#i just suddenly had the vision for the happiness one and it spiralled from there Tumblr posts

[farannir]

evermore (2020) lyrics that punched me in the gut and/or embraced me in the warmest of hugs

[fortheloveofwonderland]

No Distance Left to Run | Part 1 | S.R

Next Part

Chapter Summary - Truth or Dare? A harmless teenage game gone wrong when spoken by the man holding you hostage. And when you’re feeling for your best friend come to light after fifteen years, how will you and Spencer cope in the aftermath?

Pairing - Spencer Reid / BAU Fem! Readers

Category - friends to lovers | mutual pining | angst with happy ending | smut minors DNI

Warnings - spoilers for 14.15 Truth or Dare and mentions of 13.17 The Capilanos, canon compliant hostage situation, guns, brief mention of Maeve, drinking, arguing, very brief mention of past drug addiction and prison arc, hints at domestic violence, burns.

WC - 8.7k

Part 1 - Truth or Dare?

The world stood still. For what could have only equated to five seconds, the world stood still. 

Five seconds somehow felt like an entire lifetime, where all outside stimuli faded from vision, sounds disappearing before they could hit eardrums. The way his wrists and knee and the rest of his body had ached and throbbed just moments ago slipped away. 

The world stood still. All he could see was you and all he could hear were the words you’d spoken five seconds before that had caused the earth to suddenly stop turning on its axis with the weight of them. 

For five seconds, which felt like five hours, he saw the last fifteen years flash before his eyes. Every subtle glance, every tiny smile; every accidental touch. Every word ever shared between the two of you that he’d catalogued in his brain came spiralling forth, flooding his senses to the point he wasn’t sure he could breathe.

For five seconds it was simply you and him and those words you’d spoken at the worst possible time. But you’d said it. And he heard it. He just had no idea what he was supposed to do with it now. 

There was once a time when hearing those words spoken from your lips to his ears was all he had ever wanted. He’d imagined you saying them to him more times than was healthy, so often in fact there were instances in which he actually managed to convince himself you had said them. 

But you never had. Not until now. 

And now he had no idea how he was supposed to begin processing those words, especially in the situation in which you had finally spoken the one thing he’d always wanted to hear you say. 

He wanted to respond, he wanted to tell you he felt the same, he’d always felt the same. For fifteen long years he’d carried his unrequited feelings for you like a led weight upon his shoulders. They’d dragged him down a little more each day, at this point he found he was almost entirely buried under the burden of his feelings.

And then you’d gone and said that and he didn’t know how he was supposed to respond. 

The words were spinning and turning, ruminating in his brain and he forgot for those five seconds where you were and what was going on around you. He stopped trying to cut through the tape binding his wrists, stopped thinking about getting to his ankle hostler.

He stopped thinking about the crazed unsub standing just three feet away brandishing a gun at the both of you, his sick and twisted game of Truth or Dare coming to an abrupt end with the uttering of those. 

“Spence, uh...I have always loved you. I was too scared to say it before... and now things are just really too complicated to say it now. I'm sorry, but you should know.” 

It froze his blood in his veins, causing his heart to physically skip a beat. It caused it to fall completely out of a normal rhythm and erratically thump against his chest as though trying to break free and crawl across the floor to you. 

The tears in your eyes as you spoke those words told him it was true no matter how much easier it would be for him to pretend otherwise. 

Your statement caused the air to grow thicker and he felt like he was going to choke on it. The words had left your lips, wrapping around his throat and gripping him firmly with their talons. 

For five long, lingering seconds Spencer Reid was lost in his memories, looking at you across the bullpen on his twenty-fourth birthday, whispering to Gideon, “do you know she’s the only person in the world who calls me ‘Spence’?” 

He was on the jet, Gideon giving him movie tickets to see the new Harry Potter movie while Spencer tried to hide his frown of confusion from his mentor.

“You know who’s a huge Harry Potter fan?”

“Who?”

“The only person in the world who calls you ‘Spence’.”

He’d wanted to tell you that night as the two of you stood on the sidewalk outside the theatre before you’d even seen the movie that he was in love with you. He almost had told you, almost let the words just come tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

But he’d been stopped short by the sounds of heels on the concrete getting closer and then her voice cut him off before he’d even gotten out a single word.

“Sorry, sorry I’m late, I know.” Penelope Garcia tottered towards the two of you, pushing her bangs back off her face.

“It’s ok, it doesn’t start for another ten minutes.” You smiled as you embraced her. 

Spencer looked dumbly between you and Garcia, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows so high they almost hit his hairline.

“Happy birthday, boy wonder.” Garcia grinned at him.

“Uh…” He swallowed thickly. “Thanks?”

“Shall we?” You motioned towards the front door of the movie theatre and Garcia nodded, taking the lead.

You hung back a little, looking at the confusion that was still spreading across the young genius's face.

“You don’t mind, do you? Penelope loves Harry Potter almost as much as I do.” 

“Of course I don’t mind. Why would I mind?” He shook it off but was quickly pushing past you inside. 

It had been at that exact moment you’d realised that night was supposed to be a date. The look on Spencer’s face when he’d seen Penelope haunted you for years. You’d missed the signs, signs that seemed so glaringly obvious when you’d looked back on them.

But you were green then, still new at profiling and you had completely missed his overt cues. But by then it was too late to do anything about it. 

The night had been filled with a heavy tension for which Garcia had been oblivious to. And no matter how many times you tried to talk to Spencer about it afterwards, you could never quite get the words out. 

Until now. 

There had been far too many blockers in the way over the years for you to ever be able to tell him how you felt. You’d thought by this point you never would utter those words to him, after all this time it was easier to just keep them to yourself.

But then Pinkner had made you confess your biggest secret, a secret you’d never told anyone. Telling your best friend of fifteen years you’d always loved him certainly fit the bill.

You could still sense the gun pointing at you, still feel Pinkner’s wild eyes on the side of your face as you stared at your rightfully confused and hurt friend. Spencer’s lip almost immediately started to quiver the smallest amount, barely conceivable to the naked eye. His brow furrowed in a painful kind of uncertainty. 

You couldn’t tell whether he believed you or not and maybe it was for the best if he didn’t. As long as Pinkner was convinced by it, you might make it out of here alive. But if you did survive this, what would that mean for you and Spencer? Had you effectively destroyed all those years of friendship with one stupid admittance?

In that small five second window of time after your confession, you were taken back over ten years, transported to that night in Rossi’s kitchen.

You heard the footsteps approaching from behind as you leant against the granite countertop and somehow you already knew it would be him. Maybe after four years of working together, of spending so much time together, you knew his footsteps as well as your own.

You slowly turned to face him, your melancholy smile mirrored on his own lips. You saw his shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath. 

“I should have told you first.” You rolled your lip between your teeth. “Before the rest of the team, I should have told you first. I owed you that much.” 

“Y/N,” he sighed your name. “You don’t owe me anything.” 

“I owed you more than this.” You folded your arms over your chest as he got closer. 

The chatter from the team in the yard filtered in through the open window but neither of you really heard it and if you did you didn’t register it. 

“I’m happy for you.” He shrugged, stepping a little closer to you. 

“Are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? You’re my best friend.” He cautiously reached for you, his large hands wrapping around your left wrist and untucking your arm from your body. 

He held you loosely, bringing your hand into view, or more specially what was adorned on your hand. 

“Spencer?” You swallowed as tears threatened to flood your vision. 

He glanced up from the diamond on your finger to meet your gaze. 

“Yes Y/N?” He let go of your wrist and slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. 

“Tell me I’m making a mistake.” The words just fell out, crashing around Spencer like a tidal wave. 

You saw his jaw tighten, his back got a little straighter but his expression barely changed. 

“Do you think you’re making a mistake?” 

“You tell me.” You swallowed again. “Am I marrying the wrong man, Spence?” 

He felt then much like he did now. Blindsided. Frozen in fear of what your words could mean for him. Completely and utterly lost. 

Before he’d had a chance to respond to you, Emily had appeared from the yard in search of more wine and your conversation went unfinished. 

His answer would have been a simple one, yet one he never would have said out loud. Yes. Yes you were marrying the wrong man. Of course you were marrying the wrong man. 

But while you were distracted by Emily and her hunt for alcohol, he’d slipped away and the conversation never had a chance to end. 

You’d seen Emily’s interruption as divine intervention. Her showing up when she did was like a sign from the universe that you and Spencer’s time had long since passed you by. 

But realistically it was always eventually going to come to the surface. Over the years it had been buried deep, thrown to the bottom of the ocean with a cinder block tied around it. 

Slowly but surely it had risen, a few feet a year perhaps. And finally it had surfaced, all those long lost feelings emerging from the depths while a mad man held you both at gunpoint. 

Five seconds. Five simple seconds and all those years of memories begged to be seen, to be felt. But soon those quiet seconds were over and you were both brought back to reality by the hideous sound of maniacal laughter. 

“Goddamn…that’s what I’m talking about.” Pinkener chuckled wildly, revealing in the looks on both of your faces. “Those are some last words right there. But not good enough to save your life.” 

You both turned back to him as he was levelling the barrel of the gun between your eyes. 

Spencer had less than a second to make his move, to carry out his plan to perfection otherwise the last words he would ever hear from your lips were that you’d always loved him. 

He tore through the remains of his binds in a fraction of that second and in another he was able to unsheath his hidden firearm in his ankle holster, raise the weapon and shoot Pinkner dead. 

Comparatively next to the last painfully slow five seconds, this happened so fast. One minute you were staring death in the face and the next you were looking back at Spencer, duct tape hanging limply from his wrists and the smoking gun in his hands. 

As the tears finally broke free, Spencer had to keep his at bay, lock them away like he’d done so many times before. He slotted his gun away and helped you to your feet, cutting away the duct tape still binding your wrists together. 

In the moments before the BAU breached the room, you turned to him, wiping your eyes, questioning him without the use of words. Your words had done enough damage. 

He simply stared back at you, his own eyes conveying the confusion and pain your statement had caused him. 

You opened your mouth as if you might speak but anything you might have said died somewhere on your throat. 

I’m sorry. 

I shouldn’t have said that. 

Please don’t look at me that way. 

I am so, so sorry. 

He inhaled, his whole frame going rigid like he could hear the words you weren’t saying. His eyes asked you if you meant it. Your silence told him you had. 

You were torn apart by the sound of a door crashing against its hinges and suddenly Matt, Rossi and Tara descended on the room. 

You forced yourself to look away from the broken hearted, doe eyed man you’d called your best friend for almost a decade and a half. 

You snapped back into action, turning your back on Spencer while you informed the others what had happened. You could feel Spencer’s eyes on the back of your head.

He couldn’t bring himself to snap back around the way you had and he watched you attend to one of the shooting victims as though you hadn’t just blown his whole world up.

Maybe you hadn’t meant it. If you’d meant it you would still be stuck in a state of complete paralysis like he was. 

Somehow you both found yourself back outside on the street, the cool night air attempting to cleanse you both of the previous activities. As you stood by the ambulance with Rossi, arms wrapped protectively around your body, you couldn’t keep the tears from your eyes. 

Glancing back at the building you’d been held hostage in, you could feel the piece of your heart that you’d left behind in there. 

***

2005 

You seemed to float into the bullpen, your feet never touching the ground as you were some kind of angel with no wings. Spencer couldn’t help the way he stared at you, not so subtly as you entered at Gideon’s side. 

Both Gideon and Hotch had mentioned hiring a new agent to round out the team, but in Spencer’s wildest dreams he couldn’t have predicted the way that new agent would cause his heart to feel as though it had flatlined.

“Yo, pretty boy?” Morgan’s teasing tone snapped Spencer’s eyes away from where they followed you through the room.

He hadn’t registered that you and Gideon stopped in front of them, looking between him, Morgan and JJ while Spencer did very little to cover up the way he was staring at you like you were an apparition plucked straight from his dreams.

“Huh?” Spencer looked to his left where Morgan watched him curiously, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Let’s not make the new girl feel uncomfortable on her very first day.” Morgan laughed and Spencer heard JJ snicker from somewhere behind him. 

He was acutely aware Morgan was speaking more than loud enough for both Gideon and yourself to hear. 

A harsh blush suddenly leapt to his cheeks, turning him a bright shade of red. He shrunk in his chair, half wishing the item of furniture might swallow him completely. 

“I wasn’t…I wasn’t…” he mumbled, unable to form a full sentence given all the amused gazes which now lay upon him. 

“Don’t mind him,” JJ spoke up, her tone light and playful. “He doesn’t get out much.” 

Spencer somehow sunk deeper into his chair, wondering if perhaps he could just crawl under his desk and hide there instead. 

Just as he was considering it, an angelic laugh met his ears and he was frozen in place. His eyes moved back to you of their own volition and he drank in the way your lips were parted, eyes half closed as you let out that magnificent sound. 

It was the easiest, sweetest laugh he’d ever heard, a sound that he felt reaching towards him, wrapping him in its warm embrace. It reminded him of Christmas morning when his mother was lucid. It evoked memories of cosy fall evenings, sprinkled donuts, dimly lit library’s surrounded by stacks of old books. His favourite things in the whole world, that’s what your laugh conjured. 

“Everyone this is our new agent Y/N Y/L/N, please can you all make her feel welcome. Not too welcome though, ok, Reid?” Gideon shot him a somewhat nettled look, which once again sent Spencer spiralling into a pit of his own awkwardness. 

“Got it,” he finally spoke, his voice multiple octaves higher than usual. 

Morgan scoffed a laugh, clearly noticing how the young genius sounded like he was going through puberty all over again. 

Gideon nodded before taking his leave, heading up the stairs towards his office whilst leaving you with the three other agents. 

You played with your hands in discomfort, not quite knowing what to do with yourself. You’d been thrown in at the deep end, plucked straight out of the academy by Jason Gideon himself and now you’d been thrown to the lions. 

JJ pushed herself up from where she’d been leaning on an empty desk and she approached you slowly, as if you were a frightened deer who might retreat back into the woods if she startled you. 

Maybe you would. 

“It’s nice to meet you, and welcome to the team. I’m Jennifer but you can call me JJ, everyone does. I’m the Communications Liaison here.” She held out a hand for you to shake, an amicable smile on her face that reached all the way to her bright blue eyes. 

“It’s nice to meet you too.” You shook her hand. 

“And these are SSA’s Derek Morgan and Doctor Spencer Reid.” She pointed over her shoulder at the two men. 

SSA Derek Morgan smiled at you, a confident kind of smile with his broad arms folded across an even bigger chest. 

“Welcome to the team, Y/L/N.” He nodded in your direction. 

“Thanks.” You replied before glancing back at Doctor Spencer Reid. 

The poor kid was sinking so low in his chair you could barely see his face over his desk. His cheeks were still flushed bright red and he raised one arm, offering you an awkward wave. 

“Hi,” he squeaked, making no attempt to sit back up. 

He was around your age despite the fact his oversized sweater vest begged to contradict that. His reputation preceded him, you’d heard all the stories of the genius being the youngest ever recruit to the BAU, even having exceptions made due to his lack of physical prowess. 

You had no idea he’d be so damn cute. 

You’d soon come to learn you had a surprising amount in common with him. And once the teasing from Morgan died down about his blatant crush on you, Spencer was able to start talking to you without his voice breaking every time he opened his mouth. 

But he had a distinct suspicion that his feelings for you wouldn’t just go away overnight. He’d known from the first time he looked at you that you were different from any other childish crush he’d had before. 

However he never would have dreamed that fifteen years later he’d still be as hung up on you as the day he met you.

***

Present Day

Rossi patted your shoulder and offered you a slightly sorrowful smile, as if apologising for what you’d been through when you both knew it wasn’t his fault. 

When he walked away, your eyes found Spencer. He was several feet away near the curb, his eyes cast down at his hand that was being wrapped in gauze by a paramedic. It felt like it was killing him to keep his eyes off of you and somehow you knew he sensed your eyes on him. 

He had his other hand in his pocket, his body leaning up against a cop car. His jaw was set from the moment your eyes landed on him like your gaze made him uncomfortable. 

You looked away from him, physically having to tear your eyes away, a split second before his own eyes flicked up in your direction. 

He’d been right the first time he’d laid eyes on you, he’d been right in thinking you were different from any other childish crush he’d had before. Because fifteen years down the line and he was still implausibly in love with you. 

But you weren’t supposed to feel the same. Not that he hadn’t pictured you confessing your feelings for him hundreds of times before but he’d never believed it to be a real possibility. 

Over the years he’d tried to move past his feelings, hoping that if he ignored them for long enough they would simply cease to exist. Or at the very least he could stop focusing on it all the time.

He’d finally gotten to a point in his life where he’d accepted the fact the two of you were never going to be together, stopped clinging so tightly to the idea of his happy ending with you. 

And now you’d gone and said those words and he didn’t know how he was supposed to begin reconciling that. 

From twenty three years old to here at thirty nine, Spencer’s whole world had revolved around you. He had no doubts you were the reason he’d never managed to settle down, maybe somewhere in his mind he’d always been secretly waiting on a life with you. 

Even with Maeve, sweet, wonderful Maeve, he knew it wasn’t the same. Even if she hadn’t met her end in the tragic way that she had he was sure it never would have worked between them because she wasn’t you. He loved Maeve, but he loved you more. 

He’d stood on the sidelines and watched as you met someone, settled down and started a life with him, not giving Spencer a second thought. If it was true that you’d always loved him, how could you have had that with someone else? 

And if it wasn’t true, how could you be so cruel? 

“You ok, Reid?” 

Spencer snapped out his daze, casting his eyes away from where they’d been watching the back of your retreating head as you walked towards one of the SUV’s with Emily and Tara.

He was still leaning up against the cop car, holding his right hand out as if the paramedic were still bandaging him. It was only now he realised the paramedic was long gone. 

He turned his hand over, inspecting the binding which was protecting the six butterfly stitches the paramedic applied to the cut on his palm. It probably hurt, somewhere in the back of his mind there was a pain receptor blinking rapidly in alert but he barely noticed it.

“Yeah,” he nodded, finally looking at Luke. “Weird day.” 

“Two guns, huh?” Luke nudged his shoulder. 

“You called it.” Spencer shrugged stiffly. 

“How long have you been wearing an ankle holster?”

“Around the time I got out of prison.”

“Right,” Luke nodded a little sadly. “Well, you saved Y/N’s life, so I’d say it was a pretty good thing you were packing a second weapon.” 

At the mention of your name Spencer’s eyes snapped back in the direction you’d been walking, expecting you to be inside the SUV already but you weren’t. You hovered by the open door of the vehicle, Tara and Emily now nowhere in sight. 

You were observing him, your previous tears still clouding your eyes and despite the distance between the two of you he could see them. 

You knew when you confessed your secret it was the worst possible thing you could have said but it was the only real thing you had to say. 

You could tell by his downturned expression, his usually vivid eyes so empty as he stared at you, that you’d hurt him beyond belief. 

What you’d said had been selfish, you knew that. Your time had come and gone. You’d had countless opportunities to tell Spencer how you felt before now, before things got this complicated. 

Perhaps it would hurt him less if you lied to him and told him you didn’t mean it. 

From inside the SUV Tara called your name and you broke eye contact with him and made yourself slide into the back seat. 

Spencer continued to stare at the spot you’d just been occupying. Just out of reach, you’d always been just out of reach. In turn he pushed himself away from the cop car and followed Luke toward the other SUV where the older man offered him the front seat. 

Spencer climbed inside, careful not to do anything with his bandaged right hand and fumbled with getting his seatbelt on while Matt put the car in drive. 

In the back of the other SUV you were preoccupied with your own hands. More specifically, the thin silver wedding band on your left hand. 

***

2010 

You brought your glass of champagne up to your lips and sipped it delicately, careful not to smudge your recently applied lipstick. Behind you, Garcia was fussing around with your hair, clipping here, brushing there, and making small little appreciative noises as she did so. 

On the couch beneath the window, Emily and JJ lounged back with their own glasses of bubbly. 

“Have I ever mentioned how much I love weddings?” Emily mused with a slightly tipsy smile on her features.

“No Em, you love the excuse to drink champagne.” Garcia tittered, pinning another section of your hair. 

“Which is served mostly at weddings. Ergo, I love weddings.” Emily grinned. 

“Can someone cut her off?” You giggled into your own glass. “I could really do without drunk bridesmaids.” 

“Good idea,” JJ agreed, snatching the glass out of Emily’s hand making the raven haired woman whine.

“Hey!” Emily made a grab for the glass but JJ held it out of reach. 

“You can drink as much as you like after the ceremony. You want to get down that aisle without tripping and making a scene.” JJ rolled her eyes, practically fighting Emily off. 

“I don’t make scenes.” Emily grumbled with a childish huff. 

“Because we don’t let you drink enough to make them.” You laughed and so did JJ and Penelope. 

There was a soft and tentative knock at the door just then and you turned over your shoulder towards the sound.

“Who is it?” Penelope spoke for you. 

“Man of honour reporting for duty.” His voice carried through the door.

“Enter at your own peril. We’re drunk and frisky.” Emily called with a loud cackle.

The door cautiously inched open and his head popped around the side of it, one eyebrow raised in concern. 

“We’ve cut her off, don’t worry.” JJ sighed, nodding her head at Emily. “I swear it's safe to come in.” 

The door opened further to allow him to enter. He limped inside, clutching his cane in one hand and leaning most of his weight on his good leg. You made eye contact with him and watched the way he swallowed a large lump in his throat. 

For a few seconds, the girls melted away and it was simply you and Spencer. His long hair had been tamed as much as he could, tucked behind his ears to keep it out of his face. He wore a black suit and crisp white button down paired with a black bowtie. He had a red rose boutonniere peeking out of his breast pocket. 

“Can we, uh…can we have the room?” Your voice cracked as you spoke but no one but you seemed to notice. 

“We should go and get dressed anyway.” Penelope agreed, nodding her head for JJ and Emily to stand. 

The other two women got to their feet and passed across the room. Before she left, Penelope gave your hand a soft squeeze in some kind of knowing way. 

Spencer hobbled aside for the three women to leave and approached you slowly. His smile was a little forlorn, not reaching his eyes which held a wealth of regret.

“You look absolutely incredible.” His voice was quiet and breathy, barely above a whisper. 

“I don’t even have my dress on yet, Spence.” You laughed a little, feeling like you could cry from the way he was looking at you if you didn’t.

Your hair and make-up was done but you only wore a pair of sweatpants and an old tank top. But Spencer was looking at you like you hung the moon, just like he always did. 

“Yet here we are,” he offered you the smallest glimpse of a smile and a soft, somewhat wistful sigh. “You’re still the most beautiful woman in the world.” 

Your eyes widened, tears desperately trying to spill out but you managed to sniff them back before they ruined your make-up. You felt your heart constrict in your chest. His words were so genuine, so sincere and for a second you forgot it wasn’t him you were marrying. 

“Spence…” you croaked, looking at him somewhat sadly.

“What? I’m not allowed to think you look beautiful on your wedding day?” He forced a laugh but it sounded nothing like it normally did. 

“Spencer I-” 

“I got you something.” He cut you off, his hand not clutching his cane diving into his inside pocket. 

Your eyebrows furrowed when he pulled out a rectangular, black velvet jewellery box. 

“What is this?” You chewed on the inside of your cheek, not taking the box from him.

“Open it and see.” He rolled his eyes, proffering it closer to you. 

You felt your hands start to tremble as you took it from his hand and hesitantly opened it. Nestled inside on a little silk cushion was a simple silver bracelet. You gently plucked it out of the box taking in the delicately small, golden snitch charm connecting the two ends of the band. 

In the middle of the bracelet were intricately etched words you recognised instantly from a conversation between Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape in The Deathly Hallows. 

“‘After all this time?’ ‘Always.'”

Your tears couldn’t be contained anymore as you looked back at him. Your heart was trying to escape your body, trying to reach for him, to hold him. You wanted to throw your arms around him and never let him go, the way you should have done so many years ago.

You didn’t need to ask him why, you already knew. When he’d found out how much loved Harry Potter he’d read all of the books in quick succession, over the years he’d accompanied you to see all the movies too. 

The Deathly Hallows had been released three years prior and he’d brought you a limited edition print of the book for your birthday. 

When you flicked through it, you’d found a post-it note on one of the pages with a little window cut out of it. Through the cut out was the same quote as was inscribed on the bracelet. 

Of course Spencer would never deface a book by highlighting it but he’d gone through great lengths for you to know this particular passage meant something to him. 

You’d asked him about it, while out for drinks with the team to celebrate your birthday, you’d asked him what it meant. 

“You know,” he simply replied. 

“Do I?” You frowned at him. 

“Fairly certain.” 

You didn’t have much time to ponder on what the sentiment behind it was as that night you’d ended up meeting Jared, your future husband. 

“I still don’t know that I understand what that means.” Your voice cracked and pitched. 

Spencer shook his head with a dry laugh, taking the bracelet from you. He leant his cane against his thigh so he could hook the band around your wrist and secure it for you. 

“If you don’t know by now, I guess it's too late.” He shrugged, his fingers lingering on your skin a moment longer than they needed to. 

“Why are you being so cryptic?” You cocked a brow at him.

“Usually when one receives a gift, the polite thing to do is say thank you.” He gripped his cane again, leaning his weight back on his non injured leg. 

Your eyes, still producing a few tears, flicked from your bracelet to him and back again in quick succession. 

“Th-thank you.” You sniffed. 

“You’re welcome. You should get dressed, it’s almost time.” 

“Spencer?” You spoke again before he even had a chance to turn around.

“Yes Y/N?” 

“You never did answer my question.”

“What question was that?” He narrowed his eyes on you. 

“The night I got engaged, I asked you if I was marrying the right man, am I?” 

A sharp breath left from between his parted lips and he wished more than anything else in the world he had the courage to tell you the truth. Secondly, he wished for any excuse to get out of answering you at all. 

He took a deep breath, and chose his words very carefully as he spoke. 

“The only answer I can give you is engraved on your bracelet.” He shrugged again.

“I don’t know what that means, Spencer!” You threw your arms up in the air in exasperation.

“The thing is,” he swallowed thickly. “You do know what it means. You know exactly what it means. I don't need to spell it out for you Y/N, because you already know. My saying it out loud isn’t going to change anything, it's only going to make me feel foolish. You need to get dressed and I need to go and start showing people to their seats. I’ll see you out there ok?” 

He didn’t give you a chance to respond before he was turning on his heels, shakily with the use of his cane, and hobbling back towards the door. 

When he opened it, an extremely suspicious JJ, Emily and Penelope stood on the other side now donning their matching sage green bridesmaids dresses and trying but failing to cover up the fact they had been attempting to eavesdrop. 

“Subtle,” Spencer rolled his eyes as he manoeuvred between them. 

“Not as subtle as you.” Emily rolled her eyes. 

When he turned back to her she had her arms folded across her chest in mild frustration. 

JJ and Penelope were nowhere to be seen and the door to the bridal suite was now closed, indicating they had gone inside. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Don’t ruin this for her.” Emily shook her head, ignoring his question. “You’ve had five years to tell her how you feel and you blew it. She’s happy, don’t ruin this for her.” 

Spencer sucked in a breath but before he could get his words out Emily was fleeing back into the room he’d just vacated. 

He was specifically trying not to ruin this for you. If he’d wanted to ruin your wedding day he would have told you exactly what he meant by it, even though he was sure you already knew. 

After all this time? Always.

I love you. After all this time? Always.

***

Present Day

Back at Quantico Spencer focused on writing his after action report despite the fact Emily had told him it could wait. He needed something to focus on that wasn’t you and what you’d said when you’d thought you were seconds away from death. 

Usually he wrote his case reports by hand, hating to prolong any computer use but the cut on his right hand meant he couldn’t hold a pen without causing it grief. 

Typing was slower, he hadn't mastered a keyboard from lack of use, so he jabbed at keys, painfully slowly but at least it kept him distracted. 

His whole body ached from the weight of the day. It was as though your words were pressing down on him, heavy and cumbersome trying to drag him down a rabbit hole from which he may never return. 

He had to stay focused. He had to concentrate on the report even if he did plan on leaving out your grandiose confession. 

It didn’t help matters, wouldn’t aid the directors to know exactly what had transpired between those walls. No one ever needed to know of the words you’d spoken to appease Pinkner. 

Because that’s all it had been. You’d needed to say something to get his attention and it had worked. You needed something startling enough that it would buy you some time.

You didn’t mean it. You couldn’t have meant it. You’d created a distraction so the two of you could get out of there alive. 

You’d helped save his life and shatter his heart all at once. 

If he was being perfectly honest with himself it would almost be worse if you had meant it. Because if you really had loved him all along how could you have committed yourself to another man? 

It wasn’t as though Spencer wasn’t available to you back then, he was nothing but available. He didn’t date because he was holding out hope of one day telling you how he felt. Sure there was that one kiss in the pool with Lila Archer and you’d barely spoken to him for weeks after, he never did understand that. 

Were you jealous? And if you were, why didn’t you just say something? 

Apart from that one incident, Spencer never even so much as looked at another woman for several years. He was there for you whenever you needed him and in whatever capacity you needed him to be. 

After a tough case he’d welcome you into his home, he’d answer calls in the middle of the night and pick you up from bars when you had too much to drink. 

He brought you your favourite coffee nearly every morning for years. He’d gone out of his way, extremely out of his way, to find you that copy of The Deathly Hallows for your birthday. 

He’d been so sure that night as you’d unwrapped it and looked at him with tears brimming in your sparkling eyes, that was the night he would win your heart. 

“Spence, hold up a sec,” you grabbed him by the wrist as he was heading towards the bathroom. 

“What’s up? Are you having a good birthday?” 

“The best.” You nodded, clutching your book to your chest in the crowded bar. “How did you find this?” 

“I have my ways.” He shrugged. “You like it?”

“Are you kidding me? I love it.” You smiled so sweetly at him he felt like his heart might explode. 

“Then it was worth it. I’d do anything to see you smile.” 

You exhaled through your nose, rolling your lip between your teeth. You edged closer to him and he caught the scent of your perfume. You opened the book to the page you’d found the post-it note stuck to with a small frown.

“What does this mean?” You asked curiously.

“You know,” he simply replied. 

“Do I?” You frowned at him. 

“Fairly certain.” He nodded. “Can I use the bathroom now?” 

“Yeah…” he nodded but your brows furrowed a little. 

“You sure? You look like you have something on your mind?” 

“I just want to thank you.”

“You have.” He chuckled but the seriousness of your expression curbed him. “Seriously, what’s up?” 

“I just…” you shook your head, suddenly moving even closer to him before you placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “Thank you.” 

Spencer was so gobsmacked by what had happened, even if it had just been a gentle peck it had rendered him breathless. 

He stared at you in hazy confusion, half wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing. 

You smiled somewhat bashfully at him, taking a few steps backwards. 

“You can go now.” You shrugged. 

“Go? Go where?” He frowned, feeling as though his brain had been replaced by a bowl of jelly. 

“The bathroom?” 

“Oh.” He nodded. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be right back.” 

He walked past you in daze, almost convinced that couldn’t have happened. But if that were true, why were his lips tingling?

Spencer looked away from the computer screen and rubbed his eyes with his palms roughly, trying to dispel any old memories which were hell bent on distracting him. 

He’d spent a long time in the bathroom that night, staring at his reflection and the tiny smudge of your lipstick left behind on his lips. 

He practised to an audience of one in the mirror what he was going to say to you, how exactly he would word the fact he’d been in love with you for two years. 

But he’d taken too long and by the time he’d rejoined the team you were across the room making out with the man who would soon be introduced to him and the other BAU members as Jared Haines. 

The man you would later marry. 

Once he was done violently rubbing his eyes he pushed his chair back from his desk. Slowly he got to his feet and glanced around. It was only then he realised he was alone. 

The bullpen was a ghost town and he was the sheriff. 

He had no recollection of anyone leaving, of saying goodbye or even looking up from the computer. Yet, he was the only one here. 

It had been such a long day. 

He shut down the computer and grabbed up his satchel before slinging it over his shoulder. He needed to at least try and get some rest even though he was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Tomorrow the team had been granted the day off for Rossi and Krystall’s wedding. But at that moment Spencer wasn’t even sure if he could bring himself to attend. 

As he forced his tired and aching limbs towards the elevators he checked his phone and saw a text message waiting to be read, time stamped several hours ago. 

He felt his chest constrict as he read it over in his head. He contemplated replying but he honestly didn’t have the energy. 

He slumped into the waiting elevator, reading it over once more before he put his phone away. With everything that had happened in the last few hours, she’d been the furthest thing from his mind. 

The guilt swam through his veins as he imagined what all of this could mean for her. And her simple message on his phone played on his tired mind all night. 

📱Max Brenner: Can’t wait for tomorrow, missed you xx

***

2018

“Hey, uh…is everything ok with you?” 

The light pooling through the crack in the blinds, casting its rays on the wooden table top had garnered your unwavering attention for the last five minutes. You were twirling your wedding band around your finger in absent-mindedness. 

“Hmm?” You tore your eyes away from the table and looked up at Spencer who was standing over you.

You’d found yourself in the small town of Guymon, Oklahoma, investigating a series of home invasion burglaries and murders with an interesting signature of the victims having their mouths cut at the corners. 

To make matters stranger their surviving victim, a seven year old boy, was convinced he saw a clown kill his dad. 

It was certainly a strange one. After nearly thirteen years with the BAU you’d thought you’d seen it all. But once again you were proven wrong. 

You glanced over Spencer’s shoulder at the board with all the details of the murder victims and a preliminary geographical profile Spencer had been working on. Your eyes lingered on the childish drawing of the clown which their surviving victim had sketched for them.

Spencer followed your gaze to the picture before looking back at you with a slightly wry smile. 

“You know there’s a word, even though it’s not recognised by any dictionary or psychology manual, for the excessive fears of clowns: coulrophobia.” 

You looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“I am not scared of clowns.” You tutted. 

“Something’s bothering you, you’ve been unusually quiet. I think something has been bothering you for a while.” He slid into the seat next to you.

The two of you were alone at the station while the rest of the team were following other leads. You and Spencer hadn’t really spent any time alone for a while, probably not since before his arrest in Mexico. You didn’t speak, so he continued.

“I noticed it when you came to see me in prison. Well that’s to say, I registered it but I didn’t realise I noticed it until much later on. You’ve been tense for a while now. I thought maybe it was because of my arrest or all the changes in the team, but I think it's more than that now.” He leant on the table closer to you, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny.

“Are you profiling me?” You spat a little harsher than you’d meant to. 

“I don’t know that it’s strictly classed as profiling when I know you so well.” 

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do. And clearly I don’t know you at all because I still even now can’t believe you managed to go to Mexico and get arrested without me having a clue what was going on.” You shoved your chair back, causing it to scrape across the wooden floor. 

“That’s what this is about?” Spencer stood up again moments after you did. “You’re still angry at me?” 

“I was never angry at you.” You shook your head. “We’re in the middle of a case, now is not the time.” 

“Make time.” He spat. “If I recall correctly I’m the one who spent three months in prison, not you. You don’t get to be angry because you couldn’t profile me and figure out what was going on.” 

“You think this is about my profiling skills?” You scoffed. 

“Isn’t it?” He stepped closer to you, a heavy frown on his features. 

“I’m not doing this now, Spencer.” You shook your head. 

“Just answer me! Why are you so angry at me? You’ve been hostile towards me since I was released and I don’t get it. We’re best friends, you should be able to talk to me.” 

“We’re not though, are we?” You shrugged limply. “Maybe once we were but we’re just not that close anymore, Spencer.”

“And who’s fault is that?” He bit back. “I always try to make plans but you always cancel on me.” 

“I have a life, Spencer! One that doesn’t revolve around you.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Yet when we go out for drinks as a team or if JJ or Emily or literally anyone who isn’t me asks you out, you never cancel. What have I done to upset you so much?” 

“Oh my gosh, not everything is about you, Spencer!” You hissed. “Maybe if you actually attempted to meet someone instead of following me around like a goddamn puppy all the time you’d understand. I have a family, Spencer. Jeez, stop being so codependent!”

You saw the way his whole body took the brunt of your harsh words. He stumbled a little on his feet, gasping for the breath you had caused to leave his lungs. His previously anger filled eyes turned sad, and he dragged his lip between his teeth.

“Wow.” He shook his head despondently. “Don’t hold back Y/N, say what you really mean.” 

“That, uh…that came out slightly crueller than I meant it to.” You retreated, trying to give Spencer your best apologetic look. 

“You think I don’t want what you have? You think I’m deliberately single? Surprisingly there isn’t a queue of women out the door wanting to date a neurotic, socially awkward, ex drug addict who spent three months in prison for suspicion of murder!” He raised his voice, you were glad the door was closed. 

Through the window of the office you noticed a few looks being sent your way by Guymon police officers who didn’t need to be profilers to read yours and Spencer’s body language. 

“Spencer, now really isn’t the time. We’re being watched.” 

“I don’t care!” He growled. “You started this. Clearly you have some grievances to air so let’s just get all out in the open, shall we?” 

“I’m done with this conversation.” You rolled your eyes, heading past him towards the door. “I’d ask if you want a coffee but I think you’ve had enough caffeine.” 

You reached for the door handle but Spencer caught your wrist in his hand, tugging you back to face him somewhat roughly. 

“Ouch.” You grumbled, pulling your arm free of him. 

“That didn’t hurt.” He rolled his eyes. 

And then he noticed the way your whole body had deflated. The way your eyes seemed to mist over as you rubbed your wrist through your shirt. He didn’t miss the brief hint of fear that washed across your face. 

“Please don’t do that again.” You swallowed, eyes cast towards the floor, your voice trembling. 

He’d seen it before, hundreds if not thousands of times in this line of work. Anyone else, anyone who wasn’t an FBI agent might have missed it. But he didn’t. 

“Y/N?” He whispered, taking a half step towards you. “What did you do to your arm?”

“N-nothing.” You shook your head, still looking at the floor. 

When Spencer gently wrapped his hand around your wrist again, he saw you flinch. But you let him roll the sleeve of your blouse up just enough to reveal the large angry, red mark on your forearm and wrist. 

“Is that…a burn?” He swallowed, the air leaving his lungs. 

Your skin was blanched and blistering. It looked incredibly painful and it was certainly fresh, it couldn’t have been caused more than a day or so ago. 

“I…it was dumb. I spilled hot oil while I was cooking. You know how clumsy I am.” 

That statement in itself caused confusion. He had never known you to be clumsy. 

“Y/N?” He spoke so softly it finally forced you to meet his gaze. “Did Jared do this to you?” 

“What? How can you even ask me that?” You were quick to shake your head, pulling your arm free of his hold and rolling back down your sleeve.

“That wasn’t an answer.” Spencer frowned. “You’re deflecting.” 

“I didn’t think a dumb question warranted an answer.” 

“You’re doing it again. Did he hurt you?” 

“Stop it, Spencer. Just stop it, ok?” You growled at him. “Stop it.” 

“Y/N if he hurt you I can…” he trailed off when the door opened and Emily and Luke strolled in with coffees and slightly dejected smiles on their faces. 

“Well that was a waste of time.” Luke grumbled, looking between you and Spencer and sensing the thick tension. “Uh…what’s going on?”

“You need to go to the hospital.” Spencer ignored them, focusing only on you. 

“I’m fine.” You shot him a warning look, telling him to drop it. 

“You could get an infection. You need to have that looked at.”

“Have what looked at?” Emily frowned at the two of you.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” You smiled at your boss. 

“She is not fine.” Spencer hissed. “She’s got a burn on her arm, she needs to have it checked out before she develops an infection or gangrene or loses her arm.” 

“Jeez, you are over dramatic.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine, seriously.” 

“Can I see?” Emily asked you softly, her eyes full of concern for you. 

You huffed out a breath and rolled up your sleeve.

“It’s not that bad.” You shrugged. 

“Yikes,” Luke grimaced. “I’m no doctor but I think Reid might be right, you need a hospital.” 

“Goddamnit.” You groaned. “Fine.” 

“Reid, can you take her?” Emily asked him but you were shaking your head.

“No, I don’t want to go with him. Luke?” 

“Sure thing.” Luke shrugged, knowing now wasn’t the time to get into why you didn’t want your so-called best friend taking you to the hospital. 

Luke motioned you towards the door and you followed him somewhat hesitantly. As you stepped out of the office you heard Emily’s confused voice asking Spencer, “what the hell is going on with you two recently?” 

@andiebeaword @muffin-cup @dirtytissuebox @dreatine @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @people-whatabunchofbastards @justreadingficsdontmindme @spencer-reid-wonderland @thebloomingeagle

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 13

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 13/? 8.4k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Catalyst — an agent that provokes or speeds significant change or action.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: angst, drama, implied partner abuse, harm to fantasy creature 

Monday, December 9th 1985

Eddie propped his cheek against his knuckles as he watched you from the back of the classroom, just like he did every day. You were radiant on this one, brimming with excitement as you lectured on your favorite subject.

“We’re still in the planning phase for our short stories, but now that you all have a general idea of what you want to write about, I want you to start putting together an outline,” you prompted.

His eyes traced down the back of your blouse to where it met the waistline of your trousers. His hands still itched to hold you there. Burned was a better word now. He watched your hand scratch words onto the board with a nub of chalk, following the bend and curve of your fingers as they formed letters. 

The past three weeks had been much of the same. You and him, behind the big desk every Monday and Wednesday after school. You; trying to focus on his schoolwork. Him; trying to focus on you. You; letting him get away with it. 

There was plenty of studying happening too. In between studying the curve of your lips, the hue of your laugh, and the bones of your knuckles under his thumb, there were shining moments were something would click and he would solve an equation. Perhaps it was something to do with memory association or whatever textbook word you used to describe the psychology of learning, but something about the way you presented things made it easier for him to absorb. Perhaps it was your gentle patience, or your intuition. Knowing when to press forward and when to back off. Knowing how to show something differently than he’d been taught. Maybe it was just sweeter coming from your lips instead of Ms. O’Donnell’s. 

Eddie shifted in his desk as you clicked the end of your sentence against the board with a flourish. Stretching against the confines of the tiny chair, he hunched over the slab wood barely big enough to fit his notebook, and picked up his own chewed utensil to copy what you’d written. Maybe it was the bulk of his jacket, thicker and warmer with padding for winter, but suddenly he felt claustrophobic.

You whipped around brightly to face the class. “Alright, who remembers what three things inform character action?”

The question was met with restless silence. A cough. A sniffle.

With a defeated sigh, you turned back around to scratch desires, fears, and misbeliefs onto the board.

Glancing out the window at the pale grey sky and naked trees, Eddie counted on his fingers the number of months until there would be leaves on them again. 

Five. 

He just knew it would be an agonizing winter. One that dragged on and on, long after the groundhog saw its shadow. Huffing, he stared down at his beat up spiral notebook, blue lines blurring in his tired vision. The pen went slack in his hand. He closed his eyes and listened to your voice.

“I know these are short stories, but in the end something should have changed internally or interpersonally for your characters as a result of the plot. Remember, the plot is what happens, the story is how it affects the characters,” you said, jotting down the last bit.

It took on a different tone in front of the class. More rigid and professional, louder so it carried to the back of the room. It lacked the warmth and softness that it held when he was next to you. He imagined, for a sweet moment, how it would sound even closer; against the shell of his ear as you breathed a sigh beneath him. The gentle feather of your lips as they traveled south, just below his ear, where his jaw met his neck. In the playground of his mind, he could show you what a man he really was. Here, his hands were free to wander wherever they wanted; dip into the valleys of your clavicles, over the hills of your breasts, around the bend of your waist, the peaks of your hips, the mound of your—

A snicker broke his reverie. When he opened his eyes, Jason’s were already on him. 

“Taking a nap, Munson?” he mouthed mockingly.

Eddie rolled his eyes and seethed as he glared down at his notebook again. He shifted against the back of the hard plastic chair, against the tight cage of the desk. Finding no relief, he huffed and stared blankly ahead at the chalkboard, at the beige concrete wall, at the big desk, and then—at you. The gap had never been more enormous. An ocean of desks, a gaping chasm between where he was and where he wanted to be.

He must have looked downright pitiful, because the look you returned brimmed with a soft concern. In the two seconds he held you, Eddie released a deep sigh. Then you were back to the board.

“L-let’s start by highlighting the main point of each scene,” you said quickly, turning as you cleared your throat. Eddie caught your hand dart behind your neck before it fell promptly to your side. “Basically, why a scene exists and what it needs to accomplish. Does it provide information about the characters or move the story forward? Remember, these are short stories, so we want to make each scene really count.”

Eddie gripped the chewed pen and dutifully copied what you wrote. He knew he could have asked you later, had you explain it all again, given him tips, and pointers, and strategies, even helped him with his outline. But he wanted you to see that he was trying. He wanted you to see that he cared. He was always bad at school. Bad at paying attention. Bad at turning in assignments. Bad at following rules and keeping his mouth shut. 

He wanted to be good for you. 

When the bell rang, chair legs screeched against tile, notebooks crinkled, zippers ripped open and shut in a frenzied cacophony. Eddie hung back until the room filtered out. Until the only person left was you. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he padded up the long isle of desks until he reached yours. A standard routine.

“Hey,” he said, just like every other day. Just to savor another couple seconds in your presence, alone.

You looked up at him from the mess on your desk as you did countless times before, same tired smile, same soft eyes, same response. “Hey.”

Eddie rocked back and forth on his heels, holding your gaze for a little too long. “I’ll—uh, I’ll see you later, yeah?”

Your face grew bright and warm, a glint of summer against the pale, grey sky. “Yeah, see you later, Eddie.” 

There it was, the thing he really came for — his name. He sighed a smile and gave a single nod, turning slowly toward the door. 

______

By the time he made it to chemistry class, Eddie was ready for a nap. Maybe it was the pizza that sat like a rock in the pit of his stomach. Maybe it was the fact that, yet again, he had stayed up entirely too late, lost in your world. 

But he couldn’t just stop, not when Cybelle was being attacked by a ferocious fenfink — like a weasel, only much larger. Sharper claws, bigger teeth, and fatally attracted to something Cybelle had on her person. They were packing up camp in the morning when it happened. Perhaps it had been drawn to the smell of sweet Myrnish breakfast cakes, or the herbs stuffed inside Cybelle’s mask, or perhaps it was her gold amulet that sparkled in the glow of the fire. In hindsight, they really should have picked up a sword in Fenwood. Not that Lazarus had ever swung one. Not that he would trust himself to when the beast was grappling with the neckline of Cybelle’s coat as she struggled to fling it off her. Too much movement. Too many opportunities to miss. Instead, Lazarus had done the only thing he could manage to do in a panic, which is to grab the animal’s back and try to pry it off. 

The path through the boglands was narrow with small allowance for a camp site. On either side lay deep, murky water spotted with mounds of moss and pale, petrified trees. The fenfink didn’t give up easy. It tore at her silk with its claws, sniffing and growling at her crescent moon mask as Lazarus tugged at its furry body. As Cybelle’s boots threatened stumble back over the berm of the trail and into the wet abyss, Lazarus tugged as hard as he could, but the animal snatched a lifeline; a shiny gold chain that glimmered in the pale blue light of the early morning. 

It bent Cybelle forward at the neck. Time froze as her golden promise, his future, dangled in the space between them. Her hands fumbled at the animal’s rear claws to unlatch them from her abdomen. Eyes desperate, mask askew, Lazarus knew what he had to do. One good yank and the chain would break. She would be free, and he could hurl the beast into the bog to buy them time.  He knew it could be done, in theory. What would become of the treasure, however, would be left entirely to fate. 

In the glittering twinkle, he saw his cottage, his garden, his full size bed, his curtains billowing in the salty air. It swayed and skirted across the taught chain, dangling dangerously close to the edge of the murky water.

With a strangled cry, Cybelle worked the claws free of her dress, and he was left with a split second to decide. The golden tether winked in the fire’s glow. Fear flickered in her umber eyes. With a firm, decided tug, Lazarus broke the chain. Time slowed to a halt as the glimmering treasure launched upward with the force of it all. Cybelle stumbled back over the berm, grasping desperately at the air. It followed the arc that she took, hovering just out of reach. She just about bumped it with her fingertip, but the cold, wet shock at her back knocked the wind out of her.

Lazarus watched his dreams tumble into the water, helpless to stop it. As he grappled with the snarling beast, his eyes caught the last golden glimmer of hope before it plunked beneath the inky surface of the bog. He pivoted quickly, launching the creature in a heartbroken rage, and it flailed in the air before its headfirst collision with a tree scattered the birds for miles.

A wet, sobbing cough from the other side of path sent him scrambling toward it. Cybelle was a mess. Clambering on her knees, waist deep in a peaty, black filth that soaked through her gold coat. Her hands raked desperately, blindly, at the thick decay beneath the murky water. 

Lazarus stumbled over the mossy ledge and into the bog, extending his hand, but she could not meet his eyes.

“I-I can find it,” she choked, sucking what little breath she could muster as the soaked fabric clung to her face. “It-it is somewhere here… I heard it.” 

His heart sunk deeper than the treasure. “Please, Cybelle,” he pleaded. 

“I can find it,” she insisted weakly, and another desperate grasp beneath the water sent her tumbling further down. 

He dove in after her then, sinking deep into the muck to grab her by the waist before she slipped beneath the surface. Cybelle was persistent, twisting in his arms as sobs shook her tiny body. He simply gripped her tighter, drawing her toward his chest and out of the water. Her struggles paled to his strength.

“Please,” she whimpered, stamping his white linen shoulders with muddy hands. “I can—I can…” she could barely catch a breath, silk crescent now crooked and blackened with peat. 

With both arms clasped tightly around her back, Lazarus shushed her. “It’s gone, Cybelle.” He could not hide the mourning in his voice.

She shut her eyes with a defeated grimace and went limp. Tears burned her lash line as she sobbed against his chest. They opened when she felt a finger brush behind her ear. Gingerly, slowly, Lazarus hooked his fingers through the loop of her mask, eyes darting back and forth between hers in a wordless request for permission. Her stillness granted it, and with that, he peeled it away.

In the pale blue light of the early morning, waist deep in muck and mire, Lazarus saw Cybelle. Not for the first time ever, but for the first time like this. Raw, and ragged, and inches apart. She inhaled deeply, freely, and for the first time when she breathed out, there were no barriers between them. They stood there a moment in a captivated stillness with nothing but the hum of frogs and song of birds.

Cybelle was the one to break the silence. “We might as well turn around then,” she wavered bitterly. “I have…” her breath hitched, “nothing to offer you.”

Lazarus sighed, shaking his head as he raked in her soft features. “Your company,” he began, “is enough.”

Cybelle shut her eyes, blinking tears over her lashes to streak trails through her the dirt on her cheeks, and for the first time, her muddy arms drew around his waist, and she embraced him.

Eddie pressed his heated forehead to the cool slate of the lab table and shifted his stool back against the floor with a loud screech. Images of fenfinks, and pendants, and bog mire danced behind his eyelids. He could hear the weary exhaustion in Mr. Westfield’s voice. He didn’t even need to look up to know he was leaning against his desk and running his hand through his thinning hairline as he’d done a hundred times before at the top of sixth period.

“Alright, so today we’re going to be creating magnesium oxide. Magnesium plus oxygen. Get it?” The question was answered with sleepy eyes and a few stray sniffles. Mr. Westfield sighed. “Right. Since the school can’t afford enough bunsen burners for all of you, this week you’ll be splitting up into pairs.”

The room came alive, eyes meeting eyes as claims flew across the room. Eddie peeked over his arms at the table in front of him. Tina was practically falling out of her stool as she reached for Chrissy on the other side of the room with grabby hands. 

Mr. Westfield looked thoroughly unamused by the commotion. “I’ll be assigning them.”

The classroom groaned almost unanimously. 

“Hate to be a party pooper,” he started, his tone indicating quite the opposite, “but you’re here to learn, not to chit-chat. Ok, let’s see here…” Mr. Westfield adjusted his glasses on his nose as he scanned down the list of names in his attendance book. 

A restless silence fell over the room as the students awaited their fate. 

“Looks like we have an even number, excellent. Tina, you’ll be with Bobby.”

Eddie could see Tina’s eyes roll through the back of her head. 

Mr. Westfield peered up from his glasses. “Don’t act so excited. Ok, then we’ll have Ricky and Carmen, Sally and Janae…” he went down the list of names, checking them off and scribbling them on the side of the sheet to keep track.

Eddie sat up and glanced around the room as pairs were made, mentally checking off classmates as their names were called, ears perked and primed to hear his own. As the ones who remained dwindled and dwindled down to only two, his pulse quickened. 

“Ok and then that just leaves Ms. Cunningham,” he punctuated with his pen, “and Mr. Munson.”

Fuck.

Eddie turned his head slowly, reluctantly, toward the other side of the room where Chrissy Cunningham sat, and was met with a soft, coy smile. He swallowed and whipped his head to face forward. 

Un-fucking believable. If there was a God, which Eddie sincerely doubted, he sure had a twisted sense of humor.

Since their brief confrontation in the hallway following Tina’s Halloween party, Chrissy had, to his honest surprise, respected his wishes and kept her distance. It never stopped her from looking though. Stares, he would discover, were something you could feel. Burning into his temple from behind the curtain of his hair in class, heating the back of his neck at his locker as her perfume wafted up the hall. It was almost a daily occurrence. 

As the classroom rearranged itself in a cacophony of screeching stools and shuffling backpacks,  Eddie remained planted right were he was, thumbing at the bent spiral of his notebook, mind racing as his eyes glazed over. It was less than a minute before he smelled that familiar perfume and heard the stool next to him scoot against the floor.

“Hey,” came a voice like powdered sugar. 

Eddie looked up from his notebook with a slow hesitance. “Hey.”

“I…grabbed you some safety glasses and an apron,” she said, setting the items on the counter.

Silently lamenting the idea of spending the remaining hour wearing them, he gave a single nod and thanked her.

The room bustled with chatter as Mr. Westfield came around to dole out the bunsen burners, crucibles, scales, and other small tools. “You got a hair tie, Munson?” he asked.

Eddie patted himself down and feigned disappointment. “Fresh out I’m afraid.” 

“I’ve got one,” Chrissy interjected, rolling a powder blue scrunchie from her wrist to swing from the curve of her finger.

Eddie stared at it a second as it dangled in the space between them before snatching it. “Thanks,” he conceded. As he twisted the satin band around his curls to form a low ponytail, he could feel the heat from her gaze. It lingered as he put on his goggles, even as he tied the ribbons of the stiff apron behind his back. 

Wayne, perceptive as ever, had been right all those years ago outside the auditorium. He did, at eleven, have a crush on Chrissy Cunningham, but there were only so many times a person could ignore him before he got the memo. Before he figured out he wasn’t worth their time. It wasn’t the first time it happened. In fact, Eddie had become so accustomed to getting looked through instead of at that he’d made it a lifestyle to stand out. To talk loud, and dress loud, and play loud. To bite back, and shirk rules, and cause a scene. And over the course of a year he barely remembered, he’d left whatever feelings he might have had for her exactly where they belonged; in the graveyard with everything else he would rather forget.

But for some reason this year was different. He wasn’t sure what switch flipped that caused her to suddenly see him. Maybe it was because she was tired of her meathead boyfriend and needed a distraction. Maybe it was because he looked especially dangerous this year. Maybe it was because he’d been held back so many times that he’d become more forbidden than ever; an odd and tempting fascination. 

Eleven year old Eddie would have been elated. Twenty year old Eddie was, to put it simply, annoyed. 

Mr. Westfield returned to the front of the classroom to give instruction, and Eddie tried his best to follow along with the handout. 

The room sparked to life with the hiss of gas and the whump of it igniting from all corners. As the tall flame dance in front of him, Eddie tried to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that tempted him to dangle the sleeve of his flannel a little too close so he could escape to the nurse’s office. Freshman Eddie wouldn’t have thought twice.

Chrissy turned on the scale between them and set the empty clay crucible on top of it as instructed. She leaned in to record the weight and copied it onto her worksheet. Eddie did the same. According to the worksheet, the next step was to add the magnesium and weigh it again. 

“Make sure the coil isn’t too tight,” advised Mr. Westfield, “you’re gonna want to leave room for air.”

Eddie picked up the clay triangle, doing his best to stay focused on the task, and set it on the metal ring above the flame as demonstrated. 

“I think the ring is too high,” said Chrissy, leaning in to twist the clamp loose enough to lower it. “It’s gotta be like, in the blue part of the flame I think.” Her arm grazed his as she reached into his bubble, and suddenly he was back on that couch, feeling the her phantom fingers on the pins of his vest again, gold halo crooked, lips ghosting cherry alcohol. Eddie shot his gaze forward.

“Ok, now place the crucible in the center of the triangle,” Mr. Westfield instructed.

Eddie grabbed hold of the metal tongs and used them to pinch the pale clay vessel. Chrissy leaned closer as he lowered it to rest above the flame. 

Then they would wait. In the waiting, the classroom grew louder. Tina stood by her stool, arms crossed, eyes cast sideways in annoyance as Mr. Westfield came over to address the lack of flame coming out of her bunsen burner. 

Eddie sat there in tense silence, eyes fixed forward as the flame licked the crucible with its blue heat.

“You know, this definitely beats equations,” Chrissy remarked with a soft chuckle.

He couldn’t really argue with that. Eddie didn’t say that though, instead he just nodded quietly. 

“Say um,” Chrissy thumbed at the gummy eraser of her pencil, “Jason hasn’t given you any trouble, has he?”

Resentment rose up from the graveyard. “Define trouble,” he groused.

Chrissy sighed. “He can be a real asshole sometimes,” she admitted, to his surprise.

Eddie took a deep breath. It was vivid — the way she stumbled off that couch. How she nearly tripped over her own shoes. How Jason barked at her. The crazed look in his eyes. The fear in hers. “Sometimes?” he bit back.

Chrissy toyed at the hem of her skirt. “He’s not all bad.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the inflection of her voice, or the way her eyes cast down in shameful denial, but it transported him — all the way back to that small kitchen table, feet dangling from the chair as the red wax in his hand filled in the flame from a dragon’s mouth. He could see his mother in the kitchen doorway, her finger coiled tightly around the telephone cord, uttering the same words to a concerned voice on the other end. 

Eddie hardened his lips and shook his head bitterly. “Yeah, well, doesn’t make him good.” 

“Alright folks, listen up,” Mr. Westfield called out, drawing the attention of the class. “Next you’ll add the oxygen by lifting the lid to let some air in.”  

With a sudden, determined movement, Chrissy reached across him to grab the tongs, bracing herself against the slate table. She gave them a few clicks before pinching the handle to lift the small, clay lid. A reaction occurred; blinding and white, igniting the gap between crucible and lid in a flickering flare.

They jumped back in unison. 

“Try not to stare,” advised Mr. Westfield with monotone enthusiasm. “You could damage your eyes.”

Timely advice. Eddie blinked the white dots that clung to his vision away, and a smile caught him by surprise, betraying his steely resolve. 

Chrissy caught it, and her sea green eyes found his from across the bunsen burner as she lowered the lid again. “That was awesome,” she whispered wildly.

It was kind of cool, he had to admit. He would take playing with fire over staring numbly at numbers on a page any day. Eddie peered over the rim of his plastic safety glasses and offered a tentative smile. 

The heating continued, allowing for air every once in a while until finally there was no more reaction. There wasn’t much to say. Eddie removed the crucible from the burner. Chrissy added water from the pipette until the contents formed a paste. Eddie returned the crucible to the heat. The water evaporated. In the silence of their cooperation, in the passing of tools and scribbling of notes, Eddie wondered how long it would be before Chrissy came to her own conclusions. If she would ever figure out that even though Jason wasn’t all bad, she could do so much better. 

Not with him, but on her own.

Clutching the crucible in the tongs, Chrissy set it on the scale for the final time. They both copied the weight onto their worksheets — different than when they started.

With five minutes to the bell, the cleanup was frenzied; a clammer of equipment hastily returned to shelves and boxes backdropped against the hissing water of half a dozen sinks. Even Mr. Westfield had given up on volume control in favor of tidiness. Eddie rid himself of the dreaded apron and goggles just in time for the bell to ring, and with that he snatched his backpack from the floor and followed the flow of his classmates out the door. 

It wasn’t until he made it to the hallway that he remembered. Reaching back behind his neck, he felt it; ruffled satin. The owner was only a few feet ahead, ponytail swaying in ruffled white cotton as she walked. 

“Chrissy!” 

Her footsteps slowed, eyes brimming with a coy mischief that shot dread down his spine when turned against traffic to face him.

______

“Outlines are due on Friday,” you called to your class as you wiped down the board, a cloud of chalk dusted the air as you swiped the soft eraser over the letters. Like the wave of a magic wand, the bell had turned your practically snoring class into an eruption of noise. Before you could hear a pin drop, now you had to shout. With two periods left in the day, you wondered how many more times you would answer the same question. How many more times you would ask one only to be met with coughs and tired eyes.

Your feet hurt. Even the boots you had chosen for comfort and practicality were causing an ache in the soles of them, the hard heel putting too much pressure on your own. The lukewarm coffee you’d savored during fifth period had long since run its course through you. Glancing up at the clock, you realized you had about five minutes to take care of business or be forced to suffer for the duration of seventh period as well. Setting down the eraser, the decision was easy.

Your tired feet clicked down the crowded hallway with a sense of urgency that seemed to evade the rest of traffic. Scent pockets of perfume, mint gum, cigarettes, and body odors wafted through the air as you hurried past the rows of slamming lockers, dodging a pair of students overcome with the temptation to roughhouse, one grabbing the other by the backpack and yanking, sprinting ahead so his friend couldn’t catch him. You sighed, voice too tired to conjure discipline. 

As you picked up on that strange, familiar scent of the approaching science lab, your eyes, like a magnet, were drawn to a familiar silhouette, standing just outside the door. You would have recognized him anywhere, picked him out of a crowd of thousands. Flutters bloomed in your chest. His long, dark curls bounced as he shook them out with his hand, like he was scratching the back of his head. 

It was enchanting; the way he did just about anything. The way he moved, his sharp elbows and quick hands, the bright timbre of his voice, how his energy could shift on a dime from a soft breeze to a ripping gust. 

The past three weeks had been much of the same. Conversations that strayed from educational to casual. Lingering glances. Secret touches. Stolen moments. Never speaking the truth of your heart. Never offering more than your hand. 

The flow of students swept you forward, and as you passed, a figure emerged from behind where his shoulders obscured. In the seconds that slowed to a crawl, your eyes gathered volumes. 

Strawberry blonde, petite, clutching a book to her soft, white cardigan. Sparkling eyes under soft blue shadow, cocked head, fluttering lashes, a smile bright enough to draw a moth.

Craning your neck back as traffic surged, you searched for his eyes.

Eddie didn’t see you.

You blinked, hard, and snapped your gaze forward over the sea of students as your heart leapt into your throat. 

It was fine. 

Click.

It was nothing.

Click.

He’s allowed to talk to people. 

Click.

He didn’t see you.

Click.

Of course not, it’s crowded.

Click.

It burned, like the image was seared into your retinas. Her clean, white sneaker coyly toeing at the tile. Teeth that teased at plump, pink lips. Heavy lidded eyes. Arched back. Delicate fingers curled around a textbook spine. You tried to blink it away.

It was fine. It was nothing.

You rounded the corner for the faculty bathroom, relieved to find it empty, and shut yourself inside. The tried old light bathed the room in a yellow wash. You locked the door and stood there for a moment, heart racing, chest heaving in the quiet reprieve from the bells, lockers, and voices. Space for your thoughts to grow louder as you went about your business.

Why shouldn’t he talk to some girl? There was nothing wrong with that. In the glimpse that you caught of his face, it was lacking in distinct expression. Listening. Nothing worth noting. It was hers that really stuck with you. Her rosy cheeks and perky ponytail. The way she batted her eyes and licked her lips like she wanted to make a meal out of him.

Eddie Munson; summer wind. Tall and roguish, charming and animated, full of surprises. It was shocking he was single. Downright unbelievable that no other woman in this entire school would harbor any feelings. There had to be at least a handful that cast shy gazes as they passed him in the hallway. At least a few that floated curious whispers across lunch tables. In the dark corners of your imagination you had always figured, you’d just never seen it. And now the image wouldn’t leave you. Sticky. Clinging like you’d stepped in gum. 

You met your tired eyes in the mirror above the sink. Timeless, it mocked, as the whisper of lines became canyons. 

On the other side of the door was sea of young women. Free to talk and gawk and get into the sort of trouble he surely had a taste for. The kind of trouble you only had the freedom to imagine. How long before the novelty of you wore off? Before his restless hands sought something more? Something he could grasp in broad daylight? Someone who could keep his stride, share a milkshake or a bucket of popcorn?

You cast your welling eyes downward, turned on the water, wet your hands, and pumped the soap.

It started subtle, last spring. Started with the way he looked at you; a flame that dimmed to embers over months of dinners spent alone, plates gone cold, beds left empty, leaving you with nothing but to wonder how he looked at her. 

Time moves quickly for young men. You of all people would know it. Like a wildfire; hungry and insatiable, devouring everything in its path. It renders promises of meaning, leaves the past in charred remains. It surges ever forward, seeking fuel. 

It left behind an ice in you. Stalling over the sink as the world surged on outside, you felt it seize your chest again.

Eddie Munson; wildfire. Twenty years old. Restless. Reckless. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You weren’t an item. You were nothing.

The water was scalding. Bubbles erupted as you worked up a lather. Scrubbing your knuckles, your palms, the space between your fingers where his had nestled once. 

No. You weren’t nothing. 

The bell had you flinching; a loud and shrill summons back to your post, your place, your duty. 

You were his teacher.

Pinballs. Louder than the shrieking bell. Louder than ever before. You didn’t dare meet your eyes again, frightened of what sort of monster would stare back.

What am I doing? 

You turned off the water and paused, hands weeping over the sink. 

It was foolish, to play with fire. It was foolish just about anywhere, but here the walls were made of tinder, the desks of charcoal. His fingers like matches, striking you with every touch. But oh, how you craved the heat. Close enough to thaw you; the ice deep in your chest, weeping as it melted, pooling in your lap, making puddles on the floor.

Droplets fell to the tile as you turned to grab a paper towel. It soaked through, blooming dark, wet patches as the brown paper blotted up the dampness.

You shook your head bitterly. No. You certainly weren’t nothing. You were a phase. A passing fancy. An odd fascination. You would never make it to May. You’d be lucky if you made it to January without losing his interest entirely.

You crumpled the soggy paper in your fists and threw it in the trash. Blinking back tears, you pressed your hand to the door and took one deep, final breath as you prepared to face the world again — to put on your mask and perform in front of twenty pairs of judging eyes.

The gap was enormous. Cavernous and treacherous. He deserved someone he could be with in public. Someone he could take to a park or a movie. Someone he could go to fucking prom with. 

With a ragged exhale, you pressed open the door.  

He deserved someone his own age. 

The hall was a flurry of slamming lockers, a scattering of the few straggling students who rushed to find their classrooms. The wind cooled your heated face as you marched, one foot in front of the other, to your post. Shoulders back, deep breaths, sore feet making echos off the polished tile. 

He’d get tired of you too.

Click.

Click.

They always do.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The hall stretched on like an Escher drawing, twisting and distorting in your vision as you neared your classroom door. Tears threatened your lashes, and you huffed them away with a determined shrug of your shoulders.

As your fingers grazed the cold metal handle, you caught your own eyes in the glass. Sad and droopy, welling with longing and resentment. On the other side you could already hear the commotion, the questions, the stares, the awkward silence. The bell rang again — a final warning. 

With a heavy sigh, you turned the handle.

______

Eddie twisted the ridged dial of his locker in his fingers, left and right until he heard a click. Popping the door open and slinging his backpack forward on his shoulder, he unloaded three weighty textbooks into the dark, cluttered enclosure. He grabbed his thick, leather coat, tucked it under his arm, and slammed the door shut. 

In the absence of the books, and of the dimming noise as it filtered out through the front doors and into the parking lot, he felt another weight lift in him. In a matter of minutes, the mindless chatter, the tried scenery of this dull prison, the days worth of stares that clung to him like glue would fall away as he passed the threshold of your door. 

With every step he took, Eddie felt lighter. The slamming lockers didn’t phase him, the weird looks from freshmen went right through him, even the shoulder check from a jock coming around the corner glanced right off. In a million years he never would have expected to feel relieved to stay after school, or a pep in his step as he approached a classroom, but in a million years he never expected to find you behind the big desk. 

He could feel the warmth already as he approached your open door. Hear your laughter at his stupid jokes, feel the heat of your arm graze his, catch your hand, and you, by surprise. But when he turned into threshold, knuckles raising out of habit to rap against it, he was met with a different scene.

You didn’t look up. Not even when tapped his knuckles to the wood in a shave-and-a-haircut—two-bits pattern. Head cast down over a sea of papers, you looked like you were drowning. He padded slowly toward the big desk, face dropping as he noticed another detail: the wooden folding chair—his chair—sat empty and open. Across from you.

Eddie dropped his backpack to the floor with a heavy thump, making his presence known. “Hey,” he started, tentative and cautious. 

It wasn’t until he was practically towering over you that you finally looked up at him, face heavy, expressionless, tired. “Hey,” you stated plainly.

Eddie craned his head and searched your eyes. “You ok?”

You blinked and swallowed. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

He stood like this a moment, vision locked with yours, dark eyes roving, searching. When you offered nothing more, he simply nodded once, strolled around to the front of your desk, grabbed the back of the chair with a determined slap, and dragged it around to where it belonged — beside you. 

He took his place in it; draping his coat over the back of it like always, creaking the wood with his weight as he plunked himself down.

You resumed wading through the sea, heavy gaze cast over it. 

Eddie toyed with a pencil on your desk, tapping the eraser to the wood as his eyes bored a hole into the side of your head. You just kept on roving, shoulders tense, lips worried. He could have been invisible, watching you from a hole in a poster, or a crack in the wall. You offered him the same level of attention. “Something’s wrong,” he confronted, unable to take the frigid silence for a moment longer.

You sighed and set your pen down. “I’m sorry, it’s just…” your hand worried the back of your neck, “…a lot, this time of year, work wise.” Your eyes met his only for a second before casting downward again at the pages. “Here, let me clear this up.” Your hands busied themselves with the mess, shuffling the paper into a clumsy, hurried pile.

“No—no, it’s…it’s ok.” He scooted his chair closer, feeling so useless all of a sudden, burdensome, like his presence added to your task load. He wanted to help, to alleviate the tension, but his hands simply fumbled in his lap as you collected the clutter with your chalk dusted knuckles. As you tapped the pile of papers against the desk in haste to form a semblance of a pile, his hand gained a mind of its own. 

As if possessed by its own separate consciousness, an impulse deep and thrumming with the need to soothe, it took up refuge in the place between your shoulders; warm and firm, drawing slow, caring circles at your blouse. 

You froze, papers stiff against the surface, gaze straight ahead. His hand followed suit, freezing, twitching, arm locked in its extension.

“Y-you should—” you stuttered, blinking wildly as you found your breath. “Why don’t you go grab your schoolwork?” you asked with a curtness that startled him.

Eddie lurched his hand away like you were a hot stove. “I—I’m sorry I just… w-wanted to help. I’m sorry.” His mind became a whirlpool, swirling with worry as his stomach did backflips. He fumbled with the zipper on his backpack.

“No—no, Eddie, I’m… I’m sorry,” you lamented. 

He’d never seen your face so fraught. Like you’d stepped on a cat’s tail, chased it through the house with apologies. 

“It’s not your fault, it’s…” You swallowed, breaking his gaze. You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to. 

Mine.

He was losing you. 

He should have expected it by now. What could he possibly offer you anyway? His hand? A few stolen moments? Some flirty comments to make you feel good about yourself for a second or two? 

He wondered when the other shoe would drop. When you would open your eyes and see this for what it really was — that you were a grown ass woman with a college degree and a real career, and he was twenty years old repeating his senior year of high school for the third fucking time, selling drugs to teenagers, and oh, your student for fuck’s sake. 

It wasn’t lost on him; that he was playing tee-ball in a big league stadium. He stared into the crumpled contents of his backpack with a deep, shaking breath, and pulled out his notebook. It fell from his hand with a dejected slap against the big desk; juvenile amidst the tidy assortment of office supplies. The spiral was bent and crumpled, the cover worn soft from abuse. He sat there a moment and stared at it as the heavy silence swallowed you both. 

Your lips hardened to a bitter line, eyes cast down over the evidence of your position. Over the evidence of his. You wouldn’t look at him, like you were afraid to. Finally, after a suffocating minute, you spoke — frigidly professional. “What do you want to work on today?” 

The question sent a hot rage coursing through him. So that was it, then? Business as usual? Pretending like nothing happened? That none of this was real? Eddie sat back in his seat and boiled with a gaze so intense it could have burned right through you. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of an answer. Not until you gave him enough respect to look him in the eyes when you asked the question.

You just sat there, frozen, shoulders locked, eyes cast down at the big desk for an agonizing moment that stretched well past the point of comfort. His gaze was unrelenting, fueled by stubborn indignation. You felt it. He knew you did, because when you finally did submit your eyes to him, you flinched. 

He almost felt bad for it. For causing you to shrink so small, to look so fragile, like how you did when you’d relinquished a fragment of your past, when the impulse to soothe you drove him to your hand. The impulse rose again, as did some annoyance by it; the grip you had on him, even in his most determined anger. 

“What?” you choked out, barely above a whisper.

You knew damn well what. The audacity to ask sent heat coursing through his veins again, but the look in your eyes, like cornered prey, quelled the fire enough to sigh his way to a level-headed response. “You’re acting different,” he said simply. 

You swallowed, breaking his gaze like you’d been caught. It would be insulting to deny it. He could see the gears turning over in your head, the thoughts forming careful words behind your eyes, but in the end, all you could muster was, “I’m sorry.” 

It was a weak admission. It answered nothing, really, other than confirming his suspicions. But it was something. He wanted to press, to poke, to pry, and get to the bottom of what caused this shift in you, but in the silence of the classroom, with floors that echoed and walls that listened, words like “you won’t let me touch you,” seemed too far too direct, far too pointed. In the end, it was your eyes that said the most; welling like pools with all the words he knew would pierce the ever thinning veil, poke holes in your shared secrets, make them monstrous and real.

In the end, your eyes just tugged him forward, made him soft and pliant until all he could muster was decency. “It’s…” he sighed, raking his hand through his hair, “it’s fine.” Soft as he intended it, he couldn’t hide the broken edge.

There was little relief in sigh you gave, heavy and ragged. Your fingers grazed the curled, beaten corner of his notebook with a caring reverence that made him wish that he was paper. 

He wondered how much longer it could go on like this, before you craved something more than he could offer. Before you tired of secret touches and passing glances. Before some hot-shot with a convertible saw you at a bar somewhere and swept you away. The crushing realization hung heavy in the space between you, the gap more cavernous than ever.

Eddie twisted his rings in his lap, fingers burning. It was a miracle you’d let him touch you to begin with. But you did, and he had, and by god, he refused to go back. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Not when you’d let him into your world, given him more than he ever thought possible — a sliver of hope. For you. For himself.

When the silence became too much for him to bear, he broke it with your name.

Your first name.

Bitter grief melted to soft shock as your lips parted, eyes widened. At last, he had your full attention. 

With a deep breath, he started. “I don’t… know what happened. If it’s something I did o-or something someone said, or, fuck,” he ran hand through his hair, exasperated, words trailing off into nothing. 

“Eddie,” you started, eyes softening deeper; into sympathy, into pity. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?” he snapped, but the quiver in his voice betrayed him. 

You swallowed, shaking your head, but before you could give an answer he didn’t want to hear, he continued.

“I know, it—it’s ludicrous, this whole thing. To think that I—” he breathed a bitter laugh, “that you,” he glanced at the door. 

But instead of shutting him down with the ugly truth, you leaned closer, like your whole world hinged on him. He saw it then, hope, glimmering like a golden treasure in the tremble of your lips, in the pinching of your brow, in the welling of your eyes that threatened to spill over.

“I know,” you whispered, like it caused you pain. 

Slowly, Eddie raised his hand to rest on top of his notebook, a fractional distance from yours. Close enough to feel your heat, to catch the subtle tremble of your knuckles. So transfixed by the curve of your delicate fingers beside the broad, ruddy angles of his, that had he not dared to draw his eyes away, he might have missed the tear that pinched through your lashes when you closed them.

Slowly, bravely, he inched his pinky forward. Just close enough to graze yours. It was a phantom of a touch, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, when he looked up, he was surprised to see a whisper of a smile. A sad, soft thing, like it was breaking through layers to surface. Emboldened, he raised his pinky, ever so slightly, to gently stroke yours. The gesture was small and silly, but enough to earn a puff of laughter through the smile that cracked the gloom upon your features.

It opened up a narrow passage, and he entered with the boldest thing that he had ever said.

Maybe it was the fact that he was too stubborn, or perhaps too stupid for his own good, but the sheer audacity of what came out of his mouth next surprised even himself. “Um, my band is playing at the Hideout tomorrow—a-and—” he swallowed, gaining composure as he raised his eyes to your level with conviction. “I want you to come.” 

It was all he could offer. An experience. 

Your jaw dropped. 

“I think—I-Iwant you to see some of the new stuff we’ve been working on. I think you’d like it,” he peddled on.

“Oh, Eddie I—” you shook your head. “I don’t know, I mean—”

He doubled down, brows level and serious. “We—we don’t have to come together. Hell, bring a friend, bring several. It doesn’t have to be a big deal if we don’t make it a big deal. People go to bars all the time.”

As you worried your lips in your teeth, he could see the scales tipping back and forth, weighing the odds and risks against the want. “Oh god, I don’t know.”

“You’re allowed to exist in public. You don’t just like… fold your arms and retreat into the walls here at night,” he laughed.

It snapped a chuckle out of you, like sunlight peeking through the clouds. “Oh yeah? Tell that to the students I run into at the grocery store,” you quipped. Then, as quickly as the sunlight came, the clouds were back. You surveyed the room and dropped your eyes in pensive worry. 

Eddie stroked his pinky over yours, slowly, sweetly. “Please?”

You gave him a look, one that threatened resistance but hiding just beneath it, surrender.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” he persuaded, “just me on stage, and you in the audience cheering with your girlfriends or whatever, well, hopefully cheering. I mean ‘Hand of Doom’ is still a crapshoot sometimes but,” he breathed a laugh. 

With a chuckling shake of your head, your resolve crumbled like sand in front of his eyes. 

“You can boo us too, wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve got tough skin.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed. “I’m not gonna boo you.”

A wicked grin cracked like lightning across his face. “Not gonna, you mean you’ll come then?” 

You sighed, deep and heavy, shifting the scales back and forth.

Eddie tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. “You know you want to.”

“Of course I want to,” you deadpanned.

His umber eyes glimmered, wild and auspicious. “Well then, do what you want,” he said, sitting back in his seat like the decision was easy.

Want. A shelved, forgotten thing, like something you’d lost in the move. Something you’d tucked away long before that. Left to grow stale inside a box, in the back of a closet, in a place you barely remembered. 

It sat beside you now, loud and unignorable, with lips that begged and eyes that pleaded. And you, in all your years of practiced discipline, could no longer deny it. 

Eddie Munson; wildfire. Restless, frenetic, warm, and compelling. 

With a dignified sigh, and a verdant conviction that peeked through the ash, you turned to him at last, and surrendered.

______

A/N: So begins the craziest week in the whole story. Two words: Donkey Kong. 😈

The next chapter might take me a little longer than usual just because it's a moment we've all been waiting for and I want to make sure it's absolutely perfect.

Also, I've been featured on a PODCAST so if you want to hear me talk about this story and specifically the appeal of reader insert fics, check it out HERE!

✨ As always, nothing encourages me to continue writing this story more than hearing from you. Seriously, please give me your thoughts, your theories, your keyboard smashes. Hit up my inbox, my DMs, whatever suits your fancy.

Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @storiesbyrhi @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @loveshotzz @trashmouth-richie @big-ope-vibes @carolmunson @wordscomehither @munson-blurbs @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @alienthings @eddiemunsonsbitcch @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @ruby-dragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes

[kit-williams]

It's just a dream... right?

You had wished your Thousand Son Ari a good night. He was pretty happy with your collection of occult books and the fact there was a shop nearby. You had done so much research into trying to take care of a Thousand Son but none of them showed interest until Ari did. You relaxed into your comfortable bed and drifted off.

Ari got up and started to watch you sleep... and the warp slowly fills the room as he mutters and whispers his spells. Your eyes start to dart under your eyelids as your dream shifts and contorts into something distorted... people having too many eyes... to many mouths... and suddenly everything turns into like Barbie threw up.

The bruised color purple and pinks filled your vision as you were thrown around like you were in the ocean. You went under? a current of this miasma and you could feel your body pull apart and put itself back together as you land on a polished floor. Large pyramids of white and gold are in the distance and you walk closer. You are passed by other Thousand Sons and Rubriks.

"Ari?" You chirp out not noticing the Sorcerers stopping and looking around as if they heard something. You continue to move closer and closer to the pyramids as you continue to call out to Ari.

"Hello little one." A smooth voice speaks to you and you stop and looked up at the horned helmet with the brightest glowing blue eyes. His head tilted slightly as you maintained eye contact with him. You couldn't feel the way the warp was bleeding out of your eyes, nose, and mouth. But with this sorcerer around warp started to bleed from nearly every orifice and pore. "Are you looking for something or someone?"

"My Thousand Son... Ari have you seen him? Though this is funny... normally we can't understand you." You laugh softly as the sorcerer hums.

"Perhaps Father could help with your search." He says starting to corral you towards the pyramids.

"What can my dad do to help?"

"No child... my Father... Ari's Father... the genesire." He explained gently.

You feel a wrongness in your gut as you try to move away, "No... no I'm good."

"No child you are not good." His eyes flashed brightly and you nodded as you realized you weren't good.

"Please," You whimpered softly, "I need to find Ari... I'm scared. I don't like it here." The feeling of wrongness grows as you see those weird fire like symbols on others.

"Of course child." He cooed, "I am Ahzek Ahriman." He said as you were now approaching the pyramid and your mind told you to not go inside but that fear left you when Ahriman touched your back and you walked with him.

Your eyes widened at the endless library that seems to spiral up but also down. You felt sick and dizzy as it looked like it was moving you backed away holding your head. Before you hear a chuckle behind you. You look over your shoulder and your eyes widen again as you must be dreaming as there is a red man with a mane of red hair and a single glowing blue eye. Horns on his head and digigrade legs but he was impossibly tall with big wings that were a gradient from dark blue at the tips to red at the base. But he was so big.

"Hmmm too much for you little one?" He smiled... it was so charming looking as he snapped his fingers and suddenly he was people sized. Not Ari sized but just a normal man sized... built like a brick shithouse mind you and still with large wings but people sized. "Better dear?"

"Y-yeah. Alright dream bird-" You say before Ahriman interrupts.

"His name is Magnus."

"Okay Magnus... I'm looking for my Ari."

"Your Ari...." He says before walking closer and touching your face. Normally you wouldn't let a man touch you like this but it was a dream and you sighed into the touch, closing your eyes. When you open them again you scream as that weird miasma poured out of his eye and mouth, you could feel it wash over you. "Oh there they are.... Thank you my dear... you should wake up."

Your eyes snap open as you scream and sob. Ari is by your side right away and you hug him tightly. "Ari... my Ari... you're okay." He says something as he rubs your back pleased with himself.

[magnifythesun]

Absolutely loved ur latest prompt about Anthony picking Ian up and how you stick true to their characters it feels too realistic. On that note, since I'm an avid fan of protective worried Anthony, would you pls write something with Ian passing out while filming and Anthony hyperventilating over it.

aaaa this prompt has had my mind spinning since I first read it I'm so hyped to write it! and thank you soooo much, I tried really hard to keep their voices realistic in that one and I'm honestly very happy with the way it turned out! I'm so glad you enjoyed!! :D

(post-writing note: this turned out way more comfort than hurt lol, but it was just too cute to resist!)

It was a rager of a hot day in southern California. They were filming their latest sketch, which was unfortunately entirely outside, and were eager to just get the thing done.

"Should we take a break?" Anthony asked, "It's been a few hours out here, and this heat's really killing me."

"Let's just finish up this scene," Ian said wearily, his face slightly red from the sun.

Anthony nodded in agreement and turned to tell the crew to set the cameras at another angle.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ian suddenly drop like a sack of potatoes, one second standing, then not. It was almost like a bit. It would have been funny, except that the way he ragdolled to the floor sent a horrid chill through Anthony. That was not the way someone fell on purpose, for comedy or otherwise. Anthony turned.

"Ian?" He said, distantly.

Erin was already running toward him, holding her huge water bottle. "Someone bring a sheet!" She called over to the crew, who, behind the sudden haze in Anthony's vision, were little blobs scurrying to and fro, some toward Ian, others running toward the house.

Anthony stumbled over. "What happened?" Erin glanced up at him. "Is he all right?" Her eyes widened at the way he was swaying on his feet.

"Don't you pass out too!" Erin snapped, voice tight with worry. "Go sit down." She waved toward the shade by the house.

"But, Ian," Anthony started. He swept his eyes over his friend, who was starting to stir. Ian's eyelids flickered, then opened as he started to wake up.

"Ow," He groaned, raising a hand up to clutch at his forehead. "Oh wow, my head hurts really bad."

"Like you hit it?" Erin asked sharply, then looked back up at Anthony. "Anthony. Go sit down."

Anthony took an involuntary step backward from the command in her tone alone, then kept backing up until his back hit the side of the house. Tears jumped to his eyes, and he knew in that moment he needed to get out of sight. He went inside the house, ignoring the way different members of the crew were reaching out to him, worry in their voices, and headed straight to the bathroom. Closing the door, he sank to the ground immediately, trying to breathe.

His breath was tight in his throat, like a great beast had a hold on his neck and was squeezing him. The sensation traveled down to his chest, causing him to gasp quick, shallow breaths as he tried to wipe away his tears.

Was Ian alright out there? His mind was spiraling as he desperately sucked in little gasps of air. He had just left him there, too wrapped up in his own frightened reaction to comfort his friend. A pang of guilt burned bright in his chest. He had to get this under control and he had to get back out there.

Anthony focused and started his yoga breathing routine that he used every time he exercised. Slowly, slowly, he controlled his breathing. He stood up shakily, and glanced in the mirror, making sure to wipe the tears from his eyes. There was nothing he could do about how pale he looked, or how red-rimmed his eyes were.

He took one more deep breath and pulled open the door to the bathroom. Walking out, he could hear many voices in the kitchen, which was out of sight. Sounded like most of the crew had taken shelter from the sun in there.

Anthony turned toward the living room and startled. Ian was sitting there, a wet rag on his head and Erin's big bright blue bottle of water clutched in his hands. Anthony felt his breath catch in his chest again.

Anthony walked over to him. "Hey, man. You feeling okay?"

Ian smiled guiltily up at him. "Well, better now," He glanced up at Anthony towering above him and patted the couch cushion next to him. Anthony sat. "I should have called a break sooner. I could tell it was getting to me."

"You don't need to push yourself that hard," Anthony said quietly.

"True," Ian's mouth quirked. "Plus the crew deserved a break too." Ian stared off in the direction of the kitchen for a moment. "Are you alright?" He asked quietly, fingers shifting on the pastel surface of the bottle.

Anthony grimaced. "Yeah, I'm good."

Ian turned to look at him, a sharp look in his eye. "Uh-huh."

Anthony intently examined the table in front of the couch. "You saw?"

Ian took a big gulp of water. "I may have just woken up from the consequences of my own hubris, but I, I caught a glimpse."

"Sorry," Anthony said quietly, "I really don't know what came over me."

Ian didn't say anything for a moment, just slurped another sip of water. Anthony couldn't look at him. Then, Anthony felt Ian's hand, cold from the surface of the bottle, rest on top of his own hand and squeeze slightly.

"Always good to know you care." Ian said lightly, the veneer of a joke over his words, but the slight drag of his thumb over the back of Anthony's hand emphasized his words.

Relief and affection rushed through him, and Anthony glanced at Ian. "Your head okay though?"

"When is my head ever okay?" Ian laughed, "But yeah, I didn't hit it. Water?" He lifted the bottle and offered it.

"God, yeah." Anthony took it with the hand that wasn't still covered by Ian's and took a long, refreshing drink. "I can't believe we still have to go back out in that to finish filming."

"Ugh, don't even remind me," Ian groaned.

Right then, Erin's voice called from the kitchen, "Alright, back out there to shoot in ten minutes!"

Various shouts of "Heard!" echoed around the house, accompanied by several grumbles.

"I gotta lay my poor heat-stricken head down for a few minutes before we head back out there," Ian said.

"Oh okay," Anthony said, preparing to get up to let him lay down, when Ian just tilted his head slightly to rest it on Anthony's shoulder. Anthony stilled, his breath catching for the nth time today.

"I'm gonna try to visualize myself in the Arctic," Ian mumbled, "Quiet on set."

Anthony tried to not shake his shoulders as he laughed. "Alright, alright. Make sure to get back from your polar expedition in ten."

Anthony let himself rest his eyes too, the warmth of Ian's hand and head soothing the last of his rattled nerves.

[pocket-watcher]

So I saw you like The Smiler and take requests, which is great because I also love The Smiler. Would you be interested in writing a Doctor from the Ministry of Joy kidnapping and marmalizing the POV, please? Smile always!

Hi anon! It would be my pleasure…

You awoke in a darkened room. What the hell?

The last thing you remembered was… hmm… you were on a trip somewhere, but then what? Someone had appeared behind you. Chloroform?

You had felt your body grow tired. Weak in their arms.

You’d sworn their eyes were spiralling. They smiled as they watched yours close as everything around you faded to black.

Thoughts for another time. Let’s escape first, you thought, scanning the room. The dim light wasn’t helping, though.

You tried to stand but felt something holding you in place. Luckily, your arms were free from the contraption. You pushed at whatever was over your chest but it wouldn’t budge.

Suddenly a bright white light turned on. You flinched away from it.

“Ministry of Joy logs: 75128. Subject seems in stable condition. Beginning experiment now.”

The voice echoed through what sounded like speakers. You opened your eyes to investigate and were shocked at the sudden bright yellow and black assaulting your vision.

Spirals, all over the walls, in the shape of a smiling face.

You looked down at the thick yellow bars holding you back. Now that there was light you might be able to see a lever, or clasp, something to unlock it.

Part of the wall opened and someone stepped through.

“Ah. Good. Seems you’re ready to begin.”

They spoke with the same voice you’d heard over the speaker.

“Where am I?!” You demanded. You watched the wall close, your way out of there now blocked.

“All in due time.” They pulled a small recording device out of the pocket and clicked it. “I am about to begin the marmalisation process, version 3. This system includes auditory, visual, olfactory, and physical. Standing by.”

Marmalisation?

The doctor made some sort of signal, were there cameras in here? And the room began to fill with gas.

You struggled, coughing, before trying to hold your breath. You saw the doctor smile.

Another signal, and the bright light flicked off. And on. And off again. Flashing rapidly, repeatedly, shocking your eyes.

The walls and their spiral pattern almost appeared to move each time the lights turned on. You stared, mouth still tightly closed as the smoke danced around the room. As the spirals drew you in.

You were starting to slip. How long could the average person hold their breath? You were sure whatever it was you couldn’t do it for half that time.

Eventually you had to breathe in, twisting your head to breathe up away from the gas as much as possible.

It smelled… sweet. Nostalgic. You felt yourself smile slightly, before your conscious brain caught up with you. Reminisce later, focus on escaping now.

You knew you were screwed when you caught a glimpse of the doctor smiling. That’s when speakers came to life once more.

“The Ministry of Joy thanks you for your participation.”

“Remember to smile!”

“You want to be happy.”

“It feels so nice to laugh.”

“Give in to joy.”

You felt the gas fill your lungs. Your eyes, half lidded, searched for the centre of the spiral. Your mouth stretched into an unconscious smile.

What had you been doing? You couldn’t recall. You were struggling, but why would you be doing that when it felt so natural to just sit and to smile.

Resistance was never an option.

Off to one side you were vaguely aware of the doctor poking and prodding you, shining a light into your eyes, scribbling onto his clipboard.

But you didn’t mind. You just sat there, happy to keep staring, smiling, and obeying.

“Excellent. But I’m sure you could go deeper, yes? Let’s move on to phase 2.” The doctor grinned at you. “Someone prepare The Smiler!”

[strawberryshortcake1495]

The Story of Jasmine

(I can’t afford the fast-pass chapters so I’m not sure if her backstory has already been revealed, but as I said, this is all just my own interpretation and shouldn’t be taken as canon.)

Jasmine used to be such a happy girl. She was the eldest child in her family, having two younger siblings named Amara and Colton (aged 7 and 4). She was only 12 years old when she and her family went on a vacation to Savannah. They visited the Sorrel Weed House and Jasmine explored each crook and cranny of the house, drawn in by its history of being haunted. That’s when she saw a phantom from the corner of her eye but chose to ignore it. By the time her family left, it was nighttime, and they were making their way home when a large phantom blocked their way. In a frenzy, they quickly drove off into the forest and stayed at a cabin for the night. The next day, the phantom was gone but that wouldn’t be Jasmine’s last encounter with those ugly creatures. She and her siblings started seeing phantoms everywhere but they’d always disappear before they could really catch them. Amara told their parents and then they started seeing the phantoms too. This went on for like 3 weeks. Jasmine’s mother thought they were going crazy and started spiraling into madness. Jasmine’s father thought that the hotel they were staying at was haunted as well and that the only way to escape the phantoms was to just go home. So one fateful night, they packed their bags and started driving all the way back home. Jasmine kept checking her phone as they kept driving. 7PM. 8PM. 9PM. 10PM. 11PM. As the clock struck midnight, the skies turned red and there was a loud roar in the distance. Then the giant phantom centipede manifested and started chasing the family. Jasmine’s father was driving at speeds that shouldn’t be possible and Jasmine herself was hugging her siblings and trying to comfort them while crying her eyes out. Suddenly, they began to swerve off the road. The last thing Jasmine saw was a tree getting closer and closer and closer.

When she gained consciousness, the first thing she felt was something wet and mushy. Someone wet and mushy. As Jasmine’s vision cleared and she looked around, she realized something horrific. Her entire family was dead. She was laying in a bed of corpses. Distraught, Jasmine scrambled out of the broken car and began crawling into the forest. Her leg was twisted in a not-so-fun way. The only thing she could really see was the sky, which had returned to a somber dark blue with stars that illuminated the forest. Jasmine fell limp and closed her eyes, ready to die.

She awoke in a strange place with white walls. A man was standing near her bed. It was Maverick. Jasmine tried to leave but Maverick kept her put, and explained that she was sick. Infected with the virus. Maverick told her if she stayed, she could be able to help other infected people like her so they wouldn’t end up like her family. Jasmine stayed in that place for 6 miserable years until she turned 18 and started working professionally under the Paper Cranes.

Jasmine is presumed to be Patient Zero. A child who was gaslighted into believing she was crazy.

[axel-skz]

hey hope ur having a great day!

could u possibly write an angst request with skz? (any member)

something along the lines of the reader having a terrible childhood and having to go through trauma and really dark days and maybe opening up to them about it? or maybe the member finding them unconscious due to something and then opening up about it?

ONLY IF UR COMFORTABLE PLZ

ig I'm asking for it is cause I'm not doing so good and just need to feel something lmao

A/N: AWH! I will do it, since you asked soo nicely. Hope it makes you feel better 😘 AND for everyone else. I haven’t done it in a bit so let’s do the song roulette today. Im gonna shuffle all of stray kids music and we shall see what song we get. We get… HaPpy (Han)!

It felt so common now a days to hear people joking about childhood trauma. Mental health was this big thing and people were so open about their problems.

You wished you could be that way but every time you thought to tell Minho about even a pinch of it, the sweat broke out. You would start heaving and the panic would overtake you. The dread would take control and you felt like you were in a dark cave. Left alone where no one would ever find you.

That only ever happened when you thought about telling someone though. The easy solution, never talk about it.

You had a few triggers that reminded you of the cursed day and that would usually cause you to spiral till you passed out. But it had been years since you had last dealt with it.

You had a false sense of security cloaking you. Little did you know, the veil would be lifted soon.

You were making dinner an hour before Minho was going to come home from work. You had the radio playing and it was a whole fun little dance number. The cats were running around somewhere in the living room. You were having a great time. You saw your goofy dance moves in the mirror and it made you laugh. The fact that you’re with such an exceptional dancer and you couldn’t put two good looking steps together. Funny.

Your mistake though, you had gotten too comfortable.

You were having a lot of fun but it all came crashing down when a song started to play on the radio that reminded you of that night. You dropped the wooden spoon you were holding and you tried to grab the counter to keep balance.

Maybe you could work through this. The blood rushing to your head, making you dizzy, losing control would somehow stop. The tunnel vision came not too long after with the inability to breathe. Before you knew it, you were out like a light.

You had no idea why your head was throbbing. The light behind your closed eyelids slowly getting brighter.

No, I’m comfy, let me go back to sleep.

The words you couldn’t get out of your mouth because it was being stubborn and wouldn’t do what you wanted. You felt paralysed until slowly you started to regain control of yourself.

First order of business, open your eyes. And you did. But then regretted it because there was a lightbulb right there and now you were having a staring competition that you definitely were in no shape to win.

You came to as the room slowly stopped spinning. Everything was blurry until it wasn’t. You could see a very concerned Minho looking down at you. He seemed so flustered and out of breath.

It took all the energy you had to try and get up, not without him trying to stop you either. But since you were so stubborn, you got up and hugged him. He hugged you back immediately.

After some time and him looking after you, you were sitting on the sofa with him. He had put the cats into the bedroom so they wouldn’t be jumping everywhere around you.

It was a little awkward but he really wanted to know what had happened so very carefully, he asked.

You weren’t sure how to answer so you quietly started to open up.

‘I was home one day with my mum. We were making food and the radio was on. We were dancing when suddenly… there was banging on our front door… she went to go check, carefully. But no amount of care could help us. I was… Terrified when I heard yelling. There was gunshots. I don’t want to get into all of it but thankfully, my mum and I survived.’

He had held you tighter and closer the more you talked. You had gotten shaky and the tunnel vision had come back a little but he was like a grounding presence.

‘I can’t believe that happened to you,’ he seemed utterly shocked.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about it before. I have a very hard time talking about it,’ you felt terrible about not being able to tell him anything.

‘No! It’s alright. You never have to tell me anything. It’s completely up to you how much or how little you share.’

You couldn’t help but smile at how sweet he was.

‘Now, I think it’s probably best we take our mind of things… you wanna watch a movie and eat overly greasy food?’

You laughed, ‘how could I ever say no to that?’

He got up after kissing your forehead gently, ‘I’ll order 3 pizzas right away!’

You stopped him for. A moment by grabbing his hand, ‘I’d like to tell you more about what happened… one day… if you wanna know…’

He kneeled down in-front of you and held your hands as he looked into your eyes with adoration, ‘I will be here for anything and everything with you. Whenever you’re feeling confident enough to talk about it, I’ll be right here.’

He went and let the cats out of the room. Then he made sure to order the food. The rest of the night was spent cuddled up on the sofa with the love of your life and your fur babies.

You never quite thought about it but you loved your life now. You had all the love you could need. You had a home.

A/N: I HOPE YOU LIKED IT! Please like and reblog and share and smile and be happy or ELSE!

See you soon with our sweeet boy, Felix!

See I would make my work longer but my brain just doesn’t wanna do that 💀

So you either get too much dialogue or too much detail.

Lee know: can’t we have the best of both worlds?

I turn to look at him: um… 1, didn’t peg you for a Hannah Montana fan. 2, this is my moment… you got a whole story… go away…

He gets up, sets his chair on fire and walks away nonchalantly.

I turn back to look at you with wide eyes: I’m gonna pay for that tonight…

I chase after him frantically.

WAIT! I’LL BUY YOU ALL THE CAT TOYS YOU WANT! DON’T BURN MY HOUSE DOWN!

[quarter-life-crisis2]

Just enough help

✿ Yoongi x reader (she/her) (Namjoon is there for 2 seconds)

✿ wc: 2.1k

✿ baby angst, minimal fluff

✿ summary: You're stuck, not knowing what to do in your life to be happy and content. A surprising conversation makes you think that maybe you can turn things around.

✿ warnings: some talk of capitalism, hopelessness, and being stuck in life, a touch of loneliness & low self-esteem, but nothing physical, just one little wish of being more beautiful, weed smoking occurs (oh no, 2/2 on this one), talk about purpose and shit that's keeping me up at night, but it's not too heavy, ends with more hope than it starts I promise

Maybe part two...?

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

A lovely spring day by the canal, birds singing, sun shining, couples smiling, all that bullshit and yet you’ve been walking around with a dark cloud above you. Sometimes going for a walk makes you feel like you’re finally photosynthesising after a long winter, yet seeing all these happy people reminds you of how bitter you feel. 

Sitting down on the patch of grass overlooking the water, staring into the distance you feel like everything you’ve been working towards has been completely pointless. You pictured this amazing life for yourself, with a career you love and are confident in, living it up in the big city, with a highrise flat, a dog and a partner. Yet all you’ve got right now is disappointment, in yourself and your achievements. 

And that just makes you feel ungrateful because you have a career, a decent one at that, that pays you enough that you don’t have to worry about your bills and you can indulge here and there. Your flat might not be overlooking the city, but it’s nice enough, you decorated it to your tastes and you don’t have to share it with any strangers and argue over whose turn it is to do the dishes. 

Yet it just feels like it’s all wrong, it’s not you, you’re not really living. You’re going through the motions every day, seeing how much you can get away with before you get called in for a disciplinary meeting. Seeing how many hours you can spend laying down on your bed with your eyes closed, picturing you’re someone else entirely, someone better, more confident, more interesting, more beautiful. 

You thought you finally had it, that treasured feeling you’ve been chasing for as long as you can remember, that content little light inside that made you walk with a little more joy, make you lift your head a bit higher, like you actually like yourself. How fragile was it really? It seems like all it took was a slump, and then you went right back to isolating yourself, not taking care of yourself and no longer trying. 

“Here, take this” 

A water bottle is suddenly in your line of vision, startling you from your self-deprecating spiral. Looking up at the man standing in front of you, realising you’ve been crying, in public, in broad daylight, completely sober. Shock and shame quickly mix together, so you take the bottle hoping he’ll leave you alone to wallow for a bit longer before you pull yourself together and make the hour-long journey back to your corner of the city. No such luck, he seems to not get the hint, sitting down next to you, a good 4 feet apart. 

“Don’t worry, I just bought it, it’s sealed. You just looked like you needed it.”

You look down surprised, to the unopened bottle, muttering a small thanks and taking a sip. He’s settled in, staring out at the beautiful view, looking completely at ease with your discomfort, while you’re inspecting his profile, confused about what the hell he wants from you. He can’t possibly just be nice, no one talks to crying people here, you might as well be invisible. The last time this happened, when you were 20, having just moved cities, far from home, it was like you suddenly got a superpower, if you ever cried in public, and you did for a while, a lot, everyone avoided eye contact like they could catch some crying disease. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

Letting out a sudden laugh, you might as well engage in this, whatever this is, it might never happen again. Hopefully, it never does, how many times can one embarrass themselves before their self-esteem finally reaches rock bottom? 

“I’m just being dramatic, it’s nothing much.”

“Try me”

“Fine, if you’re really that interested... I just fucking hate my life... I hate my job, I hate my flat, and I hate that I’m not where I thought I’ll be at this age. But I’m sure I’m not the first or the last to think that, so I should just be happy with what I’ve got, it could be so much worse.”

“So what? Just because it could be worse, what, can’t it be better as well?”

“I guess, but at this point, I don’t know what better looks like. I’m sitting here complaining about how unhappy I am, yet I couldn’t even tell you what I want. Pretty fucking pathetic.”

You’re angry you realise, you’re angry with yourself mainly. What is the point of this little sad song you’re singing for yourself? You’re not grateful for what you’ve got and you’re not trying to get anything better, so why would you deserve some amazing life for yourself if you can’t even try? 

“Splif?”

Looking at the guy again, you realise he didn’t say anything back to your lovely rendition of your failures, just offering you a smoke. 

“Fuck it, why not.” 

So you sit there, in silence, going back and forth, smoking this stranger’s weed looking out at the orange hues in the water reflecting from the sunset. 

“How old are you?” you finally ask, once the buzz kicked in and you can feel your anger subside, making room for the light haze. 

“30”

“And are you happy?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes…?”

“Yeah, sometimes. I’m happy right now.” 

“Why would you be happy right now? I doubt anyone wants to spend their Saturday afternoon wasting their weed on a random crying stranger.”

He doesn’t look at you at all while talking, just sits there calmly, takes a final toke, has a sip of his coke and lays down on the grass before answering. This man seems like he’s meditated his way to inner peace right now. 

“It’s not that bad, the weather is nice, there’s music playing, there’s no screaming children. I had a nice lunch and a nice smoke, and you’re not crying anymore. So I’m happy right now. It doesn’t take that much.”

He’s right, it’s a beautiful day, it’s as peaceful as the city will ever feel, and you’re not crying anymore. So you stop, take a deep breath, trying to embody his carefree attitude, and lay down on the grass. You focus on the clear sky, the gentle breeze moving the tree leaves above you and the gentle guitar you can hear from somewhere behind you. 

“How old are you?”

Looking to your right, he’s finally looking your way, sitting up on his elbows, eyes a bit droopy and red. 

“28”

“And what did you think would already happen that hasn’t?”

“I’m not sure anymore, I just thought I’d feel some purpose, like I’d be some inspiring career woman. But all I feel is just dread… like, is this it? For the rest of my life, just wake up, drag myself to do something that’s good enough, that pays me enough, that’s just not annoying enough or hard enough that I leave. Get home, eat, watch some movie that’s interesting enough, sleep, repeat.”

“What’s annoying about it, your job?”

“It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. I’m helping a bunch of rich corporations figure out if they can maybe squeeze another million out of people while trying hard not to spend a cent to help anyone. Not even their own employees. They ask for more money, or better parental leave, or bereavement days, or to not be discriminated against after helping them increase their billions and they say “Sorry, no can do, but here’s a ping pong table and a couple of beers on Friday.” It just doesn’t matter at best and at worst I’m helping capitalism thrive at everyone’s expense. Surely this isn’t what we’re meant to be doing.” 

“Yeah, well I agree with you on that… So you obviously know why this doesn’t feel right, then what should we be doing?”

“What, all of us, as a society?”

“Yeah, all of us.”

“We should be helping each other. Not fucking over everyone we can just so some rich dude can buy another yacht. But so what? I’m not gonna start some class revolution. I can barely keep my fridge stocked. It doesn’t matter how I think we should be.” 

“I mean, I’m pretty sure a lot of people feel that way.”

“Maybe… No, you’re right, I know they do. I didn’t come up with any of this. Just not the people that can actually do something about it.”

“You can do something about it, anyone can. Why can’t you help people?”

“Cause it won’t make a difference.”

“Did that water make a difference?” he points to the empty bottle on your lap. 

“I mean, I’m not thirsty anymore…? What’s your point?”

“Did the weed make a difference?”

“Yeah, it did. So what, should we just give out weed to people and hold hands and hope our corporate overlords decide to join us?”

“You’re thinking too big. How do you feel? Like right now, this second?”

“I feel… I feel high. I feel like I’m chatting shit to a stranger.” 

He laughs a bit, continuing his gentle interrogation. 

“And how did you feel 20 minutes ago? Be honest.”

“You’re really walking around providing free therapy?”

“Just indulge me…”

“Fine, I felt like crap, and really fucking hopeless.”

“Well, you still seem a bit hopeless, I won’t lie to you, but you’ve smiled about 1.5 - oh, there we go, 2 times now, so surely that’s a tiny bit better, no?”

“Yeah, I guess so…”

“Well then, I helped you a tiny bit. Do you feel like that matters at all?”

“In the grand sch-”

“No, no, not in the grand scheme, to you, does it matter to you? That you’re high and feel a little bit less crappy?”

“Yeah, I suppose. But, that’s not helping people, that’s just me.”

“Well you’re a person, I’m a person, we’re both people, unless that’s not the case, which if you’re not, please tell me now because that’s a great high conversation to have.”

You laugh a bit amused at how this dude is just taking your ramblings in stride, somehow finding time to not only make eye contact with a crying stranger but somehow give them life advice as well. 

“3, that’s a full smile, new record. Well, now that we’ve established we’re both people, and I helped you a tiny bit, and you helped me pass some time and have a nice chat, then why would it not matter?”

“Right… so you’re saying I should start small?”

“Well if you could actually fix society, like all of it, I’d be really fucking impressed, but I doubt you can just wake up one day and do that. Maybe just think of what you do well in your job, and see if anyone is willing to pay you for it, some place where it’s helping, someone, anyone. Even if it’s just one person. I’m sure there’s something.” 

You look at him for a few seconds, just surprised. It’s not like he’s told you the secret to the universe. You’ve probably given this advice to a friend before, ‘start small, focus on what you can control’, ‘every little bit counts’ all of that. But sometimes, just knowing something isn’t enough, you need someone to tell you just the right thing at the right time. 

“Thank you.”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you, that actually really helped.”

“Nah, I’m sure you would’ve gotten there eventually. My friend’s finally here, I’m gonna head out. Hope you figure it out.”

You watch him walk away with a little wave. You’re surprised, you realise. He didn’t do anything creepy, he didn’t try to hit on you or ask for your number. He didn’t even ask for your name actually. He was just nice, he listened, gave a little bit of advice and went on his way. He did help, so maybe it’s a sign. How many times would this realistically happen? You would’ve said 0 30 min ago. So maybe you can turn things around, figure out a way to feel useful, a little bit less like a hypocrite. 

……

“Who was that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean? You were talking for ages.”

“I don’t know her, just seemed upset so I talked to her for a bit.”

“And had a smoke.”

“Yeah, and had a smoke.”

“Sooo…did you get her number?”

“No.”

“What? Since when do you talk to strangers just because? You barely even talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to tell you man, I just did.”

“Yeah, whatever you say… come on, let’s go, we’re already fucking late.” 

soooo I'm clearly going through something

[cutielando]

Hi!!!

I hope you are having a wonderful day/night :)

I was wondering if you could do a theo darken x reader imagine pls. One in which Yn is mentally and physically exhausted of the night they rescue Lydia from eichen house and theo sneaks in when Yn is having a panic attack, when he calms her down they banter a little and then Yn forgives him and Theo holds her as she falls asleep.

Thanks you so much!!!<3

my masterlist

Numb.

That's the only thing you had been feeling ever since you got back from rescuing Lydia.

You weren't supposed to be feeling like this. You were supposed to be happy that you rescued your best friend, happy that she was okay. But you weren't.

Theo had been calling you non-stop ever since you went back home to check on you, but you couldn't bring yourself to answer the phone. Instead, you just sat on the floor of your bedroom, looking at the ringing phone and not moving a muscle.

You didn't know how to deal with all of this. You were just a normal high school student before you found out about the supernatural and now you were suddenly thrown into this mayhem of life-and-death threats every single day.

How were you supposed to keep your friends safe? How could you help them? You weren't special, you didn't have powers, you didn't possess any special abilities, you were a liability to everyone. Especially your boyfriend.

You were so entranced in your thoughts that were spiraling out of control that you didn't even notice your rapid breathing, your struggle to get air into your lungs, the sweat coating your forehead because of the effort you were putting in by breathing.

"Y/N?" you heard a distant voice call, your blurry vision trying to find the source of it.

Your eyes settles on a figure climbing through your window and rushing towards you, cupping your face.

"Y/N, look at me, baby" the voice once again said, and you could now somewhat clearly see Theo crouching down in front of you, his worried eyes burning onto your shaking form.

"I can't- I can-can't catch m-my b-b-brea-breath" you wheezed out, feeling the air leaving your lungs with each word.

"Baby, I need you to focus on me and try and breathe with me. One deep breath in and one deep breath out. Come on, breathe with me. In and out, in and out" you only focused on his voice and tried to match his breathing, tears continuously streaming down your eyes.

After a couple of minutes, you managed to get your breathing under control and stopped crying, but the feeling of numbness was still overly presence in your bones.

"What happened?" Theo asked after a minute of silence, running his hands up and down your arms.

"Tonight happened. Being in that place, seeing what it did to Lydia and seeing all of you risking your lives to get her out of there and I was just... there. I couldn't do anything because I'm so fucking useless to everyone" you ranted, pouring out everything in front of your boyfriend.

"Hey, hey, how can you say that? You're not useless to us, you're not useless to any of us"

"I AM!! WHY CAN'T YOU SEE THAT? You are all supernatural and can take care of yourselves and I'm just there, always the collateral damage, always needing someone to rescue me and always needing help with everything"

"Listen to me. It doesn't matter to us if you're a werewolf or a chimera or a banshee or anything. You're Y/N, that's more than enough for everyone. Please don't ever feel like you're a burden to us because you're not, especially not to me. I love you, and I'm always gonna do everything in my power to keep you safe because I want to, not because you feel like I need to. Do you understand?"

You nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek. You couldn't help but leap into his arms, holding him tightly.

He enveloped you in his arms and stood up, placing the both of you on your bed so you would be more comfortable. He started running his hands up and down your back and in your hair, whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

His soothing touch and loving words were enough to lull you into a deep sleep, nestled in the arms of the love of your life.

comments and re-blogs help us grow!

much appreciated!!

REQUEST HERE

[lugiepie]

do you have lore for hero-n and tabbygon 0:

alas, i do…

i’ve decided to completely rework how i wanted the chimera logs to be considering i lost the plot so hard but still loved gary to death as a character to write. so, instead of an au focusing on just gary and his struggles with his life and friends, gary is now a narrator. he is thrust into his job at the chimera lab just as suddenly as he was in the og chimera logs story, but now he’s all alone. there was no first day escape incident that led him to meet max, izzy is no longer here (still thinking about this. she could be in it, but as a casualty), etc.

hero-n and tabbygon are gary’s first chimeras. they were made in the first week he was there (or, at least their concepts) and due to not having any friends at the chimera lab, he heavily idolizes them. to him, they are his friends (and he eventually even considers them his children) despite them being nothing more than some blueprints and a hard drive. he designed them to compliment each other: hero-n was meant to be a swift, frail attack chimera while tabbygon supported it and could protect it if need be. gary longed for the day that a heron and a cat would arrive at the chimera lab so he could realize his vision so much so that he assembled all of the required mechanical parts in advance.

unfortunately for him, his heron and cat never came. instead, he was delivered two torn-up children who he was ordered to keep alive at all costs. against his wishes, his blueprints for the internal mechanics (and, later, their combat tools) were used on the twins. he despises the twins for taking his one chance at happiness and completion and destroying them. to make matters worse, lucas is the heron (a defensive psi user with attack-based programming) and claus is the cat (an offensive psi user running on analytical and defensive programming). those “hell-sent suckers” can’t even be good chimeras! at any chance he gets, he berates and torments the boys by letting the other chimeras trample or fight them. he nearly kills the boys several times, either through ignorance or from training them just a little too much.

all until his blueprints are returned to him by lucas. at first gary completely dismisses this. he idolized the heron and the cat for so long, and by now he had accepted that they would never see the light of day. he considers locking lucas in the cryo room for his supposed sabotage. however, he eventually overhears how worried doctor andonuts and, by extension, every damn human in the lab is about him. they think gary’s completely lost it (i mean, they’re right) and they don’t know what to do with him if he’s going to continue to be this violent with their expensive chimeras. gary takes one last look at his blueprints, leaves them under his bed, and “kidnaps” the twins. in reality, he just ushered them into his truck and tried to get them home; unfortunately neither of them remembered where tazmily was and they got caught.

gary then realizes that, due to how the wrong twin has the opposite’s programming quirks, he comes up with a long and convoluted plan that will result in one of the twins being able to leave the lab forever. after much consideration from the boys and gary, they decide lucas is the best one to go. at least one of them has to stay to be commander, after all, and who better than the powerhouse thunder thumbs? but that means the heron and the cat are separated, and what happens?

claus becomes violent and short-tempered, much like how flint was the night of hinawa’s death and also like how gary was when they first met. he begins a spiral into madness where he, quite literally, becomes porky #2. lucas, meanwhile, latches on to flint after miraculously finding his way back home. he becomes so independent and stale in the face that the folks of tazmily think he’s been possessed by something. that and people finding his cybernetics vile lead to him becoming “the ghost of tazmily”; he flies above the town and over the sea at dawn and dusk, as flying is the only thing that drowns out the noise of his spiraling negative thoughts. he steals from shops and people’s homes in the night. he’s regularly crawling around in sunshine forest to take out his feelings on the landscape, leaving perfectly scorched patterns from PK Love everywhere he goes.

i’ve recently attempted rewriting the chimera logs following this storyline, and it hasn’t gone well. i’m not even ten pages in and i already want to set google docs on fire. i wish i could express in writing just how important the concept of a shady heron and a mischievous cat are to gary’s entire situation, as they act as constant reminders of who, what, and where he’s been in life, but i simply don’t have the brainpower to do that currently methinks.

just know that the heron and the cat cannot be separated; for if they are, their absence will drive their compliment to conform to the next nearest thing, and that will bring certain doom.

there were always two.

[bapydemonprincess]

Let it go

"Sebastian,"

Mey Rin called, staring a bit away from the butler as she came across him in the study.

Standing there.

Staring menacingly at...

A little spider in a tiny little web it had weaved into the corner of the window in the room.

"Sebastian," She called again.

Not in a questioning tone, for she had no questions. She wasn't confused at all at this point.

She knew what this stand-off meant.

.. In a sense.

Mey walked closer.

She came right up to the butler, and pressed her little hand to his right shoulder from behind.

The tiniest jolt came from Sebastian.

His mouth parted a little and his eyes fluttered shut, blinking as if snapping from a daze.

Then the butler looked over at the maid.

"Forgive me.. I didn't mean to stand here so long. I was.. lost in thought about the afternoon meal."

....

"Mhm,"

Mey Rin said in response, as if agreeing.

As if unbothered that he was lying.

She patted his shoulder, then took another step.

Closer, and pushing around him.

Sebastian blinked. Again. And watched.

The maid approached the spider on it's web.

And then she took a handkerchief from her maid's skirts pockets.

"Mey," Sebastian immediately called.

But Mey was already scooping up the arachnid.

Into the handkerchief.

With her little palms under it.

She looked briefly back up at Sebastian, and gave him one of her sweet trademark closed eyed smiles.

And then she turned.

And headed for the door.

Sebastian seemed still locked in place.

But then he saw from the corner of his vision Mey disappear out the door.

And whirled about, almost stumbled, and ran after her.

"Mey, w-where are you going?"

Mey heard him, a little behind her.

His faster than average yet staying behind her own.

She didn't answer him.

Mey Rin kept her palms firmly grasping the tiny spider.

Squeezing just enough to keep it trapped in her handkerchief covered hands.

But not enough to squish it.

And kept confidently walking toward what was obviously her destination.

The front door.

...

However, once the maid had reached the front door, a challenge was suddenly met.

...

She needed her hands to open the door.

...

Mey Rin sighed, as if put upon, and then finally turned to look over at Sebastian.

...

Sebastian was still a tad distant from her. Not allowing himself close.

His eyes locked on the spider.

"Sebastian," Mey called.

And waited.

...

Sebastian finally looked at the maid's expectant face.

Open but dark brown eyes behind big round spectacles stared back.

And she twitched her head toward the door.

"Can you please open it for me?"

A simple question.

A simple request.

...

Not a demand.

Not an order.

...

Sebastian swallowed.

And then stepped slowly up, around the maid, and to the front door of the manor.

He opened the door.

And moved slowly to the side with the handle in his grasp.

Holding it open.

For someone to go through.

As he has done many, many times before.

Mey Rin, waiting in place, looked over at him first before going through.

She smiled again.

That patient sweet closed eyed smile.

And then she told him:

"Thank you."

And then she walked through the door.

.................

The words echoed and chimed through Sebastian's mind.

For what was likely much longer than they should.

But then he managed to return to the present.

And the reason for Mey Rin thanking him.

And the reason for him opening the front door in the first place.

....

And Sebastian looked out, beyond the front door, and the rest of the elaborate fancy entrance, with a miniature spiral staircase leading up to the door.

He saw Mey Rin, already passed the stairs, and among the grass.

....

Sebastian took a breath.

And then went out as well.

Walking up closer and closer to the maid.

Who was lowered, in the grass, maid skirts pooling around her.

Slightly hunched in and away from the butler approaching.

...

Sebastian stopped a bit away.

Again.

And could make out from there her smiling down into the grass.

..

The butler cleared his throat.

"Mey, are you happy to let that spider go?"

Were his first words. A full sentence. In a while.

.

Mey straightened up calmly, sighing in a tone that seemed satisfied, and stood.

Mey brushed off her skirts while turning back around, and started slowly walking up closer to Sebastian too.

"Yes, I think I am," she finally answered, as she finished and straightened to face him completely.

She was smiling again.

And even giggled as she absently pushed some loose hair away, behind her ear.

"I hadn't done nothin' wrong, from wot I could tell. Just the usual things a spider does. So I figured, well.."

Mey stepped up to Sebastian, and her hands suddenly reached out.

They clutched Sebastian by the arms.

And squeezed.

.

As much as her tiny hands could.

..

Tiny hands that had held that spider.

...

And not killed it.

"Why not let it go, an' let it do its spider things somewhere else.. Y'know? Away from 'ere."

.......

"That's..."

Sebastian looked away, into space, eyes narrowing.

...............

He couldn't finish.

And Mey Rin squeezed his arms again.

"C'mon, now. Let's go back inside."

And she released his arms.

But grabbed his hands.

And moved to start walking back to the door.

Pulling, and tugging on Sebastian's hands.

......

And Sebastian looked once more over at the grass.

And sighed.

Before turning to look back at Mey Rin again.

Smiling.

And still facing him as she pulled him back towards the manor.

And away from the spider in the grass.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

No Distance Left to Run | S.R

Series Summary - Truth or Dare? A harmless teenage game gone wrong when spoken by the man holding you hostage. And when you’re feelings for your best friend come to light after fifteen years, how will you and Spencer cope in the aftermath?

A/N - rewrite of the Jeid confession with reader. Lots of details of JJ and Spencer’s past have been rewritten. Present day is 2020 to keep in line with canon. Spencer met Max much earlier on. Thank you to the lovely @pinkiceee-prose for reading this through for me and coming along for this journey 🖤

Pairing - Spencer Reid / BAU Fem! Reader

Category - friends to lovers | mutual pining | angst with happy ending | smut minors DNI

General Series Warnings - smut, mutual pining, canon compliant violence, abusive relationship, cheating. Each chapter will have its own warnings.

Coming Soon

Part One - Truth Or Dare?

Part Two - Never Have I Ever

Part Three - Hide and Seek

Part Four - Dominoes

Part Five - Red Light, Green Light

Very small snippet under the cut.

The world stood still. For what could have only equated to five seconds, the world stood still. 

Five seconds somehow felt like an entire lifetime, where all outside stimuli faded from vision, sounds disappearing before they could hit eardrums. The way his wrists and knee and the rest of his body had ached and throbbed just moments ago slipped away. 

The world stood still. All he could see was you and all he could hear were the words you’d spoken five seconds before that had caused the earth to suddenly stop turning on its axis with the weight of them. 

For five seconds, which felt like five hours, he saw the last fifteen years flash before his eyes. Every subtle glance, every tiny smile; every accidental touch. Every word ever shared between the two of you that he’d catalogued in his brain came spiralling forth, flooding his senses to the point he wasn’t sure he could breathe.

For five seconds it was simply you and him and those words you’d spoken at the worst possible time. But you’d said it. And he heard it. He just had no idea what he was supposed to do with it now. 

There was once a time when hearing those words spoken from your lips to his ears was all he had ever wanted. He’d imagined you saying them to him more times than was healthy, so often in fact there were instances in which he actually managed to convince himself you had said them. 

But you never had. Not until now. 

And now he had no idea how he was supposed to begin processing those words, especially in the situation in which you had finally spoken the one thing he’d always wanted to hear you say. 

He wanted to respond, he wanted to tell you he felt the same, he’d always felt the same. For fifteen long years he’d carried his unrequited feelings for you like a led weight upon his shoulders. They’d dragged him down a little more each day, at this point he found he was almost entirely buried under the burden of his feelings.

And then you’d gone and said that and he didn’t know how he was supposed to respond. 

The words were spinning and turning, ruminating in his brain and he forgot for those five seconds where you were and what was going on around you. He stopped trying to cut through the tape binding his wrists, stopped thinking about getting to his ankle hostler.

He stopped thinking about the crazed unsub standing just three feet away brandishing a gun at the both of you, his sick and twisted game of Truth or Dare coming to an abrupt end with the uttering of those. 

“Spence, uh...I have always loved you. I was too scared to say it before... and now things are just really too complicated to say it now. I'm sorry, but you should know.”

[xxlucyxlolaxx]

The Lynching of Michaelis

I think I should feel very bad for this. It's my fault for choosing such a dark tale to tell......sigh It is not that Explicit but still, I'm still happy how this turned out.

.....

"He looks like a ghost," one of the bystanders claimed.

"What a scary kid."

He couldn't handle their eyes anymore and covered his face while tears of anguish and fear burned his eyes. He heard sounds all around him.

"That sickly pale skin and raven hair," someone whispered. "He must be the monster we heard about."

"He is the demon! We should report this so we can prepare for the burning."

"May God have mercy on our souls."

"He is the monster!"

"How dare you hurt my baby!" the mother of the boy with the broken ankle cried.

Kondo felt strong hands grab both shoulders and drag him away. That was the moment his emotions spiraled. He started screaming, and tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Papa! Papa!"

His cries were cut off when something plunged into his chest, sending a horrific burning sensation through his bones. His hands were forced behind his back, and like the strength was zapped out of his body, the man started dragging him by his hair.

Kondo was forced to march through the suddenly crowded street, where he was jostled, taunted, and spat on. With every step he was dragged into, he left a thin trail of blood behind. The voices of the crowd shouting their disgusting insults rang in his ears. The eyes of many children watched him in fear. Then the boy saw the outskirts of the village.

There, he saw a stake and a woman placed a bit of straw around it. At first, he didn't understand what was happening. His mind was stunned by the pain in his chest and the humiliation he had just experienced.

The man shoved him against the stake, tightening a rope around his wrists. His vision was blurry for a second. Then he saw the torch hurrying his way with its red-yellow glow. His eyes widened in horror as his body had finally awakened from its slumber. He struggled to free his hands.

"No, please! Don't kill me!" he cried, looking at the men around him in fear, pleading for mercy. "Please, I didn't do anything! I'm just a boy!"

All the response he got was a slap across the face, hard enough he was sure there would be a mark.

"Shut up, demon scum. You deserve no mercy," the man yelled at his face, making Kondo feel like swallowing his tongue from fear.

The torch was placed over the straw, and within seconds, he saw the flames rising, speeding up toward him. He started screaming again.

"Please! Please, no!"

[knifekatt]

i bet on losing you; i feel you leaving but i cant let go

preview: in an alternate universe where Mike and Will escaped the Hawkins Lab instead of Jane, the two are separated within their getaway and each found by different local residents, who each keeps their identity hidden in very different ways.

includes: breaking and entering, angst, boys kissing, superpowers, hurt/comfortl

cws: massive spoilers for season 4, emotional abuse, blood, violence, trauma, ptsd, etc

for: @beesnsocks

——————————————————————————

(A/N: this first chapter takes place during the Hawkins Lab Massacre)

Escaping Papa’s place was something they’d always planned. But not this way. Not right now.

Thirteen squeezed Fifteen’s hand, scared that his own would slip out of Fifteen’s grip from his sweat. The hallway seemed longer than it ever had before, laid out before them, a seemingly unreachable door in sight before them. Screams of Eleven and—One?—came from behind them. But they kept running. They had too.

Nobody came after them. There were no footsteps behind them. Yet still, they sprinted as if a wolf was snapping at their tails. One mistake. That’s all that would be necessary, he was convinced. Even though he knew, he knew that everyone was dead. His siblings. His family. All he had left was his friend in front of him. Neither of them tried to slow or even question the desperate state of the moment.

They weren’t siblings. Not like everyone else. Fifteen grew up in a different facility, connected to this one. Thirteen's mind wanted to wander to when they were together, and happy, but he couldn't risk that right now. They had only seen each other only a few times before this day, but that didn’t matter right now.

Nothing did.

They burst through the doors, and the rain came onto them like buckets. The sky was dark but mysterious and wondering. Thirteen paused, for only half a heartbeat, taking in this realm. His pupils wens small and his eyes went wide, feeling as if he was zooming out a screen on a camera. His world well over quadrupled in size within only a matter of milliseconds. The clouds swirled above and a hill rolled out to his front, and the wind was harsh and loud, whistling in his ears in an overwhelming yet beautiful, gorgeous way. There was no sun and barely a sky, yet he was astounded and shocked to his very core. He felt a pull on his hand, and suddenly he was back within his own body. He looked to the back of Fifteen's head, as Fifteen kept running fast with his feet landing hard. Fifteen seemed almost unphased, staying in his own universe of fear. Thirteen followed, the terror getting shot within his veins once again.

With what seemed to be a normal step, Thirteen watched as Fifteen’s leg began to tilt and mud fly up into the sky, and then as his other leg went. Suddenly he was holding onto Thirteen for dear life as he was about to fall down a hill, his body swinging to the side and he kicked and kicked to get a grip on the ground. His lips were curled and his teeth showed to be clenching, with his eyes locking onto Thirteen and shaking. A thorough shiver went through him, as the weight of having to save his friend setting onto his shoulders. The sweat proved to be just as Thirteen thought: slippery as butter. Fifteen was gone and rolling down the hill as if he wasn't just there. Thirteen screeched, but as his hand reached forward to go after his, he slipped too. He felt his body spinning along the ground downward violently. His thoughts were everywhere and jumbled. His hands tried to stop him, but he tumbled over his own arm, going up for a minute before landing. There was a loud thunk and extreme pain in his head. The pain went away almost as soon as it was there and his vision went red. His body stopped. He got up despite everything spiraling. He didn’t even notice the traumatized Fifteen rolled up in a ball shaking near him. He just kept moving forward.

Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. He couldn’t run anymore. Everything was fuzzy. What kept him moving was his adrenaline. A hot liquid dripped from his forehead. His legs finally went numb and he collapsed, a long, long time later. He heard screaming. Was it his? Or was he back in the facility? A woman's face leaned over him. That was the last bit, then he blacked out.

[lemonboi390]

The End is Never the End

Chapter 2: Don't Do It

It's angst time here we go 🎢(this chapter may be a little rough just a warning)

Stanley Suddenly Falls ill, and the following events shake both the narrator and Stanley’s fabric of reality. Nothing is what it seems now.

A/N: This is one of my first ever fanfictions, and it was inspired by a role play so I apologize if the quality is lacking in any way. I’ll be posting sporadically as inspiration comes at random. Chapters will be uploaded to AO3 first. (Link on my blog) Sorry if there are any grammatical issues. Thank you for reading!

TW: Anxiety Attack, Existentialism, Autophobic themes, Angst With A Happy Ending

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The loading screen zapped out of Stanley's view, and he blinked his eyes a few times in an attempt to focus his vision. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he felt awareness seep back into him, muttering groggy nothings under his breath as he dropped his hand back on the mattress and looked around. A cool, damp cloth slid off his forehead as he turned his neck, leaving the residue of water droplets behind. He felt too weary to bother fixing it. After a few moments of recollecting himself, he concluded that he was in his bedroom, a spot on the map he did not get to see frequently. 

Stanley's gaze stopped at a shiny metal object tucked in next to him, its handle peeking out invitingly. Despite everything, he smiled wryly and pulled the bucket close to him. Its crisp metal was refreshing against his feverish skin. Of course, he did. He thought in distant amusement, but the feeling slowly drifted away and was replaced by something almost unnerving. 

A subtle feeling of uneasiness rose in Stanley as he collected his thoughts and memories of what happened formed into view. He held the bucket tighter against him, but its usual comforts failed to tame his increasingly spiraling thoughts. Something was missing. He darted his eyes around with uncertainty, and it was then an understanding formed in his mind. It was quiet, too quiet, and…when did he ever wake up in his bed? When did he ever get sick in the parable? His head felt cloudy, which only made his panic rise as he struggled to form coherent reasoning, making his headache flicker to life again. 

Against his body's wishes, Stanley forced himself to sit up, grunting as his muscles throbbed with pain. He grabbed the headboard with one arm for support and held the bucket close to his chest with the other, his eyes scanning all over the dim room in disquieted contemplation. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but hesitated for a few moments. His throat was burning from each shaky breath he took, and his skin was perspiring. He swallowed reflexively, trying to soothe his throat, but it only made it burn all the more. With one final squeeze of the bucket, he parted his lips again and uttered:

“Narry…?” 

Silence permeated the air, and Stanley embraced his bucket like his life depended on it. He quietly gulped down the tears threatening to form, and took a deep, shuddering breath, nodding to himself slightly as he drummed his fingers against the bucket. It was like the motion of pushing buttons at his computer, a comforting idea it was. More comforting than the reality in front of him. His situation was like the shock of discovering the mind control center, only there was no one to guide him through it. No narrator, he pondered feverishly. 

Stanley smiled mournfully as he thought about his narrator, memories colliding with each other in a kaleidoscope of emotion. Regrets weighed on him as he thought about what would have happened if he just hadn’t fallen asleep like Narry said. Maybe if he wanted to do the story, maybe if he didn’t get aggravated with him, maybe, maybe, maybe.  He coughed a few times, his eyes watering as his throat stung from the force. Is this how his narrator felt when he pushed the skip button? He had an idea now of what that was like. It had only been a few minutes at most, but it was steadily growing to be torturous. 

Maybe I deserve this. Stanley tried to convince himself, staring down into the bucket, empty and void-like. It was much like the infinity hole. The reality of the situation steadily grew on him. He started choking up as he thought about it and how he ruffled his narrator's disposition, how he annoyed him when he made it to the bottom. “ Okay well, good for you Stanley, you found me out!”  He chuckled wetly through his waterfall of tears as he replayed the memory again and again in his head, in a never-ending spiral of infectious nostalgia. The infinity hole would simply never be enjoyable without Narry’s philosophical observations about holes and quips at Stanley, and perhaps, maybe even the bucket didn’t hold the same charm. 

Stanley missed him unbearably already, his snarky comments always added a special flair to his day, but now he would never have a chance to admit that. His hands were shaking as he stared down into the bucket through bleary sight. The soft pattering of tears against the metal and his shaking breath were the only sound in the empty bedroom. His tears of sorrow morphed into tears of fear intermingled with longing for his narrator back. “I’m never going to see him again…” His voice was broken between sobs. He rubbed his forehead apprehensively, sweat slicking onto his hand as he felt himself growing dizzy with horror. He squeezed the bucket in his arms desperately, curling into a fetal position as his breathing grew more ragged and his throat tightened. “I’m going to die alone here” his voice was wheezy, making his panic increase as his head pounded. He never liked talking, especially now, but his words were the only thing keeping him glued to reality. The nature of his situation was finally sinking in, and the hole of his thoughts was gapingly wide. 

A soft treading echoed outside of his room, and Stanley suddenly froze. 

The sound of footsteps made him shoot up on the spot, shirking his bucket aside. His heart was beating with the rhythm of a hammer as they drew closer. The resonance of papers ruffling and being strewn about made his chest rise and fall with greater rapidity as he awaited in bated breath.

 

His bedroom door was thrown open hurriedly, and in stepped a man, no later than his mid-fifties. A vest and a button-up shirt, tousled hair, and a pocket watch dangled lopsidedly from his belt loop. He adjusted his unaligned glasses and smiled thinly when he looked at Stanley, clearing his throat as if composing himself.

“Hello, Stanley.” 

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Chapter 1: Don't Do It: https://www.tumblr.com/lemonboi390/723244186206420992/the-end-is-never-the-end?source=share