#i have only very rarely drawn john before

[soriastrider]

john and jane! i don't draw them very often so i figured it was their turn :)

[incognit0slut]

Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

This isn’t a love story. This isn’t a fairytale. This is about a woman bent on setting the world on fire and the FBI agent assigned to her case, drawn to the very flame she ignites.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Unsub!Reader

Warnings: (18+) Typical CM violence, mentions of sexual assault and trauma, implied sex, fire/arson, and this is basically angst with no happy ending

A/n: For once, I am writing outside my comfort zone. This is heavily based on John Mayer’s song with the same title, Female Rage, and Megan Kane (she did nothing wrong!). Constructive criticism is welcome since I rarely write angst, but please be nice, it's my birthday🥺 (yes my birthday appreciation post is heartbreaking)

You wanted the world to burn.

You wanted to watch the ashes drift through the air. You wanted to smell the acid scent of smoke. You wanted to feel the heat envelop you, to wrap your body like a suffocating blanket. Because simply sitting in silence wasn’t enough for the rage that consumed you, the smoldering anger that craved the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath.

You craved the chaos, but the man lying defeated before you was enough for now. His eyes, wide with horror, stared up at you—the look of a man who knew these were his final moments. He pleaded, his voice cracking in desperation, his hands bound tightly behind his back as you stood there, unfazed.

Please.

I have a family. Think of my children.

Just let me go—I'll disappear, you'll never have to see me again.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? How a man could beg for mercy, could invoke the sanctity of family only when facing his own end. How a man could think that running away could solve everything, believing that his disappearance would erase the past and the suffering he caused.

No, that was a choice you didn’t have. The luxury of forgetting, of escaping the shadows that clung to your every step. Not only was his pleading in vain, it was insulting, as if the depth of his misdeeds could be washed away by mere absence. You wanted him gone. You wanted him dead.

So you gave him a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. Your expression was serene, almost angelic, but it belied the reality of your intentions as your heels echoed through the empty warehouse, a jug of gasoline in hand.

He screamed. Your smile widened. It was useless—no other soul was near enough to hear his cries, too far away to save him. His desperation filled the empty space once again as you poured the gasoline around him, drenching him in its sharp, pungent scent.

Then you took a step back, your hand reaching for the lighter in your pocket. There was a moment of hesitation as you watched him struggle. Could you really do this? Could you cross this final line?

But then the memories surged forward, vivid and painful. He was one of them, one of the people who had taken advantage of your innocence when you were young and naive, who had shattered your trust and left you to pick up the pieces alone, leaving scars that never truly healed.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

Your fingers tightened around the lighter. What a foolish man, who was he to think that a forced apology could undo the damage? With a steady hand, you flicked the lighter, the flame springing to life. His apologies continued, increasingly frantic, but they were nothing more than the desperate noise of a man who had run out of options, out of time.

You threw the lighter. The small flame sailed through the air, landing amidst the gasoline-soaked ground with a burst of fire. The flame caught instantly, erupting into a roaring blaze that engulfed him in a matter of seconds, drowning out his piercing scream.

You continued to watch his body burn, and perhaps for the very first time in your life, you felt a terrifying peace.

~*~

“This is the third body in a week,” Derek mentioned, stepping into the old factory as he slipped his sunglasses on top of his head, scanning the scene before him. It was disturbing. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

Spencer looked up from where he was crouched near what was left of the victim. “It’s getting more deliberate,” he observed. “The Unsub is trying to send a message.”

Derek moved closer, carefully stepping over a piece of evidence marked by the forensic team. “What are you thinking?”

He slowly stood up, his eyes assessing the place. There were actually a lot of things on his mind, and one of them being how this third victim seemed more calculated, more precise than the others. It was a stark contrast to the first victim, whose remains were found in a haphazard, chaotic state in that old warehouse.

But this one… everything was meticulously arranged, from the positioning of the body to the burn patterns that radiated outwards in a controlled manner. The Unsub was trying to perfect their methods in a short amount of time, and as much as Spencer hated to admit it, it was almost impressive.

“They want attention,” Spencer finally said, breaking the silence as he mulled over the crime scene. “They’re not just doing this for the sake of it; they’re communicating. Whatever message they’re trying to send, it’s getting closer with each victim.”

“You think they’re trying to tell us something?”

“No, I don’t think it’s aimed at us.” Spencer bit his bottom lip, his eyes narrowing in thought. “They’re trying to make a statement.”

“Like a public declaration?”

“Could be,” Spencer acknowledged, stepping back to view the scene from a different angle. “Or it could be a form of protest or revenge.”

“Burning people for revenge,” Derek mused, crossing his arms. “Now that’s a hell of a way to get a point across.”

“It’s deeply symbolic. Fire consumes everything, leaving nothing but ash. It’s final.” He looked up, his eyes meeting Derek’s. “Whoever is doing this is not just angry, they’re trying to erase their victims from existence.”

“Well, they’re doing a pretty good job at it, we haven’t identified any of them yet.”

Spencer frowned, his gaze dropping back to the scene in front of him. Identifying the first two victims had been nearly impossible due to the extent of the burns. The flames had consumed everything, leaving behind little more than brittle bones and ash. Dental records and DNA tests had been their only hope, and even those couldn’t identify the victims.

He continued to study the body, looking for anything that could help them. The burns were severe, almost total, but then something caught his eye. A faint mark, barely visible under the scorched skin. He leaned in closer, squinting to make out the details. There, peeking out from the blackened flesh on the victim’s forearm, partially obscured by the burns, was a small tattoo.

“I think we might have something,” he said, pointing to the mark.

Derek leaned in, his eyes widening slightly. “That looks like a tattoo.”

“You think we can get this to the lab?”

“We can,” Derek replied as he took out his phone and took a quick photo of it. “But we also have Garcia.”

Spencer watched as Derek quickly navigated through his contacts, his fingers moving with practiced ease. He tapped the screen, putting the phone close to his ear. It didn’t take long for the call to connect, and almost immediately, a familiar voice filled the brief silence through the speaker.

“I knew you couldn’t go a day without me,” Penelope’s unmistakable cheerful voice greeted him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this delightful interruption?”

Derek couldn’t help but crack a slight smile. “Garcia, we need your magic on a photo. There’s a partial tattoo on our latest victim, and we need to know if it matches anyone in the system.”

“Send it over and I’ll sprinkle some of my digital pixie dust on it.”

Derek attached the photo to a message and sent it directly to her. “It’s on its way.”

“Got it,” Penelope replied, her fingers already flying across her keyboard on the other end. “Okay, this might take a while, but I do have more information on our first victim, or I guess you can say, I have all the information that you need.”

“Our first John Doe is identified?”

“Rick Sullivan,” she confirmed. “He was reported missing a week ago by his wife. Turns out he has a bit of a past—multiple arrests for minor offenses, but nothing that would usually make him a target for this kind of violence.”

Spencer leaned closer to Derek’s phone. “Does he have any known associates or enemies that stand out?”

“Not on record,” Penelope said, her voice slightly muffled as she sifted through more files. “But listen to this, his bank transactions show some pretty hefty sums being spent regularly. Guess where most of it is going?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

"To an exclusive strip club on the east side of town called The Velvet Curtain,” she revealed. “Seems our Mr. Sullivan was quite the regular spender there.”

Derek smiled, shaking his head slightly. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Not nearly enough,” she replied with a playful lilt in her voice. “Keep the compliments coming and maybe I’ll dig up even more dirt for you.”

“We’ll need all the dirt we can get. Thanks, Garcia.”

“Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I’ll keep you updated if I find anything else,” she said before ending the call.

Derek turned to Spencer as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Ready to see some strippers, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer glanced back at the charred remains. He’d seen too many bodies, too much senseless violence. There was nothing left that could shake him—not even the neon lights and dark corners of a strip club, or even the thought of being in a room surrounded by half-naked women. He could handle that. He could definitely handle that.

With a slight nod aimed at Derek, he followed him out of the building.

~*~

“Scarlett!” A voice rang through the dressing room. “You’re up in five!”

You swiped the red lipstick across your lips one last time, perfecting the bold arch that had become your signature look as your eyes swept over your reflection, eying the thin straps of your costume. The fabric was a deep, seductive red, almost the color of freshly drawn blood, and barely covered your skin. The material was sheer and see-through, leaving little to the imagination, something you preferred. Because the more skin you showed, the more you felt in control.

This was your armor, the persona you donned to hide the secrets buried beneath your glamorous exterior. As Scarlett, you were a siren. Untouchable. You had power and control, something your life outside these walls lacked.

“Scarlett!”

“I’m coming!” You snapped, capping the lipstick and placing it back in your makeup bag. You stood up, smoothing down your outfit, and made your way to the stage entrance.

The stage coordinator eyed you up and down. “No props for today?”

You shook your head, giving a confident smile. “Not today. I can manage without them.”

He nodded approvingly, moving to the side. “Alright, it's your cue."

You brushed past him and headed down the dimly lit corridor leading to the stage, the familiar rush of adrenaline surging through you. Taking one last deep breath, you finally stepped into the glow of the spotlight. The crowd's attention shifted to you, and you felt the power you had grown accustomed to, the control you desperately craved. The music pulsed through the air as you sauntered toward the pole at center stage.

You started to move.

Your fingers around the cold metal, and your body naturally found the beat as you began to dance seductively, letting the red fabric of your costume shimmer under the lights. A flirtatious smile played on your lips as you glanced around the room, locking eyes with a few patrons who watched. You slid down the pole, bending your knees and arching your back gracefully, biting back a smile as you heard the cheers and whistles from the crowd.

You took in the familiar faces and the usual gazes of admiration and desire, from the sleazy grins of regulars to the guilty looks of married men stealing away from home. But then, two men caught your attention, standing out starkly against the backdrop of the usual patrons.

One of them exuded confidence, his gaze steady and assessing as he watched your performance. The other, however, seemed out of place, his eyes darting around the room awkwardly. At first, he appeared uneasy, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and avoiding direct eye contact. But as you moved, dancing with the pole and letting your body sway to the rhythm, his gaze gradually settled on you. 

You had never seen him before. He was unexpectedly handsome, with soft curls that danced along the edges of his face and soft features that made him beautiful, almost angelic. But there was something more about him that intrigued you. Maybe it was the way he seemed to blend in with the shadows, making him nearly invisible among the brasher, more excited crowd. His presence was so out of place and yet so focused on you that it spurred you on. 

With a teasing smile, you tugged at the thin strap of your top, playing with it as you danced. His eyes followed the movement, his breath catching slightly as you slowly slid the strap down your shoulder. The fabric slipped further, revealing more of your skin as you twirled around the pole. 

You then arched your back and bent low, the thin strap finally gave way, allowing your top to slide down your body, exposing your perky breasts to the crowd. His eyes widened slightly, but he couldn't look away. Neither could you. For a moment, it was just the two of you, locked in a silent exchange as the cheers and applause became a distant hum in the background.

You could see the conflict in his eyes—part fascination, part restraint—and it only made you bolder. You slipped the last piece of fabric down your legs, and with each sway of your hips, you drew him deeper into your world, determined to leave a mark on his memory.

~*~

“Just talked to the club owner,” Derek mentioned as he walked over to where Spencer stood, hiding in the corner of the room. “He gave us permission to question the dancers.”

Spencer nodded, but didn’t say anything. Derek raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… fine.”

Derek gave him a knowing look. “Your first time being at a place like this?”

Spencer’s gaze lingered on the stage. That would be a good excuse for why he was acting this way, but it wasn’t the truth. He grew up in Las Vegas, after all. Even though he rarely found himself in these types of scenes, he knew what went behind the walls. He was aware of what happened inside clubs, the performers, and the whole spectrum of human behavior. But he had never seen someone so… mesmerizing.

His mind was still processing the way you moved, the way you commanded the room with such effortless confidence. The way you shamelessly captivated everyone’s attention, including his.

No, it wasn’t the setting that threw him off—it was you.

“Reid?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m here,” he managed, snapping back to the present. “So the dancers?”

Derek nodded, sensing Spencer’s momentary distraction but choosing not to comment.

“Yeah, we need to start talking to them. With these many dancers, I think it’s better we split up.” His eyes scanned the room. “You take the bar out here, and I’ll handle the lounge area. If any of them seem to know more or are hesitant to talk in front of others, we can bring them aside for a more private conversation.”

“Got it,” Spencer agreed. He straightened his tie and took a deep breath as he made his way directly to the bar, nodding politely to the bartender before turning to address the group of dancers gathered nearby.

“Excuse me, uh, hi there,” he greeted, showing them his badge. “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI. I’d appreciate it if I could ask you a few questions.”

The dancers exchanged glances as Spencer cleared his throat, trying to appear composed. One of them, a tall woman with striking pink hair, stepped forward. “What do you need to know, Handsome?”

Spencer felt a flush creep up his neck, momentarily flustered by the directness. “Have any of you noticed anything unusual or seen anyone acting suspiciously in the past few weeks?”

The pink-haired woman looked him up and down, taking in his crisp suit and tie with a playful smile. “Well, the only unusual thing I’ve seen lately is a handsome FBI agent in a place like this.”

Her comment drew a few chuckles from the group, and Spencer felt a wave of awkwardness wash over him. He usually could handle a bit of teasing—he’d even interviewed sex workers who blatantly flirted with him before—but being surrounded by half-naked women, one of whom was actually topless, was making him feel distinctly out of place. His usual confidence was slipping away, replaced by a deep, uncomfortable blush.

Before he could respond, another dancer, this one with blue hair, joined in the teasing. “Aww, look at him blushing. Aren’t you just adorable?”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to refocus. “I, uh, appreciate your… observations. But really, any information about unusual behavior could be very helpful.”

One of them, with a mischievous glint in her eye, leaned closer and asked in a flirty tone, “Would you like to find a private room for questioning, Doctor?”

His eyes widened. “W-What? No, no, I—”

“Ladies.”

Spencer turned around, and his breath caught in his throat when he saw you standing close to him, your sweet fragrance enveloping him. His heartbeat quickened, and he found it hard not to stare. You had changed from your performance attire into something slightly less revealing but no less captivating that Spencer had to remind himself to blink.

“Stop teasing the poor guy,” you said, addressing the dancers with a slight smirk.

“We were just being nice,” one of them protested, feigning innocence.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, let’s give him some space.”

The rest of the dancers giggled, picking up their drinks and retreating to another part of the club. You watched them leave before turning back to Spencer and gracefully took a seat on a stool where one of them had been.

“So,” you began, crossing one leg over the other, and Spencer made a conscious effort not to focus on how the fabric rode up your thighs. “I can’t help but overhear you’re with the FBI. I’m Scarlett.”

He stared at your outstretched hand but made no effort to take it. “Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“Ah,” you said, retracting your hand and placing it on your lap. “You’re that type of guy.”

“What do you mean?”

You tilted your head slightly, a wry smile playing on your lips. “You know, the type who might think less of this kind of job, of people who work in places like this."

Spencer shook his head quickly. “No, it’s not that. I grew up in Las Vegas, places like this don't surprise me. It's just that—l don't do handshakes. Personal preference, not a judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Well, studies show that handshakes transfer a significant amount of pathogens. It’s actually safer to kiss someone than to shake their hand.”

An amused smile played on your lips. “Is that your way of trying to kiss me, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, and a flush crept up his neck. “Uh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” he stammered. “I just meant, scientifically speaking, it’s… safer.”

“Of course.” You chuckled, leaning back slightly. “So what brings the FBI here?”

Spencer cleared his throat. “We’re here to gather information about one of your customers.”

“Who?”

“Do you know anyone by the name Rick Sullivan?”

“Know him? He practically lives at the end of the bar some nights.” Your eyes swept over the empty seat where Rick usually occupied. “Although he hasn’t come here in a while, his wife probably decided to put her foot down."

“Do you remember anything unusual about his behavior or if he mentioned anything out of the ordinary recently?”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged. “He was always pretty quiet. But now that you mention it, a few weeks ago, he seemed more on edge than usual. Kept looking over his shoulder like he was expecting someone.”

“Did he ever talk to anyone in particular, or did anyone strange approach him?”

You shook your head. “Not that I noticed. But then again, it gets pretty busy here. Hard to keep track of every interaction.”

Spencer nodded at the information. “Is there anyone who seemed particularly close with him here?”

“I don’t think so. He’s friendly with some of the regulars, but no one stood out. He mostly keeps to himself unless he’s buying drinks for the dancers.” You watched him, noticing the way his brow furrowed slightly in thought and you couldn’t help but ask, “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but don’t you have to write all this down?”

Spencer glanced at you, a small smile forming on his lips. "I have a good memory. I'll remember everything you've told me."

"Really? Do you have a photographic memory or something?"

"Eidetic, actually.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “That’s impressive. So basically you’ll remember anything?”

Spencer nodded. “Yes, I can recall detailed images and information with high precision.”

“Alright, I want you to remember this then,” you said, leaning in slightly. You recited a series of numbers, your voice smooth and confident.

He looked genuinely confused. “What’s that?”

“My number.”

He blinked, clearly taken aback, but a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Oh.”

“There’s a rule against sharing personal information while working here,” you explained, leaning in a bit closer, “But you can save it under Y/N. That’s my real name.”

Spencer found himself momentarily mesmerized by your proximity, the scent of your perfume, and the intensity of your gaze. He blinked, trying to maintain his composure.

“Y/N,” he repeated softly, as if committing it to memory.

You smiled. “Exactly. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” he assured you as you slipped off the stool and the space between you momentarily vanished. For a brief, unexpected second, your body lightly pressed against his. The contact was fleeting but there was an unspoken tension that seemed to pause the noise around you.

The closeness brought a rush of warmth, and your eyes locked with his. “Do you like jazz music, Dr. Reid?”

He frowned, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Um, I don’t really listen to music.”

“Well, that’s a pity,” you replied with a playful smile. “There’s a great spot not too far from here. They have live bands on the weekends.”

“What… what are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to ask you out on a date.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly as he processed your words. “Oh,” he stammered, clearly taken aback by your boldness. He hesitated, his mind racing to catch up with the situation. “I, uh, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?”

He swallowed, looking a bit flustered. “It’s not that. It’s just… there are boundaries, and I’m supposed to remain professional.”

“Ah, I see. But if you decide to change your mind…” You moved closer, reaching out to fix his crooked tie, your fingers brushing lightly against the fabric. “I’ll be at the Blue Moon on Saturday around 9 p.m., sitting at the bar in a red dress with a drink in my hand.”

Spencer’s breath hitched slightly as he tensed but didn’t pull away, keeping his eyes locked on yours. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you do, Dr. Reid.” You took a step back, your hand lingering for a moment before you let go of his tie. “You know where to find me.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him standing there as he watched you blend into the crowd, conflicted and unexpectedly aroused.

~*~

You weren’t sure what you were trying to do. Asking an FBI agent out on a date went against every rule you had set for yourself. You were supposed to keep your distance, to remain anonymous and untouchable. It was safer that way, for both you and your secrets. Yet, here you were, sipping your drink as you waited for a man who represented everything you should be avoiding.

A part of you questioned your sanity. What was it about him that made you break your own rules? It was reckless, foolish even. Getting involved with someone like Spencer Reid could only complicate things.

But there was something about him. Maybe it was the curiosity in his eyes, the way he seemed both out of place and perfectly composed at the same time. Or perhaps it was the way he treated you with a respect and sincerity that you hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever it was, it had been enough to make you take this risk.

But now, as you sat by the bar alone an hour later, you couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been a mistake. The minutes had ticked by slowly, and you tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that maybe you had misjudged him. Maybe he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, and maybe that was for the best.

Just as you were about to give up and leave, the door to your side opened. You turned, not daring to hope, and there he was—looking slightly disheveled and out of breath, but undeniably there with a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, and a small, relieved smile crossed his face.

“Hi,” he said, a bit breathless. “I’m sorry I’m late, I got held up at work and I didn’t want to come empty handed, so…”

Your eyes drifted towards the simple bouquet of white lilies in his hand. “Are those for me?”

Spencer nodded, extending the flowers towards you. “Yes, they are,” he replied. “I didn’t know what you’d like, and I thought lilies are a safe choice because they’re elegant and not too overwhelming, but then I started thinking maybe roses would have been better, but then roses can be a bit too—”

You cut him off with a warm smile, gently taking the bouquet from him. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”

He let out a small sigh of relief. “I’m glad you like them.”

You placed the lilies on the bar and gestured to the seat beside you. “Come here, you look like you just ran a marathon.”

“It felt like it,” he admitted, taking the seat right next to you. “I really didn’t want to be late.”

“You’re here now, that’s what matters.” You slightly leaned back and studied him. “I’m actually surprised you changed your mind.”

Spencer glanced at you. “I… I guess I realized I didn’t want to miss the chance to get to know you.”

“Yeah?” You tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “What do you want to know about me?”

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, actually. He wanted to know your story, why you chose your job, and who you were beneath this confident exterior. But that was all too much for a first date. Glancing around the room, he decided to start with something simpler and said, “Start with how you know this place.”

You smiled, looking around the familiar setting. “I found it a few years ago. I was walking aimlessly down the road one night after work and stumbled this place. It’s become my little escape since then.”

“I can see why." His eyes drifted towards the band playing live music and the few patrons mesmerized by the soft tune. "It’s definitely got a charm to it.”

You leaned in slightly. “Do you have any secret escapes?”

He looked back at you. “Not really. My escapes aren’t quite as charming. Mostly books and chess. They're not exactly thrilling.”

“Books and chess?” you asked, tapping your finger on the bar. “You really are a nerd.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a man of knowledge,” he replied with a shy yet proud smile.

“Well, intelligence is attractive, and not only that, it’s also very sexy." You laughed when you noticed him slightly squirming. “Do you have any other hidden talents I should know about?”

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “I’m actually pretty good at magic tricks. It’s something I picked up as a kid.”

“Now that’s a talent I didn’t expect,” you observed, your eyes lighting up. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

“I’d be happy to,” he replied enthusiastically. “What about you? What’s your hidden talent?”

You grinned. “I can make a pretty mean lasagna. And I’m good at dancing, but you might have already guessed that.”

Spencer suddenly felt the warmth spreading along his face as he remembered your performance on stage the other day. His mind flashed back to the way you moved with such confidence, the undeniable sex appeal you exuded effortlessly, and he could feel his cheeks heating up.

“Yeah, I, uh, definitely noticed,” he admitted.

“I hope that means you were impressed.”

Spencer nodded, still a bit flustered but managing a smile. “Very impressed.”

“Why, thank you,” you noted, leaning closer to him. “How about you? Do you dance, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly at the question. “I’m not nearly as skilled as you are,” he confessed. “My dance moves are more… theoretical. More of an exercise in coordination than something you’d want to see in action.”

The image of this authority figure awkwardly dancing in his suit made you smile.

“Now this I need to see.” Sliding off the stool, you extended your hand towards him. “Dance with me.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, glancing around the room. “You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “Trust me, it’ll be fun.”

You waited, half-expecting him to decline considering he didn’t even want to shake your hand the last time you saw him. But then, to your surprise, he took a deep breath and placed his hand in yours.

You couldn’t help but smile as he stood up and let you lead him to a small open space near the bar, slipping in between other couples swaying to the music as the band played a lively, upbeat tune.

“Okay, put your hand here,” you instructed, guiding his hand to rest lightly on your waist. You took his other hand in yours and began to sway gently to the rhythm, leading him in a basic two-step.

Spencer tried to follow, his movements slightly awkward at first. “I’m not sure I’m doing this right.”

“You’re doing fine,” you reassured him, smiling up at him. “Just trust your instinct.”

“My instinct is to find the nearest exit door.”

“No escaping tonight. You’re stuck with me,” you teased, your other hand holding onto his shoulder. “Besides, I think you’re doing pretty well for someone who claims to be bad at dancing.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, his confidence growing slightly. “You think so?”

“Yep,” you replied, giving him a grin. “In fact, I’d say you’re almost a natural.”

“Almost?” he echoed, a teasing note in his voice. “What do I need to do to earn the proper title?”

“Maybe a spin?” You suggested, already positioning yourself lightly. With an encouraging nod, you prompted him, and he took the cue, lifting his arm and carefully guiding you into a smooth spin under his hold. You twirled gracefully and came back into his arms, beaming up at him.

“How was that?” He asked.

“Pretty impressive.”

He smiled, and a warmth spread through you, a sense of happiness you hadn’t felt in a long time. It was wrong, you knew that. You knew you were stepping into dangerous territory, blurring lines that should remain clear. But at that moment, all those concerns seemed distant and unimportant, especially when the music suddenly turned slower.

The soft, sultry notes of a saxophone filled the air as you moved closer to him, gently grabbing his hands before guiding them to rest behind your back.

“Now this,” you began, moving your arms around his neck. “Is how you dance to a slow song.”

Spencer smiled, a genuine, soft expression that made his whole features light up. He pulled you gently against his chest. “I think I prefer this type of dance better.”

You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt. “Me too.”

You felt a hand press gently on your lower back, drawing you even closer as you took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. He smelled of fresh soap and something sweet, like vanilla or honey—a combination that you could easily find yourself getting addicted to.

The thought surprised you. For someone who loathed men, who had built a life around a cold, calculated revenge against them, you found Spencer oddly comforting. It was unsettling how natural it felt to be this close to him, how safe he made you feel.

You could almost laugh at the irony. Here you were, a woman fueled by a desire for vengeance, finding solace in the arms of a man. It was reckless. Dangerous. You needed to keep your head in the game. Allowing yourself to get distracted, to feel these warm, tender emotions, was a risk you couldn’t afford.

But as you pressed your face closer to the crook of his neck, it became increasingly difficult to push him away. You knew you had to be cautious. You knew you needed to keep your head clear, your focus sharp, and you promised yourself that you would.

But not now. Not when his touch made you feel something you hadn’t felt in years. For now, you allowed yourself to surrender to the moment, to the warmth of his embrace, to the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, and to the fleeting sense of peace that felt so foreign yet so desperately needed.

~*~

Spencer wasn’t sure what he was trying to do. He found himself awkwardly moving close to you, then pulling back, reaching out as if to take your hand, then stopping himself. The hesitation gnawed at him, torn between wanting to hold your hand and maintaining a respectful distance.

Was it too soon? Was there a rule about holding hands on the first date?

He mentally sifted through his limited experiences, trying to recall any useful advice or guidelines. But all he could think about was how natural it had felt to dance with you, to be close to you. He glanced over, catching the soft glow of the streetlights across your face. You looked serene, content, and he wished he could just follow his instincts without second-guessing every move.

“What?” You asked without looking at him. “Why are you staring at me?

He quickly directed his gaze away from you. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You turned to him with a small, amused smile. “You’re not making me uncomfortable. I was just curious.”

He hesitated as you both continued to walk, the rhythmic sound of your footsteps blending with the quiet night. Finally, he decided to be honest. “I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment. I guess I’m not very good with this sort of thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I wanted to hold your hand,” he blurted, his face flushing slightly. “But I wasn’t sure if it was too soon. I didn’t want to seem too forward or make you uncomfortable. I’m sure there’s a whole rule to this that I don’t know about, and I’ve been overthinking it the entire walk.”

You chuckled softly. “Spencer, you don’t need to worry so much.”

He took a deep breath. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… can I hold your hand?”

“Of course, you can,” you replied. “I’d really like that.”

His face lit up as he reached out, his fingers gently intertwining with yours. You laughed at his boyish smile. “So this is why you’ve been silent this whole time?”

“I didn’t want to overstep any boundaries.”

“And here I thought you didn’t want to talk to me because you didn’t enjoy my company.”

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, not at all! I was just worried about doing something wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong tonight.”

He looked at you, relief washing over his face. “Really?”

“Well, except for making me wait for a whole hour.”

He winced at your words. “Sorry about that. I really didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Don’t worry. The flowers were worth the wait,” you said, holding up the bouquet in your other hand. “And besides, I enjoyed dancing with you, I had a great time talking to you, and now you’re walking me home, which is definitely a bonus point.”

“So you’re keeping scores?” He asked, finding this conversation amusing. “What’s my score now?”

You pretended to think, a smile playing on your lips. “Well, punctuality could use some work, but excellent choice in flowers, charming dance skills, and chivalrous escort service? I’d say you’re doing quite well. Maybe an eight out of ten?”

“An eight? What happened to the last two points?”

“You need to earn them.”

“How?”

You slowed your pace, pulling him to a stop under a streetlight.

“Close your eyes,” you instructed. He hesitated for a moment, then complied, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shut his eyes.

“Okay. Now what?”

You stood on your toes, trying to match his height, and leaned in close. Then, with a quick flutter of excitement, you pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.

His eyes widened in surprise. “I—uh, what—”

You just laughed, a light and carefree sound that cut through the night. “You just gained another point, Dr. Reid.”

Before he knew it, you turned and dashed away, your laughter trailing behind you playfully. He couldn't help but smile at the sound, and, almost without thinking, he started chasing after you.

Spencer wasn't sure why he was running, or even why this felt like the most natural thing to do, but he didn't care. Your laughter was infectious, and when he finally caught up, wrapping his arms around your waist, he couldn't stop laughing.

"Got you," he said, grinning as he met your gaze.

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment, taking in the way you looked up at him with those pretty eyes. There was a certain glow about you, a warmth that seemed to radiate across your face. His gaze then drifted down to your lips, slightly parted and still bearing the sweetest smile he had ever seen, and he felt an unfamiliar tug in his chest.

He liked seeing you like this. You always looked so confident and poised, but now you seemed... happy. There was a lightness in your eyes that he hadn't seen before, and like a moth to a flame, he wanted to bask in your warmth.

Without thinking, he slowly closed the gap between you, his eyes flicking down to your lips for a brief moment before meeting your gaze again. The world seemed to hold its breath as he leaned in, and then, gently, he kissed you.

Your lips were so soft.

He had imagined they would be, but not like this—not as delicate, not as perfectly in sync with his. The sensation was more than he had ever expected, more than he had allowed himself to hope for. His tongue gently traced your bottom lip, and the soft moan that escaped you urged him even further.

He pulled you closer, and you parted your lips to invite him in. The moment his tongue slipped inside your mouth, he was lost in the rush of flavors and sensations. Your tongues danced together, exploring, tasting, savoring every second while everything around him started to blur into shadows and muffled sounds.

He was so engrossed, so utterly consumed by the taste of you, that he completely forgot he was standing in the middle of a bustling sidewalk. It wasn't until he heard the distinct sound of a throat being cleared that reality snapped back into focus. Pulling slightly away, he turned his head towards the sound and met the stern gaze of an older woman passing by.

“Sorry,” he muttered, feeling incredibly flustered. The woman simply huffed and continued on her way, shaking her head.

You giggled as you reached up to wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth. “I thought you weren’t good with this sort of thing.”

“I’m not,” he assured you, his thumb gently brushing your sides. “This is... definitely a first for me.”

“Oh, really?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you don’t usually make out with girls on busy sidewalks?”

The laugh he let out sounded almost ludicrous, as if the image of him kissing girls in public seemed completely out of character, out of place—until now, to his surprise.

“Nope, can’t say that I do.”

You smiled and tugged on his arm. “Come on.”

You walked together, and Spencer took your hand again. His grip tightened slightly, almost unconsciously, as if he wanted to imprint the way your hand felt into his memory. He was acutely aware of the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers fit perfectly with his. And this sense of wanting to hold onto you grew even stronger when you finally arrived at your building.

“This is me,” you said softly, turning to face him.

He looked down at your intertwined hands. “This is you.”

There was a brief, tense silence before you softly called out his name. He met your gaze, and dear god, how could he let go when you looked at him like that? He was mesmerized by the way your eyes sparkled under the light, the soft curve of your smile, the gentle confidence in your stance.

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to ask how you can earn your last point?”

He blinked, momentarily thrown off by your question, then a slow smile spread across his face. “Alright,” he said. “How can I earn my last point?”

Then he saw it, the same glint in your eyes that he had noticed when you were dancing on stage. It was a look filled with flirtation, exuding sex appeal and confidence. The way your eyes sparkled under the ambient light, the subtle but assured smile playing on your lips, all pointed to someone who knew exactly what they were doing and enjoyed the game just as much as the outcome.

“Well,” you started. “How about you come upstairs and we can figure it out together?”

Spencer’s heart raced at your words. He might not have had much experience when it came to dating, but he knew the look on your face all too well because he was sure he had the same expression. His eyes fell to your lips.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate.”

You gave him a knowing smile. “Because you’re trying to remain professional?” You asked, recalling his exact words the other night. “Spencer, I think you’ve long forgotten about that the moment you agreed to spend the evening with me.”

He felt a rush of warmth at your words, realizing just how right you were. The boundaries he usually upheld seemed irrelevant now, replaced by the desire to be closer to you. He sighed, the tension easing slightly as he admitted, “I guess you’re right.”

You stepped closer, your smile seductive. “So, how about we stop worrying about what’s appropriate and just enjoy ourselves?”

He was going to regret this.

“What do you have in mind?”

He was really going to regret this.

“I think you already know what I have in mind.”

Oh, screw it. If regret was the price he had to bear, then he was willing to pay it.

~*~

The crowd pulsed when you stepped out into the main area, heels clicking sharply against the floor. You took in the scene before you, passing sleazy men, some slipping tips to a dancer on stage, others getting lap dances in the dimly lit corners. A group of men in sharp suits whistled when they spotted you, and you winked at them, flipping your hair back with a playful gesture before continuing on.

You could feel heavy stares watching your every move, but despite being in a room full of men, there was only one man you had your eyes on.

You spotted him by the bar with a drink in his hand, and despite your meticulous planning to bring him back here to observe him, the sight of the man who ripped off your dreams as a naive sixteen-year-old girl never failed to ignite a burning rage within you. You wondered whether his memory was as vivid as yours, if he remembered the disgusting things he had done. But there was never any sign of recognition in his eyes, just as there hadn’t been in the eyes of the three before him.

They all thought you were just a woman trying to make ends meet, working every night in this dark place by taking your clothes off on stage. To them, you were just another pretty face, another body to gawk at. They believed you were just another girl trapped in the cycle of survival, oblivious to the deadly game you were playing.

You had crafted this persona carefully, every move, every word designed to lure them in, to make them feel comfortable, even powerful. They had no idea that you held their fate in your hands. You made them think they were taking advantage of a desperate woman, but in reality, they were the ones being manipulated, guided like pawns towards their inevitable downfall.

And tonight, it was his turn. The last of the men who had tainted your innocence.

You slipped into the empty stool beside him, a coy smile playing on your lips. “I thought I saw a familiar face.”

He turned towards you, his eyes lighting up. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” you replied, your voice a soft purr. The words were easy, almost natural.

“You’ve been quite the distraction for me,” he admitted. “Couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

You laughed lightly. “Good, because I aim to please.”

“And you’re very pleasing to look at,” he agreed, his eyes tracing the curve of your smile. “You have a way of captivating an audience.”

“Well, it’s nice to know I have such a dedicated fan.” You leaned loser so your shoulders brushed. “What brings you here tonight? A fight with the missus?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, nothing like that. She’s out of town.”

You knew that already. You knew his schedule as well as he did, if not better. But you feigned innocence, like you always did.

“Lucky me then,” you replied with a flirtatious tilt of your head. “It means I get to have you all to myself tonight.”

“That’s the idea,” he said, his eyes roaming over you with undisguised interest. “I really couldn’t stop thinking about you lately.”

You leaned in closer, your breath warm against his ear. “Really? What exactly have you been thinking?”

“I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to spend some real time with you. Away from the club.”

You arched an eyebrow, your lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh? And what exactly would we do with that time?”

His hand brushed against your thigh under the table, a bold move that was more telling than any words. “I think you know what I mean.”

You pulled back slightly, giving him a flirtatious look. “You know it’s against the rules to do anything too... personal here. The club has strict policies about that sort of thing.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping for more than just a dance.”

You smiled slyly, your eyes locking onto his with a promise. “Who says we have to stay here?”

His grin widened. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brushing your fingers along his arm. “We could go somewhere else…” you murmured, your hand continuing a path up his shoulder, tracing the line of his suit jacket. “Somewhere we can really enjoy each other’s company.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by your suggestion. “Like where?”

You let your lips brush his ear. “How about your place? Your wife isn't there, we can use it however we want.”

There was a pause as he considered your words. You could see the wheels turning, the temptation playing across his face. Sensing his uncertainty, you placed your hand gently on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart under your fingertips.

“Think about it,” you coaxed softly, your voice a seductive whisper. “Just you and me, no rules, no eyes watching...” Your body inched closer to his. “It’ll be our little secret.”

His eyes darkened with anticipation, the earlier reluctance fading away under your touch. “Alright,” he said after a brief pause. “Let’s go back to my place.”

You smiled triumphantly, standing up, brushing the nonexistent dust on his shoulders. “Meet me at the back exit in five. I need to grab my purse.”

He nodded excitedly as he watched you walk away, mesmerized by the confidence in the sway of your hips. But the moment you stepped into the dressing room, your façade cracked.

You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, taking a deep breath as you fought to keep your composure. The walls seemed to close in, the air thinning around you as if suffocating you under the weight of your own emotions. Your breath became shallow, the world spinning slightly as a wave of dizziness and anger overwhelmed you all at once.

You slowly forced yourself to move, your feet dragging you over towards the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was almost unrecognizable. The confident, seductive woman from moments was now replaced with a figure trembling under the weight of her memories.

Tears welled up in your eyes as the past rushed back in a wave of emotion. The image of the young girl you once were, the girl whose dreams had been shattered by the man waiting for you outside, seemed to blend itself over your reflection. The pain, the anger, the helplessness—it all came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm you.

But you couldn’t let it. Not now.

Wiping away the tears with the back of your hand, you straightened up, forcing yourself to take deep, steadying breaths. You grabbed your purse and checked its contents one last time, making sure everything was in place, and checked your phone.

There was a message.

Your eyes welled up with tears again as you saw the name glaring back at you.

Dr. Reid :)

Just seeing his name was breaking your heart. He had been trying to contact you for days now, ever since that night you spent together. The night that had been a brief, beautiful distraction from the dark path you were on. He was kind, gentle, and you couldn’t stop thinking of the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. 

Each message was harder to ignore than the last, and he wasn’t just reaching out; he was trying to reach in. His words were always kind, always thoughtful.

I had a great time. Can we meet again?

Just thinking about you. Hope you're okay. 

Did you know sea otters hold hands when they sleep to keep from drifting apart?

His random messages of facts always made you smile because it was so authentically him—something you had never encountered before. And every time he tried to contact you, the walls you had carefully constructed around your heart began to crack. You longed to reach out to him, to relive those short moments of happiness that had brought a rare light into your life. But you knew that if you allowed yourself to see him again, it would only weaken your resolve.

So you had been avoiding him, giving excuses about being busy or not feeling well. His presence had a way of grounding you, and you couldn’t afford that now, not when you were so close to the end.

Your eyes fell to your phone again. Despite the knot tightening in your stomach, despite knowing how much it would hurt, you clicked open the message.

Can I see you tonight?

The words on the screen blurred as your grip tightened. A part of you wanted to see him again, to have his arms wrapped around your body, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat against yours. But surrendering to these desires would only put you in danger. It was only a matter of time until he saw through your act, and until then, you needed to move fast.

Because you knew that if you let him in, if you opened that door, you wouldn't be able to follow through with your plan. The plan that had consumed you for so long, and now with the final act right in front of you, you couldn't afford any distractions.

So you took a deep breath and crafted another lie.

I have work tonight. I'm sorry.

~*~

Spencer stared at the message, a frown creasing his forehead. Had he done something wrong?

He couldn't shake the feeling that you were avoiding him. He replayed the evening in his mind, analyzing every detail, every word exchanged. It had felt perfect to him—the connection, the chemistry. But now, your constant excuses and distant responses gnawed at him. Had he misread everything? Had he been too forward, or was there something he had missed?

"Reid?" Derek's voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

“Sorry,” Spencer mumbled, slipping his phone into his pocket. “You were saying?”

Derek opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Penelope entered the conference room with a laptop in her hand. "You guys are gonna love me," she sang, setting the device down.

“You found anything?” Derek asked.

“Remember that blurry picture of the tattoo you sent me a few days ago?” she turned her laptop screen towards them, showing a detailed emblem that was now clearly visible. "This isn't just any tattoo—it's mandatory for the members of a local club known for their… exclusive membership.”

“What kind of club?”

Penelope clicked through a few more screens, bringing up information she had compiled. “It’s a bit underground, not your typical social club. It appears to be part social, part cultural, but there are hints of something more... let's just say, illegal activities.”

“And all members have this tattoo?”

“Yep, it’s like a symbol of loyalty, almost like a badge of honor.”

Spencer felt a knot tightening in his stomach. “Is it… The Velvet Curtain?”

Penelope shook her head, typing quickly to bring up a comparison on her screen. 

“No, The Velvet Curtain is just a fancy, exclusive strip club. This one, on the other hand…” She paused, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she chose her words carefully, “...is much more secretive and, from what I can tell, much more dangerous. Think less about glamour and more about power and control."

“What kind of activities are we talking about?”

“Oh, you know, just the usual gambling and trafficking,” Penelope said dryly, scrolling through her screen. “I think you guys should check this out after we wrap up the case.”

Derek ignored her jab and crossed his arms. “So our victim can be anyone, which doesn't narrow it down much.” He turned to Penelope. “How many members are we talking about?”

“Over three hundred registered members.”

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of numbers.”

“Have you tried cross-referencing the members with Rick Sullivan?" Spencer suggested. "He might be our best lead.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Penelope’s fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up new data. After a few moments, she exclaimed, “Got it!”

Derek leaned in. “We have a name?”

Penelope quickly brought up a profile. “James Dalton, went to college with Rick. Mid-30s, a manager at a tech firm, lives in the suburbs with his family…” She trailed off, her eyes widening. “...and was reported missing a week ago.”

Spencer frowned, piecing it together. “He could be our John Doe.”

Penelope nodded, already typing away. “I’m cross-referencing his dental records and fingerprints as we speak.”

“You can do that?”

“You underestimate me, pretty boy,” she quipped with a smirk, her fingers flying over the keyboard. It didn't take long for her screen to flash with the confirmation she needed. “It’s a match. James Dalton is our John Doe. The dental records line up perfectly.”

The room fell into a heavy silence as they absorbed the news. Derek ran a hand over his face, breaking the silence with a sigh. “Did Rick and James ever contact each other after college?”

Penelope shook her head, scrolling through her data. “No, there’s no evidence of any recent communications. It looks like they hadn't been in touch for years until... well, until whatever pulled them back together recently.”

Spencer leaned closer to get a better view of Penelope’s screen. “Can you check his bank records? There could be any mutual transactions between them.”

“Pulling up his financials now,” she said, her eyes scanning the data that populated her screen. Moments later, she pointed at a series of numbers. “There are no mutual transactions… oh wow.”

“What is it?”

“He spent a lot of money over the past few months,” Penelope continued, her eyes wide with surprise. “We’re talking significant amounts.”

“Where?”

She looked up at him. “The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt the blood drain from his body. It was as if a heavy, sinking feeling took hold, the kind that grips the stomach and pulls down hard. At first, he thought of your safety. The club you worked at was linked to the case, and worse, even directly to the victims. This connection sent chills down his spine, filling him with dread.

But the more he thought about it, especially when his mind replayed how you had been avoiding him lately, the worse his feelings grew. His concern turned into suspicion, and then that suspicion morphed into a sense of betrayal. Were you involved in this? Were you hiding something from him?

He shook his head. No, he couldn’t let his mind go there. You wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t. You were too kind, too genuine. There had to be another explanation.

“Reid, let’s go.”

Spencer looked up to see Derek standing by the door. “Where?”

“We need to go back there,” Derek said firmly. “We’re missing something.”

Spencer’s badge felt heavier than usual, the gun on his hip weighing him down. His mind was clouded with doubt, his heart pounding with anxiety. He always considered himself as someone who was confident when it came to his job, a man of knowledge who could win an argument with facts and logic. But now the lines of right and wrong seemed to blurred and he found himself questioning even his own judgment.

He let out a heavy breath. There was nothing else he could do but to follow Derek out of the room. He needed to see this through, for justice, for his peace of mind, and perhaps, for your innocence he hoped to prove.

~*~

You weren’t here. 

I have work tonight, I’m sorry.

You weren’t here.

Spencer was trying to come up with excuses for your disappearance. Maybe you got sick. Maybe there was an emergency. His mind went through plausible scenarios, but none seemed to fit quite right, and his curiosity continued to gnaw at him. He braced himself and approached the club owner, hoping to gain some information under the pretense of connecting you as a witness.

The man, with a burly frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and a scowl etched on his face, barely let Spencer get the words out.

“She was here,” the owner grumbled. “Her set was half an hour ago and I haven’t seen her since. If I find out she’s skipping out on work again…” He trailed off, shaking his head in frustration.

Spencer felt his heart sank. “Again?”

He nodded gruffly. “Yeah, she’s been a bit unreliable lately. Shows up late, leaves early. It’s becoming a problem.”

“Did she mention anything to you?”

“She never says much. Keeps to herself mostly. If she’s in some kind of trouble, she’s not talking about it.” He gave Spencer a once-over. “You know her personally?”

Caught off-guard, Spencer quickly shook his head. “No. I’ve just heard she might have some useful information on the case we’re working on.”

The owner seemed to accept this, nodding slightly. “Well, good luck with that. If you find her, tell her she’s got some explaining to do.”

Spencer nodded, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on him even more. The pressure in his chest was almost suffocating. He knew he needed to focus on trying to find out anything about James Dalton, but his mind kept turning to you, unable to shake the fear that something terrible had happened, or worse, or worse, that you might somehow be involved. 

“What was that all about?”

He looked up to see Derek watching him closely. “Nothing.”

Derek studied him for a moment, noting the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his eyes darted away. “Reid, is everything okay?”

“I’m fine."

“You know you can talk to me if something’s up, right?”

“I know,” he snapped. Then he sighed, his expression softening. “I’m fine, really. Let’s just focus on the case.”

Derek studied him for a moment longer, wanting to press further, but was stopped when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, saw Penelope’s name, and quickly switched it to speaker.

“Found something new?” Derek asked.

“Yes,” Penelope's voice came through with urgency. “Have you found anything interesting yet?”

“No, nothing solid on our end,” Derek replied, glancing at Spencer who remained focused but visibly tense. “What did you find?"

“I think you should take this somewhere private,” Penelope suggested cautiously.

Derek nodded, catching Spencer’s eye and motioning for him to follow. They navigated through the bustling backstage area, moving past busy staff and performers until they spotted an empty dressing room. He ushered Spencer inside and shut the door behind them.

“We’re out of earshot,” Derek confirmed, his tone low. “Go ahead.”

“Alright, listen,” Penelope began, her voice serious. “I’ve been digging into the pasts of the two victims we identified and I found something disturbing that was buried deep in their college history. It took a lot of digging because it was almost completely erased from the public record.”

“What did you find?”

“There were reports of a group of men, including Sullivan and Dalton, who were accused of sexually assaulting a high school student who was a minor. The details were sketchy and it seems there was a significant effort to cover it up. The case never went to trial, the reports were sealed.”

“How many men were involved?” 

“Four. Sullivan, Dalton, Mark Eldridge, and Robert Lawson.” There were some clicking noises in the background before Penelope continued, “Mark Eldridge was reportedly missing a few days ago, and I cross-checked his dental records with our second John Doe—it was a match.”

Derek let out a sigh. “This looks like some kind of revenge plot.” He ran a hand over his face, the weight of the situation sinking in. “What can you tell us about Lawson?”

Penelope quickly typed in a few commands. “Robert Lawson lives on the outskirts of town. He’s maintained a low profile over the years, but nothing in his recent history suggests he’s aware of the danger he might be in.”

Derek nodded, absorbing the information. “Alright, send us his address. We need to get to him before the Unsub does.”

“Sending it now,” Penelope confirmed.

“Garcia?”

Derek looked up to see Spencer standing at the edge of the room, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. His posture was tense, his face pale, and his breathing uneven. It was the most uncharacteristic of him Derek had ever seen.

“Who was the victim?” Spencer asked, his voice low, almost strained.

There was a brief pause as Penelope searched through her files. “Y/N L/N,” she answered quietly. “She was a high school student at the time, just sixteen. The case was buried deep, but it’s all here—she was threatened, her family was paid off, and the whole thing was hushed up.”

Derek felt a chill run down his spine. “And where is she now?”

Another pause, this one more tense, as Penelope gathered the final piece of information.

“She’s a dancer at The Velvet Curtain.”

Spencer felt his world tilt. The realization hit him like a freight train, his heart dropping like a stone into the depths of his stomach. It was as if the ground beneath his feet had turned to ice, sending him slipping into a dizzying spin of shock and disbelief. The pieces clicked together with the painful precision of a knife twisting in his gut. All the clues that had seemed disconnected before suddenly formed a clear, devastating picture. 

“Reid.”

He couldn’t breathe, his chest tight with a constricting panic. The room closed in around him, the walls seeming to press closer with each labored breath.

“Reid.”

The reality made him feel sick.

“Reid!”

He needed to get out of here.

His feet carried him toward the door, pushing him outside to breathe. The fresh air hit his face, but it did little to ease the heaviness in his lungs.

“Reid, I need you to talk to me,” Derek’s voice followed behind him.

Spencer leaned against the cool brick wall, trying to steady his racing heart and chaotic thoughts. He struggled to find the words, the horror of the situation crashing over him like a relentless wave.

“What happened?”

He stared at Derek through blurry eyes. “It’s her,” he managed to choke out. “I-I didn’t know it was her…”

“Reid.” Derek stepped closer, gripping his shoulders. “Breathe.”

Spencer looked up at him, the pain suffocating his chest, building up inside until he couldn’t hold it back any longer. The words began tumbling out of his lips.

He told him everything. How you approached him that first night they came to the club, how you stood out in the crowd. He described the spark in your eyes when you had asked him out on a date and how hesitant he was at first until his curiosity got the better of him.

He recalled that night, how he felt a connection he hadn't known was missing. He told Derek about the conversations you shared, the laughter between you, and how deeply fulfilling it felt to be with someone who seemed to truly get him, a happiness he hadn't known before.

Derek stared at him when he finished. There was no judgment in his eyes, far from it, but what Spencer saw was even worse—it was pity.

“Reid…”

Spencer shook his head, trying to dismiss Derek’s sympathy that made him feel so exposed. “I know what this looks like,” he cut in quickly. “But you have to understand, it felt—everything with her felt real.”

“I know, I know. I believe you, man, it’s just—”Derek sighed. “You’re too involved in this.”

Spencer met his gaze. “I never wanted to be this involved.”

Derek let out another sigh, something he couldn’t stop doing when the person he considered as his little brother was going through so much pain. He took out his phone from his pocket. “Look, let me call Hotch and tell him to send someone else—”

Spencer quickly grabbed Derek’s arm, stopping him from dialing. “No,” he insisted. “I need to do this. I want to see her.”

“I don’t think—“

“I have to,” Spencer pleaded. “I need to. I can’t… I just… I need to see her.”

“Reid, she’s dangerous. She’s killed three men before, and there’s a chance she might do the same to you.”

Spencer shook his head. “What she’s doing is for revenge, you said that yourself. She won’t hurt me.”

“But—“

“Morgan, please,” Spencer interrupted, the desperation clear in his voice. “Let me talk to her. This might be my only chance.”

Derek watched him closely, seeing the pain and determination in his eyes. It was clear Spencer wasn’t going to back down, and understanding this, he finally gave in.

“Fine. But we’re taking every precaution, okay? You’re not going in alone.” Spencer nodded gratefully. “And I’m still calling for backup.”

“Of course,” he agreed, watching Derek turn around.

Spencer silently followed him back to the car as he replayed every moment without you. He tried to search for any clues he might have missed, wondering how he had been so blind, so caught up in his feelings. The thought of you being the one behind those murders was too much for him to bear, yet he knew he had to confront you. He had to know why you did it. He had to know whether any of those moments you shared together was as magical for you as it was for him, even though he was scared of the answers, of this new, cruel reality.

He just had to see you, no matter how painful it might be.

~*~

Your last victim was the easiest. You’d think he would have struggled a bit, or maybe he’d see right through your act. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had seen you, and sure, you might have looked different, but you still had the same features from when you were young. Your eyes. Your smile. You were still you, just older.

But he never noticed, because as soon as you started to seduce him, he was just like the others. All they sought was your body, or the thought of it, the fantasy they spun so easily in their minds. You realized that another thing that hadn’t changed was their disgusting perception of you, not as a person, but as an object for their desires.

Despite their oblivious nature, it came to your benefit. It was easy to put the drug in his drink, not much, but enough to make him drowsy. Enough for his body to go limp so you could tie his hands behind his back easily. You could see his brows creasing as he struggled to keep his eyes open. You knew the sedative was starting to get to his brain.

You managed to drag his body to his study. You had pulled him by his feet, his head occasionally bumping along the floor. He groaned but didn’t do much, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. His eyes, heavy and confused, flickered with a dim recognition of his state, a useless attempt to grasp the situation that was slowly escaping his control.

And you loved it.

“W-What…” He closed his eyes, then opened them again. “…help…”

You left him there to struggle as you grabbed the can of gasoline from his backyard, which you had hidden there that morning when he was at work. You wondered briefly if he had noticed it when he came back home, but just like the others, he was oblivious. It was still right where you left it.

You carried it back into the study and noticed his eyes widening slightly, a fear starting to seep through his confusion. You unscrewed the cap, the pungent smell filling the room, and stared down at him.

That was when you heard the ringing.

It was a loud, jarring noise and your eyes settled onto the house phone sitting on his desk. The sound was out of place, cutting through the tension-filled silence like a knife as you waited for it to stop. It kept on going, on and on, until the answering machine clicked on, and a familiar voice cut through the room, calling out your name.

You let out a cry. The sound of Spencer’s unmistakable voice echoed in your ears, the voice you had hoped to avoid was now invading this moment.

“Pick up the phone,” he pleaded. “Please.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Not when his voice was already starting to shake your defenses.

The call ended not long after that. You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain your composure. But then the phone rang again. This time, his message was more desperate.

“Talk to me, please, I know what you’ve been through... I just want to help.”

The gasoline can shook in your grip. Help was the last thing you needed. “I don't want any help," you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible over his voice cutting through the answering machine.

“I-I’ll be here if you need me, you don't have to go through this alone.”

"I don't want any help.”

But he kept on, his voice calm yet insistent. "I know you're in pain, but this—this isn't the way to solve things. Answer me, please, let me help—“

It was your last straw. You finally snatched up the phone. "I don't want any help!"

You were met with a stunned silence on the other end. It was deafening, stretching out long enough for the reality of who was on the other end to sink in.

“…Spencer?”

“I’m here,” he replied softly. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Hearing his voice, so familiar and filled with genuine care, made you pause. For a split second, the walls you had built around your heart trembled. You wanted to scream at him, to push him away, but a part of you longed for his presence.

“Why?” you whispered. “Why are you not going anywhere?”

“Because I…” There was a pause. “Because I care about you.”

Your heart felt like it was going to burst. “You do?”

“I do,” he confessed. “More than I should have.”

You sniffed, gently placing the gasoline on top of the wooden surface of the desk. “Because you’re an FBI agent and I’m a stripper?” You wondered, recalling the same question you had asked him days ago.

“You know it was never about that,” he said. “But you’re smart enough to know the real reason.”

You glanced back at the man lying on the floor, barely conscious, his breaths shallow and labored. Spencer’s voice rang in your ears again.

“Don’t do this… please.”

You swallowed, your heart beating fast. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.”

“I’ll give you three,” he responded quickly. “One, you’re not a bad person.”

Your grip on the phone tightened.

“Two, you deserve a chance to find real peace.”

Your eyes welled up with tears, the resolve in your heart wavering.

“And three,” Spencer’s voice softened. “Because I want to dance with you again.”

The memory of that night, the connection you felt, rushed back, overwhelming your rage that you couldn’t help but laugh through your tears. “Yeah?”

“I want you to teach me again,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m still not very good at it.”

The image of the two of you dancing at the bar brought a bittersweet ache to your heart. But it wasn’t enough to overwhelm the anger, the deep-seated rage that had driven you for so long.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into the phone, the words escaping in a breath so faint it was almost swallowed by the silence of the room.

Spencer heard it, though. “Don’t say that. It’s not over,” he pleaded. “We can still have more nights out, more dances.”

“Spencer, stop.”

“Think about it,” he continued, his voice softening as he tried a different approach. “Your family, they would rather take the money than fight for you. They left you to fend for yourself when you needed them the most.”

“Spencer…”

“And you’ve carried that weight for so long. You’ve been so strong, but now you’re not alone, you have me. So don’t let their choices define you,” he muttered. “You’re better than this.”

His words struck a nerve.

“Better than this?” You suddenly snapped, anger flaring up again. “You don’t know me. Just because we had one date, it doesn’t mean you understand what I’ve been through.”

“I don’t know everything you’ve been through,” Spencer admitted. “But I know pain. I know what it’s like to feel abandoned and betrayed.”

He paused, the line silent for a moment before he continued with a heavy sigh.

“When I was in school, a girl asked me to meet her by the school field one day… only for the football team to show up instead. They tied me up to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of all the students.” He took a deep breath. “Everyone laughed and stared, and no one did anything to stop them.”

You knew what he was trying to do. And partly, it worked. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for him. You imagined how sad it must have been for him, how traumatic and devastating that experience must have been. It was heartbreaking to picture him in that situation. But despite your sympathy, it didn’t suppress the anger inside you.

As painful as his story sounded, you knew you’d rather take his place instead of enduring what you had experienced.

“Spencer, it’s not the same,” you said, your voice trembling. “What they did to you was horrible, but what happened to me… it destroyed everything.”

“I know it’s not the same,” he replied quietly. “But pain is pain. And it doesn’t have to define us. We can choose—“

“Pain is pain?” You cried, finally letting go of the tears you had been holding back. “You know what’s painful? Hearing your story and the first thing that came up to my mind was how I’d rather take your place, because unlike you, those men didn’t stop after they stripped me naked.”

The anger boiled over, and you couldn't stop yourself, tears streamed down your face as raw, unfiltered pain poured out in your words.

"Do you know what it feels like to be young and helpless? To have four men twice your size assault you?" You screamed, losing any semblance of control you had left. "Do you fucking know how it feels to see these disgusting men get away with everything while you have to endure the nightmares, the flashbacks, the fear every single day?"

Your voice broke, heavy sobs wracking your body.

"Do you know how it feels to be broken, to be so destroyed that you can't even look at yourself in the mirror without hating what you see?”

Silence fell, your heavy breathing the only sound in the aftermath of your outburst. Spencer's voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course, you didn’t. Because you’re a man, after all.” You picked up the gasoline again, the weight heavy in your hand. “You’re just like them… all you want to do is to save them.”

“That’s not what I—”

“And you’re fucking wasting my time.”

You slammed the phone down, cutting off the connection.

You moved on instinct. You looked down at the man on the floor, his eyes half-open, barely conscious. You regarded him one last time before you poured the gasoline over his body. The fumes rose in the air as you spread the liquid around the room, creating a trail that led to the door. At some point, one of your heels cracked, and you kicked them off, feeling the cold ground beneath your feet. It was a minor inconvenience, nothing compared to the gravity of what you were about to do.

When you finally reached a safe distance from the house, you paused, taking one last deep breath, throwing the empty can onto the ground. The weight of your past, your pain, and your anger all converged in this single moment. You took out the lighter, your hands trembling as the reality of what you were about to do settled in.

You flicked the lighter, the small flame dancing in the night air. For a moment, you were transfixed by it, the flickering light a stark contrast to the darkness surrounding you. Everything you had endured, everything that had brought you to this point, seemed to hinge on this tiny flame.

With a flick of your hand, you let it fall to the ground.

The flame kissed the trail of gasoline, igniting it instantly. The fire took life, racing along the path with a hunger that matched your own rage. It moved back toward the house, consuming everything it touched, fueled by the fume and your deep-seated desire for retribution.

The flames grew and the fire roared louder, its crackling sound filling the silence of the night. The house began to catch, the flames eagerly climbing the walls. The sight was mesmerizing yet horrifying, and you stood rooted to the spot, the fire reflecting in your eyes, casting light on the tears that streaked down your face.

You felt a smile forming on your lips.

So this was what it felt like, to watch the ashes drift through the air. To smell the acid scent of smoke. To feel the heat envelop you, wrapping your body like a suffocating blanket. To hear the sound of the world cracking and crumbling under the force of your wrath. It was beautiful, and you were mesmerized by the flames, the destruction—they were your creation, your justice.

But deep down, it was so much more than that. This wasn’t just for you, but for everyone else who had been silenced, who couldn’t do anything. You realized your anger was more than just a personal vendetta. It was a voice for the voiceless, a stand against those who had used their power to hurt and destroy.

You thought of all the others who had been through the same hell, who had been left to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives alone, who had been dismissed by a system that should have protected them.

The fire was for them, too.

You continued to watch the flame dance through the night sky, and that was when you heard it, the distant sound of vehicles approaching you. The crunch of gravel under tires grew louder and you stayed rooted where you were.

There was no running from this, no escaping what was to come. You had chosen this path, you had already accepted the consequences long before the first match was struck.

As you turned around, a group of people in FBI vests came rushing out, some frantically calling for backup as they watched the fire consume the house, while a few others pointed their weapons towards you. But your eyes were fixed on the man who had given you a glimpse of hope, the man who had tried to save you.

You felt tears streaming down your face as Spencer approached you, and you sobbed uncontrollably, the reality of what you had done sinking in.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, your voice breaking. “I-I had to do it.”

“Reid.”

An older FBI agent standing close called him, his tone a clear warning, but Derek, the other agent who you had also seen at the club, placed a hand on his shoulder. The older agent hesitated, then remained silent, allowing Spencer to approach you.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Spencer’s eyes took in your appearance. The confident woman he had always known was nowhere to be found, replaced by this version of you—vulnerable, sad, and angry at the world. The sight of you barefoot, the dirt and grime clinging to your skin, made it even more heartbreaking. Your hair was disheveled, your face was streaked with tears. The raw emotion in your eyes tore at his heart.

“I—I’m sorry too,” he whispered.

You let out a choked sob. “I… I-I really had fun that night.”

Spencer nodded helplessly. “It was the best night of my life.”

Your sobs grew louder, feeling the air restrict your lungs. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get to do it again.”

He shook his head. “We could.”

“You know well we couldn’t,” you murmured. The pain in his eyes after those words left your mouth was too much—that raw, unguarded hurt—and you had to close your eyes, not wanting to see it.

In that brief darkness you wondered what would have happened if you had never gone through with any of this. Would you still have crossed his path? Would things have been different? But no, your rage was too consuming, too deep-seated for you to second guess the path you had chosen.

His soft voice whispered your name, and you blinked your eyes open, noticing his outstretched arm.

“Dance with me.”

You let out a painful cry. “Spencer… don’t make it harder than it already is.”

“Please, I… I just want to hold you.” You stared at his hand trembling under the firelight. “Please.”

You had never felt so much pain, a crushing weight on your heart, and against your better judgment, you took his hand. He pulled you gently into his arms, holding you close as if trying to memorize every detail of your body pressed against his.

The world seemed to pause. You let your mind be happy for a while, you let it travel to the simple, mundane things you wished you could do with him—walking hand in hand through a park, sharing quiet breakfasts, laughing together over something silly, and feeling his comforting presence beside you during the small, quiet times in bed.

You dreamed of a life where your past didn’t haunt you, where the weight of your decisions didn’t crush your spirit. You dreamed of waking up to his smile, of whispered conversations in the dark, of his naked body pressed against yours as he whispered sweet nothings to your ear. You allowed yourself to fantasize of a life filled with those ordinary, beautiful moments, a life that felt so achingly close yet so painfully out of reach.

But the fire’s glow around you was a reminder of the reality you couldn’t escape. Still, for a few moments, the night around you seemed to fade, the chaos and destruction reduced to a distant backdrop. His hands were gentle on your back, holding you as if you were something precious, something to be cherished, someone to be loved.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he murmured into your hair.

You pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes, those deep brown eyes you knew you were going to miss. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

The sorrow there was mirrored in your own, a mutual recognition of the pain you both felt. His gaze held yours, intense and searching, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. The color of your eyes, the feel of your skin, the sound of your voice. He wanted to remember you for a lifetime.

With tears streaming down your face, you leaned into him, savoring the bittersweet moment. You ignored everything around you. The noise, the chaos, the destruction—all of it faded into the background. It was just the two of you, as if nothing else mattered.

And nothing else did.

So you danced for the last time, holding on to each other desperately, each step a silent prayer, each turn a tender goodbye, as the world continued to burn.

~*~

“Can't seem to hold you like I want to,

So I can feel you in my arms.

Nobody's gonna come and save you,

We pulled too many false alarms.”

~*~

A/n: If you managed to make it to the end, I applaud you! Thank you from taking the time to read this fic. I’m very self conscious about this because not only does it have 14k words, the plot is also very heavy. But I’m happy with how it turned out and I hope you liked it too. Also, I could go on and on about why I chose this specific plot, but I’d be talking too much here. So if you want to further discuss this story, feel free to send me asks. I’ll gladly reply to them <3

[sylvesterelle]

Meditations in an Emergency

Reader/Simon "Ghost" Riley/John "Soap" MacTavish

“Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.” Or: How to live well and get railed through the power of compliments.

Part 1 of 2, 5,857 words, mature, tw: alcohol, cannabis

Read on A03

"I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. "

Frank O'Hara, "Meditations in an Emergency"

“I just think people should compliment each other more, that’s all,” you declare, biting the cherry off plastic sword that Kat, the bartender, had stuck in your Dirty Shirley. “Like we think these things all the time. Her scarf is pretty, or that guy’s got a cool haircut or whatever. We notice them, we think about them, but so rarely do we say it, you know?  Even though being complimented is the best,” you say emphatically, using the tiny sword to punctuate your words.

Kat nods and gives you a second cherry, because Kat is good people. Kat serves you doubles while charging for singles and listens to you ramble and lets you spread your notebooks and laptop on the bar when it’s slow, like tonight.

It’s early on a Friday evening which means you’re supposed to be writing. You pay the bills as a ghostwriter during the week and you like it, you do. The flexibility to work strange hours typing late into the night, remote so you write wherever you want like coffee shops and cocktail bars and anywhere loud enough to drown out the more distracting of your thoughts. 

But you spend so much time devoted to other people’s work that you’d promised to set weekends aside to work on your own ideas. Easier said than done, when there isn’t an irate publisher on the other end setting deadlines and demanding pages. And the problem with your own ideas is that you just have so many of them; find it hard to devote yourself to one without getting distracted by another, your hard-drive a graveyard of drafts in various states of decomposition.

But routine helped, so there you’ve sat every Friday night for almost two months—even if you’ve spent proportionally less time writing than people-watching and sweet-talking Kat into making you interesting drinks off-menu (“This is a dive bar,” she’s told you more than once. “We don’t even a menu to be off of.”)

It’s not not part of your writing process, you reason. You’re a firm believer that life is stranger than fiction, and many of your most delightful ideas have come from observations and unusual interactions—the very reason you’d been thinking about the importance of compliments. 

“I just think we should be more intentional about finding joy in each other. For example, what would you say, darling Kat,” you begin, batting your eyes at her sweetly, “if I told you that you look fucking incredible now and always, you’re so hot it gives me hives if I look at you straight on, and more specifically that little curl that’s coming out of your ponytail is particularly fetching and I like it a lot?”

Kat rolls her eyes, which is as good as a smile for her. “I would say you should slow down on the Shirleys.”

You wouldn’t say the two of you were friends, not really, but there was a familiarity and ease in the relationship now that warmed you. You’d met her your very first night while on your usual ramble to learn a new place, begin to make sense of its curves and corners and spirit. The neighborhood you’d found an apartment in wasn’t the best, but it was furnished and month-to-month and good enough for you. Best of all, you’d only needed to wander in the snow a couple blocks before you’d struck gold: drawn like a moth where a plain, unmarked door had opened, spilling warm light and the sounds of overlapping laughter into the night. 

Inside it really was a dive, all sticky floors and old dollar bills pinned to the ceiling, a jukebox that took dimes and a blonde bombshell behind the counter who served with a decided lack of smile. But a week of you showing up and chattering at her had cracked that icy shell enough to get a name and a few raised eyebrows instead of complete silence. By the time you’d earned your discount as a regular around the third week, she’d occasionally comment on your more interesting trains of thought, offer some piercing observations and insights of her own if she was in a good mood.

A couple more weeks, and you know her well enough to bring a second iced coffee when you arrive for the evening, Kat pulling a bottle of Irish cream from the well as you remove the lids in a dance that has become comforting in its routine.

Yours is now slowly melting beside you, momentarily abandoned in favor of the syrupy-sweet mess that was waiting for you. Kat’s sipping the last of her own as she considers her verdict on your compliment, hip propped against the side of the bar.

“I don’t know if I’d particularly appreciate a stranger saying that to me. Don’t want strangers saying anything to me, really,” she frowns, “but particularly the bit about the hives.”

“Alright, I might have gone too hard out the gate with that one,” you admit. “But more importantly, I think you might be in the wrong profession for strangers not talking to you.”

She flips you the bird, heading to greet the two regulars that had slipped into place at the end of the bar. It was still early enough in the night that the place was mostly empty, only a few singles and two-tops stopping for an after-shift drink, giving you and Kat plenty of time to talk. It’d get rowdy enough later on, the voices louder, the jukebox queue a little more violent—but you’d found that among the chaos was often when you did your best writing.

“Hives aside, you know what I mean though, right?” you continue when Kat returns. “Like it feels so good to get and give a compliment and we should normalize doing it more often. Strangers reaching out across the great abyss for a moment of connection,” you say, leaning back and gesturing broadly. “Ships passing in the night with naught but a toot-toot of mutual appreciation.”

“I don’t think that’s how the shipping industry works.”

You ignore this, already imagining renting a sailboat somewhere sunny, tropical. “I always thought it’d be fun to be a sailor,” you say dreamily. “Kerouac was a Merchant Marine, did you know?"

Kat makes a face.

“What, you didn’t like the book?” You’d loaned her a copy of The Dharma Bums the week before, slim and beloved enough that you carried it with you instead of borrowing from the local library, like you usually did. You had a collection of library cards now, rattling around in an old Altoid tin—the only souvenirs you kept from all the various cities you’d visited in your travels.

“It was fine. Good, even, if you’re into that sort of thing,” she say, swirling her coffee around. “He’s just so fucking mopey. I wanted to shake him, like c’mon man, you need to stop thinking about your life and actually fucking live it.” Kat’s the most animated she ever gets. Which, admittedly, is just slightly more expressive than usual: eyes narrowed a little further, three degrees more derision in her tone.

Kat prefers nonfiction. History. Facts. Still reads everything you recommend, but rarely finishes one without getting frustrated with protagonists making dumb decisions and whining about their life choices. And while some of the books she recommends to you are a little dry at times, they’re certainly illuminating—and the last one about organ harvesting was surprisingly catalytic for plot ideas.

You shrug, acknowledging the point. She’s not wrong, but you tend to live most of your life in your own head and your own worlds, so it doesn’t bother you in quite the same way. Although, now that she mentions it…

“You know, all of this is kind of to my earlier point. Giving someone a compliment is like the ultimate shortcut to living outside your head. You’re not all wrapped up in your own issues and thoughts, but appreciating the world and the people around you. Even if you don’t say it—which you should—it means you’re paying attention. Noticing.”

You drain the last of your Shirley, swapping it out for the iced coffee and swirling around the diluted ice. “Proposal: we make a game of it, tonight. We notice.” It wouldn’t be that different from what you and Kat normally did; share little observations on other patrons, trade theories on this person’s job or that person’s backstory. They’d just be a little more…intentional about it. "Keep your eye out for any interesting hats or weird pins or extremely sexy noses and come and tell me. That way we can both enjoy it,” you entreat, clasping your hands together in anticipatory delight.

You know better than to suggest Kat actually compliment anyone. You’re optimistic, not delusional.     

“What constitutes an extremely sexy nose?” she asks, frowning at you.

You shake your head pityingly. “Oh Kat, that’s something you feel in your heart.”

She rolls her eyes and heads to the other end of the bar, where a nicely-dressed couple sink uncertainly onto the cracked vinyl stools. Looking around like they might be feeling just a wee bit out of place. You catch the woman’s eye, smiling broadly. “I love your dress,” you tell her, and feel the joy of her answering blush bubble sweet and bright in your veins.

…

You pride yourself on having excellent ideas, but this is easily one of your best. You get a tremendous amount of writing done, unusually productive while riding the high of giving out compliments left and right. Not so many that it feels insincere and never any you don’t mean. But Baader–Meinhof was a real sonofabitch because it’s true that the more you look, the more you see to appreciate. 

Like Bobby, the union electrician with his first name embroidered on the pocket of his work-shirt. It catches your eye because it’s not machine-printed but carefully done by hand, illuminated when he leans over to order a Schlitz. His wife’s work, he shares you when you comment on it. “She’s paid special for her embroidery but still makes time to do every last one of my shirts. So I can carry her love around all day,” he says proudly, unabashed even when his friends tease him good-naturedly. 

Then there’s the lady whose cheetah-print nails match her furry coat, who winks at you when she catches you looking admiringly from across the bar. Right after her is the burly biker who reveals an entire themed photoshoot of his toy poodle when you compliment the photo on his lockscreen. Others in between, some you speak to, some you don’t—but all you appreciate in a way you vow to do more in the future.

Inevitably, little pieces of what you observe trickle onto the page, fleshing out bits of characters and sparking ideas you jot down in bursts of inspiration. You won’t know until later if you’ll end up keeping any of it, but you like the thought that that you’ll always have some part of this moment—the people, the place, the time—woven into your writing. A little souvenir in-and-of-itself.

Though the night gets progressively busier, Kat swings by from time to time to share her observations: money fished from strange locations, custom bank cards, funny pins she read when customers leaned close to shout their orders over the music—partially your fault, after you compliment an old geezer’s song choice and spend twenty minutes with him, combing through the catalogue and cackling as you feed dime after dime and queue enough dad-rock to last a fair few hours.

All told, you’re feeling fucking incredible as it nears midnight and the synth solo from Toto’s “Rosanna,” has you wriggling in your seat. You’ve a few thousand words under your belt and the high off all those little moments of kinship is making you feel sparkling and happy and well, which, historically speaking, is sometimes a challenge for you.

You grin at Kat when she slumps next to you, enjoying a brief reprieve from new customers.

“Whatcha got for me, killer?” you ask, fishing in your bag for a granola bar. She takes it with a grateful look, shoving half of it in her mouth and talking as she chews.

“You’re gonna fucking love this. A mohawk, dude. In 2024.”

You perk up, looking around the room. It’s pretty packed now, but you can’t believe you missed a cut that attention-getting. “Liberty spikes?” you ask hopefully. You adored the punks of your acquaintance; always had interesting thoughts and insider tips on the local music scene.

Kat shakes her head. “Nah, it was cut short. Gym rat type, I think. Good tip, nice accent. Scottish,” she clarifies around the last of the granola bar. “Talked some shit about the ‘natural superiority of whisky over bourbon’ when he got a Maker’s for his friend.”

You hum, still craning your head. “See where they sat?”

She shakes her head. “Asked about smoking though, so probably on the patio.”

Calling it a patio was generous—a small bit of grass with a couple white lawn chairs and an ashtray, mostly. But there was a heat-lamp that worked roughly sixty percent of the time, which made the bar very popular with those in the know on cold nights like this.

“Speaking of, ‘bout time to take your break?”

If it wasn’t too busy Frank, the bouncer, would watch the bar while you and Kat split a joint in the back, sitting in companionable silence and pointing out shooting stars and passing satellites—clear skies a benefit of the city’s frigid nights. Kat knew a startling amount about astronomy but absolutely nothing about astrology; could tell you the history of the universe up to the surface of last scattering, but blinked at you when you’d asked if she was a Scorpio or a Capricorn.

Kat checks the clock then whistles to get Frank’s attention. You shove your laptop into your bag but  don’t bother with a coat—your cheeks are flushed from the warmth of the crowd and you don’t mind the cold, not really. 

The patio initially looks abandoned, silent but for the wet sound of car tires moving through the snow-choked alley. Not totally surprising; most balk at below-zero temps even with the lamp. Snow clumps heavy and wet on top of the plastic chairs and the overturned garbage pail that serves as a footrest but the sky is clear, a thousand tiny pinpricks of light visible in the heavens. You breathe in until the night air fills your lungs and you feel fresh and clean and cracked open wide, just pouring out love into the world.

Movement in your periphery catches your eye and oh, Kat was right, not a punk at all.

You’re not quite sure what to make of the two men standing half-shadowed near the lamp. Big is the first word that comes to mind and perhaps that’s sufficient for now, since you can’t seem to stop ogling the breadth of their shoulders and mouthwatering thighs long enough to notice anything else.

Kat had thought gym-rat but you’d put money on those bodies not just being for show—there’s too much power, too much potential for carnage disguised in that plush softness that comes from muscles in repose.

“Why hullo there, barkeep,” the one with the shaggy, soft-looking mohawk greets Kat jovially, his Scottish accent just as charming as promised. “And barkeep’s friend,” he adds, nodding to you as you come close enough to get a good look at his face. To latch on to details like the too-blue shade of his eyes and the too-sharp canines in his smile, the silvery-white starburst of a scar across his stubbled chin.

“Christ you’re pretty,” you hear yourself say. This happens sometimes, your mouth just venturing off on its own to get you into trouble.

Kat groans overlap with the man’s chuckle. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing,” he purrs, propping the lit cigarette between his lips and sticking out a hand. His palm is warm and callused against your own as you properly introduce Kat and yourself.

“I’m Soap, this here’s Ghost,” he offers in turn, nodding towards his friend who steps forward, murmurs a quiet greeting. He’s enough in the light now to reveal dark eyes shadowed under a hood, skeleton gloves and a matching skull-print balaclava pushed up far enough to accommodate a lit cigarette.

“Fuck me, that’s cool as shit,” you grin at him, immediately charmed by the weirdness of it all.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” the man says affably, his voice a rumble deep in his chest. He doesn’t smile but there’s a little twist of his mouth that could be amused, if you squint.

“Jesus Christ,” Kat mutters, eyes shutting briefly in second-hand embarrassment. “She’s on a mission about compliments tonight, noticing people,” she tells them with bemused emphasis, turning to clear off the chairs and kick snow off the garbage can.

“I just think it’s important to be more open with our affection, even with strangers. Especially with strangers,” you argue, dropping into one of the seats and pulling out the battered Altoid tin that holds your stash and a few pre-rolled joints. “Will this bother you?” you ask the men, holding up one.

They shake their heads, amused.

“Good, because it’s my fucking bar,” Kat snorts, grabbing it from your fingers and dropping into the chair next to you.

“What, you own this place?” you say, flabbergasted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kat holds the joint in her mouth and cups a hand around her lighter flame, coaxing it to life despite the wind. She takes a deep drag, tilting her head up before releasing a thick cloud of smoke into the air.

It looks wicked cool right up until she folds in half, coughing desperately on the tail end of the exhale. You can’t fucking blame her; you’d bought it off your teenage neighbor, a science prodigy who claimed to have developed the perfect strain. Ivy League, he called it, since it had paid for his entire college fund.

Kat straightens up, red face feigning composure as she passes you the joint. “You never asked,” she finally says.

And that was just…well, fair, actually.

“Huh,” you say brilliantly, struggling not to cough on your own exhale and bidding adieu to any dreams of looking cool in front of all the fucking fashion models around you. “You know, I did wonder when you’d get in trouble with your boss about the free drinks thing. And the drinking on the job thing. And the this on the job thing,” you say, frowning as you contemplate the joint.

You offer it up to the men and Soap takes it, your hands brushing long enough to send a little fizz through your blood.

“You’ve known each other long, then?” he asks, taking a puff. Turning a vibrant shade of red as he heroically—and futilely—tries to hold in a cough.

“Oh, we go way back,” you say very sincerely. “I helped her bury the body of her ex-husband years ago, a mafioso named Jimmy the Janitor because he cleaned up, if you know what I mean.”

“I met you two months ago. And I’m a lesbian,” Kat contradicts blandly.

“I didn’t know that, either!” you exclaim, smacking her in the shoulder. “What the fuck, dude, I would have tried flirting with you ages ago.”

“You’re not my type,” she says devastating, and Ghost snorts when you dramatically mime a dagger to the heart. The joint glows red between his full lips, crossed with scars that shine silvery in the moonlight and trail up beyond his mask. Exhales in one long, smooth breath and looks suitably smug about it, the fucker.

“I do seem to remember you saying something earlier about me being ‘so hot I give you hives.’” Kat reminds you. “You telling me that wasn’t flirting?”

“Nah, that’s just being neighborly,” you beam at her.

“I shudder to think what your flirting does look like.”

“That’s the appropriate response, honestly.”

Ghost barks out a laugh and you shoot him a cheeky wink before turning back to Kat. “Alright then killer, gimmie the goods. What is your type?” you prod, hooking your ankle around her own. “Is it a black cat, golden retriever thing? I can bark, babe, just say the word.”  

Soap damn near chokes on his drink but Kat only sighs, more fond than exasperated. She takes the joint and leans in, bringing your faces only a few inches apart. You watch, riveted, as she brings it to her cherry-red lips and inhales deeply. Holds your gaze and leans ever so slightly closer, the moment stretching into eternity as she releases a slow, deliberate cloud of smoke directly into your face. You bring a hand to your mouth, think you might actually be drooling.

“MILFs,” she answers finally, devastatingly. She tucks the joint between your fingers before patting your hand and heading back inside—as good as a kiss on the mouth from anyone else.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus,” Soap's voice is rough as the door closes behind her.  

“You’re telling me, pal,” you sink comically in your chair. “I think she broke me.” You’d already been drunk off the night’s joy but now you felt lightheadedwith desire, literally dizzy with it.

This is not an uncommon response to Kat, you suppose. Nor, you expect, to the pretty lads that remain.

You summon your forces and sit back upright, kicking over the newly empty chair over in offering. Ghost takes it, the plastic frame creaking under his bulk while Soap drops down on the garbage pail, resting his elbows on jean-clad knees. You pass around the rest of the joint in companionable silence, and it’s just…nice, all of it. The cold at your back and the heat of the lamp on your face, the fading alcohol buzz replaced by the sweeter, steadier high of the weed, always better at gentling your nerves and clearing your head. The easy camaraderie of smokers cast out into the cold, the same thing in almost every city and country you’d ever seen. You smile, thinking back on all those shared lighters and bummed cigarettes over the years. All those ships passing in the night.

“Gettin’ us a refill,” Soap finally says, standing up and snagging Ghost’s empty glass, hooking their pinkies together briefly in the action. You note it and immediately drop the thought, scalded. Know you will literally, actually combust if let your brain run-rabbit imagining the two of them together. All that muscle, all that strength, curved around each other, curved around you…

“What’ll it be, bonnie?” Soap’s warm voice snaps you out of your reverie and you flush, sure from his smirk that he can read the direction of your thoughts. You were legendarily bad at poker—couldn’t keep a neutral expression if they paid you to.

“Dealer’s choice, please and thank you,” you grin at him despite your embarrassment; turning down a free drink is against your moral code.  

He gives you that shark-like smile and Ghost tsks as he heads inside. “You’ll probably regret that, birdie. Johnny’s got atrocious taste.”

“Aye can fucking hear you, you Manc twat,” Soap calls from the door, a little extra Scottish in his snark. Ghost chuckles lowly, stretching his feet out into your space.

“It’s Manchester then, our kid?” you tease, kicking your foot playfully against his boot. Leaving it there when he lets you. “Whose your fighter then, Liam or Noel?”

He considers for a moment. “Liam. I like his spunk.”

“’A man with a fork in a world of soup,’” you quote, nodding approvingly. “I get that.”

You toy with the Altoids tin and debate lighting up another one.

Ghost fishes a pouch of rolling tobacco out of the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie and holds it up questioningly. “Clever boy,” you praise, and he leans forward to pass it to you, big hands dwarfing your own. When he settles back in his chair, he tangles his feet with yours properly and you feel a little flutter low in your belly.

You prep the blunt in a practiced motion, balancing the tin on your knees as you sprinkle the peaty tobacco overtop the flower evenly. “I’ve always been more of a Blur than Oasis fella, myself,” you finally offer to distract from the weight of his gaze. “Damon Alburn, the man you are,” you say, putting a fervent hand to your heart.

“Oi, we talking about the Gorillaz then?” Soap calls out, juggling glasses as the door shuts behind him, muffling the chatter from inside.  “Fucking choon after choon, them,” he declares, dropping back onto the pail.

He passes Ghost a rocks glass filled with an inch of amber that matches his own, his eyes tracking where your tongue runs across the filter paper, wetting it. He trades you the finished smoke for a glass with something alarmingly orange in it, another plastic sword stuck with three cherries laid across the top.

You sniff skeptically, all sweet and citrusy and strong. “This must be off-menu.”

“Dive bar innit, no menu to be off of,” Soap points out, and you smile at the familiar response.

You take a curious sip, looking up in surprise when you taste a bright splash of orange and vanilla across your tongue. “That’s fucking incredible,” you say, eyes wide. “What is it and why haven’t I been having it all night?”

Soap grins at you, looking suspiciously pleased with himself. “Had a feeling you were a lass that’d enjoy a slow, comfortable screw against the wall.”

Ghost groans, and you squint skeptically at Soap. “Who doesn’t, what’s that got to do with my drink?”

Soap laughs, delighted. “That’s the name of the drink, bonnie. A Slow Comfortable Screw Against The Wall,” he says with emphasis.

Ah. Well. That’s—oh, motherfucker. “Does Kat know that?” She’s probably laughing her ass off inside, the sadist.

“Oh, aye. She seemed amused. Though she made an unnerving amount of eye contact while stabbing the wee cherries,” he says, eying the garnish. “Scariest fucking thing I’ve seen in a minute. Put me in mind of someone we know, actually,” he says, giving Ghost a wry look as he takes a sip and sets the glass down.

He pulls out his own lighter to coax the blunt to life, a battered Bic with ‘SOAP’ scrawled in thick, Sharpied letters. He lets out a pleased sigh as the opaque smoke curls through the cold air then leans forward to rest his elbows back on his knees.

“Now, as for why you weren’t getting it slow, comfortable, or otherwise before now, I couldn’t say,” he tells you, blue eyes glinting with mischief. “But I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re more than happy to provide for the rest of the night. Isn’t that right L.T.?”  

“Right enough there, Johnny.” Ghost’s voice is closer to a growl, setting off a delightful curl of heat in your belly.

You nibble on your straw and pretend their attention isn’t going straight to your head, twice as intoxicating as the drink or the drugs. “You know what they say about variety and the spice of life. Might get bored with just a screw against the wall. Got any thoughts on horizontal surfaces?” you tease, enjoying the way Ghost smirks around the blunt.

But oh, is that a dimple you suddenly see carving out of one scarred cheek? Before you’re even conscious of it you’re leaning in for a closer look, balancing one hand on his knee. “I adore your dimple,” you tell him sincerely, undoing any hope you had of appearing cool and hard-to-get. “It is very cute.”

You give him a businesslike pat on the thigh and start to pull away, but he catches you gently before you get too far.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he purrs, petting over the soft skin of your wrist with one gloved thumb. “We’ll keep you entertained, don’t you worry. Bored is the last thing you’ll be, aye Johnny?” Ghost says, squeezing gently once before letting go. You try to play your delighted shiver off as one of chill, but you suspect your violent blush isn’t selling it.

“Oh, I fuckin’ swear to it, L.T,” Soap answers, winking at Ghost before unfolding his big bulk from the garbage can. “We’ll give you what need, bonnie, promise. Starting with this.” Then his arm is around your waist and you’re in the fucking air and—

Oh, that’s not so bad, actually.

Soap sinks into the lawn chair and settles you across his lap, surrounding you with delicious warmth and a scent like whisky and salt air. Your brain goes a bit soft and cottony for a moment and you latch on to the gentle pressure of his arms. Manhandling has always been a shortcut to your most devastated self, the kind of stupid and sweet and sated that you’ve only found once or twice through chemistry or luck or sheer fucking determination, and it bodes very well for the night to come.

Besides, for all he wears only a bomber jacket, the Scotsman is radiating heat like a furnace and it’s the perfect sensory foil to the plummeting temperatures, a few clouds coming to fleck the sky.

“Saw you shiver. Couldn’t let our girl be cold now can I?” Soap says, chucking you under the chin like a kid. Should be stupid but you fucking like it, can’t help but smile up at him. Can’t remember the last time someone treated you so sweet, like you were something to protect. To indulge.

Ghost’s eyes are fond on the pair of you, reaching out to trap Soap’s feet the same way he had yours a few moments before. One of his hands reaches to splay possessively over your thigh, resting it there and turning your insides liquid.

There’s no reason it should be as easy as it is, getting all wrapped up in each other as the night stretches on and the clouds continue to gather, chatting quietly and smoking through the rest of the blunt and finishing your drinks just as the first fat, fluffy flakes of snow begin to fall.

You watch, delighted, as the storm kicks up in a sudden flurry, a magical, glimmering coat that turns the world into one whole thing. Untouched and perfect and silent except for the tides of your breath and the slight hum of the heat lamp, small sounds within a vast, quiet night.

You sigh in Soap’s arms, totally and unexpectedly content, luxuriating in the way your blood hums in anticipation of the night’s inevitable conclusion.  

People asked if you got lonely, sometimes, travelling the way you did. Never staying anywhere for more than a few months, only occasionally breezing through past towns for a few loved-up reunions before the wind starts pressing at your back.  

And though it’s true you’ve been seeking a place of your own, a place where you could belong, this, too, means something. To have these beautiful, fleeting moments of connection with once-strangers, to lose yourself completely in the headiness of such quick intimacies, no less passionate or kind or devastating for their brief duration. All those countless moments of connection—romantic, sexual, platonic—coalescing into a kind of soft sweetness to hold on to long after you’ve forgotten a name or had a face grow fuzzy with memory.

All of that sweetness is swirling inside you as you nudge Soap’s chin with your head, drawing his attention from where he’d been conversing softly with Ghost, one hand petting absently at your waist.

“Take me home?” you ask softly, and his eyes melt at the question, his hand coming up to thumb a little desperately at your mouth.

“Oh, the Cap’n would love that,” Ghost drawls. “Fall arse-over-tits over a sweet thing like you walking through the door.”

“My home,” you clarify, though you’re not opposed—especially if their friend (captain?) looks anything like them. “I live like four blocks that way,” you chuck a thumb vaguely over your shoulder.

“Well why didn’t you say so, bonnie’,” Soap says, standing up and dumping you on your feet. Before you can be too offended, he grabs your chin and presses his mouth against yours, searing hot and leaving you breathless when he pulls away too soon. You look up at him a little dazed and he pets his thumb across your chin, grinning. “Ghost is right. Too sweet for your own good, darlin’. T’wouldn’t be right for us to let you walk home alone, sweet thing like you. Not in neighborhood like this.”

“Au contraire mon frère, I’m fast as shit,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes. This occasionally happened when you got crossfaded in particularly the right way, became possessed with the urge to tear off down a darkened street, drunk on the feeling of wind against your face and your heart hammering in your chest. Feeling like you could fucking fly. “No bad guy’s gonna catch me, no way.”

“That right, little rabbit?” Ghost moves as silent as his name, a sudden warmth at your back without you even noticing he’d left his chair. He curves that big body around you, nipping at the soft skin at your neck and caging you in against the firmness of Johnny’s chest. “Gonna let us chase you?” he near growls.

The thought sends goosebumps rising along your arms. To be wanted, to be chased. To be caught. Ghost groans when you lean back against him, tipping your head back to nip at his jaw in return. “Home. Now,” he commands lowly, pulling down his mask.

You can’t help your shit-eating grin as you tug them through the door and the thinning crowd to collect your long-abandoned things from the bar.

Kat eyes the three of you suspiciously. “If I find cum anywhere on that fucking patio I will have your balls in a bear trap,” she threatens.

“No promises,” you wink at her, laughing when she flips you the bird. You shrug on your coat and pick up your bag, which Ghost immediately appropriates, slinging it over one shoulder. He ignores your amused tug on the strap, looking over your head to plot the swiftest exit.

“Don’t wait up, babe!” you say, blowing a kiss to Kat as Ghost tows you and Soap toward the door.

“Call me if you need help burying the bodies,” Kat offers in response, and you cackle at the uncertain looks the late-night crowd shoots you both.

And then it’s just the three of you and the cold and the night, pressed together like you’re one body in the snow-crowned streets. 

[rodolfoparras]

ik ur requests r closed buttttttt could u maybe write a quick drabble thingie 👉👈

ik this is weird but like i’m super into like traditional “masculine manly” men who r like super into “girly” cute things. like hello kitty n wearing pink. so how about with price, pretty please

-🕷️

ps love u

It may have been one two or three drinks at the bar when you had described your ideal type to Price.

You hadn’t been awfully specific in your description. You had just said that you like pretty people, pretty people could be boys, could be girls, could be really anyone, could even be Price.

As he stares at himself in the mirror, he thinks he looks pretty with concealer dabbed lightly on his face to hide any visible imperfections, eyeliner drawn in such way to give a sultry look to his eyes and pink on his lips and cheeks just to feel pretty.

He’d even gone as far as to dig up one of his favorite tops out the closet, the one with a plunging neckline that hugs his pecs just right and shows off his dog tags.

It’s not often he allows himself to look this way, to look pretty. The army wasn’t a place for pretty men and as the captain of a sas squad he rarely allowed himself to look this way.

However today he wasn’t an army man- a captain of a sas squad. Today he was John, just john, the man who’s been pining after his best friend for years and went out his way to get all pretty for you in hopes of you noticing him, and not in the way a friend would spot a familiar face in a crowed but rather in the way someone would lay their eyes on a person that they loved.

However for a second he feels doubt creeping up his back, bile rising up his throat and legs readying themselves to run because you’ve never seen Price dressed up and with make up on.

You’ve only ever seen him with black face paint smeared on his face, dressed in heavy gear that protected vital organs and hid vulnerable parts of his body.

What if when you said you liked pretty people, you didn’t mean pretty women and men, what if Price wasn’t included in your definition of what you think is pretty, what if you laugh in his face when you see him all dressed up with make up on his face what if-

He doesn’t get to grumble on it any further before the door bursts open and you walk in.

“John are you ready to g-“

He braves himself, swallows down the acid burning in his throat, stretches out his hands as if to present himself before saying the words “well how do I look?”

You try to speak, but no words slip past your lips and your voice even embarrassingly breaks, as you try to answer his question.

“Didn’t think you’d feel this strongly about a lad in make-up” he says with a forced chuckle, in an attempt to ease the tension while folding his arms across his chest.

“What no wait-“ you say, words rushing to tumble off your lips while furiously waving your hands in the air.”it’s not like that”

“‘It’s alright, no need to explain let’s get moving before we’re late” he says while brushing past you.

“John” you say as gently grab ahold of his arm.

He just hums in response, a forced smile painted on his face as he turns to meet your gaze, braving himself for what you’re about to say.

“I wanted to say that it suits you” you say and it’s only now he hears the slight crack in your voice the way you’re shyly looking down at the floor while fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt.

“Yeah?” He says, voice sounding steadier and smile turning much more genuine.

You just hum in response, hand going to his face to swipe away the mascara that smudged on his eyelid before smiling down at him. “Yeah I think you look pretty”

“Pretty?” He echos back to you in response, tone heavy and word carefully uttered as if you’d take them back any second if he said it too loudly.

Your hand cup his cheek, calloused thumb caressing soft skin, and for a second he dares imagine that your eyes flicker down to his lips.

“Very pretty” you say with a smile on your face, touch lasting a bit too long before you drop your hand to gentle grab his elbow.

“Come on, we have to go now or we’ll be late”

[propertyofwicked]

never have i ever... | rafe cameron

had a troll pt 2

part 1 here

not my gif<3

warnings - very very slight sexual references if you really squint

rafe could tell you had been distant with him the last week, but he didn’t know why. he imagined it was your brother and his obvious dislike for your relationship, but considering you had been fine after john b had first found out he didn’t understand why it had suddenly become an issue. everytime he asked you what was wrong, you responded with some excuse about just being tired from work. 

you weren’t avoiding him on purpose - well, maybe you were. the anonymous texter was adamant, and you had been drawn into this mess, spiralling slightly and spending every free moment thinking about it. you had been cheated on before, and the sinking feeling that came from being told rafe was with someone else behind your back was all too familiar. as a result you had hidden yourself away from him, always using work as an excuse and hiding in the kitchen if he came into the club. he had begin to give you the space he thought you wanted so the last thing you expected was for him to come crashing through your bedroom window at 3am, waking you up and dragging you out with him and into his car.

he didn’t speak, he just drove the two of you across the island, his hand clutching the steering wheel so hard his veins popped out and were perfectly highlighted by the full moon. 

“rafe are you going to say anything?”

“are you? you haven’t spoken to me in a week.”

“yes i have, i sent you a text earlier?”

“oh sorry “going to work now. talk later” you really have a way with words y/n - does shakespeare know about you?”

“sorry,” you mumble, not sure how to respond.

“no y/n. i don’t want your apologies - i want you to talk to me. have i done something? has john b done something? if he has ill kill h-”

“he hasn’t done anything rafe. i promise. it’s just...” you trail off, not sure how to approach the topic of the anonymous texter, knowing he’d told you to ignore it. luckily, you didn’t have to respond as a text notification filled the silence for you. you turned the phone slightly, careful not to show too much so that rafe couldn’t read it

“oh. i see,” rafe pipes up, sighing loudly as the realisation hits him,” y/n, i told you to ignore it - is this why you’ve been ignoring me all week?” he says, pulling the car to the side of the road and turning to look at you. 

you head dropped slightly, turning away from him in shame. you expected him to shout, or at least get angry and yet his hand reached up to cup your jaw and turn your face to look at his. his jaw was soft, not tense and angry as you had expected - and his eyes looked sad, almost sympathetic.

“let me read the messages,” rafe says, slowly taking the phone from your grasp. he scrolls through the chat, reading the lies this person was spreading about him - he was happy to see that you were still defending him. you had confided in him about being cheated on before, and he soon realised why you had become so distant. locking the phone and placing it on the dashboard, rafe pulls you over to come and sit on his lap so that you were straddling his waist and had no way of avoiding his stare. 

“y/n, i love you,” rafe starts, his voice soft and eyes staring into yours, his hand reaches up to tuck the hair behind your ear and makes itself at home on your jaw, “i promise you none of this is true. when i’m not with you, i’m thinking about you. you can ask top if you want, he’s actually starting to get pissed ‘cause im ‘whipped’ as he puts it. i love you, and i only want to be with you. whoever this is, messaging you, has it out for me, and for us. id never do anything to hurt you. ever.” 

it was nice to hear him be so compassionate, he was always kind and loving but he rarely said it, rafe cameron is not a man who says how he is feeling - he’d much rather show you. a tear slips from your eye, but he quickly wipes it away and presses a kiss to where it had fell. 

“i didn’t believe what they were saying you know, i just couldn’t help but fall into the trap.” 

“i know sweetheart. you don’t have to worry about me. ive got enough scratches on my back to let people know they can’t have me,” he adds, smirking slightly as you hide your face in his shoulder. 

-

you woke up late that morning, the late night adventure with some added fun in the back of rafe’s car had taken it’s toll on your already fatigued body. you get out of bed and head down the hallway, deciding a shower is probably necessary - but murmurs of the pogues in kitchen stop you in your tracks. 

“you’ve done some fucked up shit before john b, but this is a whole new level,” sarah says.

“don’t get me wrong, we all hate rafe for the shit he’s done but y/n has never been happier, especially with everything she’s gone through recently,” jj follows on, “texting her anonymous threatening messages to get her to break up with him is psychotic bro.”

what. 

it was john b? this whole time? had he been sending those texts and waiting to hear your sobs through the thin walls of the chateau? surely not. this was a joke right. without even thinking, you feet had carried you into the kitchen. jj and the rest of the group stood on one side of the table, with john b with his head in his hands - atleast he looks guilty. his head raises at the sound of you walking in and he feigns a smile hoping you hadn’t heard the conversation.

“it was you? this whole time?” you asked, voice laced with venom. he nodded slowly, realising he couldn’t hold the façade any longer. 

“look, y/n im sorr-”

“no, save it. i don’t care,” and with that you turned on your heal, back into your room, where you began to cry. you rang rafe, and he picked up immediately as he always did. you didn’t say anything but he could hear your sobs through the phone, and without a second thought he was in the car coming to pick you up. 

[noctxj]

down, down into the mountain | part i

“and what is it that this curious little fae hopes to find hm?” 

the last dragon laena had crossed paths with had asked. his question had stumped laena, no one had asked her that before.

“… i’m not hoping to find anything.”

“the word travelling suggests you have a destination no?” he’d cocked his big head to the side whilst peering down at her from his great form.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

in which the curious little fae laena exploring a long abandoned mountain kingdom (accidentally?) stumbles across a hungry dragon.

pairing: dragon!john price x fae!ofc

mdni. future adult content.

it was a devastatingly beautiful sight, the once ornate archways of a forgotten ancient kingdom now lay silent and still. carved into the side of a rocky mountainside, stories spoke of the impossible depths its original inhabitants had dug; always searching for more minerals, crystals, and gold to fuel their appetite for new knowledge and innovation. an appetite that would eventually lead to their doom; attracting the impertinent eyes of a dragon— or at least that is what is believed to have happened. almost a millennia has passed since then, the echoes of time notorious for warping stories of calamity into exaggerated fables and poignant legends.

however, laena wasn’t interested in times long gone. the concept of time and immortality was nothing to flitter about as one of the long-lived fae, only second to dragons themselves.

although as long as laena had been alive, she had only ever come across a handful of them. a secretive race who dedicated themselves to their own kin. 

wise. intelligent. and especially kind to her whenever she crossed paths with them. often mistaking her for being lost, having strayed too far from her clan. had offered laena refuge with them and their kin until such time they were able to track down her own, as it was rare for the fae to leave the comfort and protection of their own clans. instead each dragon-kind chortled in surprise and confusion when laena explained she was a lone travelling fae.

“and what is it that this curious little fae hopes to find hm?” 

the last dragon laena had crossed paths with had asked. introduced himself as nikolai, and was far more boisterous and reckless than any other dragon she had come across. his question had stumped laena, no one had asked her that before.

“… i’m not hoping to find anything.”

“the word travelling suggests you have a destination no?” he’d cocked his big head to the side whilst peering down at her from his great form.

another question that had stumped her.

“… then i am exploring the realm.”

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

nikolai had ended up accompanying laena for several decades, stated that she needed his “realm rich knowledge!”, even if she had been travel—exploring for a few centuries at that point. it was an odd pairing, but laena enjoyed the company, forgot how drawn into herself she had become, as if she was just a soulless spirit moving across the many plains of the realm. had forgotten the fulfilling feeling of connecting with someone.

until finally, fate decided that their travels as a “dynamic duo” (nikolai's words, not hers) had inevitably come to an end. nikto finally confessing his long-drawn yearning to return to his kin. laena had berated him for not returning to them sooner.

“you tryin’ to get rid of me, eh?” nikolai had drawled in half-hearted (fake) hurt. wiping away an imaginary tear from below his bright reptilian blue eyes for good measure while lounging back against a rock in his human— albeit intimidatingly very large, form. laena now use to his antics, just directed a flat look of annoyance at him.

“that is not the issue you big oaf, they are your kin. your family. they must miss you as much as you miss them. you should have returned to them sooner.” laena had snipped back. nikolai just waved his hand in response, an exasperated sigh spilling from laenas lips. sometimes she found it hard to believe he was several centuries older than her.

“i’ve always known i would return to them, child,” nikolai had huffed, interrupting her thoughts. the humour now absent from his glowing eyes— instead, sadness? regret? stained them, “i’d just hoped that whatever you are searching—i mean “exploring” for, would be found; that i would be there for you.”

laena hadn’t ever heard nikolai speak in such a serious tone. the sincerity of his words had caused a tiny pinch of sadness to throb within her chest, his words also resonating with laena. she already would miss him. she had secretly hoped he would be around for longer. 

“… so that I may rub it in your face that you’ve been playing treasure hunter, minus the map, of course”

never mind. 

this cracked out dragon could crawl back to his kin like a worm after laena wrapped his wings in some sticky vines—

“wait laena i was just kidding! hey— wait, no—!!”

laena considered nikto a good friend, perhaps even as an (overbearing) older brother. it had only been a few months since they bade each other farewell, errant tears had escaped laenas eyes as nikolai enveloped her in one of his crushing bearhugs. his cocooning scent of comfort and safety now just a fond memory.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

standing in the middle of the vast hall with her back to the outside world, laena could feel nothing but the cool still air; the light of the moon and stars only illuminating a limited capacity before her. despite the ruin that surrounded her, she couldn’t deny the surviving details of grandeur reflecting a time long gone— forcibly removed from existence.

which begged the question of what this now desolate kingdom did to garner the ferocity of a dragon.

a curious thing… what did you do to deserve their wrath?

a hmph and then a gentle whisper of a simple command flittered into the otherwise quiet air. a beat, a low hum, and then an almost appreciative sigh could be felt all around as the old fluorescent minerals embedded into the walls lazily flickered brighter and brighter, until warms hues of light coursed throughout the space; down corridors and up stairways. the once desolate halls 

now able to clearly see, laena felt a delighted giddiness spread throughout her form, her wings fluttering in excitement at the prospect of exploring this untouched place. discovering what she may learn, what she may find—

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

what in the gods was that sound?

another great crack vibrated throughout as laena quickly swept under a slight alcove as dust and slight debris fell deeper within the mountain.

laena wasn’t sure how long or how far deep she’d travelled into the cavernous mountain kingdom, wasn’t sure how long it would take her to get back out.

this is definitely not ideal.

laena thought as she gritted her teeth, settling her feet onto the shallow shelf of the wall to properly ruffle off the errant dust that managed to land on her wings. 

perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad idea to get out now before she got smothered by rocks—

all of a sudden, a fleeting glint of bronze and gold refracted upon the corner of laenas eye, her attention now snapping down below to pinpoint the origins of the object

… but not before she figured out what that was, of course…

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

a poor lapse in judgement, laena later decides as her body is now seemingly frozen in place. a colossal figure—

larger than nikolai if possible—

was just a short distance away, encapsulated in shadow, a pair of bottomless azure eyes crackling with electric bolts of crystalline blue, regarded laena with an unchecked ferocity she wasn’t sure what to make of.

… those eyes—

the stranger pulled in a deep inhale, eyes fluttering and the expanse of his broad, bare chest expanding, holding, and then releasing— along with a trail of smoke, and the shifting of enormous bronze and gold wings behind hus figure.

a dragon, in their half-shifted state—

“curious little fae~” the unknown dragon purred, his now half lidded eyes trailing across laena’s form with a starved glint, “‘ave been waiting so long for you,” the deep timber of his rough voice akin to the rumbling of thunder.

… what?

for the first time in her long life, laena felt the foreign feeling of confusion and fear trickle down her spine. she was always sure of herself, knew herself to be capable in every situation. one doesn’t stay alive, alone, for this long without some level of preservation instinct and self assuredness in your own knowledge and skills after all, immortal or not. but this was different— 

felt dangerous—

felt as if she was the target, as if she was being hunted. but the question was: why?

“come now, no need to be shy,” the dragons rumbling voice interrupted her disoriented thoughts.

one side of his mouth quirked up in amusement, a sharp canine peeking from beneath his upper lip and surprisingly kempt facial hair. especially given his state of- or lack there of, of his dress; a poor excuse of navy blue trousers which had definitely been through the rigours sat lazily along the dragons' hips. the powerfully corded muscles which make up the dragons' thick thighs 

this condescending brute—

her initial disoriented state of the unknown now replaced with a strike of indignation as she narrowed her eyes at the stranger before her. 

“my introductions with most dragons don’t often begin with them claiming i’ve 'kept them waiting’” she snipped in a cool tone, as if what he had been spouting out of his dumb mouth up until now had been a waste of her time—

why in the hells was he smiling?!

an amused huff and then a hearty chuckle, the apples of his cheeks lifted upwards— fully showcasing the extent of his deadly canines, but also highlighting that while he was a senseless dragon, laena couldn’t deny he was also a devastatingly handsome one at that. feeling her own cheeks growing warm; from embarrassment or realisation, she wasn’t completely sure—

wait, what kind of thoughts—

laena, not right now—!

all of a sudden the dragon took a step forward— laena automatically taking one backwards, still wary of his intentions. a steadily growing rabid hunger prevalent in the dragons cerulean eyes as his breathing seemed to pick up, his eyes refusing to break away from laena’s own, as if the thought of losing sight of her would cause him pain. 

“afraid little one?” heaved the dragon, his form seemingly expanding in mass due to his heavy intakes of breath; as if trying to breathe in laena’s very essence.

not good.

as laena took stock of her surroundings; almost at the very edge of this walkway. she couldn’t hope to escape this stranger dragon’s grasp if she tried to take flight out of the mountain— impossible. she had to try and outsmart him in the tunnels below, even if she didn’t know what he wanted, she sure wasn’t in the mood to find out so quickly.

“never,” laena haughtily claimed, taking another step back; the edge of the rocky walkway now immedaitely behind her feet— a fact that made the dragon just a few metres away from her growl in discontent.

the volatile (handsome) dragon taking another heavy step forward, nostrils flaring.

laena wasn’t going to wait to find out his next move (despite his addictive disposition).

she took one final step backwards and let herself fall, the wind breezing through the delicate nature of her wings. the feral roar of the dragon following as she pivoted mid air and folded her wings tight to her back, the goal of escaping the seemingly dangerous dragons’ attention paramount, the cool air rushing against her body.

down

down

deeper into the mountain

the curious fairy and the hungry dragon went.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

tric’s notes

posting this while drunk bc might as well HEHEHEHE

this was suppose to be purely smutty, but i am a hoe for The Lore™ (• ε •) of anything and everything - including whatever this is hehe. also, not sure if its obvious but said lore is heavily inspired by the hobbit and skyrim? kind of. unedited as always.

thank you for reading!!! mwah ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

crossposted on ao3 (same username!) 

[seldomscilence16]

The Dream au gift part 3!

So at some point in this part, a character will 'make a face', obviously whatever face you think is valid, but it was in fact an accident on my part and I decided it could stay cause I imagined the character making that face and thought 'yeah he would'. But such a face is not one I can describe easily, so feel free to send your best pictures/memes of faces you thought of! And check out the dream au tag!

.

John Dory drops from the vents in a roll, the empty room so much larger than himself somehow feels stifling all the same. He finds an empty perfume glass, though it doesn’t smell like perfume, rather he sees speckles of familiar stomach churning glittery red and a smell he can only describe as suffering. 

There's no sign of Floyd. 

A shadow falls over him, not unlike the nightmare that the tree was, he sees a hand- giant and quick- reaching towards him. He has seconds to react, to dodge and run and get back into the vent, blood rushing in his ears too loud to catch whatever the giant screeches. Huddled in the vents, hair surrounding him, he makes no sound as he waits the giants out. Always hide. They can catch you if they can see you.

“Find him! The rage dome is around the corner and we need his talent!” 

John doesn’t stick around to hear the rest. His brother wasn’t here. 

But maybe… maybe he was somewhere else, maybe they all were. 

.

It started as a mostly normal day. 

Sure there was that strange critter that definitely got eaten by another, but Clay was putting it behind him thank you very much. 

So as night crawled closer, and their little colony settled into their normal nighttime routine, he was ready to chalk up that uneasy feeling in his gut to a bad milkshake. Of course, that is always when the universe decides to mess with him. 

A scout issues the warning noise for approaching unknowns, and Viva issues the camo and ready defenses response call. The course is dark and silent, and Clay can make out what sounds like voices and wooden wheels on the overgrown path that might have once been a road. Rarely do they get anything more dangerous than a large critter, to hear an… argument? It has them all on edge. 

He ushers the younger Trolls further into their hidey hole, hears Viva’s scary clown voice begin, and waits for any sign they’ll need to activate the rest of their defenses. 

“-Trolls?” 

His ears flicker, the clown shuts down, he heads out of hiding cautiously. 

Viva is talking with two Trolls. One with hooved feet and red hair, a scruffy stressed face, and the other bright pink and more familiar features. Behind them is a shorter troll who looks akin to the taller, and three more behind him. Despite the oddness of three of them, his eyes are drawn to the one eyeing the course with a tense line to his shoulders. 

There's something about him, and the feeling of familiarity only grows the closer he gets. When their eyes meet, despite how different he looks from his memory, Clay knows. 

“Baby Branch?”  

But his little brother does not light up and smile that joyous smile, 

“Just Branch.” And gosh doesn't he sound so different too, what happened to that little boy he knew? 

“You okay Branch?” The other Troll, the Pink one, slips her paw into his, a worried look on her face. 

The softness that enters his eyes, that blue shine it had lacked just a moment ago, tells Clay all he needs to know about who this is to his brother. 

“Yeah Poppy.” He turns back to Clay, a guarded look about him, “We just found the wrong brother is all.” 

Her own eyes are intense as she turns to him, and he knows he’s seen that look somewhere before,

“Hi, I’m Poppy.” Despite her cheery tone, there's an underlying hardness to it, “We’re here looking for Floyd, his boyfriend hasn’t seen him in months and he’s been worried sick. Don’t suppose you’ve seen him?” 

It's a lot to take in, he finds himself blinking several times, 

“Floyd’s… missing?” 

“News to me too.” Branch confirms, “Since I thought you all were dead, or at least dead to me.” He shrugs, ignoring Poppy’s light smack in admonishment, though Clay thinks it was more for show than anything. 

“He’s… he’s not here. I haven’t seen him since… Does this mean you guys made it through the tunnels??” 

Branch’s brow furrows and a million emotions flash through his eyes, Poppy is the one that answers,

“Floyd wasn’t part of the Escape…” Hesitant as she gauges Branch’s mood. 

“But… He was with you and Grandma..”

“I haven’t seen any of you since that night.” Branch finally says, shoulders slumping, “We were following a flying critter of some kind, Dickory says it usually stays around giants, so we were hoping it would lead us to some.” 

“Giants?” Clays voice lowers, “Do you mean Bergens?” 

“Oh no, not at all! We’ve established peace with the Bergens now! I’m best friends with the future Queen.” Poppy’s bright tone is met with silence, several Putt Putts have already rolled away to hide, a child is crying he thinks. 

“So… he was taken by different giants…?” 

“It's a long story.” 

.

“This guy?” Clay jerks a thumb where Hickory is still talking with Viva, an incredulous curve to his brows.

Branch nods, his own face betraying his astonishment. 

Hickory wasn’t a bad dude, despite the whole… thing that happened a few months ago, but it was still weird to learn of his previously thought dead brothers love life before he even knew about his life life. And Poppy mentioned something about the whole, siblings teasing each other's relationships? But he’s not 100% sure about all that either. 

Mostly Branch was just trying to ignore the hole in his heart in favor of actually finding his brother, he could deal with everything else later. 

“So, what's our next lead?” Barb sidles up beside them awkwardly, Poppy joining the two yodelers and Putt Putt leader. 

“There's only so many Giants within the area of the Kingdoms.” Branch points out, to which the Queen nods her agreement, Clay giving a tight-lipped, lost look but motioning for him to continue anyway, “I doubt it was Bergens, Gristle has warned the other settlements and it's kinda hard to miss them. So we just find the next closest one?” Branch ends it on a question, he’s not well versed in ALL giants, honestly he's just well versed in fighting things bigger than himself, but he’s still learning about the other Troll Tribes, he hasn't gotten around to other races yet. 

“I mean I guess that's fair…” Barb pulls a map from her bag, the updated ones the Funk Trolls had worked on, “I guess it would be this mountain thing over here.” 

Clay and Branch look over her shoulders, seeing the strange mountain labeled Rageous. It's not far considering, but far enough to remain unseen in their adventures. 

“Rageous sounds dangerous-” Clay pauses, a face made at his own semi rhyme, “But what would they want with a Troll?” 

.

First^^ Prev<< Next>>

[candyskiez]

A vague collection of all of the lines / moments from tma that made me lose my shit, that I can remember, because I just finished it and I am in shambles.

• The fact they didn't just make Jane lonely because people were Mean, the fact she pushed people away and hurt people and couldn't understand that, didn't know how to stop. It would've been so easy to just have her be a sweetheart or have her be evil and the way they did her made her becoming an avatar SO much more interesting

• " I hope you will forgive me for such a rambling story. I hope you will forgive me for a great many things, as it may be I do worse."

• "It is not the patterns that enthral me, I’m not one of those fools chasing fractals; no, it’s what sings behind them. Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me."

•"Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny. Maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion that hides the sick squirming reality of what I am"

• "I was lonely before. I know that. I had friends, at least I used to, but I lost them. Or they lost me. Why was it? I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned. No idea why. The memories are a blur. I do remember that they called me “toxic”. I don’t think I really knew what that meant, except that it was the reason I was so very painfully lonely. Was that it? Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved? Not loved as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love. A need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways."

• "I will not become another goddamn mystery."

• Martin apologizing for leaving Jon and Tim which hurts so bad in retrospect what do you MEAN

• "Honestly Martin, I'm relieved."

• Tim and Jon's fight. Girl just kill me. I can't even pick out a specific line literally every Tim line from this fight ruins me.

• "If either of you hear this, I'm sorry. You deserve the truth. I wish...I'm not losing anyone else."

• "Oh for God's sake, this isn't about you." "It never is."

• "No, no it’s not “fine”. You’ve been going on and on and on about how alone you feel because John’s not taking your feelings into account while he’s having his breakdown, but you’re just doing the same thing. We’ve all been going through this, Tim, but you’re the only one who’s been running away."

• "Let me tell you a story. You like stories; we can even call it a statement if you want."

• Jon begging them not to think it's him....

• "Well, he was always going to need to fly the nest at some point. Go out and see the world for himself."

• "Statement fucking ends."

• The entirety of guest for mister spider.

• "Who am I even sad for?"

• "My sweet, doomed Agnus."

• "That’s what this place is, Jon, never forget it. You may believe yourself to have friends, to have confidantes, but in the end, all they are is something for you to watch, to know, and ultimately to discard. This, at least, Gertrude understood."

• "Then shoot me. Just squeeze the trigger, and watch the only person you care about die screaming. Your last connection to humanity. Do it."

• "Feels like all I've managed to do is not die." "And believe me, that is a remarkably rare skill."

• "I never chose this." "You never wanted this, no. But I'm afraid you absolutely did choose it."

• "Elias, am I still human?"

• Everytime Jon and georgie interact I start eating my own organs at alarming rates

• "I freaked out a bit, and I said some stuff: if he wanted to talk, no tapes, I just, I just hate that thing."

• "Well, I mean it’s not too late, y’know. Unless the world ends."

• "Turn it off. Turn it OFF."

• "There was never really any hope for me, though, was there? This was how it was always going to go."

•"Disruption. An unpredictable, angry man with nothing left but the desire to feel in some way revenged."

•"Oh, oh, you mean it? Oh well, that’s different. Okay, well, let me tell you what. If you want me to ignore everything that’s going on, forget my brother and everything that’s happened over the last two years, how about you kill me?"

• "Well, me either. But here we are. So my proposal for you is this: either kill me or fuck off."

• "I'll come back when you're feeling more...reasonable." "Then I guess I'll see you in hell."

• "And when something comes for you?" "Then I'll die."

• "Was it peaceful?'' "No." "Good. Don't think she would've wanted that."

• "Dying isn't so bad. It's the staying dead that sucks."

• "I think I finally understand why she brought me back. I just don't understand why she left me behind."

• "I always wanted my friends to call me Gerry."

• "I just want...I just want to feel better."

• "How can I be sure who they are?"

• Literally all of Jon and Tim's second fight. Did you know I'm insane about them.

• 'Part of me thinks it’s just so he can see if whatever this “preparation” he’s been trying to do on me works. You know what? That same petty little part of me rather hopes it doesn’t. That all this time, all his cryptic nudges and “learn to fly by falling” attitude, ends up being a complete waste of time. Just to show him."

• "I need someone I can trust. And I don't think that can happen naturally for me anymore. So I'm making a decision. I trust them. All of them."

• "When did I start to lose the parts of me that weren't just anger?"

• "Good luck, Jon. I do hope you win. But I also hope it hurts."

• "I used to blame my brother for going off his own and poking around where he wasn’t wanted. I used to blame myself for not helping him. But now… now it doesn’t matter. I’ve read through enough of these things to know that this doesn’t matter. The only thing you need to have your life destroyed by this stuff is just bad luck."

• "I know what it means. They gave it to me because they think I’ll get angry and do something stupid anyway. And they’re probably right. So maybe it’s for the best."

• "Honestly, I hope that Jon learned something from her because, because I don’t expect I’m going to be coming back from this. I don’t know if I want to. And if he needs to pull the trigger, to use me to stop it… well, he’d better have the guts to do it."

• "You owe me one, Gerry. Rest in, uh....just rest."

• "Oh, so that’s it, isn’t it. Martin’s just acting out. I mean, Daisy’s a “rabid dog,” and Melanie’s a potential killer, Tim’s a – a rogue element, but Martin, oh Martin’s just acting out. He’ll have a cry, and a lie down, and feel much better."

• "So what? I don’t get to be angry? I don’t get to burn things? Just, just run around, making tea, while everyone else gets to actually have feelings?"

• "It’s baffling, really. Such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly."

• "Tim, contrary to what you think, I did not bring you here to indulge your death wish."

• "Really, it’s me! Sasha… whatever-her-name-was! Back from the dead, just like you wanted!"

• "Do you know how many people I killed to keep the world in one piece?"

• "I don’t forgive you. But thank you for this."

• "You think you're saving anyone?!" "I don't care."

• "His only fear is that even here, at the center of the world, barreling towards a lightless, infinite tomb, still, he will be watched. Still, he will watch."

• "You’re doing well, John. I only hope you can continue your growth without my guidance."

• "You’re not quite human enough to die, but still too human to survive."

• "I don’t care if you trust me, but I think I’ve proven at the very least that I’m useful. So use me."

• "We're together, so it's good."

• "Worst case scenario, the universe loses another monster."

• "Oh, I mean, you’re definitely working for something evil, but – so are we."

• "No, it was. I hate a lot of what I did back then; doesn’t mean I’m not responsible for it, doesn’t mean it wasn’t me."

• "The most important thing becomes control, engaging on your own terms. Even when it’s stupid or dangerous. Anything to not feel helpless."

• "Never really knew what she felt ‘bout any of it, not really. Not in her own words. Guess that’s the thing about being the… chosen one."

• "Jumping on a grenade is only heroic if you weren’t the one who actually threw it."

• "The Lonely is possibly the most insidious of the powers, I believe. Certainly it is the one that most delights and having you do its work for it, even the spiders seem to have a hard time matching it for sheer seductiveness. Time to yourself. Self-care. Putting yourself first. Not being a burden on those you care about. Doesn’t even need to tell you any lies – just waits for the lies you tell yourself."

• "…I guess I’m just a bit burned out on the end of the world."

• The entirety of love bombing

• "You'd never known anything different." "Because I never wanted to."

• "But d’you know what the strange thing is? Despite the violence, death, even my own murder, I still don’t feel like she… betrayed me. She was what she was. And I knew that. And even though I told myself that she would never harm me – of course not! I was her husband, her true love – even then, the only one lying was me."

• "The Lonelys really gotten you, hasn't it?" "You know, I think it always did."

• "I'm on my own so much these days, I...just wish I didn't like it so much."

• "How does that make you feel?" "Nothing. Nothing at all."

• "Do you though? Do you really care about any of them? Or is that worrying just simply an old reflex?"

• "I really loved you, you know?"

• "Hello, Jon."

• "It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon. The freedom of it all."

• "Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made."

• "Something to look back on when we're all old and sick of each other."

• "Can you imagine if we'd had this?"

•"No. You took it too far! I’m unforgettable!"

•" Hold each other, it croons. Be happy. But know always that this happiness is a lie, built on the squirming bones of those whose suffering you have caused."

• "The deception is pitiable, and yet deep down every villager knows the mold has marked them deeper than any of the others, and carries it as their most secret shame."

• "Oh! Such devotion.  You really don’t deserve it. But of course – you know that already!"

• "Yes! Ashamed of the fact that I just – destroyed the world and have been rewarded for it, the fact that – I can walk safe through all this horror I’ve created like a… fucking tourist, destroying whoever I please. The fact that I… enjoyed it, and… the fact that there are so many others that I want to revenge myself on!"

• "Perhaps she’d have dedicated herself to a d,doomed quest like us but – No. I think this would have broken her. And she’d have resigned herself to – ruling her domain."

• "Yes. You are my reason, Martin."

• "The landlord always said he was going to get it fixed."

• "I can feel the pain of every person you have trapped here. My own isn’t all that different."

•" I don’t like me sometimes, and I am me."

• "Why am I alone? I, I shouldn’t be alone; there should be people! It’s such a – such a big house, my house – there mu– there must be other people! People who care!"

• " It’s not my home; it can’t be. Do I have a home?"

• "Did – Did she have a face? D-Don’t – Don’t be stupid, Martin; of course she had a face! You just can’t remember it ‘cause – ‘Cause you’re a bad son; because you left you left her to rot in-"

• "No, and – and I suddenly began to panic, because I was trying to remember what he looked like, his, his face, but I couldn’t do it. And I knew I’d never see him again. He loved me and I couldn’t even remember his face!"

• "It feels like a small name. One that wants to be warm and happy. Not like here."

• "I’m losing myself, and I – and I don’t know if I mind?"

• "Maybe the fogs here because I want it here."

• "It's the lonely, Jon. It's me." "Not anymore." "No. Not anymore."

• "Even if there were mirrors in this place, Reese could not possibly recognize himself. Not because anything that might once have registered as a human body has long since blossomed into sinewy flowers and muscles and burst skin, but because – were he to see himself, the only image in his mind would be the him he was so afraid to be"

• "She is beautiful. And she cannot allow herself to lose that at any cost. She cannot shatter into fleshy ugliness again."

• "I can’t. There’s too many. I can’t save everyone. I can’t save anyone."

• "Jon – we are doing good, right? Making things better?" "I don't know if that was ever an option."

• “I don’t want that anymore. It’s different now; I’m different now. I’ve worked so hard.”

• "But a waltz has a partner. FRANCIS only has a desire, an itch in their bones that flows into them, drip by oily drip, down the glistening strands that suspend them, guide them, hold them. A desire which injects itself through razor-sharp hooks and pools inside their stomach. They don’t want to want it, but…"

• "Tears flow, too, but no one notices, and no one cares. Their punishment is at hand."

• "Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you there. That’s not your name at all."

• "I’m here to help you, to treat you, to make it so you’re less of a… burden to everyone. "

• "You’re the biggest victim of… whatever little game you’re playing here. And we know just how to help you."

• Literally all of the commentary around Daisy.

• "Then we should make time. You want to hear how he ended up blinding that man? Because it wasn’t a robbery. He was running away from Daisy, lashing out in a panic. The court believed it. But you believed her…"

• "He could refuse, a final petty act of rebellion against a system it feels like he has run through a hundred times. But what would be the point of that? It won’t save him. A wasted pile of discarded tissue is all that would be left. Is it not better, at least, to be useful?"

• "You knew her. She was trying to be better." "She was. But she never asked me to forgive her.'

• "I’ve been scared, terrified for my life so many times these last few years. But I’ve never, not once, felt so horribly, abjectly, powerless as when she took me into that forest to kill me. I’ll never forget it."

• "And would you have forgiven her?" "No. But she never asked me. She knew she had no right."

• "No-one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most. Even me."

•" I don’t know, alright! I was… I was worried that if you listened, it might feel like an accusation. After everything we’ve already talked about, I-I mean… What good would it do for you to hear? What’s in this one that you don’t already know? “People have their reasons for doing wrong?” “The system hurts everyone?” Just seemed kind of pointless."

• "For what it’s worth… I’m sorry it had to work out like this." "I'm not."

• "Besides, those are the tombs with the longest epitaphs, so they must have been good people."

• Literally everything in locked in

• "She was awful." "She wasn't well." "Both things can be true."

• "They can all hear him now. Any words he speaks will ring out through the chamber. He wants to talk of the people outside, the bruised and abandoned ones that suffer and die to slake their appetites. He wants to cry for restitution, for justice, for a future, for anything. But all eyes are on him and he falters. He remembers the cold, the hunger, the ache of concrete beneath him. He is afraid. And his chair is so very comfortable. The minister coughs, once, uncomfortably, and sits down."

• "But don’t get me wrong… Georgie’s incredible. Um, and she’s, and she’s far, far too good for me. And I, I only hope she doesn’t realise that while there’s an apocalypse on."

• The entire bit of Rosie. I need to explode. I can't believe they got me so attached and so devastated over a character who had barely been mentioned before.

• "The point is you don’t have a responsibility to sacrifice yourself just to make everyone else’s lives a bit easier." "I've already made them a hell of a lot harder!"

• "I don't want to die." "Neither did they."

• "Are you sure about this?" "No. But I love you."

I am in physical pain .

[thisbluespirit]

Article from the Reading Evening Post 14th january 1988 p2, featuring an interview with Suzanna Hamilton about the TV series Wish Me Luck.

WARS make heroes. Throughout history most of them have been men. It has been the fate of women to weep and wait—and ultimately suffer all the more. Modern warfare and modern thinking changed all that. Suddenly it was possible for women to make an immense, brave and determining contribution to the war effort. Making bombs, sewing blankets, knitting socks was no longer all there was.

In the last war, the S.O.E. that rogue organisation committed to sabotage and subterfuge to confuse the enemy in Europe, recruited hundreds of women. Many of them were ordinary civilians called upon to fulfil extraordinary tasks with an extraordinary degree of courage. Their story has all too rarely been told - yet they remain the bravest, most selfless figures in a towering and complex tapestry of staunch patriotism and human valour. Now their light is being taken from behind the bushel of secrecy and allowed to shine forth in a revealing and moving drama series which gives some idea of the astonishing and unsung tasks they performed in the battle to free Europe from Nazism.

In 'Wish Me Luck' LWT have made a major drama series which deals with the exploits of just two 'typical' S.O.E. agents—different, very different from each other but examples of the wide-ranging types of women drawn into the battle for freedom.

One is Liz; mother of a young child whose husband is already serving overseas. She has a comfortable middle class background, a mother with a large house in the country, a cosy life-style - and a desperate need to do more to help the war effort.

Then there is Matty; half French and Jewish, half Cockney—she opens her mouth before engaging her brain, is fearless and frighteningly enthusiastic, bright as a button but conscious of not being out of 'the right drawer'.

Between them, these two young women epitomise the wide net which was thrown across the civilian population to draw in all those with some skill to use, some enthusiasm to cash in on.

Playing Matty is a young actress who has already gained an enviable reputation with her name alongside some of the acting greats such as Richard Burton and John Hurt—not to mention rock star-turned thespian, Sting.

Suzanna Hamilton first made a name for herself when she was cast in the film of the children's classic 'Swallows and Amazons'. Subsequently came Wildcats of St Trinians - and then Brimstone and Treacle, 1983, and Out of Africa."It was Out of Africa which got me noticed by the producers of 'Wish Me Luck', says tomboyish Suzanna. "But I still had to go and be seen by a panel of about seven people. They took so long making their minds up that it was about two months before I got another call - I'd almost forgotten about it."

Taking on the role of Matty though proved to be unforgettable as Suzannah immersed herself in the brave history of the women of the S.O.E. and spent long hours talking to the series advisor Yvonne Cormeau - who was a real life wartime agent. She is now 77, yet Yvonne retains a vitality which gives some indication of the qualities she - and the many other recruits - must have had for the almost impossible tasks they were called upon to do.

"She was wonderful on all the details," says Suzannah, "and I have also read a lot about the period, before then I only knew a tiny bit about the 40s."

As Matty, Suzannah goes through some of the horrendous hardships that real-life S.O.E. agents had to suffer—but she knew only too well that, at the end, she could escape to a warm bed and a cup of coffee.

"There is one scene later in the series where I am being tortured by being held under a shower with a towel wrapped round my head—it was a way of torturing people so if they didn't talk they slowly drowned. While doing it I kept thinking about the women that it really happened to and how they must have felt—and I was only under there for 30 seconds."

The other incident which really tested Suzannah's courage was a rooftop scene which entailed her being carried through a high window by co-star Jeremy Northam.

"I'm a bit like Matty, a bit of a tomboy, often getting things wrong," Suzannah confesses, "but I've got no head for heights. On the roof—at the end of Chatham Docks - I suddenly got that horrible feeling of vertigo. I thought I was going to faint. Jeremy told me to just keep looking straight at him and not to look down. But it's not something I would have liked to do twice!"

The series also stars Cambridge graduate Kate Buffery as Liz and Julian Glover as Colonel James Cadogan. Jane Asher plays a tough, committed S.O.E. intelligence officer whose job it is to help recruit and look after the special agents and Warren Clarke is German SS Officer Colonel Krieger.

[roamingtigress]

More things I learned playing Dutch on RDO:

-He'll SALIVATE (?) when he gets into something involving excitement; I just noticed this with the bounty role. Mind you it could have been from the wind while riding (realistic), or some anticipation of EXCITEMENT. It kind of ruined what I wanted to be a cool screenshot, turned out to be an 'oh wow, that's realistic, but ew' moment :P

-He'll look to the moon/stars for what I assume to be navigation, which seems very IMMERSIVE as it seems like something that'd happen in that era (maps are a bit tricky to read in the dark while on horseback). I've hit cinematic mode when he does this and it he usually keeps moving in that direction, very cool. He might not always follow the waypoint but he'll follow the moon/stars.

-He seems a bit . . . BOWLEGGED?? Like idk why I didn't notice it in single player but do notice it Online, particularly when watching him walk from behind.

-He has FACIAL TICS that come and go

-If I'm not careful, when there's a lot of excitement around he'll do things like pull lawmen off of their horses if he's close enough. Without my control. It's how he got his first bounty on his head. He requires ELITE HANDLING.

-He rides like an EXPERIENCED RIDER, with a nice straight, balanced posture, which seems realistic; lots of subtle little animations while he's riding too; swats to flies, rolls his head around to get rid of neck stiffness, occasionally adjusting/playing about with the reins, and sometimes fingernail chewing (?), but all the while keeping the horse balanced. My ponies generally have nice perky ears, and they rarely spook under him (not the case with me smh), particularly under gunfire. My horses would always dump my ass for gunfire. They think they're warhorses under him. He looks best IMO on taller horses like TBs, Standardbreds, Kladruber, and Turkoman, though I like him on Mustangs; I haven't tried him on an MFT and a few others); he's too leggy for the smaller horses like Morgans and Arabians and yet looks too small for the bigger draught breeds.

-WOLVES. I've never encountered so many wolves before. Is it the smell of hair pomade? My OC is a chonk and they didn't come after her as much. He's a magnet for them. I've never seen wolves in Scarlet Meadows before.

-I encountered a new (?) ambush; OIL REFINERY GUARDS. Never seen this before and I've been playing since 2020, never seen that one before.

-In addition to the spurs, you can hear the fabric of his clothes and even his chains crinkle as he moves, if the music is low/off. DETAILS! -SNOW DADDY DUTCH is sensibly so, the most cold-resistant Dutch. Colter!Dutch still isn't warm enough. Fancy Dutch, fuhgetaboutit. I still need to give Snow Daddy a tonic but he's like, w/e, I'll still get the bounty

(he and Johnny Marston had some funny back-to-back arguing in this family bounty hunting trip where they only managed to get one bounty because Snow Daddy drove in the wrong direction on Cinematic Mode (because waypoints are subjective even if they're drawn up apparently) and John kept ordering him to get back on the right path; nothing goes smoothly on the family bounty missions, I miss out on getting some screenshots featuring really funny family feud dialogue because I'm fully lmao because something always gets awry and usually involves Marston or Hosea killing the bounty; Arthur seems to target just the other raspberries and not the strawberries that are needed; good boah)

[soupis4ever]

woe. category 7 autism event got to me. ramblings under the cut (he's waving to you!!)

please excuse John's hands in the first one i had no reference and i've never drawn hands before. i usually got by with just circles but today i wanted to be quirky. not too bad considering my inexperience

i rarely draw humanoids as well so. please excuse his strangeness too. well he's strange anyway but if he looks a lil disproportionate you know what happened. chat is gloop glop they're meant to look odd proportionally

love these things

design is heavily based on @/ananinidraws John design which is probably pretty evident. i like that flavour of John i think he's perfect. the chat design is super similar too. er. i like this persons designs they're very very cool

i have made the decision that he is not at all human in any way. that's all flower babey!!! i imagine that plantfolk and humans have a relatively recent common ancestor except plantfolk live exclusively in bigg forest and can photosynthesise. they fit similar ecological niches

if you look closely at one of his cheeks you can see some ancient John Lore™ from when the series first came out and gave me terrible brainrot

in relation to the above point, John is the only documented plantfolk to live outside of the community. nobody ever asked him why so he never said anything about it

he doesn't like clothes touching all of the fluffy planty bits but he really likes the hero outfit, so he rolls up the cuffs as far as they will go and it works fine. in causal attire he's probably in a sundress to negate any discomfort but he just. he wants to look cool

in relation to the above point, there was a valiant attempt to get him to wear shoes once. it evidently did not work. he owns one pair of boots and does not wear them ever. he draws energy for attacks and healing from the ground and it's too much effort to do that through an inch of rubber and leather, which weakens their effect

his weapon matches chat's most of the time (bouquet) but i got lazy so chat has a star wand

chat swears that their matching weapons are a coincidence and that is a lie

i don't like shading i will not do it. not even for them

he has three tails because i said so

IVE FORGOTTEN TO COLOUR A BIT OF HIS TAIL disregard that

[kingdom-of-raniya]

🥀John the Vampire🥀

Hello everyone! I know it's been a while, but here's the next character in the Kingdom of Raniya AU! His story:

--

John is a vampire, and he was born at the vampire castle just like every other vampire. In Raniya, vampires are quite a rare species, due to the fact that they used to be hunted to almost extinction by centaurs. However, the centaurs no longer hunt as many vampires as they used to, but their numbers are still low. Vampires have the ability to transform into bats, and the entirety of the vampire population lives in or around the Vampire Castle.

John is unique, because he was struck by lightning whilst flying as a bat on a very stormy day. It left his wings permanently damaged and he cannot fly very far or for very long. He also has some permanent scars underneath his eyes from the lightning strike.

As far as the storyline is concerned, he comes in quite later when Brian, Freddie and Roger (species yet to be decided) are near the Vampire Castle (haven't decided why yet). John was sat in the woods near the Castle, when he ran into the other three. They were all scared of each other at first, but they both soon realised that they weren't threatening each other. They spent a few hours talking, and eventually John accepts their offer to stay with them. He was sick of the Castle anyway.

(He knew Veronica before this - I don't know what species she is yet so I will decide what happens to her when I know her species!)

--

Here are some close ups and his fact sheet!

Soooo yeah! I hope you like him, and don't forget to let me know what you think or ask me any questions you have about him or the others!

(I've only ever drawn John once or twice before this so I'm kind of proud of how it turned out!) 🥰

[proserpinewrites]

In my fic, Deacon's birth name is Lil' Beckett. It's inspired by similarities someone pointed out between him and Beckett (FO76). Both are comedians in sunglasses with anti-chem and pro-alcohol attitudes who terminated their gang memberships by terminating the gang, and you know what they say: A nuke a day keeps the smooth skin away! If 76's vaultie is brutally killed by the Blood Eagles after helping their (optional) boyfriend dismantle them, they could easily be the basis for Barbara's story.

I'll be real with you, I only play Fallout 76 but rarely. I'm mainly there for the Mothman content. I don't know enough FO76 lore to play around with it. (Yet. I dunno, I don't really enjoy multiplayer anything.)

One thing I have a love/hate relationship with in Bethesda games is the open spaces they leave in characterization. On one hand, lots of space to headcanon. On the other, sometimes those spaces echo so much that they drown out the actual character. (/cough like poor Harkness) So I think anyone can and should decide for themselves what Deacon's birth name is.

The word/name Deacon, that comes from the Greek word diákonos, meaning servant or messenger. Either way, it signals to me that he's dedicated his existence to serving the Railroad and its cause to the end of the line. It's also interesting to me that deacons cannot hear confession and give absolution, anoint the sick, or celebrate mass, all things that give priests a sort of sanctity within the Catholic tradition. It's a very precise box he's drawn around himself, if you think about it. He can help, he can guide, but he doesn't feel worthy of anything beyond that. He believes that his true self is not worthy of emulation, not worthy of admission into the Railroad itself, and so Deacon fits him very well indeed.

I chose Jonah because it means 'dove', a symbol of peace. Deacon's peace ended and he shed that name, swapped it for something else (Johnny D. for John Doe) signifying his (perceived) worthlessness and lack of identity after what happened to him. And because of the story of Jonah in the Bible, which honestly I only knew bits and pieces of before I read it recently. At its base it's a story of compassion, forgiveness, and redemption. and Deacon's journey throughout 'you who wish to conquer pain' is going to be full of both things, though maybe not in ways he might expect.

[stewblog]

The Equalizer 3

Now a full trilogy, the Equalizer films present a fascinating moral juxtaposition. 

Robert McCall is a very violent man. He kills people with ruthless, unerring efficiency, to the point where some have described past entries as a sort of reverse-horror film, wherein the unstoppable killer is the hero and the largely hapless victims are the villains. What dawned on me as I walked out of the third film last night, however, is that these movies are basically the physical manifestation of Jules Winfield's version of Ezekiel 25:17. 

The notion of a man forced by his sense of justice into performing acts of violence in defense of innocents isn't a new concept. But the execution of it in these films is made palatable and even exceptional given that it is buttressed by the moral decency, fortitude and conviction of Denzel Washington's on-screen persona. A persona that, let's be clear, is what's really the driving force here beyond anything the script says or does. 

That McCall now (albeit briefly) wonders if he’s a good man feels somewhat inevitable at this point in the franchise. On the verge of death, he’s rescued by the residents of a seaside village in Sicily. None but the doctor and local policeman question his origin or past actions. He is, instead, slowly welcomed and embraced by the community as he questions whether he can truly leave his old life behind. It’s possible, but he invariably gets drawn into one more fight only he is capable of winning. 

It’s difficult to think of another action film franchise that so starkly puts its protagonist at odds against what we know he’s there to do. Even John Wick, reluctant though he is to re-enter his underworld of violence, has more of an emotional reaction to the body count. What’s even more interesting, though, is that it is this very dichotomy that gives The Equalizer films their appeal. Robert McCall lives in a world that is decided black and white. 

Violence for Robert McCall is never a first resort. A warning is always given before he metes out justice. And yet the films perpetually depict violence as a necessity, brutally so. The third film's violence is the series at its most brutal. There's less of it than in past films, but when it erupts, the results are notably more visceral. No one ever dies a simple death. Quickly, sure, but rarely so simply via a knife or gunshot. You never see Robert McCall smile as he performs these acts, but the films themselves understand that it is incredibly satisfying to see these cartoonishly horrible men face cartoonishly brutal ends. Robert McCall doesn't enjoy it, but we do. Though you also get the sense that McCall would almost certainly look down on us for doing so. 

But back to the Bible. In Pulp Fiction, Samuel L. Jackson's character takes more than a few liberties with the recitation of this verse. While the original text (translations notwithstanding) certainly has in there lines about striking down with great vengeance and knowing that his name is the Lord, there's absolutely nothing about the tyranny of evil men, shepherding the weak and being a brother's keeper. But it is these tenets by which Washington's Robert McCall lives his life. They serve as his moral center, the beacon of light within a soul that, in this film at least, he is no longer certain is righteous. It’s an interesting dichotomy, especially for a movie franchise three films deep.

None of this would work without Washington in the role. As mentioned earlier, it’s Washington’s innate decency and moral certitude that grounds the character, but it’s an essential ingredient because without it McCall becomes a psychotic murderer. But as one of cinema’s most inherently likable actors, we go along with it. We know he wants peace for himself and this village, and if this is the only means to achieve it, so be it. Peace is on the horizon, but it’s going to take McCall wading through blood to get there. 

All in all this makes for a very satisfying cap to the character and his path. I’m not sure I’d ever have pegged a movie remake of a 1980s network television show to ultimately inspire such a moral and conceptual clash, but here we are. Hopefully Robert McCall finally gets to enjoy his tea in peace.

[46ten]

“Let me tell you...” Hamilton to Laurens, 16Sept1780

History of this letter: it is currently with the Massachusetts Historical Society. It may have once been in the possession of Tristram Coffin (I do not know how he came to be in possession of letters to John Laurens; see my prior post on how the 30June1780 letter came to be in possession of the Hamilton family) and perhaps donated to them. The MHS may have more details about how they came to acquire this letter. 

I do not know when this letter first makes an appearance in Hamilton biographies. We can be fairly certain that the Hamilton family was not in possession of this letter through the 19th century: John Church Hamilton noted (1840) that the only letter he had received in response to an inquiry was the April1779 letter from his father to Laurens, and by publication of his History of the Republic vol 2 (late 1850s-early 1860s) they had the Aug1782 letter from Laurens to Hamilton. This letter also does not appear in Henry Cabot Lodge’s Alexander Hamilton (1882) nor can I find it in his Works of Alexander Hamilton (1904-1910) or Allan McLane Hamilton’s The Intimate Life (1910), both of whom had access to the Hamilton family papers. Notably, the missing 12Sept1780 letter from Laurens to Hamilton also does not appear in any of these volumes, suggesting that it was lost well before the earliest biographies of AH supported by his family. Before any nefarious conclusion is drawn, I’ll state that an enormous number of letters are missing, including at least 30 letters to Elizabeth Schuyler/Hamilton between 1780 and 1781, and she would have been most likely to preserve her husband’s letters to her. We can also consider James McHenry’s comments on AH’s forgetfulness/carelessness with letters sent to him: 

...recollecting that you are a little subject to lose [letters] by not putting them into your [pockets]...McHenry to AH, Oct1792

And that AH sometimes destroyed the letters he received: 

I will willingly testify what you mention respecting Mr Cabot but having torn up your letter trusting to my memory...AH to Wolcott, 13Jun1795 

It’s in some of the links below, so I’ll briefly state that AH marrying while still in military service is unusual, even rare, among his social circle. Almost everyone else waits until their military service or public duties are complete before marrying, even if it means that their courtships span years. But AH was also desperately unhappy in early 1780 - in a letter to Laurens (8Jan1780), he wrote:

I am chagrined and unhappy but I submit. In short Laurens I am disgusted with every thing in this world but yourself and very few more honest fellows and I have no other wish than as soon as possible to make a brilliant exit. ’Tis a weakness; but I feel I am not fit for this terrestreal Country.

About a month later, and after a few other recorded flirtations/romances of AH with other women during that period, Elizabeth Schuyler enters the picture (according to a letter from Kitty Livingston to Sarah Jay, ES arrived in Morristown in February 1780). By early April, their engagement is approved by her parents. Fast forward to Sept 1780, and only ten days before this letter to Laurens, AH wrote ES the following [6Sept1780]: 

I was once determined to let my existence and American liberty end together. My Betsey has given me a motive to outlive my pride... 

AH’s disgust with the operation of the army and repeated refusals to give him a rank and command commensurate with his abilities/experience continues, but now at least he has an alternative, the opportunity to make another life-plan. Indeed, around this time he is planning a 6+ month leave from the army following his wedding, which they were at this time anticipating for early November at the latest. Philip Schuyler is in and out of headquarters, likely contributing to the wedding talk, and McHenry also likely composes and send his wedding poem to AH at this time. In the above 6Sept1780 letter to ES is also where he composed these lines subsequently crossed out: 

Do you know my sensations when I see the sweet characters from your hand? Yes you do, by comparing [them] with your [own] for my Betsey [loves] me and is [acquainted] with all the joys of fondness. [Would] you [exchange] them my dear for any other worthy blessings? Is there any thing you would put in competition[,] with one glowing [kiss] of [unreadable], anticipate the delights we [unreadable] in the unrestrained intercourses of wedded love, and bet your heart joins mine in [fervent] [wishes] to heaven that [all obstacles] and [interruptions] May [be] speedily [removed].

So this is what we have of AH’s headspace re ES around this time: romantic, quite lustful, eager to be married to her. 

Before my analysis, I encourage comparison to the content, tone and language in AH’s letter to Laurens of 12Sept1780. Especially towards the end of that letter, AH is notably direct about his feelings and emotions, even confessional. This is the emotionally honest AH, complaining about the conditions of the army.

Yet AH wrote Laurens again only four days later, having received a letter that he must have felt he needed to promptly respond to: “I wrote you fully by the post and have just time to tell you that I have received your letter of the 8th.” In this 16Sept1780 letter, AH is friendly, but the confessional aspect is missing. Whatever was in that 8Sept1780 letter has upset him a bit, which we will see below. Breaking it down: 

I wrote you fully by the post and have just time to tell you that I have received your letter of the 8th.1 & that tomorrow morning I set out with the General for Hartford to an interview with the French General and Admiral.2 My hopes increase, that Guichen is coming to enable us to act.3 For your own sake, for my sake, for the public sake, I shall pray for the success of the attempt4 you mention; that you may have it in your power to act with us. But if you should be disappointed, bear it like a man; and have recourse, neither to the dagger, nor to the poisoned bowl, nor to the rope.

AH is urging Laurens to not attempt an honorable death, and in poetic terms. If suicide was AH’s serious concern, I doubt he would phrase it so cutely: “the poisoned bowl.” I also don’t think the rest of the letter would continue in the tone or with the content it does, with the frequent references to AH’s fiancee and his wedding.

That you can speak only of your private affairs shall be no excuse for your not writing frequently. Remember that you write to your friends, and that friends have the same interests, pains, pleasures, sympathies; and that all men love egotism.

AH is reminding Laurens to write - to his friends - which I do not think he’d spend time doing if he were seriously concerned Laurens was suicidal. 

In spite of Schuylers black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for my friends [above insert] you; so your impatience to have me married is misplaced; -  a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now. 

This is the first (and only) letter where AH refers to Laurens’ impatience to see him married. Within the context of what was going on in early September - McHenry sending the poem to AH about his wedding, AH discussing his planned leave, AH expressing elsewhere that marriage and military service should not mix - also see this post also linked below on “Empire of Hymen” - I suspect talk about AH’s upcoming wedding - which they had at this time planned for late October/early November - had reached Laurens. 

We can only guess that there was a “hurry up and get married so you cease to be preoccupied with your wedding to her and can focus on Army/public goals” notion in the missing 8Sept1780 letter, perhaps also in response to AH’s 12Sept1780 letter where he was clearly openly expressing his troubles. Perhaps Laurens felt once AH was married to ES, his frustration would lessen, although we cannot be sure. In this conjecture, I am informed by both Laurens’ and the Marquis de Lafayette’s examples of husbands who certainly placed military duty over matrimony. But does AH share this belief? AH expressed the following sentiments to ES (20Jul1780): “I hope for a decisive campaign. No one will desire it more than me; for a military life is now grown insupportable to me because it keeps me from all my soul holds dear.” 

Next phrase: 

a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted [missing prepositional phrase] than I am now.

Notice the “as if” - as in, it’s really bizarre that this would be suggested. Based on the sentence structure, there are three things that could be the object of this phrase:

1. “a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted to the public than I am now.” We already know he intends to be less devoted to the public - this is repeated by him in letters often enough during this time and the next two years. 

2. “a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted to you than I am now.” Getting married will naturally reflect less devotion to Laurens, so it’s hardly a strange cure. It would be a very obvious (attempt at) a cure, nothing “strange” about it. Further, I don’t see evidence that AH showed much devotion to Laurens post-ES’s entrance into AH’s life. I think the strongest reason for this interpretation is that “you” [Laurens] is the last in the list. 

But there’s also another problem with this interpretation - AH wrote “In spite of Schuylers black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for my friends [above insert] you; so your impatience...” The “you” is edited in by AH (we assume). AH probably initially wrote that sentence as follows: 

In spite of Schuylers black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for my friends; so your impatience to have me married is misplaced; -  a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted than I am now.

I don’t think it’s likely he was arguing that matrimony would be a strange cure to devotion to his friends, either. (AH will plead in letters to his friends dated from 1781 and 1782 that either his matrimonial occupations or family matters or his studies to support his family have delayed his writing to them.) But the [you] as an insert above the sentence makes the argument that he was referring to Laurens specifically even more doubtful when he wrote the full sentence.  

3. “a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted to her than I am now.” Unusual sentence structure apparent, “to her” is the only logical reading of this phrase. The usual promise of matrimony is to be devoted to one’s spouse - it’s a “strange cure” to suggest that matrimony would make one less devoted. Marrying ES certainly would be a “strange cure” to devotion to her. AH is writing that he still has a part for the public and for friends Laurens so there’s no reason to be impatient about his wedding, but getting married will be no cure for a devotion to ES. About a year later, AH writes to EH that he’s not even factoring in the public anymore and intends to “[devote] myself wholly to you.”

I have noticed how often the very next line is skipped in books although it’s a context clue for the prior sentence. But it starts “Let me tell you,” i.e., make special note of this; let me make this clear to you; this is important:

Let me tell you, that I intend to restore the empire of Hymen and that Cupid is to be his prime Minister.

AH is expressing the type of marriage that he plans to have - one of strong romantic/erotic attachment within the “sacred ties” of matrimony that Hymen binds. He is telling Laurens to take note that his marriage will fit within the ideals of the companionate marriage: AH intends to restore the land of the god of marriage (Hymen), where the god of love/romance (Cupid) will lead. Hymen and Cupid were common images of an ideal companionate marriage - Hymen joins the partners in sacred bands; Cupid ensures their romantic/erotic attachment to each other. People had jewelry (wedding bracelet ca NYC 1785), medallions, even performances with persons costumed as Cupid and Hymen as part of their wedding celebrations. The chaste, morally scrupulous John Adams used the phrase “Cupid by Hymen was crown’d” to express this ideal of marriage and romantic love joined. Humorous and somewhat bawdy poems were written expressing fear that Cupid and Hymen would not be attendants to one’s marriage (leading to an indifferent sex life), or Cupid kindling the torch of Hymen (ensuring love and romance within marriage). 

Laurens would have gotten the reference right away. Once one understands the Cupid and Hymen reference, it’s even more obvious that the object of devotion in the prior sentence is ES. 

AH is also making clear - let me tell you - that his marriage is not a cynical endeavor just so he can rise in station through a family connection, but one that he intends to fit to the ideal marriage. In the next several lines, AH continues to present Laurens with images of his own attachment and partnership with ES.   [An aside: “Cupid and Hymen” was also the title of a published 1775 fable by Thomas Paine or Philip Freneau (authorship unclear) that was an attempt at allegory to the British and its colonies.]

 I wish you were at liberty to transgress the bounds of Pensylvania.

One could think this is a bawdy reference, and for awhile I thought AH meant it in a “violation of religious obligations” sense (since he is using other religious terms in this and other letters to Laurens), but considering AH’s other usages of the word “transgress,” I think he simply meant to do something illegal - violate parole. 

 I would invite you after the fall to Albany to be witness to the final consummation. 

I think there’s some wordplay in “after the fall”, referencing religious terminology - echoing the fall of man because of a woman - that reflects phrases he’s used in letters to Laurens re ES before, “my doom,” “guilty,” “confess my sins.” AH is trying to get some wordplay about the time of year and his “fall” into this relationship with ES that also makes him unworthy to be a soldier (or weak, as McHenry described it). The sentiment is similar to one who uses about a month later in a letter to ES: 

I would not have you imagine Miss that I write to you so often either to gratify your wishes or to please your vanity; but merely to indulge myself and to comply with that restless propensity of my mind, which will not allow me to be happy when I am not doing something in which you are concerned. This may seem a very idle disposition in a philosopher and a soldier; but I can plead illustrious examples in my justification. Achilles had liked to have sacrificed Greece and his glory to his passion for a female captive; and Anthony lost the world for a woman.  AH to ES, 13Oct1780

I have written about final consummation a lot, as it has specific meaning that is not “sexual consummation.” To summarize, the meaning of this sentence, using the final consummation metaphor, is “I would invite you after the fall [of man because of a woman] to Albany to witness [the end of the world/the consummation of all things in Christ].” AH is drawing a sharp line between his life pre- and post-nuptials - emphasizing how it will be forever changed in a manner comparable to major religious events in the Christian tradition - actually comparing it to the culminating event of unity between God and the world in Christian belief. He’s also taking the opportunity to reference his wedding and invite Laurens to witness this change, possibly in case he has any doubts about AH’s sincerity for his life-changing marriage.   

My Mistress is a good girl, and already loves you because I have told her you are a clever fellow and my friend; but mind, she loves you a l’americaine not a la françoise.

AH states that ES is a good partner for him and lets Laurens know that he has already disclosed his friendship with Laurens to ES (he refers to Laurens as “My Laurens” in an earlier letter to her); and he’s bragging here about how much influence he has over ES (she loves you because I’ve told her you are clever and you are my friend) and showing their unity in these matters. AH is also letting Laurens know that her love for the latter is not romantic/sexual. But with the Hymen/Cupid use, the “consummation” reference, and the reference to “Schuyler’s black eyes” - noting something he finds attractive about her - AH could have just written “In spite of Miss Schuyler,...” - AH shows how much HE thinks about romantic/sexual engagement with ES (which we already know from his letters to her from this period, in addition to the reference about how sexually pleasing ES is to him in his 30June1780 letter to Laurens). AH was also jealous at the thought of another man watching her sleep in his own dream and wanted her sister to report on every flirtation. He had some pretty strict notions of chastity and fidelity for ES. 

Adieu, be happy, and let friendship between us be more than a name

A Hamilton

The General & all the lads send you their love [skipping the post-script]

AH’s sign-off, if Laurens hadn’t already gotten the point throughout the entire letter, is also a pretty strong “Be happy, you’re my friend and let’s not be men who just call each other friends.” With all of its allusions to life-changing events, romantic/sexual love in marriage, and references to ES, this letter is providing Laurens with AH’s framework of his life moving forward. AH felt this was so important for Laurens to understand that he provided a response only four days after his prior letter, likely because he knows (or suspects - we are really missing a lot by missing the earlier letter) that Laurens has heard about AH’s planned lengthy leave, his thoughts (with Meade) about leaving the army entirely, and so on. 

Given the timing of this letter, AH clearly thinks that two things are important to tell Laurens-  1) that his own marriage is not some cynical endeavor and it will take priority in his life; 2) that Laurens will continue to have a role to play as his friend. 

However, AH is evading directly telling Laurens about his (now seriously wavering) commitment to continuing with the military duties he currently has, and public life (although this was perhaps in another letter, now lost). AH wants to get a command and then get out and go about the business of supporting a family with ES. All these references to his marriage and relationship with ES show where his focus is, while not outright revealing his career and life plans - take an extended leave, get married, study the law, try to get a command*, then leave the army - that he does in his letters to others. I speculate that he’s concerned that Laurens will be, at the least, disappointed in him, which is also reflected in all the dire language in this and the June letter to Laurens about guilt and doom, confessing his sins, the fall of man and the end of the world. His fear that Laurens will think less of him is very real; thus, all the emphasis on their friendship, while not confessing outright his plans to leave the army entirely if he doesn’t get his way. After about two years of disappointments, AH is enticingly close to the solution to many of his problems, both personal and professional, and analytically-driven as he was, has formulated a new life plan that puts him in a different sphere from Laurens. 

There have been questions raised about why this letter isn’t quoted in every recent biography of AH to communicate something about his relationship with Laurens. My response is that once one understands the references, it’s not that interesting of a letter except for AH’s wordplay and use of mythological/religious allusions. The statements he makes here are consistent with the statements he makes in his letters to ES in 1780 and through the following year - there are numerous other examples of him writing emotionally about his marriage, his feelings for ES and his devotion to her, and how life-changing her entrance into his has been and the plan he hatches to get his way/get out of the army. Flexner quotes this letter, but also includes an insert: “a strange cure by the way, as if after matrimony I was to be less devoted [to her] than I am now.” There are others that cut off the quote before “Let me tell you,” I suspect because the author doesn’t know the allusion. 

Back to the beginning of this letter, considering how AH goes on to Laurens with references to his wedding and feelings for ES, it’s difficult to believe he really thought Laurens was suicidal - the expression seems more poetic than anything. 

Links to prior posts, some already linked above:

AH on marriage Part 1, Part 2, engagement timeline, Part 3, Part 4, more about AH, McHenry, and Pope, AH telling JL about his engagement and the timeline, some more about AH/Laurens and public service , AH’s views that marriage and military service should not mix that links most of the other posts too. 

*AH’s desire to have proved himself in combat remains, likely because he sees that his influence in his future career will be embellished by having been a war hero. Here are some references: 

Sometime last fall when I spoke to your Excellency about going to the Southward, I explained to you candidly my feelings with respect to military reputation, and how much it was my object to act a conspicuous part in some enterprise that might perhaps raise my character as a soldier above mediocrity. AH to GW 22Nov1780

You know I shall hate to be nominally a soldier. AH to Greene, 19Apr1781

He would remain a hawk throughout his life.

[the-beatles-burd]

Hello hello, I’ve been in the Beatles fandom since early 2018 (February if I recall correctly!) and before that briefly recalled seeing a lot of Beatles Cartoon posts in 2017! I was mostly into the cartoon from 2018-2021 but since 2022-Present have been really into beatle history in general. I would consider it a special interest because of how much I come back to the Beatles and their related media lol! But my question lies here: what was the tumblr side of the beatles/beatles cartoon fandom like? I’ve long since wondered since the cartoons boom of popularity seems to have come from here (on tumblr I mean!) I’ve even seen a few posts from a select few artists who have drawn fanart for it as early as mid-late 2016! I just think it’s very cool! I know you yourself have “lore” for what you posted back then?? Please tell me everything you know…I really am interested! I’m sending this anonymously for now, but if you’d like to chat I can shoot you a message on here or on discord (if you’ve got it!).

Thank you for the ask! I discovered and only participated in The Beatles Cartoon Lore from August 2017 to February 2022 (this being the main timeframe for me). I very rarely ever participated early on due to social anxiety, but became more active during its decline on tumblr sometime late 2018.

I don't have a say in the Cartoon and Larger fandom as a whole because as I discovered the cartoon back in 2017, then saw the lore and became so interested in it and focused on it more than the band and normal cartoon.

There where a few lore discord servers to my knowledge, but I never joined any except for the one I made sometime late 2018 left in 2020 and came back to it officially this year.

I have been trying to document lore posts for a while now on @beatlescartoonlore-info-archive but has been hard due people deleting their blogs and how infrequent i search

While I have no idea how the lore started, the general consensus is you find cryptids in the Cartoon from weird in-between frames, animation errors, or other video oddities ect. and give them a name, lore, and how they interact with the world and with other cryptids. I have been trying to write my lore for my cryptids dispite taking a partial break from it since 2022 to earlier this year. I've made a non beatle cryptid before. It's a spongebob cryptid who's seemingly always at every gate letting people in and out.

My blog for that is the story is @stolencryingsouls

I have a few cryptids. My most recognizable in the lore are @psychic-john and @eaternoid. Psyon being my first and Eater Noid coming from a conversation on said discord server. I mostly use a crow who wears a train engineer hat to represent myself in the lore and i often just photoshop it.

I do have discord, but I mostly use it to play games with my siblings now a days