark.

Muscle Memory by valtyr

Steve has forgotten everything since Project Rebirth.

Love Me (Not) by navaan

Steve and Tony fall into a friends with benefits relationship and Tony is completely okay with that. Right?

Lessons in Loving (And Being Loved in Return) by itsallAvengers

Being an Avenger means facing danger almost every day. Luckily for Tony, his husband is something of a superhuman. It gets him out of a lot of trouble.

And, y’know - being a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist has a few perks too. Especially when Steve starts having problems at work.

Going Steady by itsallAvengers

Steve has a soft spot for the sound of Tony's heart

[Podfic] All of Your Lonely Sieges by Cathalinareads (Cathalinaheart)

Steve and Tony are stranded in the wilderness. Things go downhill from there.

The story of thirty-six hours.

[Podfic] Isolated System by seleneaurora

Podfic of "Isolated System " by isozyme

Summary:

Here’s the basics: Tony’s bleeding internally, going into shock, and there’s an improvised explosive device fastened to the ceiling of the subway above his head.

[Podfic] Confessions by Cathalinareads (Cathalinaheart)

Tony knows he doesn’t want to have the memory of what going through this felt like, but memories aren’t as conveniently organized as data on a flash drive, not even with Extremis.

[g0dspeeed]

For Cappie and Eli - Write about one member of your ship asking the other to dance with them.

Thank you! This took forever, but I had to get it right 💕

Jacob Seed was never a dancer. Nope. He would play along for a little bit, humor her advances, but in the end he wouldn’t follow through. The stoic man was many things–many sensitive and complicated things–but someone who enjoyed a dance floor and the inevitable attention that came with it? No, that wasn't Jacob Seed in the slightest.

John Seed though, he was a dancer. Graceful, confident, but like with other close, vulnerable matters, to dance with John felt off-kilter. There was an insincerity to it, she felt, as if that charismatic man with the pretty eyes and pearly smile was performing some unspoken expectation. Even with body against body, the dance could be sensual on the outside yet feel so hollow within. John tried, in his own way. She could give him that. Perhaps she only hoped that the dancing would stop when the music did.

Which brought Cappie De La Costa to her current conundrum: Who was Eli Palmer? Did he dance?

In the few months that they were a “thing”, Cappie regarded Eli as somewhat of a boy scout. He was wholesome with grit. Eli was kind, compassionate, a bit shy, but when it came to protecting his rights or withstanding pressure from the Powers That Be, Eli wasn't afraid to speak his mind. Cappie watched him argue with Deputy Hudson once, talking circles and circles about property rights and the Second Amendment in a voice dripping with righteous conviction until poor Hudson threw up her hands and stormed off. Reserved, too, in a somewhat paradoxical way, but nevertheless Cappie liked to coax him out of his comfort zone as often as Eli did her with their long hikes about the Whitetail Mountains.

But she wouldn't push it too hard, not with dancing. Why? Cappie couldn't quite say. She could hazard that her recent romantic relationships left her insecure, jaded. She was less sure-footed in navigating what was and wasn't worth trying with her new boyfriend. So why push it? 

Why risk ruining a good thing?

As Cappie spiraled in the anxious pits of her own mind, Eli observed her wash down the bartop with vigor, a lukewarm beer bottle pressed to his lips. The bartender and the Whitetail leader were alone at the Spread Eagle, the pleasant quiet allowing her brain to rack up more uncertainties when it came to one Eli Palmer, and for Eli to appreciate her face under the glow of warm, bar light.

Then, a long sigh left Cappie. She could feel his eyes, those dark, lovely things, lingering on her face. His attention brought no anxiety, just something else that made her heart flutter.

“Quit it,” she muttered as a blush bloomed on her cheeks."

“No. I don't think I will.”

She didn't need to look at him to know that Eli was smiling.

“Thought you said tonight wasn't so bad?” he reflected. “Didn't seem too busy.”

“It wasn't. Just, I dunno, thinkin'. That's all.”

A heavy pause followed. She tried to look busy, her hands flitting about the bar to organize glasses and liquor bottles as nonchalantly as possible. In the wake of her killing that conversation, Cappie heard a small hum and wood creak. She looked up to observe Eli crossing the space, stopping before the bar’s old jukebox. The planes of his face, the hooded eyes and the straight slope of his nose, were illuminated by soft, yellow neon. Cappie took a moment to gaze at his figure, those broad shoulders, a strong back, those taught legs made for hiking, jumping, and climbing in the wilderness. That firm ass.

His voice, a laxed timber made lower by the hour and the mood, blended with the hard clicking of jukebox buttons.

“Who puts the music on this thing?” 

“Um, I think your boy Wheaty does,” answered Cappie. “Think Casey makes him food as payment.”

Another hum, then Eli moved to fish through his camouflage jacket. She smirked.

“If ya need a quarter–”

“‘M good,” said Eli, the found coin slotted into the machine before she could argue. He clicked a button.

A funny smile spread across her lips when a beat rapped through the empty bar, a sort of building rhythm with a snare drum, steady and promising something good. Eli turned around to meet her stare, his head bobbing to the beat. 

“Oh yeah?” chided Cappie. 

“Yeah,” answered Eli, his brown eyes skirting away from her hazel even as he crossed back over to her. His own cheeks spoke of some embarrassment, pinked sweetly like her care for him, but when his beautiful eyes returned to meet her, Cappie could see that fire inside them, burning hotter than ever.

His beer was set aside, leaving his hands free to wander. They took her hand, a silent request to abandon her duties in favor of walking more to the center of the bar with him, his hands calloused but tender in their touch. Her heart raced like wild horses.

“You don't, you don't dance,” she mused in a whisper, the way Eli brought her closer to his body a bit distracting. 

With a hand on her hip, Eli looked thoughtful.

“Nope."

They swayed for a moment, slow despite the lively song he selected. Cappie savored the warmth of his eyes, the shy smile that teased his lips. Her own smile was spread across her face, awestruck and nervous, as if he was about to end the charade at any second.

“Ain't a dancer,” went on Eli. “But I'll dance with ya, Cap.”

“Why?”

The question fell out of her mouth before she could check herself. It was out there, and Cappie needed to know–

“‘Cause I like ya, that's why,” Eli said with a small chuckle, flavored by nerves. “Might not be as good as you, but I'd like to be, gorgeous.” 

Despite whatever anxiety he felt, Cappie beamed. Eli grinned when Cappie pulled away to spin, their fingers twisting so to not let one another go until she curled back against him for a kiss.

✨

And here's the song playing on the jukebox

[gravityskittles]

Chapter 4: Hide-Behinds and Other Such Anomalies.

Mabel opened her eyes. For a moment she forgot where she was and lay staring at the ceiling wondering where their stars had gone and why her body ached so much. Then the events of yesterday crashed back over her and she groaned and buried her head under the covers again. She wanted to sleep forever or, barring that, wake up again in the attic of the shack with Grunkle Stan downstairs making pancakes. Instead, Dipper’s alarm started going off again and she realized that must have been what woke her the first time. Blearily, she fumbled across the bedside table for his phone, and after several long seconds, finally managed to silence the tinny notes of BABBA’s Disco Girl.

She honestly didn’t know why Dipper bothered setting alarms. It wasn’t like they ever woke him up. Even back in Piedmont when they had had separate rooms it was always Mabel who would have to wake him up before school after the third or fourth time his alarm had gone off with no success. Dipper slept like the dead and for once she was glad of it. He needed a good night of sleep after yesterday.

She decided to let him sleep a bit longer and fumbled for her glasses to check her own phone. To her surprise there was a text from her mother. She paused before opening it, trying hard to tamp down the hope that had started to well up inside her. Then she opened it, and the hope died away immediately.

Mabel, I have let Stanley and Stanford know about the situation. They should hopefully call you soon.

 That was it. Two sentences. No, I love you . No, I hope you are okay . Not even a love mom . Just two formal sentences, like she was a co-worker or client. Worse than that, this text had been sent at 11pm their time, and there were no missed calls from their grunkles on either her phone, or Dippers. For a moment her finger hovered over Stan and Ford’s contact number. She didn’t want to call them, not yet. She wanted to put off their inevitable disappointment in her as long as possible. But the fact they hadn’t called yet worried her. Maybe something had happened to them. Or maybe, maybe they were perfectly fine and had just decided they didn’t want to put up with the twins either. A glance up at their birthday clock, currently propped up on the desk above Dipper’s backpack, told her it was just after 4 AM in Alaska. This made up her mind. 4 AM was absolutely too early to call no matter what. Which, she reasoned, pushing away the anxious thoughts, was probably why they hadn’t called her and Dipper last night to begin with. Feeling a little guilty, she put her phone down. They had agreed to call tomorrow after all, she told herself. Today she and Dipper would have an adventure, and tomorrow they would call Stan and Ford and figure everything out.

Next to her Dipper yawned and rolled over, mumbling something about pancakes. Mabel laughed and pulled herself out of bed to shake him properly awake.

“Get up sleepy head! We have some cryptid hunting to do today! Plus, there’s free pancakes downstairs!” The promise of pancakes seemed to rouse him somewhat and together they headed down for breakfast.

…

 After breakfast Dipper had wanted to spend some time doing research on the caverns and Hide Behinds while they still had an internet connection, so they didn’t manage to get out of the hotel until around eleven.

After they finally got on the road, it took almost two and half hours to get to the Luray Caverns. It really shouldn’t have. Mabel’s GPS said it should take about an hour but then they stopped for gas, and then they got lost, and then she made them stop like four different times on their way through Shenandoah National Park so that she could take photos with her new camera. Even Dipper begrudgingly admitted that the mountains were beautiful enough to be worth a stop. However, by the fourth one he had refused to get out of the car and Mabel knew she was pushing her luck a bit, so she ignored the rest of the lookout points they passed.

She hadn’t told him about the text from their mom yet. She knew she should, but there was a part of her that just really wanted to avoid talking about their parents with him right now. Partially she knew that he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet, but neither was she if she was being honest with herself. Everything she had said to Dipper the night before had been true. She hadn’t loved DC, she hadn’t really liked her new school, and she had absolutely hated the way her parents had treated Dipper, but she loved people, she had loved Piedmont, she had loved her mom most of the time, she had even loved their dad despite everything. She knew she shouldn’t, knew that he was, at his core, an abusive transphobic man who should never have agreed to have children. But he had also been her father. He had taken them on picnics, sung them to sleep, taught them to ride their bikes and bandaged them up when they fell. There was a part of Mabel that had really truly hoped DC would fix everything. She had trusted her mom when she had told them their dad was better, and some part of her still couldn’t completely shut that hope and love away.

It was these thoughts that distracted her into getting them lost for a second time, sending them looping back up along the mountainside until they reached a lookout point where they could turn around. Dipper had asked sarcastically if she was ever planning to get them out of the state, and, angry with herself for wasting time they didn’t really have, she had snapped back asking if he wanted to drive.

They had spent the next twenty minutes in frustrated silence before finally pulling into the Luray Caverns parking lot. As she parked and turned the car off, she turned to Dipper and started to apologize. “I’m sorry—”

“Sorry Mabel—”

They both broke off staring at each other in surprise and then they both started laughing properly for the first time in a long time. Mabel grinned at him and held up her fist.

“Twin apology?”

“Twin apology.” Dipper grinned back and raised his fist as well, knocking it against hers gently.

“Alright Dipper, what do we need for this cryptid hunting excursion? I’m thinking, camera, flashlight, grappling hook?”

He frowned for a moment, thinking. “Yeah, that all seems reasonable. I’m gonna bring my journal.”

“Obviously!” Mabel fished around in the backseat and pulled out a tote bag covered in various pig patches. She threw her stuff into it and added Dipper’s cryptid book and a pocket knife for good measure, then they made their way to the ticket booth.

She had been surprised that the place would be open on New Year’s Eve, but she knew from Grunkle Stan that tourist traps always make the most of any day they can for business, and given how often it was probably closed in the winter for snow it made sense that it was open today. There was surprisingly a little group of people already clustered around the stand, purchasing tickets for the two o’clock cave tour. This was good, it meant they could probably lag behind a little bit to examine the caves without the tour guide noticing.

While Dipper bought them tickets, Mabel studied the map of the cave system. She knew that there were a few places that the tour didn’t actually go through, places that had been deemed too unstable for regular tour groups, or too expensive to safely construct pathways into. She hadn’t listened to a ton of what Dipper had been chattering about back at the hotel, but she gathered that Hide-Behinds liked darkness and quiet, but also easy access to potential victims. So, while the map depicted lots of offshoots much further into the cave system, she assumed that the Hide-Behinds would probably be lurking in the undeveloped patches of cave directly connected to the tour walk.

She took a map from the kiosk and tucked it into her back pocket before hurrying over to meet up with Dipper and the rest of the tour group. The descent into the cave was interesting: a long, broad staircase that tunneled down into the earth at a steep angle. It reminded her a little of the entrances to subway and metro stations, and she tried to keep that image in mind as they descended lower. Mabel hadn’t been a big fan of cave systems since exploring the Gravity Falls mines back that first summer. She knew there weren't going to be ancient dinosaurs in this one (she had made Dipper check extensively that morning) but she still didn’t like the idea of intentionally trapping herself underground with only one real exit to speak of.

The tour guide was explaining how the caves had been found by a group of locals in 1878 after a suspicious sink hole had appeared in a farm field. Apparently, the caves had once been inhabited a long time ago as lots of human artifacts and even remains had been found embedded in the limestone of the cave. Mabel shivered a little at that despite the warmth of the air around them. She hoped there weren’t ghosts down here. The cave had heated up quite a bit as they descended until it was warm enough for her to push the sleeves of her sweater up and for Dipper to pull off his aviator jacket and tie it around his waist.

“Dipper” she hissed, sidling over to him, “remind me, exactly what are we looking for again?”

“So, no one really knows what a Hide-Behind looks like, it’s thought to delete your memories when it takes you. They don’t kill people, just leave them very tired and often trapped in places it’s difficult to escape from. Ford always wondered if they had a symbiotic relationship with some other anomaly that can get the bodies afterwards while the Hide-Behind saps the energy.”

“Right well. Good to know it won’t kill us. I asked what to look for, not what it's going to do to us.”

“Oh uh, right. Sorry. Basically watch the shadows, look for flashes of eyes, claws, fur, anything that doesn’t seem right. Shadows that seem out of place, things like that.”

They continued to follow the tour guide in silence for a few minutes listening to a detailed description of stalactite formation before Dipper spoke up again.

“Also, Mabel, we’ll be fine. All we want is a photo or a glimpse of it, it's not going to do anything to us. I just got a little carried away with research this morning is all.”

She grinned back at him. “I know that! We’ve survived much worse than being a little tired, even if it does get us I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”

“I just like being prepared—“

“I know you do bro, and if listing all the horrible ways we could die makes you feel better, be my guest.”

“Mabel that’s not—” he broke off as her sarcasm finally processed and stuck his tongue out at her instead.

The tour continued uninterrupted for a while. They passed by columns of limestone, some made massive over the years, others so spindly in their centers that it looked like one good breeze would send them crumbling into dust. Pools of completely still water were scattered along the pathways, their undisturbed clear reflections turning the ceiling into seemingly bottomless cave systems beneath the surface. In one room a giant mass of stone pipes had been fashioned into an organ with specialized hammers and augmentations to make it actually playable.

Dipper hung back in this room to examine the mechanical structures surrounding the organ and Mabel waited with him, listening to the tour get steadily further away along the path ahead. She stared up at the organ for a minute, before glancing around the rest of the room. One of the little cavern offshoots she had marked on her map was around here somewhere. She walked to the edge of the marked path and peered into the darkness trying to conjure up the Hide-Behind from within it. No luck. She turned back to Dipper, mouth open to ask if they could catch up with the group, but Dipper was gone.

His blue aviator jacket, a gift from Ford two summers before, lay abandoned on the floor in front of the organ. Mabel spun around, pulling her camera out of her bag and holding it up in front of her like a weapon. A shadow along the side of the organ shifted suddenly and Mabel clicked the camera button. For a moment in the bright flash, she saw something.

It was pale and horrible, a living shadow with too many limbs and eyes. It was the shape of the edge of the organ, and as it moved those limbs began to shift and change. She had enough time to shove the camera into her backpack and scream Dipper’s name as the thing blurred out of her eyesight. She took a panicked step forward to where the jacket lay, then long fingers closed over her mouth and eyes, and everything went dark.

…

The first thing Mabel noticed as she opened her eyes was how dark it was. So dark, in fact that she wasn’t even sure she had opened her eyes at all. A moment of feeling around confirmed she was sitting on damp rock, surrounded uncomfortably closely by other rocks on all sides. She still seemed to have her shoulder bag tangled around her, and miraculously she appeared to still have her glasses on, even though they weren’t doing her much good right now.

She was exhausted just like Dipper had warned her she would be when. When. She paused. Her brain got all foggy when she tried to think about this any further. She frowned and reached into her bag feeling for her flashlight. Her fingers brushed against her camera first though and a sheet of photo paper that was poking out. She didn’t remember taking a photo, but then again she couldn’t remember a lot of things at the moment, so she wasn’t that surprised. She pulled out the flashlight and the photo and clicked on the light. It absolutely blinded her for a moment and she closed her eyes as the headache that had been drifting at the edges of her consciousness began to pound into full force behind her eyes. After a few seconds she cautiously blinked, still squinting a little at the bright light, and examined the photo.

It was blurred and dark, slightly underdeveloped from being shoved into her bag. She could make out a flurry of limbs, a grinning mouth of uncomfortably human looking teeth, and a few dark bug-like eyes, all within a fuzzy ball of shadow that was almost filling the entire photo. At the bottom of the frame she could make out Dipper’s jacket on the floor of—Oh.

Everything flooded back at once, the caverns, the Hide-Behind, and “DIPPER!!”

Her voice cut through the darkness bouncing off the walls that surrounded her. For a moment there was silence and then a thin groan from the other side of the tunnel.

“Mabel? Why do I feel like I haven’t slept in days?”

She scrambled up off the rocks and over the stalagmites on the floor around her. She was incredibly dizzy and unstable on her feet, and she slipped several times, banging her knees on the rocks, but in a few moments she reached Dipper. He was curled up in a ball against the side of the tunnel, hemmed in by stalagmites on all sides.

Mabel set the flashlight down and grabbed her brother trying to haul him up off the floor. “C’mon get up! The Hide-Behind got us! But I have a photo! I got a photo!!”

“The Hide-Behind?” Dipper looked bemused. Mabel shoved the photo at him, nearly dropping it in her excitement. He took it, and she noticed small red sucker marks climbing up his forearm. As he looked at the photo, she pulled up her own sleeves, seeing a set of matching marks. They didn’t seem to hurt right now but they had scabbed over a bit meaning that they had bled at some point. She frowned but before she could process more than that Dipper shouted in sudden recognition.

“Oh!! Ohmygosh. Mabel this is incredible! We got a photo! An actual photo! Great-Uncle Ford is going to be so proud of us—”

“Slow down Dip, he’ll only be proud of us if we actually make it out of the caves. How long have we been down here anyway?”

Dipper glanced at his watch and paled visibly. “It’s uh. That can’t be right, it says it’s almost ten at night.”

Mabel whistled. “They must have some kind of memory power outside of just the victims if no one’s found us in seven hours.”

Dipper groaned again, “Or maybe it doesn’t and just no one’s been able to find us.”

“Oh don’t say that, I’m sure there’s a way out of here, we got here somehow, and we can stand up in this tunnel so we cant be too far from the main—” She broke off suddenly. Something was wrong, she could feel the sudden spikes of anxiety in her chest, but she couldn’t figure out where they were coming from. Dipper opened his mouth to respond, and she shushed him, listening intently. After a moment she heard it again, a soft scraping sound, like claws on stone, rhythmic and slow, but getting steadily closer with each step.

Dipper turned to meet her eyes, and she saw he had heard it too. “Dipper, didn’t you say something about the Hide-Behind having a symbiotic relationship with something that wanted very much to eat people?”

Dipper looked up sharply, staring at something over her shoulder, then yelled “RUN!” and grabbed her hand.

As they began to sprint down the tunnel, bodies shaking already with tiredness from the Hide-Behind attack, Mabel felt hot breath against her back and heard a crunch of something digging its claws into the soft limestone floor.

They ran, hoping desperately that they were going the right way. Dipper never let go of her hand once, even when she tripped over herself for the third time, and for her part she never dropped the flashlight which bounced light haphazardly around the tunnel as they ran. Whatever was behind them was running too, they could feel it shaking the floor as it pounded along, breaking off chunks of stalagmites and stalactites with its heavy claws as it went. But soon Mabel noticed that the tunnel was becoming lighter, and after a few minutes of running, she saw the exit ahead of her.

They shot out of the tunnel, suddenly splashing into water that immediately soaked their shoes and pants, and Mabel realized where they were. They were in one of the pools on the side of the organ room. The tunnel they had been in led to a small crack in the wall that she hadn’t noticed earlier or seen mentioned on the map at all. Dipper stopped long enough to scoop up his jacket which had been hung over a railing in their absence, and in that time the creature behind them reached the end of the tunnel.

They heard a crunching of rocks and then there was a huge spray of water as the thing careened through the pool. Mabel let go of Dipper’s hand and pulled out her camera, running backwards along the path. She clicked it once in the creature's direction, and shoved it into her bag again. She went to turn around but tripped again, and this time there was no Dipper there to pull her back up.

In an instant, the thing was on top of her. She had a momentary flashback to the Gremloblin. This creature had a similar build, but instead of thick fur and mushrooms, it was covered in what looked like limestone armor, which was plated down its back like a giant armadillo. Its face was pointed and rodent-like, with wickedly sharp teeth and no eyes. It opened its mouth and hissed.

“Hey ugly! Over here!” Dipper had appeared beside them and thrown a small rock at the thing, it bounced off its plated back and onto the floor. The beast didn’t even twitch, instead it brought up one huge, clawed paw over Mabel’s head. She couldn’t help it, she screamed.

Partly terror, partly angry defiance as she struggled to get away. But it was long and loud and incredibly high pitched. The creature froze, clawed foot still suspended in the air, the small ears on top of its head flattened back. Mabel screamed again, this time with a small amount of curiosity. The thing stepped back, ears still flattened. She opened her mouth to scream a third time when instead she heard a sharp whistle, then another and another. She scrambled up off the floor and saw Dipper at the cave organ, banging on pipes at random. Each one emitted a sharp sound, and with each whistle the creature seemed more and more frantic.

Dipper hit a final note with all his strength and something on the organ broke, falling from the ceiling and shattering into pieces on the floor. But it didn’t matter, with the last whistle the creature turned tail and ran back for the tunnel it had appeared out of, vanishing into the rocks and out of sight.

Dipper hopped down and ran at Mabel. “Are you okay, are you hurt?”

She grinned, trying to hide the fact that she was still swaying unsteadily. “Psssshhh I’m fine Dip! We really beat that thing! And I even think I got another photo, so that’s two anomalies for you to journal about now!”

He pulled her into a tight hug and she melted into it, hugging him back fiercely. This hadn’t gone well but at least it had been cool, and mostly not a disaster.

They made their way out of the caverns as quietly as possible; it was past eleven by the time they reached the gates at the exit. Dipper waited patiently for Mabel to pick the lock. She had learned from Stan, ignoring Dipper’s protests that it wasn’t right to break into things. She knew that he had come around on it though as Ford had pointed out to him that it’s equally useful to know how to break out of things as it is to break into them. She had tried to teach Dipper herself at one point, but he had never really gotten the hang of it. Her record, on the other hand, was twenty-five seconds, five seconds slower than Stan, and she was proud of that. Today though it took her five minutes. She was tired, and her hands were shaking with cold and adrenaline, and she kept dropping the bobby pins. But eventually the lock clicked open, and they headed for the parking lot.

They spent a few minutes getting comfortable and putting their stuff away. Mabel was just pulling out her first aid kit to clean off her knees and both of their arms, when they heard sirens approaching. Dipper swore angrily and hopped into the driver’s seat yelling for her to get in. She threw the first aid kit into the backseat and hopped in the passenger’s side.

“What happened?”

“Must have been an alarm on the gate we missed, we have to get out of here!”

“But Dipper, surely they would understand we got lost and—”

“Mabel, think about it logically, it’s going to be really hard to explain why we were trapped in a cave no one remembers us going into, how we damaged an incredibly important natural wonder, and why we are both underage and out alone on New Year’s Eve!”

He pulled out of the parking lot as police cars pulled into it and began speeding down the dark highway, a few seconds later police lights began to follow them. Dipper swore again and sped up. Mabel watched the lights in the rearview mirror.

“I’m really sorry Dipper, I can’t believe I suggested this, I should have known it would end badly. I always make everything worse.”

Dipper kept his eyes on the road, but she saw him tense up at her words. “Mabel, don’t. This was incredibly fun! I mean it was terrifying, but we got photographic evidence of two anomalies even Great-Uncle Ford has never documented. It was awesome! It’s a shame we're being chased by the police but I’m sure we’ll figure something out. I just have to think.”

Mabel pulled her phone out and stared at Stan and Ford’s contact number again. Then she sighed, they’d had the adventure, whatever came next, well. She’d just have to deal with it. She pressed call and held the phone up to her ear.

Dipper glanced at her, “Who are you calling?”

“The only person we know who’s ever successfully run from the police.”

Dipper turned back to the road, a small smile on his face despite the sirens growing louder and closer behind them. The phone rang, and rang. Mabel turned back to the clock in the backseat, trying to make out what time it was in Alaska. She heard Dipper gasp and then felt him slam on the brakes. She spun back around just in time to see a woman in front of the car. She got the barest impression that the woman was wearing a wedding gown, or something close to it. The phone connected as the car reached the woman. Mabel heard her Great Uncle Ford call her name through a rising crackle of static. The woman turned to look at her. She felt cold, a thin bluish light began to spread across the car, she saw Dipper begin to glow, along with the clock in the backseat and her grappling hook.

She had just enough time to breathe out “Oh shit—” as the world around them seemed to flicker violently for a second.

The clock changed to midnight and the woman vanished.

The phone went dead, the sirens and lights behind them winked out of existence like they had never been there at all, and the blue light slowly faded away. Their car skidded to a stop on the highway, and she felt the tattoo on her shoulder begin to burn with a cold fire.

[tryst-art-archive]

Context: 2012, pt. 3

Reaping What We Sowed

With the summer came FWB's graduation from our college. There's a picture of his friends and him in their graduation caps and me tacked awkwardly onto the side, visibly out of place yet desperately trying to belong. I'm not going to share it because everything that happens next I have an incredible well of shame about, even ten years later, and so I don't want to tie any of their faces to it.

Following his graduation, FWB was listless--lost--and a depression that had always lurked around the edges got its claws in him and latched on. He took a job as a barback at an unremarkable bar in downtown Boston and proceeded to steadily run out of money. He often worked until the AM, and the cost of a cab ride home generally destroyed whatever his pay for the day had been; it was the restaurant industry in America, after all. He was making much less than minimum wage.

This escalated steadily and, at the same time, a tension grew between us that made me anxious and jumpy. There's a particular feeling that overtakes a relationship when its end is nearing, and it was that feeling but with an added layer of resolute, determined denial on my part.

I was desperately clinging to the idea that he and I would remain together forever. I'd been losing faith in my writing and capability at becoming a writer for a long while, and I was looking toward the publishing industry as the means by which I'd sustain myself; that was why I chose a major that involved a publishing focus, you see.

During the summer of 2012, I did an internship at a publisher that no longer exists which did hobbyist magazines. I was specifically a graphic design intern, making newsletters, ads, and other little materials under the direction of the designers putting together page layouts.

I hated it, but I'll explain why in another post. For now, it's enough to know that the internship turned me off of the entire "work in publishing" plan.... which meant I didn't have a plan as I entered my senior year of college.

I responded to that loss of direction by pinning all of my hopes on my relationship with FWB. I convinced myself that I could weather the publishing fate I'd set up for myself so long as we were together. By working in publishing, I could probably pull together enough money to sustain both of us, I reasoned, and that way he could pursue his dreams of being a writer, and I could keep being with him.

I didn't tell him about this. Ever. It was a life plan I'd invented, become fully invested in, and determined to see through entirely by myself. At the tender age of 21, I had become the archetypal Crazy Girlfriend without even noticing.

I became so convinced of this plan as an inevitable eventuality that I started to believe it was impossible for FWB and I to stop seeing each other. I began to act erratically and carelessly.

It was around this time that Boyfriend 2 messaged me out of the blue to make himself feel better after a breakup, and while I by no means gave him what he wanted, I did entertain the texts for a bit because I thought it was funny and it felt validating to be wanted after months of the tension I was pretending didn't exist in my then-current relationship. FWB was with me at the time that these texts were being exchanged--I laughingly shared them with him--and I entertained them a little too long. I remember him being displeased, but I likewise remember thinking the unhappiness I took for jealousy was silly and unnecessary: in my mind, it was obvious that there would never be anyone else for me than FWB.

The end came on a night at my apartment on which things were a bit odd between us. He was distant, and I was becoming impatient with our arrangement's lack of a name--because, in my deluded mind, our seeing other people was impossible, making the pretense that I myself had originally set up completely absurd.

I suggested we admit we were dating. He responded by ending our arrangement.

[prince-of-elsinore]

On Gunslingers, the "March of Progress," and Leaving a Legacy

An analysis of themes in Supernatural Season 12

In a previous post rambling about season 12, I stumbled onto the idea of American Hunters vs. the British Men of Letters as a classic Western set-up: the lone gunslinger who lives by his wits, skill, grit, and personal moral code, vs. the advance of "civilization" colonizing and "taming" the West, effectively pushing out the gunslinger and making him obsolete. The land becomes a more inhabitable place (for white settlers), but with the comforts and safety of civil society come society's norms and mores, which leave no space for the shades of gray in which the vigilante gunslinger operates. If we take the BMOL mission at face value, they are attempting the same sort of colonization of "wild" (monster-infested) America. Britain is "civilized" (monster-free) thanks to the BMOL, whereas in the US, lone operator hunters (gunslingers) rove the country, sometimes saving people, but not all the people, and always operating according to their personal judgment, faulty as it may be (see Gordon, Roy and Walt, Martin, to name a few). Leaving aside the question of whether the BMOL's goal of ridding the country of monsters is realistic (the US in not an island like Britain), their aim, if achieved, would undoubtedly make the US a safer country for its human residents.

(I'm aware that this analogy is problematic for equating monsters with native inhabitants who must be wiped out or assimilated, and humans with white colonizers. This is an implication that the show itself makes. This post isn't about the problematic and ethically inconsistent portrayal of monsters in Supernatural, though, which is a huge topic in and of itself, so I acknowledge that it is an issue, but one I don't aim to address here.)

What the US would lose if the BMOL succeeded is the "rugged individualism" of the hunter ethos, and the nuances that their personal codes allow--a second chance for the psychic Magdas and werewolf Claire Novaks of the world. The show, of course, wants us to side with the hunters, the good ol' fashioned gunslingers. It makes it easy (too easy) for us to do by presenting the BMOL as caricaturish villains with a cruelly rigid code. This has the effect of aligning the audience against the "march of progress" (just as many Westerns implicitly do--therein lies the genre's subversive potential).

Let's take a closer look at 12x14 "The Raid" in this light. The Alpha vampire has been drawn out of retirement by the BMOL's meddling:

Alpha: I'm old. I like living quietly. You've been making my life awfully noisy lately. You've killed so many of my children. I've seen your work. In England, I didn't get involved because, well, it's England. But America, yes. America is my home. And it's time that you get off my lawn.

Clearly, America holds a privileged position in monsters' minds, or at least in this particular very, very old monster's mind. It is still the "Wild West," and it is "home" for monsters. No reason is given for this; it's safe to say it's a purely ideological impulse on the part of the show.

This exchange between Sam and the Alpha follows:

Sam: My family and I, we kill vamps when they get out of line. And you've let us. Alpha: I have many children, Sam. What's one, two, here or there? Sam: Exactly. So? Let my mom and me go. We'll walk away, go back to the way things were, to the way things are supposed to be. Hunters and vampires, cops and robbers, a fair fight.

"Cowboys and Indians" could just as easily fill in for "cops and robbers" there--in fact, the obvious absence of that analogy is a ringing silence. The show is skirting dangerously close around the edges of its uncomfortable premise.

What I want to draw attention to, though, is Sam's assertion that this is a "fair fight." What he's proposing is a return to the status quo, where some people, by default, will die. Of course, Sam is bluffing--he does plan to kill the Alpha here and now, hardly "fighting fair" (hm, just as European settlers made so many underhanded deals with Native Americans)--and at the end of the episode he does team up with the BMOL. By the end of the season, though, with the hunters uniting to drive out the British invaders, this is precisely the status quo the Americans are fighting for: one where many people who don't deserve will die at the hands of monsters, but perhaps a few others will live whom the BMOL would have killed. The protracted struggle between humans and monsters is thereby positioned as a sort of natural symbiosis, part of the circle of life. This allows for the perpetuation of the mythic "Wild West," which is necessary for the very existence of the show, and especially for the hunters to be seen as the "good guys." The show convinces us to reject "civilization" and embrace vigilantism as better than the alternative. It's impossible to pinpoint this ideology as exclusively conservative or progressive; it has implications in either direction. The world of hunters and monsters was never a perfect metaphor, after all, but one thing is clear in season 12: hunters are the heroes.

This brings me to another central theme of the season: legacy. After season 11, it seems that the show wanted to "correct course." Season 11 is entirely about Sam and Dean cleaning up a mess (the Darkness) they directly caused, after all, and after that narrowly-averted apocalypse, it's fair to ask the question, "do Sam and Dean really do more good than harm"? Season 12 gives us a resounding "yes," over and over again. The message is that hunting, for all its hardships and messiness, is worth it.

In 12x06 "Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox" (which I've written about previously) we get a taste of the sort of legacy Sam and Dean are making for themselves. It might come as a surprise, after seeing hunters hunt down Sam and Dean in previous seasons (Gordon and Kubrick in season 2, Roy and Walt in season 5), that other hunters now welcome Sam and Dean in their midsts and even revere them. One might rightfully ask, what would they do if they knew Sam and Dean and their codependency nearly caused another apocalypse not too long ago? Inconsistencies aside, it's apparent that Sam and Dean are appreciated as something like heroes in their own world. In the episode, they share this exchange:

Sam: Did you know people tell stories about us? Dean: Yeah. Apparently we’re a little bit legendary. Sam: Yeah, but, I mean, so was Asa. Then a hunt went bad, and he ended up hanging from a tree, alone in the woods.

Sam still wonders, characteristically, if the heroism is worth it. But in 12x09 "First Blood," he's the one with this iconic line:

SAM: We’re the guys that save the world.

This is a statement of identity, in response to the question "who are you?" Sam might as well say, "we're the heroes."

In 12x11 "Regarding Dean," Dean has his moment to affirm that their line of work is worth its toll. Talking about the curse that made Dean lose his memory, Sam makes this comment:

Sam: Some of the things we've done, we've had this weight for... forever. And seeing it gone, uh, you looked happy. Dean: Huh. Well, look, was it nice to drop our baggage? Yeah, maybe. Hell, probably. But it wasn't just the crap that got lost. I mean, it was everything. It was us, it was what we do, you know? All of it. So... that's what being happy looks like? I think I'll pass.

Again, Dean is making a statement of identity. The Winchesters are what they do, and what they do is the right thing, and that is worth giving up happiness for.

One common complaint about season 12 is that it heroizes Sam and Dean too much. They were never meant to be the Big Damn Heroes, the "guys who save the world," as if it's a day job--they're meant to be the underdogs, the messy humans doing their best, sometimes failing, but rising to the occasion when it counts most, despite the terrible costs. Perhaps this is true, and perhaps this season does go overboard in trying to smooth over the messy cracks in the heroic facade. The show could have done better than to make the heroes and villains so black and white, certainly. Perhaps the show does lose some of its identity in erasing the moral ambiguities that always made it so intriguing.

There are moments, however, that are still thematically resonant with the show as a whole--more understated moments that remember the bigger picture. One such moment is when legacy is explicitly addressed in 12x18 "The Memory Remains":

Dean: What do you think our legacy's gonna be? When we're gone, I mean, after all the stuff we've done, you think folks will remember us? You know, like, a hundred years from now? Sam: No. Dean: Oh, that's nice. Sam: Well, I mean... Guys like us, we're not exactly the type of people they write about in history books, you know? Dean: Mm. Sam: But the people we saved, they're our legacy. And they'll remember us and then I guess... We'll eventually fade away, too. That's fine, because we left the world better than we found it, you know.

This exchange presents Sam and Dean's heroism on a human scale. They're not the guys that save the whole world--even if they did do that, a few times. They're the guys that save individual human lives, time and again. That's who they are, and it's what matters most. Sam's right: in the world of Supernatural, few people 100 years on will know the names of Sam and Dean Winchester. Perhaps a few hunter stories will still be passed around, and maybe a new resident of the bunker will piece together some old information. But everyone that the Winchesters saved will remember them for the rest of their lives, and those very lives they get to live are the Winchesters' legacy. Once those people pass away, Sam and Dean will fade from memory, but for them, it was never about being remembered; it was always about doing good--a common aim to which they are equally committed, at this point. Sam and Dean's greatest redemption has never been in saving the world (often from problems they themselves caused), but in saving people, and this holds true to the very end of the show.

[moonlight-prose]

EPIPHANIES IN DISGUISE

→ 01. OPEN AND SHUT

a/n: i've been gone from writing anything for this man for a long time, but i'm back and here with a new series. as someone who's been obsessed with mysteries since i was a kid, i had to write one with javi in it. this whole fic has been planned from start to end so i know how it will end, but it's up to you to figure out for yourselves what happens next. the journey begins now. enjoy!

summary: one call from steve changes javi's plans for retirement. one call from your friend changes your entire life.

word count: 4.6k+

pairing: javier peña x fem!reader

warnings: not explicit yet, angst, anxiety over a situation, blood (lots of blood), a knife wound, death, even more angst. i think that's it.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

PRESENT DAY; 1:00PM

He detested the stench of cigar smoke.

It’s why he chose cigarettes as the thing that would inevitably kill him. Although even he was trying to quit. Trying. He wasn’t succeeding. There was a difference. Well…at least for him there was. Wrinkling his nose as the shop owner lit up a cigar, he tried to keep the stab of annoyance to himself. He could handle a few more minutes in this cramped space, inhaling the scent that reminded him of childhood memories lost.

He couldn’t do it.

Pushing open the door he nearly stumbled over his own feet to breathe in some fresh air.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he muttered, rumaging through his pocket for a nicotine patch and finding nothing but an empty box and a lighter.

While he no longer kept cigarettes on him at all times, he still carried a lighter. What for? He wasn't sure about that one. It held no sentimental value, wasn’t a gift from someone so carrying it was ridiculous. Except it reminded him of what he was trying to get away from – a habit that he indulged in because he couldn’t find anything else to rid himself of the madness that inhabited his mind. A constant echo of noise that never seemed to vanish.

“Drink. I need a drink,” he said under his breath, rubbing his forehead as he walked down the desolate street.

There wasn’t a lot to do in this town. Really there was nothing to do. Except he had to get out one way or another and either he walked around aimlessly, or he stayed home and helped rebuild the fence. A month of working outside – sweating profusely through every shirt he owned – felt like enough labor for a decade. Of course, that wouldn’t stop him from going back outside later when the sun finally retired for the night.

If he didn’t help, no one would.

Down the street he could hear the crackling music of a speaker that no longer technically worked from the open door of the bar. He didn’t hesitate to walk right in. Taking off his sunglasses, and leaving them to hang on the front of his shirt, he found the stool he usually occupied. Sure, it was a shit place. A hole in the wall bar, but it served good whiskey and these days that seemed to be in short supply.

“Hey Javi.” He greeted the bartender Freddie with a simple wave and a forced out grin. “How’s life been this week?”

He watched as the whiskey was set down in front of him and nearly wilted at the sight. Leave it to him to kick one addiction before another more dangerous one came by and caught his attention. He wouldn’t drink forever – a lie – but one right now one wouldn’t kill him. Also a lie. Downing the drink, he felt the craving for a cigarette fade slightly. Which only led him to signal for another, gaining a look from Freddie. Javier knew that look. Hell he had worn that look once before when it came to dealing with his superiors at work.

“I’m still alive,” he muttered, ignoring the vibrations coming from his cell phone.

“How’s everything at home?”

How exactly should he answer that question? Javier didn’t want to admit it, but he was bored with life. When he held his position at the DEA he at least was given work to do, but now…he couldn’t decide if he wanted to find another job or allow his life to waste away. Hell maybe he’d end up as a permanent bar goer. Residing in this very spot until he was old and gray.

“It’s-” Another buzz interrupted his words and he sighed, knowing he should have turned it off the second he stepped into town. “It’s life.”

The familiar name Steve popped up once more, giving him a small moment of hope. Getting to his feet, he tossed down some cash with a bit extra for Freddie’s conversation, and rushed out of the bar. The sun was already starting to go down. Somehow the day managed to run away from him faster now that he moved home, but he didn’t mind. Not when he felt like each day extended every time he woke up.

“This is Peña,” he said, the old tone he reserved for answering work calls came back the second he saw his old partner's name.

“Javi.” He felt himself deflate slightly at the sound of Steve’s voice. Finally, some semblance of normal had returned to his life with one simple phone call.

“Steve,” he replied, digging the keys to his dad’s car out of his pocket. “I’m guessing you’re not calling to congratulate me on retiring?”

His laugh came through the already shitty line. “No, no actually I need some help.”

Javier froze, hand paused on the wheel – the door still open – as the words registered. First and foremost when Steve called for help, he assumed the worst. It was a natural instinct that came with the job. One he couldn’t stop from happening. Like a flash of lightning he went over everything he saw in the news in the past few days; nothing horrific and certainly not enough to warrant a call from his friend.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah – well sort of.” Another pause had Javier’s heart hammering in his chest. “I’m in New York.”

He exhaled. “What the fuck are you doing over there?”

“Found a job,” he replied.

“So, you’re working with the big leagues?” The familiar rumble of the car’s engine turning over brought a sense of ease he needed. Especially after being caught off guard like that.

Steve chuckled, inaudible conversation echoing behind him. “Someone was murdered-”

“Do I call you Detective Murphy now?” Javier asked, putting Steve on speaker as he drove down the dirt roads.

“Not quite. It involved some pretty heavy drugs, so they asked for a DEA agent to assist them. Which is why I’m here.”

“So I’m congratulating you then,” he said, lips quirking upwards in amusement. “What am I doing to help you?”

The more he thought about it, the prospect of finally leaving this small town again left him with a pit in his stomach. Yet simultaneously a wave of relief. Ever since he was old enough to talk he wanted to be like his dad. He wanted to have the life of peace that his parents had, but the longer he stood amongst said peace he felt restless. The urge to flee always returned eventually, he just never thought it would be calling him there.

“I have another job that’s been offered to me – a government office job. Connie and I agreed it's better if I stay out of the field for a while. I offered you as my replacement.” A shout echoed behind him, the echo of a loud horn accompanying it.

Javier hadn’t heard city sounds in so long and maybe that’s what kept him from turning down the job. Did he want yet another job that kept him up at night; that tore more from him than he would ever get in return? Or did he just want another reason to run away? No matter what the truth was, he found himself saying yes before he turned the corner towards his home.

He couldn’t live here forever – no matter how many times he convinced himself that this was his destiny in life.

“Is there anything special about it I should know about?” Javier asked, stopping the car in the driveway, unable to get out yet.

“Not really.” He heard the familiar echo of papers flipping. “Other than the person they suspect as the murderer claims that they didn’t do it.”

Javier scoffed, shutting off the engine. “Don’t they always?”

“That they do. So can I tell them that you’re in?”

He watched the front door open as his pops stepped out to sit on the porch and watch the sunset. For the past few months he had joined him. Reminiscing on a time where his mother had been with them. He wanted to believe he was this man; a family man who stayed put when the job was done. Except even he knew – his life wasn’t at the point of retirement yet.

After all, the chaos had yet to begin.

“Yeah,” he said. “Tell them I’m in.”

YESTERDAY; 5:00PM

The blaring ringtone on your phone echoed off the walls of the elevator. Two more floors and you would finally be off work, free to do your own thing. Yet luck never did play in your favor. On the third floor down your boss decided to join you, talking incessantly about the presentation you meant to attend.

In all honesty you were preoccupied with talking your mother out of setting you up with yet another family friend. To her you were helpless in actually finding someone to love. A fact that wasn’t true in the slightest.

Or at least that’s what you liked to believe.

“Sorry,” you said, nearly dropping your bag as you rummaged for your phone. “It’s probably – oh shit fuck – my mom.”

The last thing you needed was for your boss to see what a disorganized human you were, but that seemed as inevitable as your mom trying to control your love life. Catching your boss staring at something, you followed to where his gaze fell. Staring up at you like a pink middle finger was one of your tampons. That sight alone was enough to have you shutting your eyes in horror.

What did you have to be horrified about?

Surely your married boss had seen a tampon before. Except the nausea inducing reminders of being ladylike, lessons from your mother, came rushing back. Every one of them.

“Sorry.” You repeated yourself in the hopes that the message would get across. Only to see he was smiling at you. At this point you weren’t sure if he found it amusing or if that smile screamed pity.

Instead of paying attention to him anymore, you grabbed the tampon and shoved it in your purse; the constant ringing of your phone still going in the background. You didn’t bother looking at who was calling – too stuck in your mind. Whether or not this situation would die down easily or you’d have to relive it over and over again, you didn’t know. All you knew was that you could ignore it for as long as possible.

Hopefully your boss would do the same.

The minor amount of luck you seemed to harbor came at exactly the right time as the elevator doors opened and let you out. Before your boss could acknowledge the situation entirely, you bolted. In the hopes that you wouldn’t have to come in contact with him again towards the near future.

“Hello?” you said, ignoring the chilled weather outside. You had forgotten your jacket in your apartment. Which meant you would have to deal with the cold.

The line clicked dead before you reached the end of the block. Searching through your recent calls you realized that Jasper had called you, but before you could call him back you were being shoved forward. You loved New York – you did. Except there times like this where you wished people were polite about crossing the street. Rather than have a full blown confrontation with the person, you swiftly walked across the street. Stewing in your annoyance.

The day couldn’t get any worse – you were sure of that. After handling a travesty at your job, the last thing you wanted was to endure that embarrassment in the elevator. Getting home was your number one priority at this point. You could deal with everything tomorrow when you would have to – inevitably – return to work.

It’s not like you despised where you worked, or even what you did, but some days felt like they dragged on for an eternity. Eventually there came a time where you preferred staying home rather than going into an office every damn day of the week. Your weekends were your only solace. Yet unfortunately for you – tomorrow was Tuesday.

Heading downstairs towards the subway, you didn’t feel the buzzing in your purse as someone called you again. Instead, you were focused on trying to get past people without tripping or running into them. It seemed that the place was busier than usual at this time of day. Either that or you managed to somehow get here earlier.

“Excuse me.” You stepped through the crowd, managing to jump on the subway seconds before they shut the doors.

Once more the buzzing in your purse went unnoticed by you. The sound of the subway moving drowned out everything else. If you had your headphones you’d put them in, blocking the deafening echo of the train, but you left them in your jacket pocket.

You were quick to start counting down the minutes until you were home.

Fifteen missed calls.

After getting in and tossing your purse on the bed to change clothes, you finally settled down to check your messages. You’d been planning on calling Jasper back. You just didn’t expect him to call you fifteen times. The panic set in faster than you expected – scenarios of what could have gone wrong now playing through your mind. It must be bad if he was spamming you with calls, one right after the other until you picked up the phone. You should have picked up the phone.

Shoving your feet into your sneakers, you grabbed your keys and wallet – not bothering with your bag. The phone rang on speaker as you moved quickly through your apartment, only to come to his voicemail. So you tried again and again and again. Until you had surpassed him on the number of missed calls he sent you. If he wasn’t answering the phone either he didn’t have it near him, or things were wrong.

Being the paranoid person you were – you settled on the second option and rushed out the door. You figured it was better to show up at his place and have nothing be wrong than to ignore it and hear the bad news tomorrow.

“Taxi!” you screamed – loud enough that the people walking behind you jumped.

Normally, you would have apologized. You seemed to always apologize for something and that would have been no exception. Only now you couldn’t be bothered for the reactions other people had towards you. A friend might possibly be in danger and that left you with a sick feeling in your chest that quickly spread to your stomach.

You knew Jasper wouldn’t have called that many times unless something happened. He rarely called you regardless. Texting seemed to be the easier route to reach him and you never questioned why; you just went along with it. Digging your phone out of your pocket, you began to dial a different number, mumbling to yourself as the phone rang.

“Hello?” her voice came through clearly, giving you a small sense of relief.

“Ria,” you said, jolting when the driver hit the brakes harder than necessary. “What the fuck! Have you heard from Jasper today?”

“Is everything okay?” You could hear her shuffling in the background, most likely walking through her apartment.

You pinched the top of your nose, trying not to let the situation get to you even further. Maybe you were overreacting. A part of you considered turning back and waiting to see what happened, but something in your gut kept you from doing that.

“I’m worried about him. He called me fifteen times and I’m not sure if I should be panicking or-”

“Okay,” she cut in. “Breathe first before you pass out.”

She was right. Deeply inhaling, you tried to let go of the incessant worry that ate at your insides. He was fine. He had to be.

Ria’s voice brought you back down to Earth. “I saw him a few hours ago. We got drinks after his shift ended.”

You smiled, feeling your chest lighten as she said the words. “Did he seem okay? He usually doesn’t call on the phone.”

“As far as I could tell. He did have a few too many drinks, but I figured it was because he had a hard day at work.”

“Should I check on him just in case?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Ria’s confirmation of Jasper’s appearance left you feeling better about the situation and yet still…something felt wrong. This might just be you losing your mind after a stressful day. You couldn’t tell at this point.

“If it will make you feel better then sure. He might need someone else to talk to. He didn’t really tell me much earlier,” she replied, the calm nature of her tone giving you something to latch onto.

There was a reason Ria was your best friend. In college – with the stress of life and school combining – you needed someone who understood. She just happened to be that person; even now she kept you from losing your senses completely. You inhaled deeply again, trying to calm the slight racing of your heart as the taxi pulled up towards Jasper’s apartment building. What was the harm in checking on him? It would ease your worries and like Ria said, he might need someone to talk to.

“I’m here,” you said, handing the man what cash you had left in your wallet. “I’ll call you later.”

“Tell him I said hi,” she responded, the smile prominent in her voice.

Tucking your phone into your back pocket, you found the spare key he gave you in case of emergencies. You hoped that you wouldn’t have to actually use it, but you were nothing if not prepared. Neighbors you recognized greeted you on your way up, asking you about your day and making small talk. Most of it you forgot the second it was over, but Jasper’s next door neighbor Mrs. West words caught you off guard.

“What did you say?” you asked, turning to face her as the elevator slowly made its way up to the eighth floor.

“Oh just that his new girlfriend is quite the looker.”

Girlfriend…

“Jasper doesn’t have a girlfriend,” you said. Or at least he never told you about one.

She paused, glancing at your obviously disheveled appearance. “Well…all I know is she was blonde. Never got a good look at her face, but he sure liked her from the way he smiled.”

You felt like an idiot. Of course. Jasper never made phone calls, but what if he wasn’t the one using his phone. You figured he would find someone eventually. After all you hoped for it. Only if this person was calling you from his phone for absolutely no reason, you weren’t sure if she thought you and him were together, or he actually did call you. Somehow your brain switched gears entirely. Rather than nearing a level of serenity where you were prepared for whatever you found – you were panicked once more.

“Thanks for the information.” You offered Mrs. West a smile as the elevator doors opened to his floor. “Have a good night!”

Jasper had a girlfriend. Definitely not what you expected to hear tonight, but it was better than all the scenarios that ran through your mind on the way here. If he had a girlfriend that meant he was safe. So, you smoothed your sweater down in the hopes of looking partially presentably. Enough to meet someone new and make a good impression.

You spotted his door down the hallway. The ongoing debate of staying or going home seemed to spark back up in your mind the closer you got. You could go home right now. Write this off as you being paranoid for a friend and stop at a store to buy some wine. Only the longer you stood in front of the door, the more you felt like you had to follow through with this. You had to see he was okay with your own eyes.

Knocking, you felt a tightening sensation begin in your chest.

Silence followed, drawing up your worry yet again. You could have left; turned around and forgot this whole situation. You were about to, feeling stupid about your emotions – only to hear something.

“Jasper?” you called through the door, hoping he could hear you.

A crash echoed from the inside, striking you with panic. The spare key was being slotted into the lock before you could debate once more about staying or going. You turned the door handle, breathing slowly to keep your heart from leaping in your chest. That sound could have meant a number of things. He might have dropped something or ran into a wall.

Ria always told you to never jump to conclusions, but at a time like this it was difficult actually following her words.

“Jasper is that you?” you asked, heading towards his bedroom. “You called me earlier. I just wanted to see if you were-”

The words died in your throat as you watched him stumble out of the bathroom, his hands clutching a knife that was embedded in his stomach. Your own stomach turned at the sight of his blood dripping down his forearms – leaving a trail on his hardwood floor. He choked out your name, attempting to walk towards you, but landing on his knees.

You didn’t think twice about the blood or the fact that he was clearly still drunk from earlier. All you could focus on was the thought that you had to save him. There was still time; there had to be. Falling to your knees beside him, you helped him lay on the floor – shoving a pillow that was beside the bed under his head.

“Wh–What happened?” you stammered, forcing down the bile that rose in the back of your throat.

The smell of his blood stung the inside of your nose. You weren’t sure you would ever forget that scent after today. Staring at the knife he still held onto, you recalled old cop shows saying to never pull it out. That would cause the wound to bleed profusely, killing the person even faster. So, you grabbed a towel, pressing it into the wound as you reached for your phone.

“It’s okay,” you muttered, trying to ignore how his blood was practically dripping from your hands. “You–You’re going to be okay. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“B–bud.” His voice snapped you back to the present.

“I swear you’re going to–” Fighting back the sharp sting of tears, you forced a smile to your face. “You’ll be okay Jasper,” you whispered, cupping his face even though his blood remained on your skin.

“I’ll–I’ll be se–seeing you,” he choked out, his lips pulling tight in a grin that resembled a grimace.

You never thought you’d have to hear him say those words to you. You wished more than anything that you showed up an hour earlier. Anything to prevent this from happening, from him actually fulfilling the only promise he ever made to you. The same one you made him. Your phone dinged, alerting you of an ambulance heading your way, but even you knew – Jasper would never see the outside of this room again.

“You just have to hold on a little longer. The–they’re on their way.”

He tugged lightly on your arm, his eyes shifting around as his breaths began to grow shallow. You made a promise; he was reminding you of that. So, leaning forward, you pressed your forehead to his, allowing the tears to fall freely. One last goodbye – one last embrace.

“I’ll be seeing you,” you breathed, holding back the sob that nearly forced its way to the surface.

You felt it the moment he finally let go. His eyes fluttered shut, arm slumping beside him as a breath washed across your face – his last one. For a moment you waited with baited breath in the hopes of hearing him inhale again; of feeling his heart thump beneath your skin. Instead, you were left with the harsh slice of nothing. A sob tore from your chest, filling the near deafening silence as you practically lay over his body.

“Jasper?” you asked softly, trying to stir him awake.

This wasn’t real. None of it was. It couldn’t be.

Only he never woke up and there you were, staring at his peaceful face – a knife still protruding from his stomach. One you recognized, but couldn’t exactly place. You figured it didn’t belong to him, or maybe it did. At this point you couldn’t even tell whether or not you were awake or dreaming.

Oh – how you hoped you were simply stuck in a nightmare.

You weren’t sure how long you knelt there, staring into space with a dead look in your eyes. Hours could have gone by before you were stirred by the thumping outside of the apartment. Had you locked the door? You couldn’t remember and at this point that felt like the least of your problems. Something in you had snapped, leaving you numb to whatever happened around you.

The door slammed open as police officers and firefighters entered the room. All of them pausing at the sight of you there. You lifted your hands, hoping that if you shut your eyes tight enough, all of this would go away. You wouldn’t be kneeling on the floor beside your friend. His blood – still soaking into your jeans and covering your hands.

Only now it was too late. You were being told to lift your hands as the officers headed towards you; one coming up behind you. A part of you wanted to tell them what happened; how you tried to help him – keep him alive while they got here – but you were stuck. Unable to even open your eyes, because the sight of Jasper remained before you.

It was the cold touch of handcuffs on your wrists that yanked you out of your state of shock – shoving you back to reality. “I didn’t do this,” you said, your voice cracking with emotion.

“You have the right to remain silent-”

Once again you spoke up, fighting against his hold. “I didn’t do this! I swear. I didn’t-”

“Save it for questioning,” the officer grumbled behind you.

You nearly tripped over your own feet as he roughly shoved you out of the apartment, the hallway slowly filling up with neighbors and officers. Sobbing silently, you bit down on your bottom lip until the taste of copper filled your mouth. You shouldn’t be here; this shouldn’t be happening.

He pushed you forward again, pausing as two men practically sauntered into the hallway. “Murphy,” the officer greeted. “The victim’s inside.”

“His name is Jasper,” you snapped, feeling another wave of tears nearly spill over.

Glancing to your side, you caught the sight of Mrs. West standing by her door – a distraught look on her face. It felt like an eternity had passed since you were standing in that elevator with her. Perhaps it had. That seemed like that only sensible conclusion you could come to as you stood there – in handcuffs.

Trying to keep yourself from shattering even further, you breathed evenly – repeating Mrs. West’s words in your mind. He had a girl with him before you. There was someone else. Proof you didn’t do this. Except the reality of your situation only seemed to weigh on you even more with each step towards the elevator.

His blood was literally on your hands.

To any other person that meant one thing. This was an open and shut case; which meant one more thing.

You were fucked.

[clouds-rambles]

hello!~ o(〃＾▽＾〃)o

can i request headcanons for kaeya, diluc, childe, and venti on what they would while their s/o dies in their arms? (if thats okay with u <3)

thank u sm! :))

BESTIE THE PAIN I FEEL RN!!! Omw to make hurt some of my faves hope you enjoy <3

Also guys I’ve been here for a day how are there almost 50 of you following?!

Pairings; (Separate) Kaeya, Diluc, Childe, Venti x reader

Warning(s); hurt, big hurty, reader death, vague wound description, cursing, talk about dead bodies

Keep reading under the cut!

Kaeya

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You were meant to live forever with him. You were supposed to grow old with him and become a parent to your future children. You were-

“Kaeya” you choke out smiling at your partner above you. The man shakes his head mentally pleading with you to not die “Kaeya I will always be on the wind” you tell him, a shaky, bloody hand raised to his cheek to weekly caress it

“Please” he pleads “Please don’t die on me [name]” you smile at him feeling the breaths in your lungs disappear

“I’m sorry Kae--ya” you apologise before passing away in his arms

He doesn’t move for a long time. He doesn’t feel for a long time. The one person he could share his secrets and his love to gone. Away with the wind

Kaeya doesn’t remember the last time he cried, but he’ll remember this one. 

Your beaten, bruised, broken, dead, and beautiful body slumped in his arms as his tears fall from his face as he feels an absence in his heart

How is he supposed to live on if this is the pain he feels right now?

Jean eventually stumbles upon Kaeya out in the wilds, still clutched to your now cold and even more lifeless body

Jean manages to get the man up with your body held close to his chest

“Jean, I can’t, I can’t let them go” he pleads as if he’s waiting for you to simply wake up in his arms

“Kaeya...” Jean says in a concerned tone having never seen him in such a state, even he seemed to quickly recover from his fathers death

Eventually Jean coaxed Kaeya to go back to the city and leave your body in the hands of the sisters. Where they dressed you up and prepared a funeral service for you

The funeral was larger than Kaeya was expecting, you had affected a many more people than he realised from your small jobs around the city. Kaeya can’t help but be awed at how many people you’ve helped while you were in Mond

The usual chatter of Mondstat is quiet and in a time of grieving for about a week or so, many people have wonderful memories of you and Kaeya seems to be collecting them all, that and bunches of flowers. Many of which find themselves laying on your tombstone as Kaeya tells you about his day

A month passes and it seems like everything's back to normal, Kaeya is back to his outgoing self. He spends more nights at the tavern, but even Diluc doesn’t have the heart to cut him off. 

Jean seems to pick up on the smallest things, goddamnit Jean, the extra nights at the tavern, the eyebags, the weeping she can hear from his room. In it’s own right is heart-breaking, the acting Grandmaster cannot imagine what it’s like to be actually experiencing that kind of pain

-

Diluc

No, not like this

You had both decided that night to join each other in your little vigilante escapade. Which was fine you had both done this before, but tonight resulted in something very different

Here you are, head on Dilucs lap. This could be considered romantic, and often was, were it not for the fact you felt like you choked up a mixture of your lung and your bloody supply

“Diluc” you speak with a much worse for wear voice, the red-head looks into your eyes, eyes already gaining moisture. A similar scene has befallen him before, a Diluc knows how this ends

“Please” he pleads his voice wavering “Please don’t leave me” he chokes back a sob and tears fall off his face the salt hitting your own

“I love you so much” you start, Diluc shakes his head. Must you hurt him so with last words? “Don’t blame yourse-” another set of hacking befalls you as you lose more blood

“Please” he pleads again as the grip you had on his arm goes slack indicating your loss of life

Diluc screams, he cries and he hugs you close. He screams into the air of Mondstat until his voice hurts and he cries until all he’s doing is dry sobbing and he holds you close until you’re broken body is pried from his own broken mind

A wondering Jean heard his screams into the night sky and hereby answered them. She never expected to see Diluc, still in his vigilante getup, crying over your body

She calls for more guards who take your body from his and Jean helps Diluc get back to the estate. At one point during the walk Jean can feel DIluc shaking and hyperventilating. So they stand for a moment, Jean holds and comforts the wine-master before they move again

Jean has never seen such emotion from Diluc before, and she wholeheartedly hopes she’ll never have to see it again. Seeing Diluc so raw and rife with emotion is enough to make anyone cry. And Jean nearly did on more than one occasion.

Your funeral is small, much to Dilucs request and really only were attended by the estate and Jean. Diluc didn’t want to cry again in such a large audience

Though the maids often hear pained sobs coming from Dilucs room as he contemplates and often blames himself for what had transpired. Maids daren’t speak up about what they hear though, Diluc’s pain is more than understandable

Diluc throws himself into work opting to man the bar most days of the week and fighting for the city as often as he can. People around him are more than concerned

Diluc’s stoic nature seems to be intensified now, not wanting to let another person in and die in his arms. He’s seen enough death for his life and wishes not to lose more loved ones

Everything seems to have moved back to what life was before you arrived in your life, depressive, monotonous, boring, mundane for the most part and sad. So very sad

He wishes for a day where his heart isn’t strife with grief, but he doubts that day will not be coming anytime soon

-

Childe

You grin up at him, feeling close to naught pain coming from the gaping wound thanks to the excess of adrenaline that’s pumping through your body

“Childe” you say the smile still on your lips in an attempt at not making the situation as dark and horrific as it is. Childe speaks your name in return

“I love you” you tell him mustering the strength to cup the mans cheek, who immediately nuzzles into it. The situation almost doesn’t feel real to him. He’s going to be shaken awake by a very unwounded you in just a moment and inform him he’s having a nightmare

But that moment doesn’t come. Nor do any words come from you. Your slow rhythms of your heart remind you that he’s still got time, but you’ve expended all your energy. Your smile you’re wearing seems to be dropping

“I love you [name], I love you so much, you are everything I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you” he rambles bringing your body to his chest

“Live for--- me” you sputter out into his chest, a dying wish that Childe isn’t too sure he can uphold. Is it really living if he’s an empty vessel.

You go limp in his arms and he can no longer sense your heartbeat. Death had finally laid claim to you

Childe sits with you for hours, you’d expect him to be wailing like a banshee if you knew his personality but that’s rather not the case. Sobbing quietly is a better word for what happens. Most of his sobs and hacks for air are hidden in your hair. He pulled your body to his shoulder just to weep

Eventually he finds himself mustering the courage to walk back to Liyue Harbour. You firmly held in his arms. He knows that if he walks too plainly the Millelith would pry and ask too many questions for his fragile heart to answer

Childe ends up barging into the wangsheng funeral parlour, which surprises Zhongli a little. He’s about to go on a rant to Childe about how he must book an appointment, until he sees your lifeless body in his arms

The funeral is arranged quickly and neatly. There aren’t many people who attend, Childe is okay with that, he secretly wants to see his family and cry on their shoulder a bit

Instead he opts for a letter, which arrives to the family tear stained and lacking the usual penmanship ‘I’m sorry, you won’t be able to see [name] after all. They passed away not too long ago...’ he basically writes your arbitrary in the letter. And his whole heart is in every word he writes

Determined not to let anybody in Childe finds himself in a pattern, when he’s not throwing himself into battles he’s doing paper work or yelling at his subordinates and when he’s not doing that he’s doing his weekly fight with the traveller. Childe gets next to no sleep and instead opts to reading and rereading every letter and note you’ve ever given him

If Childe passes out at his desk nobody bothers him either in fear of getting yelled at by the harbinger or an understanding of losing a loved one

They never said being a harbinger was fulfilling work. Yet, he let himself believe that he could be fulfilled and content with a lover. What a shameful lie

-

Venti

He’s awfully quiet. He hasn’t experienced death in so long. Especially one he thought would be forever.

He couldn’t even get to you to hear your last words. Ironic isn’t it? He hadn’t heard that guys last words either. And yet this pains him so much more

Sure mortal lives are fleeting but he was certain he had more time with you. More time to see you grow old, more time to put off your inevitable mortality. More time to-

He’s hyperventilating, Venti’s body shakes as he finds nothing to ground himself not even the person he loves so dear is there for him. He feels like he could explode, breaths caught in his throat refusing to surface and come up for air. Despite being an immortal archon, the breaths that refuse to surface don’t fail to make him feel like he’s choking

A bard he is. And one that knows every song from the past, present and future. Suddenly the pained songs from the future make sense to him. He knew what was written. A love lost

Suddenly he finds himself crying and hunched over your deceased form making promises to the wind that he’ll never forget you. Much like he’ll ever forget that bard

He isn’t sure how long has passed but he’s still sobbing over your form, there aren’t many tears left for him to cry but he can’t find himself stopping. He feels like they’ll never stop. 

Maybe he could lay beside you and sleep for another thousand years. But that would only delay the inevitable. The inevitable sinking feeling.

Maybe it was his fault for letting himself fall in love with a mortal, but in the moment he could truly see you living life with him. He could see a marriage, children. He wanted you to have it all.

Damn celestia and all things above for not letting you ascend, at least when he inevitably ascends you’ll be there to greet him. Curse that and your mortality

Jean eventually stumbles upon him during a recon mission to find him covering your body in various flowers, a crown made of cecelias don your head. He’s quiet, but he’s saying goodbye. Who would blame him? Jean doesn’t interrupt him and only wishes you a farewell

News of your death spread around town like wildfire, your grave donned with more flowers than Venti can count. He almost feels bad about not doing a public service after seeing how many people are truly in mourning

Diluc doesn’t push Venti to pay his growing tab no matter how much he should. And Diluc doesn’t say no to Venti singing his happy tunes in the tavern

It feels like his life has retuned to normal. Though Jean can’t help but look out the library window to see Venti sat atop his statue with an expression, as Jean can only guess, of sadness.

Venti finds himself going back to an old schedule again but he can’t miss the nagging feeling of somethings missing. The something being you

Sometimes he half expects you to hug him from behind, or join him up at the statue, or kiss him on his nose, or-

Venti can’t quite comprehend how he feels, he just knows there’s a hole in his heart where you belonged. And he doesn’t want to let anyone find their way into there

He doesn’t want to lose again

It’s happened too much

[regrettablewritings]

Hi!😁 I'll give you another ship with my dear Lucifer morningstar from Lucifer cuz as it turns out I'm a hoe for a lot of characters but what can ya do? Thank you!

Aw hell yii, somebody's talkin' my lingo! 😎

Who the fuck put the Peeps in the microwave?: Lucifer. And no, it's not because he actually likes them or is curious about what would happen; he's seen plenty of Youtube videos enough to know exactly what happens. No . . . It's far more malicious . . . Generally speaking, you don't like the constant comparison of cats to the devil. But after getting to actually meet The Devil, you think that those believers might be on to something. Lucifer's whorey ways bleeds into his need for attention like red bleeds into white in the wash, and he's completely shameless about it. For example, if he feels like you may be focusing too much on work or, gasp, other people besides him, you run the risk of encountering a very . . . mischievous Luci. Not that he's not already a prankster, but he somehow becomes a bit more childish. Catlike in some respects. He puts your mugs up higher than what you can normally reach without having to climb on the countertop. He joins you at your kitchen table while you're reading over files for work and puts on his most angelic face, insisting he just wants to keep you company and will be as quiet as vermin in Dear Old Dad's house . . . then proceed to obnoxiously click a pen while pretending to solve a word problem, or eat cheese puffs obnoxiously loud. And then . . . the Peeps: The absolute prettyboy bastard used your microwave as a casualty of war, plopping the unplated, mutant-colored marshmallows directly on the glass and letting them go. To be fair, it technically didn't ruin anything. But at least he had your attention now -- because after fussing at him for making a mess, you were currently supervising him scrubbing not only the effected areas of the glass dish, but the rest of the microwave as well. Unfortunately, you can't say a lesson was really learned because now Luci knows that if he wants to get a rise out of you, what he needs is a bunch of candies from the bargain bin.

Who forgot to put the cat out before sex?: It's not that either of you forgot the cat was there -- it was that Lucifer wanted the bloody animal to give the both of you some privacy. And because Lucifer forgot the cat was there. He was simply too busy embracing you in a liplock and laying you down on the couch to notice the glaring eyes of the cat you had rescued from the shelter. Thankfully, you two didn't get very far before the lovingly-named Lucipurr released a meow, indicating that he had become flesh and bone in the few hours it had been since you'd last fed him. Suffice to say, after a startled Lucifer flung himself off of you and onto the floor, nearly breaking his ass on the coffee table (and the laughing fit that had induced on your end), the mood was killed. For the next fifteen minutes, that is. The next time he tried anything, Lucifer made sure that his efforts would be continued in the bedroom (but not before he did a complete check of every nook and cranny in there to make sure the furry bastard wasn't trying anything).

Who posts Vines/TikToks of the other doing embarrassing shit?: Lucifer absolutely lacks boundaries. The moment he discovered smartphones, social media, and all their potential, he was all in and recording as many videos of friends and coworkers as he could in as many awkward or unideal situations as they came. You felt bad for Dan being his constant target, but you were somewhat sure that Dan felt bad for you in a way: After all, you were dating the freaking guy and yet Lucifer had few qualms about posting a video of you, drunkenly singing karaoke in what was supposed to be a private room? Harsh.

Who breaks the most phones?: Lucifer does. He's not necessarily careless, but his part-time occupation does lead him to circumstances that tend to put his phone in danger. You, Chloe, Dan, literally everyone has told him to just leave his phone in the car if he's going to get it broken that often while on the job, but the dumbass never learns. Not that he really seems to care all that much: With his wealth, he can always buy a new one. Though, the only times he gets frustrated is when photos or videos don't quite make it to the transfer and things get lost along the way. Funny photos, suggestive videos, photos and videos of you . . . Photos and videos of you being funny or suggestive . . . Downright pornographic videos he had recorded of you -- Though don't worry: He's sure you'll be more than happy to help recreate the latter. He'd gladly help you . . .

Who dies first?: It should go without saying. It really should. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. Lucifer was always one to get caught up in his indulgences, after all: Somewhere along the way, he must've gotten too swept up in the thrill, the feeling of adoration. He tells himself this but it's really just denial. Closer to the truth is that it all really was just denial: He denied the idea that you would ever leave him, that you would ever die. Luci was never good with his own thoughts and feelings, but the way you made him feel was nearly enough to convince him that, in some way, you would just plain live forever. But of course, this was not the case: It didn't matter that you were fantastical enough to love and be loved by the Devil; you were still very much a human. Very much mortal. So susceptible to things like time and illness and injury. Lucifer was the King of Indulgences. It was extremely rare for him to experience regret. But when your time inevitably ran out, remorse filled him like smoke filled his lungs with every cigarette he ran through from the moment your funeral arrangements were decided. He could never regret knowing you, as much as part of him thought doing so would spare him this pain. He tried to think of how much better he might've been had he never met you, and it always felt like he was stuck in his own personal Hell Loop with everything going wrong over and over no matter how hard he tried to change it. He regretted that for as much time as he lived up with you, he felt like he didn't use nearly enough of that time to just . . . enjoy you. You in your mortality, your fleeting beauty and love that would nonetheless haunt him for however long he might go on for. So maybe . . . for eternity? This didn't feel like his own personal Hell Loop: This was his own personal Hell Loop. And until he learned to forgive himself, it would never end. So he'd be stuck here for maybe . . . eternity.

Which one I could see as being lactose intolerant: Neither. Unless they get brought down to mortal enough, Celestials generally don't suffer ailments, let alone from things like food allergies.

Who thinks they can do something really well even though they can't?: Lucifer . . . It's not that he's not smart. But by Dad, he is lacking in so much self-awareness that it can be maddening. He thinks he's pretty good at following Dr. Linda's advice (and, to an extent, he's progressing). But the fact of the matter is, he's incredibly troubling at best. Not nearly as bad as some patients, mind you, but when Linda admitted to you that one or two sessions of Lucifer completely misinterpreting her advice nearly drove her to consider adding a secret bar into her desk, you believed her and didn't blame her for one bit.

Who is more likely to get kicked out of bed?: Lucifer is a changed devil. But it's a very slow change. You're more than happy to understand and accept this, but that doesn't mean you have to let him and his issues walk all over you. Sometimes, the big dummy just says or does things without thinking -- or because he thought too hard and thought this was the best decision to avoid further strife. And you try to be patient with him about these tendencies, you really do. But that doesn’t erase your ability to be upset by these habits, or your right to be. And no amount of him buttering you up is going to be acceptable, even when he comes by your place, armed with a dish he so thoughtfully prepared for you. Nope, he can literally go to Hell with that (really, you’re sure the demons there would appreciate a nice beef wellington); you just need some space. Ironically, this may create a cycle wherein his need to make you happy again and have your attention on him drives him to constantly hover around you and attempt to win you over, which in turn just further frustrates you. It’ll likely keep going until you either snap or a loved one pulls Luci to the side and gives him a heads up that maybe he should respect your boundaries. After all, intention isn’t the problem here: It’s the actions taken. And as much as it hurts him knowing that he accidentally hurt you, he has to respect your need for time to cool off. He forces himself to go back to his place and tries to think less about how he feels and more about how you might feel, and try to work out ways to avoid similar incidents in the future. And even though the conclusions he comes to may not be perfect, you at least respect the effort -- particularly when he next sees you, no longer armed with snacks from your favorite bakery or bouquet-carrying teddy bears. Instead, all he has is an apology. It’s sheepish, and it feels foreign to someone who rarely experiences shame or regret, but you know his whole heart is in it even if he himself doesn’t understand entirely why that is. Which is good because that’s just part one of the process; part two involves him warming up that spot in your bed that’s reserved for him!

Who uses the computer the most?: You, absolutely. Lucifer's adorably but altogether completely crap when it comes to technology. Besides, he can easily find other things with which to amuse himself, and doing the paperwork is for other people anyway.

Thank you sooooo much for participating again!!! It really means a lot!!! ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

[samstree]

and the wolf was nowhere to be found (3/4)

It dawns on Jaskier that in the span of only a few days, his and Geralt’s roles have reversed.

(3.2k, lying spell/potion, cursed jaskier, blood and injury, miscommunication)

The reverse trope series masterlist.

AO3

Jaskier is perched on the edge of the bed, exactly where he woke up an eternity ago. The barmaid is filling the bathtub with one bucket of water after another, but he pays no attention.

He fidges with the splints on his arms, careful not to tug on the tendons. With how swollen his wrists are, that seems like an impossible feat.

“You alright by yourself?” the girl asks, pouring the last of the water.

“Yes.”

Jaskier lets the word out without a fight. It wouldn’t do much good anyway. The barmaid is gone within a second, and Jaskier sits alone in the inn room with both arms immobilized and a hot bath waiting.

Untying the laces is painful. Jaskier ends up with a head full of sweat by the time his doublet hits the ground, and the intricate bindings on his chemise give him an even bigger headache. His arms tremble like they are getting more broken by the minute.

It takes forever for Jaskier to strip himself nude and notice the bloodstains all the way down his neck. The wound at his nape is sewed close neatly, barely stinging by now, but with one look of himself in the mirror, Jaskier knows he’s a mess. The dried blood, added by the dark circles under his eyes, makes quite a harrowing picture.

He sinks into the hot water and rests his arms by the edge, the warmth loosening his muscles and clearing the smell of blood. Gradually, he lowers himself under the surface and feels his lungs burn.

Drowning himself would be a nice idea, if only he isn’t sticking out his forearms just so the splints don’t get soaked. Also, Geralt will blame himself even more, so there goes the thought.

Jaskier emerges and shakes away the droplets like a wet dog. He can’t get soap into his hair anyway. Sitting there in self-pity and regret is his only option.

And what right does Jaskier have to feel sorry for himself? Geralt is the one hurt by the poison he spewed, curse or not, and yet he still sewed up Jaskier’s neck and bandaged his wrists. He even ordered a bath for Jaskier when he left, for good this time, Jaskier is sure. There’s no reason for Geralt to stay after all, now that he believes Jaskier is ready to turn on him at every chance just like everybody else.

In the end, it doesn’t matter that a fae in the woods made him say it. Geralt will never be his friend again, let alone anything Jaskier has only allowed his heart to entertain in the wildest dreams.

That’s why he sucks in a surprised breath when a knock comes from the door. Jaskier bites into his lips, just to be safe.

“It’s me.” Geralt’s voice is small, tentative. “Do you need help?” After a stretch of silence, he pushes open the door slowly. “I only want to check on you—Gods, Jaskier, are you in pain?”

Is he? Perhaps soaking his wound in hot water and clutching at the tub with his broken hands isn’t that wise.

“I…” The chair screeches against the floor and Geralt settles next to Jaskier. “I know you don’t want to see me, but you can’t treat your injuries so carelessly. Here.”

Geralt picks up a bar of soap and dips it into water. The next thing Jaskier knows, gentle hands are threaded through his hair and massaging his scalp.

“I’ll just clean it and bandage it. It won’t take long.”

Jaskier looks into the unbearable sadness in those amber eyes, and hates that he’s doing this to Geralt.

“I hate that I’m doing this to you, Jaskier. I—” Geralt sighs. “I wish I could go back and leave you alone after the mountain. I’d make sure we never meet in that damned tavern in Posada if it means you won’t get hurt. Seeing you like this, I—”

Jaskier catches Geralt’s gaze, pleading and seeking, and feels the witcher still under his attention. No, he doesn’t deserve any comfort, not when he’s the one completely at blame. It’s bad enough that Geralt believed all those awful things, and Jaskier won’t ask for more.

“Jaskier?”

He looks down again and lets Geralt go back to his ministrations.

Geralt sighs with relief, and Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat.

Gods, he wants to explain, wants more than anything to erase the hurt he inflicted—if that is still possible. Letting Geralt believe those things is so fundamentally wrong. But how will Jaskier explain? With his voice gone and wrists ruined, there’s no real way of communication, and the thought of more awful things slipping out by accident is enough for Jaskier to wish for death by drowning again.

He let twenty years pass without ever admitting his love, and now he’s lost the chance.

The water trickles down Jaskier’s temple when Geralt rinses out the soap. His movement is achingly gentle, rough calluses ghosting over Jaskier’s skin only by accident. If only tenderness can kill. Tears well up again, and he’s losing control.

“Does it still hurt?” Geralt asks while retrieving a towel.

“No.”

The first preferable lie of the day.

Slowly, Jaskier turns around to let Geralt dry the curls near his forehead, his jaw clenching tight again. There’s a crease between Geralt’s brows, his amber eyes unconvinced. A large sheet is wrapped around Jaskier’s frame when he steps out of the tub.

Jaskier hisses when he tries to catch the hem of the sheet, and Geralt stills. “Let me see your wrists.”

Jaskier stares into amber eyes, silently hoping that without an answer, Geralt will leave him to his misery. He can’t afford another slip. And yet, determination creeps into Geralt’s features, and there’s no point in fighting anymore. A determined Geralt is not someone Jaskier can refuse.

“I’ll be quick,” Geralt pauses. “Please?”

It’s unfair how kind Geralt is being.

Jaskier’s shoulders sag when he pads across the room to sit on the bed, arms gathering the sheet into a heap near his midriff. He should maintain at least a shred of dignity.

Geralt sits down next to him, shoulders weighed down, looking just as tired as Jaskier feels. Still, when he unwraps Jaskier’s wrists, his motion is the most precise thing, touching just enough for practical purposes, not sparing even a brush of knuckles.

Even the slightest probing sends a sharp bolt of pain up Jaskier's arms, but it’s nothing compared to the torture of being so close to Geralt, dreading his fate—being left alone once again. This time, it’ll be permanent and he’ll deserve it.

Jaskier holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable blow that is Geralt declaring he’ll leave on first light. For reasons beyond this world, it doesn’t come. Instead, Geralt lets out a strangled sound.

Jaskier frowns. His wrists are painted with a plethora of black and purple bruises, the edges fading into green and yellow, which is just to be expected.

“You’ll never play again,” Geralt whispers. “If we don’t do anything about it.”

Does it matter? He has long since forgotten how to sing without Geralt in his songs.

“I—” Geralt wraps the gauze around the splints, one by one, tucking in the end. “I asked around just now. Word says a mage is only a day’s ride away. No one at the market was sure, but I am. Yen is only a day away. We can make it tomorrow.”

At the mention of the sorceress’s name, the press of teeth against his tongue is the last of Jaskier’s worry, and he retracts his arms instantly. Under the thin sheet, Jaskier shivers.

“Jaskier, I can’t leave you like this. You need your music when I—” Geralt shakes his head, the pursed line of his lips impossibly sad. “—When you go. Yennefer can fix it. I know you can’t stand me, but at least grant me the peace of mind. Let me know you will be all right, after.”

The dim room turns hazy in the candlelight, and Jaskeir can only curl into himself to stem the tears. He sits there for too long, not sure if he nodded. Wrapping the wound on his head doesn’t take long, and then Geralt is gone without a word.

Jaskier hugs himself tighter, and sobs into the quiet night, the aches of his body finally tiring him out.

 ~~

Strapping the lute case to Roach’s saddle is a task Geralt has done hundreds of times, and yet he fidgets with the contraption in the morning, adjusting it so many times, pulling at the knot again and again.

It’s almost like he wants to stretch their journey longer.

But then, one look at Jaskier’s splinted arms and bandaged head, he smoothes a hand down Roach’s mane and deemed her ready to go.

Riding on the mare while the witcher walks ahead of them is not the most novel experience for Jaskier. Despite Geralt’s overprotectiveness of his mare, he’s always let Jaskier ride if he was truly distressed—or simply complained loudly enough.

There’s no complaining during their one-day journey, even Roach is behaving like the good girl she is. Jaskier gladly endures her glares as long as she doesn’t throw him off her back. Perhaps she senses that will certainly kill him.

The small village looms by the end of the road, right next to the setting sun, and Jaskier’s knees almost buckle under him as he dismounts. He catches the saddle by instinct and chokes in a grunt. There’s fresh blood between his teeth. Geralt’s hands steady Jaskier by the elbows as he breathes through the pain, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Walking into Yennefer’s cottage like this is the last thing Jaskier wants, but what choice does he have? She has long since figured out how pathetic he is. A mere human plastered himself to a witcher’s side, never once considering the possibility that he’s unwanted. A mock or two from Yennefer of Vengerburg aren’t anything new.

To Jaskier’s surprise, when violet eyes meet him, there’s no mockery.

Yennefer stands from a workstation full of vials and bottles. Without sparing a glance at Geralt, she walks right past the witcher.

“Oh, bardling,” she says, “what have you gotten yourself into?”

It takes a brave man to not cower under her knowing gaze, and Jaskier is far from one. He wishes to hide in the setting sun and the darkening room, his feet quiet on the wooden floor and lips sealed. Without a voice, Jaskier is left with no presence anyway.

Pulling Yennefer away, Geralt must be explaining the situation. Once in a while, they will both turn their heads at Jaskier with a pinched look, an almost identical one. Paying attention to the conversation becomes difficult as exhaustion hits Jaskier at full force. The blood loss from the makes him dizzy after traveling on horse, his bones aching from all the jostling. Jaskier sinks into a soft armchair and lets low grumbling witcher baritone and Yennefer’s silvery voice wash over him. The sorceress could make a singer in another life, he muses. A great one, even. Not that he’ll ever admit it to her face, but a bard should recognize talent anywhere.

When Jaskeir is shaken awake by the shoulder, the sky is pitch dark and the tiny cottage is lit by a single candle. It gives out way more light than it should, illuminating everything in sight. Witchcraft will never stop giving Jaskier the creeps.

Geralt is nowhere to be found, and Yennefer looks down at him in pity.

“Come on.” She sounds even gentle; perhaps Jaskier is dying from these broken bones, he muses inwardly. “Do you want it fixed or not?”

Jaskier sits up against soft cushions while Yennefer gathers her herbs and medicine. A cup is shoved before his face and he barely manages to catch it with his hands heavily wrapped, and the content is the most disgusting thing he’s ever tasted.

Shuddering, Jaskier lets loose of his lips just for the momentary satisfaction of revenge. “You are vile, witch.”

Yennefer’s hands stop mid-air right before grabbing another bottle. Sharply, she turns around to observe Jaskier closely, her expression stone-cold, raven hair falling to frame her face elegantly. Jaskier swallows hard.

“Gods, you are the ugliest person I’ve laid eyes on.” Stopping seems an unlikely task right now. Jaskier feels horror sinking into his very core as the warm light gleams in violet eyes. “Your eyes are the most dreadful, and then there’s your voice. Utterly uninspiring. You’d make the most terrible singer if given the chance.”

Seconds tickle by, and Jaskeir expects to be turned into a toad on the spot. It seems Geralt has miscalculated. Bringing Jaskier here will solve his problem once and for all, because he’ll never play the lute again if the rest of his life will be spent on a lilypad. Jaskier feels heat draining from his cheeks, but for the second time, Yennefer surprises him.

The corners of her mouth turn upwards as she casts a silent spell with her fingers. Eyebrows raised, she asks without heat, “more comments for me?”

With a huff, Jaskeir launches again. “Has the great Yennefer of Vengerburg gone soft? I’d imagine with the amount of broken hearts you left in your wake, you would have remade yours with stone.” There’s a sizzle in the air, like magic appearing and fading at the same time, but Jaskier ignores it. “Now what? Not even one insult for me? After I called you the most beautiful person on—” Jaskier snaps his mouth shut, and feels for his tongue.

He’s free.

“Oh,” he lets out the longest exhale, and immediately, “shit.”

Jaskier watches in horror as a smile spreads across Yennefer’s face, the smugness unmasked in the way her arms crossed before her chest. Oh, the price he’d pay just for the ground to swallow him whole right now.

“The most what?”

Jaskier stares at the empty cup in his lap, and then back up at Yennefer.

“You—” he splutters. “Of course.”

“The fae curses come in all shapes and forms. This one was particularly whimsical.” Yennefer leans against her workstation, putting down two corked vials on the table. “Your wrists are bad, but not unsalvageable. Drink these in seven days and they’ll be fine.”

“I thought you could do magic.”

“You might have time to nurse a broken heart, but the rest of us don’t have the luxury. There’s a war. It costs magic.”

Yennefer turns away, and Jaskier looks at her—really looks at her for the first time since stepping into this town. There’s a weariness in the way she carries herself and the self-soothing gesture of pressing her palm on her stomach from time to time. Her make-up is immaculate as ever, but the droop of her lashes speaks of a haunting experience.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier clears his throat, legs tense and ready to go to her, but thinks better of it.

Violet eyes meet him sharply. “And you’re calling me soft?”

Jaskier huffs, almost offended. “You just lifted a fae curse for me out of the goodness of your will. I’d say that’s a reasonable accusation. I … I realize I haven’t said it. Thank you, Yennefer. It was kind of you. Despite what I may have said a few years ago in a drunken fit, I’d hate it if the war claimed you too.”

Remembering that night has Jaskier cringing, but Yennefer only lets out a dry laugh. After all, she did get him back on a few hours later, by tripping him on stage with the wave of a hand. Geralt was never amused by their petty squabbles.

“You are never what I expect you to be, Jaskier.”

“Did you think me incapable of a little gratitude?”

“I thought you incapable of many things.”

“Such as?”

Yennefer straightens her back, the soft curve of her lips fading. “Such as hurting Geralt.”

Shame washes over Jaskeir anew, and he winces. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Jaskier has always been aware that the mountain was not just an ending to his world, but one for the fated romance between Geralt and Yennefer as well. And yet, no matter how angry at the djinn wish, Yennefer still sounds fiercely protective of Geralt.

“I see this is where you turn me into a toad.”

Yennefer taps the vials absently, eyeing at Jaskier’s broken body. “Somehow I feel like you’re punished enough.”

She says that as if Jaskier’s physical wounds are anything compared to how deeply he must have hurt Geralt. The absence of him takes up all the space between Jaskier’s ribcage, and the grief is almost crushing. He sniffles, his nose sore and throat tight.

“You told him?” Jaskier asks, voice small. He doesn’t know which is worse, Geralt leaving believing those words were genuinely Jaskier’s, or him learning about the curse and then choosing to go. A liar, Geralt once called him with affection. Did he anticipate Jaskier would be lying to him too?

He’d hate either answer from Yennefer, but she doesn’t give one. Instead, her tone gentles, “did he realize?”

Jaskier snaps his head up with a crease between his brows. “What?”

“When you were cursed and bleeding, did he realize those lies weren’t yours?”

Jaskier sags with sorrow.

“You know the answer.”

Yennefer moves around the table and sits behind it, the magic candle obscuring her expression. There could be a hint of regret, but Jaskier doesn’t dare to assume.

“He didn’t recognize the looks of a man with his choices taken.”

Jaskier shakes his head like a rattle. “It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known.”

“Because Geralt was ready to believe your lies from the start,” she sighs. “As if you could ever utter those words. As if someone might want to stay with him simply because they wish to.”

No, his heart was not the only one that broke on top of the mountain.

“Do you think,” Jaskier tries, “if he told you about—”

“It’s too late for us,” she waves him off, readying parchment and a quill. “I don’t bother myself with could-have-beens, and neither should him, but.”

The implication hangs in the air.

Jaskier gets up, observing Yennefer’s long, meaningful look, and chuckles tightly. “You truly have gone soft, witch.”

“Don’t come to me dying again, bardling. A third time, I might just let you.”

“No, you won’t.”

Thanking Yennefer again is easy, so is the jab she returns, but finding Geralt becomes the only thing on Jaskier’s mind, so much so that he’s only doubling back after rushing out the door.

“Almost forgot.” He pockets the potions, albeit clumsily. “And where…?”

“There’s only one way out of town. He left not long ago.” Yennefer has begun writing a letter, not even looking up.

“Perfect.”

“I’m serious about the dying.”

Jaskier suppresses the urge to give her a kiss as they bid a final goodbye, and runs out into the night.

It’s not too late for them.

He just needs to make it right. Apologize, explain… Anything that can convince Geralt that he never meant those words, that he’s never seen Geralt as anything but the truest friend, that he’s loved, completely and unreservedly.

It dawns on Jaskier that in the span of only a few days, his and Geralt’s roles have reversed.

~~

A big thanks to Beginte on AO3 for pointing out the parallel between Jaskier and Geralt. Now they've switched roles and Jaskier is the one who said words he didn't mean and desperately wants to apologize.

Ah, the final chapter, here I come. Although I have no timeframe for my writing these days; school is starting to get busy and I am whelmed by the amount of paperwork involved in moving to a new country. Be patient with me, as I am with the local banking efficiency.

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod @kuripon @holymotherwolf

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[hercleverboy]

razljubit

spencer reid x fem! reader

summary ↠ reader and spencer come to terms with the fact that they’ve fallen out of love. 

category ↠ angst

warnings/includes ↠ arguing, slight hints to sex, falling out of love, a lot of crying

word count ↠ 3.8k

↠ so this is my submission for @railmereid ‘s writing challenge using the prompt “Do you think we could pretend?”. as soon as I saw the prompt I got the idea for this and figured i’d participate! thanks for reading! 

“Never feel guilty for starting again.” — Rupi Kaur

Razljubit is the Russian word for the sentimental feeling you have for somone you once loved, but no longer do.

It’s a funny thing, Love. It’s been written about in countless poems, sung about in millions of songs. They tell you about how people can cheat and lie and hurt the people they were supposed to love in the most heart-breaking ways. 

But they never sing or write about the most painful scenario. 

When two people fall out of love with one another, there isn’t always a reason.

That can sometimes make it worse, the fact that it’s no one’s fault.

Because wouldn’t it just be so much easier if there was someone to blame? Someone to scream and cry and lash out at? Wouldn’t it be easier if one of them had cheated, or spewed words of venom in an argument that they could never take back? 

That’s what made it so difficult. There was no blame, no fault. Just a love now lost. 

For the last four years, Spencer and Y/N had spent near enough every waking moment together. Being with one another was all they knew and it’s all they wanted to know for the rest of their lives. 

There were countless museum trips and blushing giggles exchanged over the tops of coffee cups. With every early morning and every late night, they knew that this had to be forever. This had to be it for them. 

When Y/N met Spencer’s mother, it was one of the happiest days of his life. Diana had been having a good day, so Spencer had called up his girlfriend and asked if she’d wanted to finally meet his mother. Of course, she’d been ecstatic that he wanted to share this part of his life with her, as they’d only been dating for six months or so. Immediately, Diana fell in love with her. They spent the entire day talking, with Diana happily showing off pictures from Spencer’s youth from her scrapbook. Once it was time to go, his mother had pulled Y/N into a hug, telling her how thankful she was that she had taken good care of her son. Y/N moved to stand by the door to give Spencer the space to bid his mother goodbye. When Diana pulled her son into her arms, she whispered into his ear the words he’d never forget. “She’s the one, Spencer. Don’t you ever let her go.”

It was only a few weeks after that that Y/N finally met Spencer’s team. They’d quickly figured out that he had a girlfriend, though he’d expressed how he wanted to wait until he was ready to introduce her, and the team didn’t push him. Though, when they met her, they fell in love with her too. Y/N was just that kind of person, magnetic, passionate. To be near her was to love her. The first time they met Y/N, they’d gone to their usual bar for drinks after work, and Spencer had decided that he was ready to introduce his beloved to the team. Sometime later, Y/N excused herself to the toilet. Spencer had turned nervously toward his team, waiting for their impressions. Morgan spoke first, “Pretty Ricky, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were wrapped around her finger.” Emily had chimed in with, “Yeah, Reid. You better marry that girl before someone else does.” Garcia had been the last to speak, already four fruity cocktails in. She’d grasped Spencer by his shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “Okay so Y/N is my new best friend now. You better not break her heart, you hear me?” She’d slurred, to which Spencer had chuckled. “I won’t, Garcia. Not to her. Never her.”

They would dance together in the early hours of the morning, when sleep was so close yet so far out of their reach. The sound of Elvis Presley’s ‘I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You’ would quietly play from the record player in the living room, the pair swaying together to the soft beat. They didn’t exchange much conversation, simply just basking in one another’s warmth, enjoying the feel of being in each other’s arms. Spencer would hold her tightly to his chest, rest his head on top of hers. It was simply bliss. 

After spending hours between the sheets, they’d stay up together, his arms around her and her head resting on his chest as she absentmindedly drew shapes across his skin. They’d giggle over silly things, talk about their future; marriage, buying a house that would become their forever home, raising a family together. “I like talking about this. With you.” He’d whisper, looking up at the ceiling. “You do? Why?” She’d question. “Because it grounds me. Reminds me that with all the horrific things I see on a daily basis, there’s still good in this world. There’s still purity in the form of children, happiness and kindness and love —” He’d paused, reaching down to grab one of her hands in his. “It reminds me that this — this is the life I’m fighting for. The chance to come home to you, our kids, and know that everything I do is making the world just that little bit safer for the people I love.” He’d smiled. “If I can do that,” He’d grinned, “then it will have been a pretty good life.” 

Their relationship was great, brilliant even, for the most part. Though, some nights were worse than others. “You’re never here!” She’d exclaim, pain in her voice. He’d scoff, crossing his arms as he got defensive like he usually did. “You knew that would be the case when we got together four years ago! Why is it suddenly a problem now?” “Because how are we supposed to build a life together, have a family, if you’re always halfway across the country? Too busy to even call me and tell me you’re still alive!” She’d spit, venom in her words that burned his skin like acid. “Oh, I’m sorry that the serial killer we were hunting down couldn’t spare five minutes for me to give you a call. Perhaps I should ask them next time!” 

Eventually, after the dust had settled and with the weight of the words exchanged between them, they’d apologise. “I’m sorry. I know I’m gone a lot and I know it’s tough on you, I should’ve been more considerate.” “No, no. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled like that. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. I love you.” “I love you too.”

No matter how vicious their fights could be sometimes, they always came from a place of worry. After all, the arguments weren’t the reason they fell out of love. 

And for a long time, this life fulfilled them both. 

Until the day came that it didn’t. 

They’d been together for so many years that all they knew was one another. Y/N was Spencer’s first proper relationship. She’d taught him how to love, how it felt to be loved in return. For four years they knew nothing but waking up together, falling asleep together. They spent so long on late night phone calls when Spencer was away on a case, spent countless mornings in bed just relaying ‘I love you’s over and over. They were both young, in love with the idea of love. 

They spent so long being in love that it took them some time to recognise when they’d fallen out of it. 

Once they both hit that realisation, however, the relationship didn’t end. Not yet anyway. They both danced around the topic, refusing to accept what they knew to be true. Their mornings were no longer full of loving kisses and gentle touches. Instead, a simple forced smile and awkward laugh with a small “have a good day” as Spencer headed off to work. He’d come home, and they’d eat together in silence. Then she’d go and busy herself with cleaning up while Spencer resumed reading or researching. When bedtime came, he’d lean over and plant a single kiss on her forehead before shuffling further onto his side of the mattress and turning away from her, and she would do the same.

When he was away for cases, he texted sometimes so she at least knew he was still alive. However, gone were the nights spent on the phone, him in his hotel room whispering in a hushed tone how badly he missed her. No more early morning texts that exclaimed his excitement at coming home.

And after months of dancing around the ashes of a love that once burned so bright, it finally came to a head. They could no longer deny the inevitable. 

They’d simply fallen out of love.

Each of them berated themselves for allowing this to continue on for so long. really, they were both just afraid of what life would be like without one another. It would be like starting back at square one. They’d had their whole lives mapped out ahead of them, and they just simply didn’t know what the future held for them, if not each other. 

This was the girl Spencer had been so sure he’d marry. Now she was going to become a complete stranger. 

That was something else that worried them both. Would they be friends after this? Even if things hadn’t worked out for them, would it hurt to see one of them find someone else? Start a life with someone that in a different universe, could’ve been them? Would the reminder of the future they could’ve had together if things had been different painfully jab at them each time they saw one another?

One evening, they stood together in the small kitchen after dinner. They were silent, (conversation didn’t flow like it used to before) and Y/N busied herself with washing the plates. The only interaction the pair had was when Y/N’s fingers would brush Spencer’s as she passed him the plates so he could dry them and place them in the cabinets. Both of their hearts sank at the lack of a spark as their fingertips touched. They felt nothing. 

The only thing to break the silence was the sound of the tap running, and when Y/N had washed the final plate and passed it to Spencer, she turned off the running stream and let the silence that had suffocated the couple for months resume. 

She stood for a moment, as did he. For the first time in months, neither one left the room. With a deep breath, she turned around to face him, her hands reaching behind her to hold the counter in a grip she was sure she would need to survive this painful conversation. 

***

The day that Spencer realised was two months ago. 

He and the team had been away on a case, and they’d been gone for an entire week. He had called Y/N once, just to confirm he was on a case and didn’t know when he would be back. No further communication happened between the couple. Oh, how desperately Spencer missed the texts she’d send every day he was away, the phone calls whenever he wasn’t too busy. 

Once the case wrapped up, he realised how he didn’t feel the usual excitement as he boarded the jet to come home. He didn’t text her to tell her he was coming home. He felt guilty. He used to be so animated on the jet home, knowing he was going back to her. It even got to the point where he’d annoy the rest of the team with his constant rambles about how thrilled he was to be going home, how much he’d missed his girl. 

When had that feeling gone away? 

Would it ever come back? 

When they landed back at the BAU, instead of heading straight back home like he used to, like he should’ve, he went and sat as his desk for a full two hours, contemplating everything in his head before finally heading home. On his way out of the bullpen, he ignored the looks of concern he got from Hotch and Rossi. The team knew something was seriously wrong, but no one wanted to be the first to overstep and ask what was going on. Stepping through the doors of the apartment, he registered how it no longer felt like coming home. Despite being in the apartment that the pair had bought together, the home he lived in with the woman he was supposed to be madly in love with, he’d never felt further from home before. 

In fact, he felt nothing. 

It frightened him. 

Of course, at first he denied it. The idea that he was falling out of love with her was ridiculous, right? Perhaps this was just another bump in the road of their relationship, one that they’d overcome and come out the other end stronger than ever before. It truly seemed ridiculous. Not even three months earlier, Spencer had been looking at engagement rings, agonising over which one would be perfect for her. 

But now? That all seemed so far away. Floating just out of his reach. 

He glanced over to the other side of the bed one night, where she laid next to him. 

His eyes raked over her frame, sleeping soundly with her back facing him. His heart broke as the realisation hit him like a train. 

He didn’t love her anymore. 

The day that Y/N realised was two months ago. 

Spencer had gotten the call that there was an urgent case and was scrambling around the apartment to grab his things before he was late. Y/N stood in the kitchen staring at a blank space whilst she held her mug of tea in her hands. Spencer popped his head into the kitchen, gaining her attention. She grinned over at him as he walked toward her. He quickly placed a kiss on her lips, murmuring a small ‘Love you’ before turning and leaving. 

When she heard the apartment door close behind him, she sighed as she set her mug back down on the countertop. She missed the sparks that used to fly between them every time they kissed, how the touch of his lips used to set her body on fire. Butterflies would soar in her stomach, his touch alone making her weak in the knees. Dread filled her as she noticed how kissing him goodbye had begun to feel more like a chore than a declaration of her love. 

She stopped being bothered when he didn’t call her for days while he was away. She used to get pretty upset over it, always paranoid that something bad had happened whenever he didn’t call or text. She wasn’t fazed at how he was coming home hours after she knew the jet had already landed (courtesy of updates from one miss Penelope Garcia.) 

Of course, she still cared for him and worried about him, but she didn’t feel that ache in her chest that she used to, the one that could only be soothed by his presence, his arms around her so that she could feel home. 

She only began to register what had really happened when the only way she could justify not breaking up with him at that moment was by replaying old memories in her head. 

She would fall asleep reliving memories of the first time they met, how beautifully awkward their first date had been, the day he’d asked her to be his— as if the same man wasn’t sleeping centimetres away from her. She was in love with their memories, in love with how happy she’d been for four years, how she thought she’d feel that way forever. She grasped a hold of the warmth that filled her as she remembered the first time he’d kissed her, wanting to cling to that feeling forever. 

But now, she only felt cold. 

In fact, she felt nothing. 

It frightened her. 

She glanced over at him one night as they were sat together on the couch. He was sat at the opposite end, his nose deep in his copy of War and Peace. 

She knew it then, in that moment, as she watched him push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

She didn’t love him anymore. 

***

She gripped the kitchen counter tightly, finally looking up to meet his eyes for the first time in weeks. 

Though, something unexpected happened. (After all, they’d never been the most conventional couple.)

He smiled at her, and she effortlessly gave once back. They were the most genuine smiles they’d worn in what felt like a long time. They continued looking at one another, until Spencer broke into a little chuckle. She began to laugh along with him, both of them snickering at the absurdity of the situation they’d created together. It was one of those situations where if they didn’t laugh, they’d likely cry. 

Their laughter eventually died down; the silence they’d grown accustom to filling the room again. 

Spencer was the first to speak, sighing before clearing his throat. “It’s uh— It’s over, isn’t it?” 

Y/N just nodded sadly. “I’m sorry.” 

She meant it, too. She was sorry for a lot of things. She was sorry for falling out of love with a man who would’ve once given her the world had she have asked for it, sorry for letting them cling to something that had burned out long ago. 

“No, don’t be sorry.” Spencer assured her. “It’s not your fault, and it’s not mine either. It just— happened.”

Spencer looked at her with an unimaginable sadness in his eyes, also laced with the slightest bit of guilt. He opened his arms, inviting her into a hug. 

She gladly accepted, putting her arms around his waist, and resting her head on his shoulder. His arms came around her, enveloping her in a warmth that she hadn’t felt in so long. 

The feeling made her begin to sob, and Spencer did too, the understanding of what was happening finally hitting them full force. Together they stood in their kitchen, crying on one another’s shoulders. Together, they let go of all the despair they’d been holding onto for so long. 

When they finally pulled back, Spencer pressed a kiss to her forehead, a loving gesture he’d always done to show her how much he cared. 

She gave a weak smile up at him, wiping her cheeks. “I think I’ll always love you, Spencer.”

His voice quivered as he spoke, struggling not to let it get caught in his throat. “I think I’ll always love you too.”

Whilst they were no longer in love, they still loved and cared for one another deeply.

She took a deep breath before moving back a few paces. “Okay then. I’ll um, I’ll grab some of my things and stay with a friend for tonight. Then I can drop by tomorrow and grab the rest of my things.” 

He nodded, feeling an odd mix of relief and grief fill him. Relief, because they finally had let one another go after holding onto something that had faded long ago. And grief, because although the blossoming flowers of their love had withered over the years, they were still a successful couple. They were so very in love once that nothing else had mattered. He grieved for the future they could have had, the children of theirs he would’ve been delighted to raise with her by his side.

But it simply wasn’t meant to be.

Within twenty minutes, Y/N was stood by the door with a suitcase full of her stuff. She looked up at him, an awkwardness settling over them. What were they supposed to say? Was there anything that could be said? 

“I, um, I don’t know what I’ll do without you here.” Spencer whispered out, his voice wavering. It was funny, he thought, that he knew so many words in so many languages and yet he couldn’t find one that encompassed everything he wanted to say. “I mean, I’m not sure I remember what my life was like without you in it.”

“I know.” Y/N whispered back, managing still to give him a smile despite everything. “Me either. But we’ll be okay.” She slowly reached up, her arms coming around him and pulling him into a tight hug. 

He hugged her back, gripping fistfuls of the back of her jumper as though that would be enough to hold them together, to glue back the pieces of a relationship that had long broken apart. 

“Thank you, Spence. For everything you gave me over the last four years. I was so incredibly happy with you.” 

He let out a breath as they pulled apart, a sob escaping his lips no matter how hard he’d tried to hold it back. “I was with you too.”

She nodded with a smile, bending down to grab her suitcase, and reaching for the doorknob. Though she didn’t make it far, as Spencer had reached out his own hand, grasping her arm gently. 

“Wait—“ He started. She frowned, turning to face him again. 

“Do you think we could pretend?” He mumbled, his eyes searching hers. When he caught on to the confusion she held in hers, he elaborated. “Just— just for tonight? Could we pretend that you still love me, and I still love you?” 

She shook her head with a sad smile. “We can’t keep holding on to this, Spence. It’ll do much more harm than good if I stay.” 

He nodded, because he knew that she was right, though his grip on her arm only tightened. “Please. Just stay for tonight. I’ve slept in the same bed with you nearly every night for the last four years. Please, just one last time?” His voice was thick with emotion, begging and pleading. 

How could she refuse him? 

She hesitantly nodded, allowing him to grip her hand and take her towards the bedroom they’d called theirs for so long. They climbed in, her head resting on his chest as his arms wove around her. 

Because even if they weren’t in love anymore, he was still losing her. Even if they weren’t in love anymore, she was still his best friend.

Spencer worried for how they would navigate a friendship after so many years of being more. Though, he pushed the thoughts from his head, and instead focused on the moment. They could worry about everything else in the morning. But for now, he was going to hold the woman he used to love for what he knew would be the last time.

This was not them just falling out of love, it was them letting one another go. It was moving on to better and greater things that awaited them.

As he drifted off into slumber, he reminded himself that you do not walk back through a closed door. You open a new one and continue on your way.

*

permanent taglist: @beyonces-breastmilk @pinkdiamond1016 @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @thelovelyrose @averyhotchner @cynbx @calm-and-doctor @reidyoulikeabook @katexrichardson @jemimah-b99 @devilsarchive

spencer reid taglist: @reidtome

[nad-zeta]

Mitsuhide- The Blind Date

Fandom: Ikesen

Pairings: Mitsuhide x Reader

Genre: Modern Au

Warning: Alcohol

Words: 1800+

Comments: Eeeeep, guess what time it is???? Whooop Whooop! //dances around ❤❤❤😳🥺🥺😳❤🌈 This week gonna be funnnnn!

.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’ .*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ:。’･ﾟ｡.*:・’ﾟ: ｡.*:・’ﾟ:｡.*:ﾟ･’ﾟﾟ

How in the high heavens did Mitsuhide allow this to happen. Had he truly lost his mind—gone entirely insane— or perhaps he had been drugged, yes, for there was no other logical explanation as to why on earth he would humour his friends so.

Sitting on the high stool at the bar, he checked his phone, 8:53— he would give her seven more minutes and then he was going to yeet out— that way, at least he could tell the other that he ‘tried’. After all, that was all he promised his friends— that he would show up—nothing more, nothing less.

Tracing his finger along the rim of the whiskey glass, Mitsuhide contemplated the events that transpired leading to this rather unfortunate present day.

All his friends were either dating or married—tragic really—and for some or other reason, they felt the need to pry into his personal life. “Don’t you want to share your life with someone,” the mother of the group started, which inevitably only caused the rest of the group to latch onto the idea and turn the once serious board meeting into a game of matchmaking. It certainly didn’t help that he agreed to a blind date willingly— well semi willingly, anything to get them off his back— adding a condition of his own, that the mouse would have to agree to it from her side without intervention from theirs.

He was confident she would refuse, from the words of friends, she certainly sounded like someone of likewise thinking— a fellow workaholic with no time for dating. But she — to his great surprise— accepted.

It made no sense to him. What made even less sense was why his friends thought the two would click, as personalities and hobbies certainly didn't seem to gell well— at least not in his mind.

Not that any of that mattered as time was ticking away, and she had one more minute to show up before he would call it a night.

A myriad of texts illuminated his phone, and Mitsuhide could only release a dejected sigh from the latest of messages plaguing the group chat. “Be nice and behave yourself,” the mother hen had said.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,” came the instigation from Masamune, followed by an array of winking faces and smirk emojis. Now you can only imagine the chaos that unleashed upon the group chat with each member laying their own little egg and nugget of wisdom.

“M-Mitsu?” a soft unsure voice spoke up from beside him, tapping him gently on the shoulder.

Switching his phone off, he plastered a snek-like smile across his features before turning his sharp eyes onto the unfortunate little victim of his company.

“My, you must be the little mouse I’ve heard so much about," came the sly words from his mouth as he gestured for you to take a seat beside him.

With a slight smile shot his way, you took up residence on the tall barstool, “In the flesh,” came your cheeky voice as you shrugged off your jacket and placed both elbows on the table to rest your chin upon your hands.

“And you must be the detective?” you quipped back.

Mitsuhide smiled at that, eyes taking on a mischievous glint as he leaned in closer to drop his voice to a dangerous whisper, “of sorts,” he quickly looked behind him — to add to the suspicion— before returning his attention to you, “and you, my dear, have unfortunately been set up and caught in the foxes trap.”

He kept your gaze in all seriousness.

He was sure you had heard the rumours of his interrogation methods, being no secret at all in the little town you occupied, people, unfortunately, liked to gossip — and whether the rumours of his wicked ways of getting information out of suspects had been spread intentionally or not, people tend to move with caution around him. It was, unfortunately, the nature of his job, and as such, led him down this long lonely road.

You narrowed your eyes at the man, silence befalling the pair of you as you held his gaze before responding in an equally intimidating voice, “have you now, or is it you who has been caught in my trap.”

After another pause, you threw your head back in a burst of laughter without a care in the world. 'He seems fun,' you thought, shooting a wink in the direction of the bartender in thanks for the whiskey on the rocks. You picked up the crystal glass and swirled the liquid around before taking a long sip. It had been a long day, so much so that you almost wanted to stand the poor man up, yet you came anyway, if only for a stiff drink to ease the tension of the day.

“So, Mr fox detective, sir, what’s wrong with you that your friends felt the need to set you up on a blind date, and with me of all people! Do they hate you or something?" you asked, tilting your head to the side in curiosity.

In the dimly lit bar, you gave Mitsuhide a quick once over— he was handsome, in a dangerous, mysterious kind of way. He reminded you of a creature of myths— a kitsune— with his white hair and golden eyes accompanied by that razor-sharp smile. Perhaps that is why the rumours surrounding him were all so believable to the simpletons of the town who had nothing better to do than gossip— cause heaven forbid they do actual work for a change. Relatively speaking, you had not paid the gossip much mind. Instead, you were in the business of judging a book for yourself and not by what others rated it as.

“I could ask the same of you, little one?” he returned the question back to you, resting his chin on his hands.

“Well, to put it simply, my friends don’t know the difference between being alone and being lonely,” you said with a sigh, taking another sip of the drink in front of you.

Mitsuhide nodded in response, long fingers tracing over his glass thoughtfully with a hum of acknowledgement as you continued. “I knew if I refused to come tonight, they would just pester me until I agreed, so, in the name of some peace and quiet, here I am,” you ended off with a laugh and shake of the head.

Perhaps that was not entirely true; sometimes, you wondered what it would be like to find love— to have company to attend the various friend’s weddings with— after all, you were forever the bridesmaid and never the bride.

On the other hand, he knew the struggles of meddling friends all too well, and of course, the endless headache that accompanied the refusal of their ‘help’. He lifted his glass towards you, features softening as eyes crinkled at the seams in a semi genuine smile, “to meddlesome friends.”

You smiled brightly at that, clinking your glass with his as a comfortable silence befell the two of you—it looks like you had more in common than just your workaholic ways.

After a couple of minutes had passed, both your phones lit up at the same time, with an array of nosy friends asking about the ongoing date. And the two of you couldn’t help but burst into laughter and shake your heads in unison, “Unbelievable,” you spoke, taking another sip, an idea forming in your head to get them off your case for a little while longer.

Mitsuhide raised a curious brow at you as you silently lifted your phone, scrolling between the apps before landing on the camera. You shot him a mischievous smile before throwing your arm around his shoulder to pull him closer to you, “What do you think they would say if we sent a selfie,” you said, looking into the camera smiling brightly as finger spammed the little circle capturing a dozen or so photos before Mitsuhide even had time to rebuff. You never did mind creating a bit of chaos, and what better way to do so than, god forbid, you actually hit it off with the man.

“I wonder,” was all he said with a sly smile, and to your surprise, Mitsuhide actually smiled in a handful of the ones captured.

You quickly edited the picture, posting it onto the group with a cheeky caption; however, before locking your phone once more, something in the image caught your attention—a little sticker on Mitsuhide’s trench coat lapel. Your brows furrowed as you zoomed in to inspect it before they lifted to the man beside you, to see it in person. With a curious smile and finger pointed out to the little fox sticker, you couldn’t help but ask, “What’s with the little fox?”

“It’s a long story, my dear,” he said with an air of mystery, but you persisted, leaning closer to get a better look.

“Well, I have time,” the words fell from your mouth, followed by another round of drinks ordered.

“You truly wish to know, little one?” he replied with glowing eyes. And that was the beginning of the end.

The origin story of the fox sticker led to another, that, then led to another and then another. Until a fun game started between the two of you— a story for a story— each new tale accompanied by a new round of drinks ordered.

It was now your turn to tell yet another exciting story, this time about your childhood of all things, however, time had quickly slipped away, and before you knew it, your eyelids started to grow heavy with sleep, words coming out slower and slower until finally your head fell and landed on Mistuhised shoulder.

“My, my little one, you should not let your guard down so easily with a man like me,” the tender words were spoken; it was one of those rare occasions Mitsihide dropped his foxlike mask and wore a genuine smile.

He looked over to see you sound asleep, and it seemed that his fingers moved to their own accord, reaching up to twirl a strand of your hair between his fingertips. After a moment or two, he shrugged off his trench coat and draped it over your shoulders to keep you warm and protected from the cold night’s chill.

“Come along, little mouse; I believe it is time for sleepy mice to go to bed.”

He then proceeded to gently hook his arm around your legs and waist, picking you up bridal style and cradling you to his chest.

“You truly are a troublesome little one, whatever shall I do with you,” he spoke fondly as he carefully loaded you into the passenger seat of his car before securing the seatbelt around you, while you, completely unstirred, remained fast asleep.

You awoke the next day in your own bed, splitting headache nagging at your temples as unfocused gaze locked onto a glass of water and aspirin left by your bedside. Sitting up, you wasted no time taking the hangover cure, memories of the previous night flooding your head.

“Shit shit shit shit,” you curse under your breath, throwing yourself back and covering your head with a pillow— how very uncool of you to just pass out in front of a stranger like that, never mind how unsafe.

Your phone buzzed on the bedside table beside you, cutting your groans of embarrassment and cringe short, replacing it instead with a broad smile upon reading the text from your mysterious date.

[unholyobsessions]

I love you, please don’t break my heart

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

Description: Falling in love is stupid, or it was until you met him.

Warnings: implied sex 

Word Count: 1.5k

Some people can name the exact moment that they fell in love. Growing up you thought that was stupid. It seemed impossible to look at somebody one day and just know. It seemed impossible to fall in love with someone. You didn’t believe it was natural to want to give everything to someone, to be emotionally tied to one person for the rest of your life. Your cynical thoughts as a child persisted through adolescence and adulthood. You never had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks and would often settle for meaningless hookups. You didn’t believe in falling in love. Not until you met him.

Your relationship with Dr. Spencer Reid started like any others. You met him at a bar (classy right?) and he took you back to his place. It’s a routine for you, new guy every weekend, hook up, sneak out, repeat. Which is exactly why you’re surprised when that routine is broken. You don’t know what happened but you woke up too late and the space next to you was empty.

You entered a state of panic, a flutter of curse words slipping quietly past your lips. You quickly scrambled around the room, picking up your abandoned clothes and slipping them on. You all but ran out of the vaguely familiar bedroom only to stop dead in your tracks at the sight in front of you.

Spencer was standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, spreading raspberry jelly on a piece of bread. The delicious smell of brewing coffee overcomes all of your senses and you start moving forward before you even realize what you’re doing. The loud creak of the floorboard is what inevitably catches Spencer’s attention.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he starts. “I umm...made breakfast. I’m not a good cook but I made toast.” He’s nervous, that much is clear to you and you can’t help but find it slightly endearing.

You don’t know how to respond. This goes against a system that you have kept up since you can remember. You rarely stay the night and never stay for breakfast. But the smile he gives you, the way his eyes light up, and the awkward gesture toward the plate sitting on the counter, make the tiniest crack on your walls, but it’s enough to convince you. You smile back at him and walk the rest of the way into the kitchen, grabbing the pot of coffee and preparing a cup for yourself. You take it black, and the disgusted look on Spencer’s face makes you let out a small laugh. You sit together and make conversation, somehow managing not to mention the intercourse of the night before. His eyes speak a thousand words though and you find yourself flushing under his intense gaze.

Noon comes far too fast and you leave his apartment with his number and a promise to meet again.

. . .

You go on four dates with Spencer before you realize how serious your relationship with him is getting. It should bother you, it should make you want to block his number and forget about him. You entertain the thought for a while before shaking your head. You don’t want to forget about him. Without you even realizing Spencer has been breaking down each of your walls one by one and you don’t find yourself caring.

Your phone rings and a picture of Spencer with the biggest grin on his face lights up your screen. You eagerly answer the call and accept Spencer’s offer to come by his apartment after his flight lands.

Forty minutes later you’re standing in front of his apartment, your fist raised about to knock on his door when he opens it.

“Hi.” He breathes out.

“Hi.” You match his smile. He pulls you inside and into a kiss, mumbling against your lips how much he missed you and for once in your life, you find yourself feeling the same. You allow him to push you against the wall as you thread your fingers through his messy hair. He pulls back and pulls you to his couch, holding you close to him. He looks exhausted, and you want to ask him about the case but you know he’ll talk about it when he’s ready. Right now he just needs a distraction and you are more than happy to provide him with one.  

You suggest a movie, saying the first title that comes to mind. The change in his demeanor is instantaneous. His eyes light up and he starts gesturing with his hands as he goes on a tangent about the director and the history of the movie and you smile. You lean your head on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering upwards to gaze at him. And in that moment, you know. Your heart stops at the realization.

You finally understand the way you feel whenever he gets so excited when talking about statistics or random facts he knows. You understand the feeling in your chest when the he scrunches his nose when he is in deep thought, the butterflies in your stomach because he always asks for your opinion and never makes assumptions of you. You understand why you are so entranced by his laugh, his humor, his radiant personality, and the way he just seems to bring life to every situation. You can finally explain the never-ending happiness he makes you feel.

You are unbelievably, irrevocably in love with him. And God you’re terrified.

You don’t know what to say. He’s stopped talking and is now studying you, silently asking if there’s something wrong. You shake your head and lean forward to grab the remote. You try to ignore the tightness in your chest as his fingers subconsciously trail down to your thigh and start to draw random figures on it.

You love him but you can’t tell him.

Not yet.

You wonder if he knows. If he can feel your heart beating erratically or see the look in your eyes. Maybe he can read it on your face, he’s always been able to know what you’re thinking with just one look.

I love you Spencer Reid. I love you. Do you know that? I need you to know that.

Your head is screaming at you and you can hardly concentrate on the movie playing in front of you.

You wonder how he will react if you tell him. Will he say it back? Will he reject you? Will he confirm your fears that you are not worth it. That you are not good enough to have an epic love story. Just like your mother wasn’t.

I love you Spencer Reid. Please don’t break my heart.

. . .

You don’t tell him until a month later.

You’re sitting on a picnic blanket at the park with him. He is looking up, pointing out different clouds. You are not gazing at the clouds but are however admiring the way he looks. He is leaning back on his hands, his purple button up shirt rolled up just above his elbows. He’s smiling, completely entranced by the captivating sky and he’s relaxed, calm, for a single moment not worrying about the monsters hiding in the dark. He’s happy. The angle of the sun hits perfectly and lightens his face with an angelic glow. He looks nothing less of ethereal. You are mesmerized by the man sitting in front of you and you have this strange need to paint him, to capture this perfect moment in the way only an artist is capable of doing. You apparently allow yourself to ogle him for too long because he turns to you with a confused grin before speaking.

“What?” He lets out a small, adorable laugh and the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them.

“I love you.” He pauses. The peaceful atmosphere breaks and you avert your eyes, not wanting to see his reaction. You feel the infinity of milliseconds between each second. An eternity passes by again, and again, and again. You find yourself counting in your head.

Point zero-one. Point zero-one-two.

Your mathematical tangent is interrupted by a featherlight touch on your chin. You allow Spencer to move your head but you still refuse to meet his eyes.  

“I love you too.”

The world stops. Your eyes snap to his and he’s grinning. A beautiful, dazzling smile that knocks the breath from your lungs.

You kiss him.

You kiss him because it’s the only thing you can think to do in that moment. Your brain has stopped functioning and you’re not one hundred percent sure your heart is still beating. But you don’t care, if you die, you can’t think of a better way to go, because Spencer Reid loves you. You and only you. You both pull away wearing similar lovesick smiles.

The atmosphere changes but at the same time it doesn’t change at all. The feelings have always been there, the only difference is that they have now been spoken. They are out in the open and the air around you whispers the words back hoping to engrave the passionate moment of declared love into the earth forever.

Spencer looks back up at the sky and points out another cloud, a bunny riding a motorcycle, and you allow yourself to lean against him as you peer up at the sky.