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bubblegumbeech · 4 years ago

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My first Phic Phight fic!

For @ecto-american’s prompt

His name was Danny.

That was the first thing he knew for sure was true, when he had first woken up it was what everyone called him, and it fit just fine, wasn’t something off or uncomfortable so he let it settle over him before he tried to speak.

His voice didn’t come at first, and it hurt to try so the nurses made him promise to take it easy for now, to sit back and listen. So he did.

He listened as the people around him spoke at length about how much they missed him, about how they couldn’t wait to get him home again, about how glad they were he’d survived.

The loudest and most talkative of the people that visited him and called him Danny, was a large man in an orange jumpsuit that went on long enthusiastic tangents that Danny had long stopped paying attention to. He was almost always with a smaller, authoritative woman named Maddie, who insisted He call her Mom. They told him they were his parents.

They told him they loved him.

And then they told him everything else.

The first time Danny remembered something it was with excitement, he was still in the hospital room and between the visits from the men in the starched white suits, his parents, and the doctor, he had been wrestling with the feeling that something was missing.

It had only been when Maddie had finally taken off the hood and goggles of her jumpsuit had Danny gotten a flash of familiar red hair and asked, “where’s Jazz?”

His heart buzzed at the question, sure, so sure that it would get answered, that he had remembered something.

But both Jack and Maddie had just looked at him, disappointed, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask again.

Eventually, once the doctor declared him competent and unlikely to slip back into his coma, his parents had taken him home.

There were streamers all over the house and a giant party banner that read “Welcome Back” in thick black lettering and Danny forced out a small smile as he looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings. Maddie walked up behind him and he flinched, his body acting before his brain could catch up.

She had frowned at his reaction, and when Danny, stuttering, tried to apologize she said it was okay, and with a tightlipped smile, she pulled him into a hug.

He forced himself to relax, frustrated with himself. This was his mother, there was no reason for his instincts to be so afraid. Jack had joined the hug and eventually Danny found himself relaxing for real, sure maybe getting his memories back was a slow uphill climb, but at least he wouldn’t do it alone.

Eventually his parents let him go and told him he was free to walk around the house and reacquaint himself with it. His room was the first door on the left upstairs, the bathroom was down the hall and the basement, apparently, was off limits.

So Danny went upstairs into his room. It looked something like a teenager’s room he supposed. There were the posters hung haphazardly on the walls and they were torn at the corners as if someone had ripped them all off the walls before hastily taping them back up. The bed was made too, and there was a lot less dust than he was expecting after being gone for a whole month.

In fact, it looked like he’d cleaned and organized the whole room before he’d fallen into his coma and Danny didn’t know why, but that thought set him on edge. Maybe he was just an organized person?

It was just… he didn’t feel very organized.

He kept looking around. There was that feeling that something was missing, something important to him, and he walked over to the nightstand by his bed. Placing a hand on the polished wood Danny fought the flash of a model spaceship that appeared in his memories. It wasn’t here though and Danny frowned. Was that something else he’d thrown away and simply forgotten?

Shaking his head Danny headed back downstairs, maybe he should just ask Jack, er, his dad? He should really get used to calling them mom and dad. But before he headed down he went to the room across from his and knocked.

Maybe he was being foolish, but he had expected someone to answer, had a name even come to mind. When no answer came he opened the door himself only to find a storage room, nothing but shelves and boxes and Danny scolded himself for the painful ache he felt in his heart.

It was another week before Danny had another memory, and just like the last two, it didn’t fit quite right. Like a piece from another puzzle jammed where it shouldn’t fit. So he’d asked Maddie.

“Sam?” she’d said, a carefully blank look on her face, “Oh! I remember Sam, she was an old friend of yours you used to talk about her all the time. Shame she moved away.”

And just like that, he’d had his answer as ill fitting as it was. Sam was a girl he knew that moved away, the memory he’d had, of her crying face screaming at him to stay awake just stay awake damnit, was probably from a long time ago. The pain he felt in his chest -just to the right of his heart- at the thought of her not being near and that he’d probably never see her again? That was nothing important.

It was another couple of weeks of sleeping in that house, waking up and going downstairs to eat with his parents, to chat about memories he didn’t have and tell stories he never resonated with, before he woke up screaming for the first time.

Maddie had instantly run into his room, Jack not far behind and Danny scrambled away from them both. His mind filled with images of painful green light and the ominous glint of red goggles twisting his reflection in their lenses as they looked down on him.

His parents had pushed past the barrier of pillows and blankets he’d made and pulled him into their arms, rocking him and shushing him until eventually he’d tired himself out from crying and fallen asleep again. The nightmares returned.

Eventually Danny stopped asking questions about his memories.

Either they were incomplete, fragments of something real that had been twisted in time, or they were wrong entirely, figments of his own active imagination. He’d never had a sister, they insisted. It was his mother, Maddie that had stayed up late some nights to help him with his homework and bake him safe, edible cookies as a reward. Tucker was a kid he knew at school, yes, but he’d moved away years ago and they hadn’t spoken in person since.

He had blue eyes, when he looked in the mirror, not green.

It was frustrating, being unable to trust himself- his own memories. If it was anything more than broken, incomplete fragments he’d have argued, insisted they were real.

But then again, he also had memories of Maddie leaning over him, scalpel in hand to cut away at his flesh. And he knew that couldn’t be true; the woman that smiled every time he came downstairs, called him sweetie and kissed him on his forehead every night, wasn’t the monster in his dreams. She couldn’t be.

So he ignored them.

He ignored the moments of instinct when Maddie or Jack went for a hug or a kiss and he flinched, ready for an attack. He ignored how he never seemed able to give a straight answer when they asked about his day, even if he hadn’t done anything interesting at all. And he ignored his nightmares, stuffing towels under his doorframe to muffle the sounds of his screams. There was no reason to keep waking up his parents like that.

But no matter how much he ignored, he compartmentalized, or he forced himself to smile, to hug back, and to spend time bonding with his parents, he never felt safe. Maddie insisted that he was, of course she did, this was his home. But even as he smiled and agreed and let her hug him again, he wanted to leave.

This time his dream wasn’t a nightmare. No scary, well lit labs with beakers and glowing buttons, or disgusting, painful flowers shoved into his mouth. Instead there was the ticking of clocks, rhythmic and constant. A gloved hand gently soothed his hair back, and Danny’s fear seemed so far away.

It was the first full night of sleep he’d had since he’d gotten “home”.

That morning he’d asked for an analogue clock. His parents had been confused, but they acquiesced easily and took him to the store to pick one out. The one he’d ended up choosing was a large ornate antique with little clockwork gears and a loud tick. He was excited to put it up in his room, right above his bed.

He slept better after that, and some of the tension that had been building in the house eased.

His dreams were still mostly nightmares, attacks by inhuman ghostly figures were the most prominent. But they didn’t leave the same bitter aftertaste, fear and uncertainty as the ones with the table, the scalpel, and the round, red goggles.

But now they were interspersed with better ones, fuzzy hugs and fields of blinding white, sitting in a garden pruning flowers as a soft, familiar voice gave him instructions, playing video games as the player character, confident and excited with a familiar presence at his back. And his favorite ones, the ones in the clock tower with the hooded figure and his soft smiles. The ones where he felt safest.

The ones that couldn’t be real, not if what his parents told him was true.

The next time they went out as a family after that Danny had wanted to go to a garden, and while at first Maddie was hesitant, Jack had insisted the great outdoors were perfect for helping him recover properly. Danny had been thrilled and hugged both of them in thanks, their answering smiles were soft and Danny had the thought that it had been some time since he’d seen those smiles reach their eyes.

Danny had a video game he apparently liked to play called Doom, and he was pretty good at it, judging by the level of his character. When he tried to message either of the two friends he had on his contact list though, the game glitched and his info got deleted. Frustrated he tried to reboot the system but the game itself had somehow gotten corrupted and there was no hope in recovery.

Just another thing that was apparently important to him that he’d destroyed or couldn’t find.

The worst was the time he woke with Maddie sitting next to him in his bed, she had a troubled look on her face and he didn’t know what it was he’d done wrong. Had he screamed in his sleep without knowing it?

“Danny honey,” she had said, looking over to him but not meeting his eyes, “do you remember what you dreamed about?”

He’d answered no, he hadn’t, which was mostly true. The only thing he really remembered about his dream was the feeling of safety and the ticking of a clock.

It took a month for Danny’s parents to feel comfortable leaving him alone in the house in order to go to work. He watched them walk out the door, fending off forehead kisses and muttered reassurances that they’d be home soon to check on him and that he should call if he needed anything, anything at all.

Once the door clicked shut however, the smile dropped off of Danny’s face and he set his eyes on the one thing he’d wanted… no, needed to do since he had that first nightmare.

He went to the basement.

The feeling of going down the stairs stumbled over a vague, blurry memory and Danny felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand. This was just to be sure, just to prove to himself that all those dreams, all those nightmares he’d been having since his parents brought him home, were just that, nightmares.

He opened the door at the bottom of the stairs, confused when there was no lock, no resistance at all. Hadn’t they said he was banned from being down here? Why wouldn’t they lock it? Even Bluebeard locked the door his wife wasn’t supposed to enter.

The basement was…

A basement.

There were no spooky ominous beakers of strange and unrecognizable fluids, no haphazard lab equipment lying around without safety devices, nothing sterile or blinking and there was certainly no large metal table to strap someone down on.

It was just a normal basement with boxes and a desk, some chairs, a couple of old pieces of random furniture and Danny let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This meant that Maddie was right, they really were just nightmares, probably some subconscious latent fear of going home with strangers that he couldn’t remember. That was all.

So why did he feel disappointed?

The next week was full of Danny waiting for his parents to leave before exploring the house more thoroughly. More than once he’d gotten caught in a half remembered routine that didn’t actually fit with his surroundings. Like bracing for a fight every time he opened the fridge, or expecting another flight of stairs after the second floor. Once he’d even risked going outside for a walk, trying to find his school based on half remembered directions that only served to get him lost.

It was a new routine that Danny found himself thankful for.

Not that he didn’t love his parents, he did! But for some reason, when they were gone, and it was just him with his space posters and his ornate ticking clock, and the piles of modified schoolwork that was supposed to help him when it was time to reintegrate into school, he felt a lot more relaxed. More carefree.

That was why, when he’d found the picture, it had felt like his world had crashed around him.

His parents had come home to find him sitting in the middle of the basement, tears long dried, and with the picture clutched tight in his hands, crumpled now with how long it had been.

“You lied to me.” he accused once they were within earshot. He didn’t have the energy to speak much louder than a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the silence nonetheless.

“Danny-boy we can explain-”

“No!” Danny shouted, getting to his feet, “You lied to me .”

Jack flinched back and Maddie stepped in front of him, protective, as if somehow, out of the three of them Danny might be the threat. He growled.

“I trusted you to tell me the truth, I trusted you with my memories, memories that were lost to me . I had a sister! You had a daughter . She existed, she was real, she’s in this photo! Smiling! ” Danny couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, it was all too much. To know that the girl in his shattered memories, the one with the soft hugs and the floral scents, that baked him cookies and held him when he cried at night, was real. And that she was gone, erased by the people he was supposed to be able to trust.

He moved to storm past them, to go upstairs or maybe even outside and look up at the sky and try to make something of the twisting, knotted mess that was his emotions, his mind, his everything right now. But Maddie grabbed his arm before he could, tears spilling from her eyes.

“We didn’t want to hurt you Danny.” she said, voice soft and broken, “we didn’t want to give and then take away.”

She pulled him into a hug and Danny didn’t bother to struggle or try and break out of it, just let her cry into his shoulder as he stood there, waiting for his own tears to dry.

The next day Jack and Maddie left for work with more reluctance, neither one willing to leave Danny on his own again. But worry didn’t pay the bills and whatever it was they were doing at their job, it was clearly important. That was something Danny was starting to remember, all the things that were more important than him.

Danny went to the library this time, determined to start figuring things out on his own. His parents had said that his sister, Jazz, had died in the accident that had put him in a coma. They said they didn’t want to hurt him, or risk him not wanting to recover his memories if they were painful and that grief was difficult to deal with even without the head trauma and emotional conflict.

His parents said a lot of things, Danny was starting to realize. And almost none of it could be trusted to be true.

The first thing he did was look for a death certificate for his sister, Jazz Fenton. After hours of searching, reading every single name that existed in every obituary for this town in the entire month when his parents claimed the accident had happened.

But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

So next he looked up phone records. Any Tuckers or Samanthas he could find, but he couldn’t remember their last names at all, just what they looked like.

How they had been crying over him.

He didn’t know if he believed that they’d just moved away. Then again, it was becoming increasingly clear that he didn’t know what to believe, if he believed anything at all. By the time he’d gotten home it was late, and his parents were already there.

At first they didn’t believe he was just at the library “trying to catch up on stuff” but they calmed back down once he’d shown them his library card and snapped that if he couldn’t even do that much why did they bother bringing him back from the hospital at all.

Dinner had been a quiet affair.

It took another week of library visits and recurring nightmares of dissection tables and glowing ghostly figures that attacked him before Danny gave up on finding out anything about Sam or Tucker. But he still didn’t stop searching for Jazz.

There was something almost obsessive about his search for her, he just couldn’t let it go. He had to know where she was, and if his parents, against all odds, hadn’t lied to him about that ... Well that was something he’d have to come to terms with when he came to it, not before.

He started scouring the Internet for her name desperate to find something, anything on her. And eventually he did.

There was an old article, from at least half a decade ago, that had her picture under the title “Four Teens go Missing in wake of Fenton Investigation”.

Next to her were two equally familiar pictures. Sam and Tucker… and then Danny himself.

Scrolling, desperate to find something, anything to add up the memories he was getting into a clear picture, he began to read the article.

In wake of the Investigation into the Fenton‘s possible abuse, Danny Fenton (15), his sister Jazz Fenton (17), and two friends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley (15), have seemingly disappeared.

The discovery came shortly after Jack and Madeline Fenton were released on parol and allowed to return home to spend time with their children since no physical proof could be found of any alleged wrongdoings.

What could have caused their disappearances remains a mystery. The prevailing theory is that they were involved in a cult that may have demonized the Fenton parents due to their controversial occupation as “ghost hunters”. Another popular theory is that the children fled the results of the case, afraid of the alleged illegal experimentation. Other theories include kidnapping, witness protection, the possibility of murder, and tying up loose ends.

Will we ever discover the truth? It remains to be seen.

Ghost hunters …

Danny felt his stomach drop, a wave of nausea rolled through him and he had to fight off the urge to relive his lunch.

Experimentation?

Nightmares and half remembered memories started clicking into place, finally , and Danny couldn’t stand it. Why were the only answers that made sense the ones that hurt the worst?

Would it have been better if he’d just let it go? If his memories never returned at all? If he just kept living, eating homemade cookies and flinching from hugs until eventually the itch underneath his skin dulled and he could just be happy as he was.

He closed the tab.

There was no one home when he got there, and it gave him the chance to pack what little belongings he had that held any meaning to him at all. The motions were familiar and he had the faintest feeling he had done exactly this before.

Maybe he had.

He’d made it out the front door by the time his parents pulled into the drive.

There was the urge to run, to go back inside and hide and pretend he hadn’t been doing exactly what they caught him doing. But he was tired. He was so tired of feeling wrong and scared and uncertain and never knowing why.

So he held his head up as they got into the car and approached them with their hands raised, cautiously, like he was a wild animal they were afraid of spooking.

Was that what they thought he was?

“Danny, we can talk about this,” Maddie said, beseeching.

He met her eyes with his own. “Will you promise not to lie anymore? I don’t even know how old I am-”

“You’re fifteen son-” Jack interrupted, lying again.

“I was fifteen five years ago!” Danny yelled, his hand tightening into a fist, “I found the article! I read about the case! Five years ago.”

“Danno…”

Oh, he was crying. It was novel almost, Danny had thought he was too tired to cry, that there wasn’t anything more that could hurt him enough to create such a response and he didn’t quite know how to react to it.

He raised his hands awkwardly to scrub the tears away and stepped back, frightened, when Maddie tried to move closer to comfort him.

“Stay back! Stay back…” he looked at his hands, they were young hands, his reflection too, hadn’t changed from the picture in the article at all. Experiments. “What did you do to me?”

“It was an accident.” Jack said, before Maddie stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“We didn’t know Danny. How could we have?” She said, keeping her distance, cautious. “We tried to fix it-”

“Fix what? ” He hissed, “you haven’t told me what happened! You haven’t told me anything!”

“You!” Maddie finally snapped, tears falling heavy down her cheeks. “We were trying to fix you… but it wasn’t working and you just kept getting sicker… weaker… we had to stop.”

It was too much for her, and she turned away, leaning into Jack’s large frame as he comforted her. “We didn’t want to lose you, Danny.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You already did.”

Danny left his parents there, crying on the driveway of a house that could never have been a home. He had a clock tower to find.

#Danny phantom #Phic Phight #Phic Phight 2021 #fanfic #my fic #Bee’s writing

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criminalmindzjunkie · 4 years ago

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The Reward of Suffering (Part Six)

previous chapter

Summary: Spencer comes face to face with a ghost from the past.

A/N: Hey... how y’all doin? Long time no see, huh? Sorry about that - hopefully this extra long update will make up for my absence. This has definitely been my favorite part thus far, and I had so much fun writing it. I hope you guys enjoy reading it. You guys know the drill by now: SPOILERS for season 12. Also, shoutout to @zhuzhubii for posting the absolute best set of gifs right in time for this update - you’re the coolest.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Warnings: cursing, mentions of death, mentions of rape, mentions of mental illness, kidnapping, choking

Word Count: 10.3k

With every clack of my heels on the concrete floors, the nervous feeling in my gut grows into full blown nausea. It’s been nearly two months since I last walked these halls, but somehow it feels like a lifetime has passed. Considering everything that transpired in the last forty-eight hours, it makes sense that I feel that way.

I hadn’t been on the team when Lindsey Vaughn first came into the picture ten years ago, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t familiar. At the time, I thought nothing of the kind neighbor that I sometimes passed in the stairwell on my way to Spencer’s apartment. I mean, why would I? I had no reason to be suspicious. Our interactions never went beyond the usual pleasantries – polite smiles and the occasional greeting – and I never gave her a second thought.

Maybe if I had, Cassie wouldn’t be dead, and Spencer’s mother wouldn’t be missing.

I shake my head at the thought. Now isn’t the time to ruminate on what ifs. I would have plenty of time to blame myself when all of this is over. Instead of torturing myself, I focus on trying to steady my breathing as I come to a stop just before I reach the interview room of the Milburn Correctional Facility.

I know what lies beyond that door, and I’m equal parts excited and worried. Excited, because I’d finally be able to see Spencer after two long months of daydreaming about when I’d finally hold him in my arms again. Of course, it was very possible that Spencer wouldn’t want to see me. After all, I promised to keep his mother safe, and instead of doing that, I let myself get swept up in moving in to my apartment, and now Diana was God knows where.

I was so sure that he wouldn’t want to see me that I’d initially suggested that Emily be the one to go to the prison and get him. My idea was met with a sad smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“I think that if it was anyone but you standing there when they open that door, it’d break his heart.”

Her reassurances did little to assuage my nerves. I spent the entire ride here running over every possible scenario that I could imagine, scrambling to form some kind of game plan. But now that I was here, any semblance of preparedness left me the second the guard reached for the door handle.

“You ready, ma’am?”

Yes.

No.

I don’t trust my voice, so I settle on nodding my head. The door opens with a groan, rusty hinges creaking in protest, and with shaky legs and a heart that threatens to beat out of my chest, I step into the doorway.

It’s like the world stops turning on its axis when his eyes meet mine. Those familiar pools of caramel stare back at me with such an intensity that I force myself to look away, petrified at the prospect of seeing disappointment in them.

I trail my eyes over his frame, drinking in every inch of him - every bruise and every scrape feeling like a dagger to my heart. My eyes linger on the bandage adorning his left arm, before trailing down to the one on his leg. Emily had warned me about happened, about Spencer injuring himself in order to secure his safety. It was smart of him - that I knew - but that didn’t mean that I wasn’t horrified.

His hair has gotten longer, and his curls hang limply around his face. The usually clean-shaven Spencer I once knew was a thing of the past - replaced now by a more disheveled, scruffier version.

Clean-shaven or not, he still looks just as breathtaking as always.

I hesitantly raise my eyes up to his again. He’s staring at me still, mouth parted in shock. He doesn’t look angry, just confused, and that fills me with a tiny sliver of hope.

“Hi, Spence,” I murmur, voice thick with emotion. It’s not until I speak that I realize I’m crying, and I hastily wipe at my cheeks with my shirtsleeve.

The dazed look in Spencer’s eyes washes away when he hears my voice and he blinks hard.

“What… H-How are you…?” he trails off, eyes moving up and down my body.

It feels so fucking good to hear his voice again, and I find myself unable to hold back a sob.

“M’ here to take you home,” I choke out.

It’s like all the tension in Spencer’s body is expelled at once and his shoulders slump in relief. I open my mouth to elaborate, to explain how Emily had managed to pull this off, but I’m stunned into silence when Spencer’s body collides with mine. I hadn’t even had time to process that he was moving before his arms snake around me, tugging me forward until there’s no space in between our bodies. Spencer’s hands collect fistfuls of my shirt, clinging desperately to the fabric as he nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck.

Once I get over the initial shock, I’m hugging him back, arms locked around his torso in a vicelike grip. He doesn’t smell the same – the usual fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla is long gone, replaced with that of some generic detergent – but the way his broad shoulders feel underneath my palms is something so familiar that I can’t help but smile against his chest.

This is still my Spencer.

Spencer lets out a shaky breath against my skin and I let out an involuntary shudder at the feeling.

“Missed you so fucking much,” Spencer whispers. “I-I can’t believe you’re here. Thought I was imagining it.” Spencer takes a shaky breath in, nuzzling further into my neck. His next words are muffled from the way his lips press against my skin, but I’m still able to make out the quiet ‘I’m sorry’.

“You’re sorry?” I hiccup, eyebrows scrunching up in disbelief. I attempt to pull away so that I can look at him, but Spencer only tightens his grip on me. Something about it makes my chest feel incredibly warm, but I push that feeling aside for now. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I should’ve done more – I should’ve visited more often. I let myself get busy, and if I’d just been more careful, then your m-mom… she wouldn’t be-”

“Stop that,” Spencer interrupts, and this time he’s the one that pulls away. He holds me at arm’s length and those beautiful brown eyes lock with mine. “This is absolutely not your fault.”

Spencer’s hands come up to cup either side of my face and his thumbs wipe away at the tears on my cheeks. “You’ve done so much for me – for her. I’m sorry that I took you off the list. Things were getting so bad here, and if something would have happened to you…” Spencer pauses, closing his eyes and leaning down until his forehead rests against mine. “It was never because I didn’t want to see you, I promise. And… And your letter - I can’t even begin to explain how much that helped. I’m sorry that I couldn’t write back. I didn’t know what to say. Especially not after…”

He doesn’t elaborate, but I’m able to fill in the blanks myself. I bring my hand up and rest it on top of his.

“S’okay, Spence. I know,” I whisper. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I understand.”

Spencer hums and a ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Time to get you out of here, Doc.” I remove his hand from my face and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s go get your mom back.”

Spencer opens his eyes and for the first time in two months I’m on the receiving end of my favorite smile in the whole world.

I lead him from the room, never once removing my hand from his. Now that I have him back, I don’t ever want to let go.

For the second time today, the clacking of my heels against the concrete floor is the only sound that can be heard. Spencer moves silently beside me, his face pulled into a somber expression as we stalk down the long corridor. His hand brushes against mine, and I long to reach out and intertwine our fingers like I had only hours before. I suppress the urge, stealing one last, poorly concealed glance at him before I settle my gaze on the door at the end of the hall.

In the last several hours, the entire case had been flipped upside down. We’d been wrong all along – Scratch wasn’t to blame for the shit show that had transpired over the last three months. It’d been an easy enough mistake to make. After the incident with Tara’s brother, Scratch was the obvious choice. Pair that with the fact that Spencer had been drugged and we had no reason to suspect anyone else.

Cat Adams was the last thing on everyone’s mind when Mexico happened. It’d been over a year since Spencer outsmarted her in that restaurant, and she was very much out of sight and out of mind. She was in a maximum-security prison, for fuck’s sake. That alone should have rendered her unable to carry out a scheme this convoluted.

But apparently that meant nothing, because Cat had somehow managed to be the mastermind behind this whole ordeal, perfectly orchestrating the entire thing from her cell in solitary confinement – using Lindsey Vaugh as her metaphorical puppet on a string. We’d sorely underestimated Cat, and our arrogance had come back to bite us all in the ass.

A guard that stands at the end of the hall opens the door for us, and I feel an intense rush of foreboding as we step into the room. The sound of the guard closing the door behind us brings a sense of finality to the situation; there is no turning back now. Either we walk out of here knowing Diana’s whereabouts, or we miss the mark completely and loose Diana in the process.

I cast a worried look at Spencer, whose eyes are trained on the double-sided glass. The tension has returned to his shoulders, and his fists are clenched tightly at his sides. There’s a sort of fiery determination in his eyes – a sort of menacing resolve that I’d never seen in him before.

Spencer looks intimidating, and nothing like the Spencer that was led from the courtroom three months ago. I pull my eyes away in favor of looking through the glass.

Reid had been able to see through Cat’s mind games the first time, but the Cat that sat on the other side of that door is a far cry from the one he encountered a year ago. If she’d looked cold and calculating before, she looks downright deranged now.

“Are you sure you want to go in there alone?” I ask after a moment. “I could-”

“No,” Spencer cuts me off. His tone is hard and definite, warning me not to argue. “I can’t ask you to do that. Emily shouldn’t have made you come in the first place.”

“Emily told me to come with you because she knew that there was nothing she could do to make me stay.” I pause long enough to shoot him a weak smile. “Hope you enjoyed your three-month break from me, because I’m going to practically glued to your side from now on. You’ll be dying to get rid of me in a month’s time.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, threatening to turn up into a smile.

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“We’ll see,” I breeze. “But I’m serious, Spence. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here the whole time – I’m not letting you go in there alone, and I’m not going to leave you.”

“Promise?” Spencer asks, finally pulling his eyes away from the window in favor of looking at me. There’s a sadness in his eyes that wasn’t there before, and the weight of his gaze is so heavy that I worry I might buckle under it.

I reach for his hand and hook my pinky finger around his, lifting our intertwined hands to eye level.

“I promise.”

Spencer’s pinky finger squeezes mine and he closes his eyes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve the world, Spence.”

For a moment I think he’s going to say something else, but then Spencer’s lips press into a tight line and he only nods in response. He releases my hand and I let it fall limply at my side. Spencer rolls his shoulders back, and that stony expression returns to his face. He reaches out and pulls open the door, and I follow closely behind him at he steps over the threshold.

It’s as if I’m invisible; Cat doesn’t even spare me a glance when I enter the room. Her eyes, narrowed and sparkling with amusement, hone in on Spencer immediately.

“Spencie,” she greets, smiling deviously up at him.

“Where’s my mother?” Spencer asks, completely devoid of emotion.

“I missed you.”

“What did you and Lindsey do to her? How did you-”

Cat raises a hand, effectively cutting him off. She points a finger at him, and the smile that she previously wore is replaced by a grimace.

“Now, stop. You don’t get to walk in here and hiss at me like I’m the criminal. No – we’re going to do this my way.” Cat kicks the chair that sits on the opposite side of the table and Spencer reaches out to grab it. “Have a seat.”

Spencer complies and Cat’s smile returns.

“How was prison? Did you like it?”

“No.”

Cat hums.

“It’s not fun, is it?”

“Unlike you, I didn’t deserve to be there,” Spencer retorts.

Cat leans forward, crossing her arms before resting them on the metal table.

“How did you stay sane? A brain like yours needs stimulation in such a gray place.”

“I worked in the laundry room and I played chess.”

“That’s three, maybe four hours, tops. What about the other twenty?”

“I read.”

Cat shakes her head. “That’s still not enough. You have to… go someplace.” She taps the side of her head. “Up here. Or else you go crazy. Do you want to see where I go? I’ll show you.” Cat crooks a finger at Spencer, and I tense at the gesture. The idea of that psychotic bitch getting any closer to him makes my skin crawl. I clench my fists together and the feeling of my nails digging into my palms is enough to ground me.

Spencer leans forward, mimicking Cat’s relaxed position. She reaches a hand out towards him, and before I can think better of it, I speak up.

“Hands off,” I warn.

Cat halts her movements and fixes me with an irritated expression, looking me up and down distastefully before turning her attention back to Spencer.

“Close your eyes,” she instructs him. Spencer complies. “Good. Now keep them closed. Sit back and relax. When you open your eyes, I want you to look at me like I’m the first woman you’ve seen after being in prison for three months.”

I clench my jaw at that. Something stirs in my chest – something foreign and possessive that has me bristling. I tense, watching closely as Spencer opens his eyes and smiles that beautiful smile at Cat. My stomach turns painfully at the sight.

“Hello, Cat,” Spencer greets her, and all the contempt his tone previously held is gone – replaced with a neutrality that bordered on happiness.

Cat lets out a pleased laugh.

“You’re here!” she exclaims, throwing her arms out as she gestures about the room. “You’re really here.”

“There is nowhere else I would rather be,” Spencer replies, sounding startlingly genuine.

This is all an act, I remind myself. Spencer’s just playing a part. None of this is real.

Cat crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re good at this. You’re so good at this that I almost believe that you don’t want to kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Spencer says with a shake of his head.

“No?”

“No.”

Cat narrows her eyes at him.

“What if I let your mother die?” she inquires. “Then would you kill me? Or would you just…” Cat trails of as she leans forward. “… Hurt me? Would you pin me down and leave bruises that don’t go away?”

I swallow hard against the bile that threatens to crawl its way up my throat. Spencer might not want to kill her, but I do.

“Is that what you want?”

Cat shrugs her shoulders.

“I guess I just want to know if you would – if you could.”

Spencer gives a small shake of his head.

“No.”

“No?” Cat taunts, cocking her head to the side.

“It’s not the kind of man I am.”

Cat’s face drops and her eyes narrow into slits.

“Do me a favor and tell your little chaperone over there to step aside, because we’re going to play another game. And this time, we’re going to find out exactly what kind of man you are.”

Spencer’s eyes flit to me and he nods towards the door. I open my mouth to argue, but the pleading look in his eyes has me clamping it shut. It’s okay, his eyes seem to tell me. I know you promised, but I’ll be fine.

Cat waves at me as I reluctantly move towards the door. When the door clicks shut behind me, Spencer takes it as his invitation to continue.

“Let’s play,” his voice sounds through the speaker to my left.

“Let’s!” Cat exclaims before resting her head in her hand.

“So, is it the same game as last time?” Spencer inquires. “I answer every question you ask honestly?”

“No,” Cat sighs out. “This time you get to ask the questions.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow at her. “About what?”

“Well, I know a secret about you. And you can ask me as many questions as you like to figure it out. But you only get one guess as to what it is. If you guess correctly, I take your phone, I call our friend Lindsey, and I tell her to release your dear mother unharmed. If you don’t…” Cat trails off, before mimicking bringing a gun up to her mouth and firing.

Crazy fucking bitch.

“Is there a clock?”

“There’s always a clock.” Cat holds out her hand, eyes flicking down to Spencer’s watch. “Give it to me.”

I cringe when Spencer hesitates – I know what he must be thinking. That’s Gideon’s watch. The only thing he has left of him. I’d never seen Spencer without it in the two years I’ve known him.

Spencer reluctantly slips the watch off of his wrist and hands it over.

Cat smirks and slides the watch onto her arm.

“Now, you’ll have four hours.”

“Do you want to give me a hint before we start?”

Cat chuckles. “Do I look like a girl that gives hints?” “Actually, you do.”

Cat takes pause, looking Spencer up and down before speaking.

“Okay, how about this; it’s a secret you’ll never admit to.”

“I know what the secret is.”

Cat quirks an eyebrow up at Spencer.

“You do?”

He nods. “Why else would you put me through all this?”

“Ooh, phrasing it in the form of a question that way it doesn’t count as a guess. Very smart, Doctor.”

“I’m gonna walk you through a scenario, and your face is going to tell me how close I am,” Spencer murmurs, an amused smile on his lips. He leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. “From the moment I arrested you, you watched and waited for the right time to take your revenge. When you learned I was going to Mexico, you took it. You and Lindsey framed me for murder so I’d be put in a prison and treated like a criminal, and then you kidnapped my mother so I would know how it feels to have a parent manipulated, because you want to prove that you and I are the same. Am I right?”

Cat feigns a yawn in response.

“Mm. Sorry, I couldn’t hold that in any longer. What were you saying?”

“Psychopaths tend to get bored easily.”

“You’re right. Let’s speed this up,” Cat sighs with a roll of her eyes. She pushes away from the table, standing up and walking over to Spencer’s side of the table. I fight the urge to barge in when I see her take a seat on his lap. Cat runs a hand down Spencer’s chest before she continues. “Shall we? What do you think about all the pain you’ve suffered in your life? What would I capitalize on, do you think? Is it… the death of your mentor, SSA Jason Gideon?”

I can see the way Spencer’s jaw clenches and it makes my heart lurch painfully in my chest.

“No, because we caught the man who killed him.”

“What about Agent Morgan and your guilt over not visiting his little boy?” Cat whispers in his ear as her hands fiddle with the collar of his suit.

“I was in prison.”

“Yeah, but you had time before that. Why didn’t you go?” she presses as she grazes her nails down the length of his throat. I see red when her hand loosely circles around his neck. Spencer absolutely loathes being touched by anyone other than those closest to him, and I’ve no doubt that he’s horribly uncomfortable.

“Truthfully, I got distracted. I was trying to figure out a way to help my mom. She didn’t have time. Morgan, Savannah, and little Bobby did. So, there’s absolutely no shame in admitting that. Morgan would understand.”

“I agree. That’s why that’s not the secret,” Cat divulges, brushing her nose against the side of his face before pulling away and standing up. I let out the breath that I’d apparently been holding and allow myself a moment to run a shaky hand through my hair. If I was getting this frazzled from being a bystander to this conversation, I can only imagine how Spencer must be feeling.

When I look back up at the mirror, Spencer’s looking over his shoulder at me through the glass. I know he can’t see me, but I can’t help but feel guilty for losing my cool.

“Good job, Spence,” I murmur to myself as I pull out my phone. After a few rings, Rossie answers.

“Go ahead, Y/N. You’re on speaker.”

“Cat has an extremely deep background on Spencer. She knows about everything – Gideon’s death, Derek leaving the team, his mom’s condition,” I inform them, tapping my foot nervously against the concrete.

“She’s throwing him off-balance.”

“Yes, but Spencer also purposefully gave the wrong name of Derek’s son and she didn’t correct him,” I point out.

“She must’ve gotten her hands on Reid’s confidential FBI file,” Emily chimes in. “It would mention pertinent team information but it wouldn’t name Morgan’s son for confidentiality reasons.”

“We were thinking she’s been getting help from someone inside the prison. This goes deeper than that,” Rossi sighs.

“Call us if she says anything else of any importance,” Emily signs off. I mumble a quick goodbye before pocketing my phone and turning my attention back to the window.

“Working deductively, the secret wouldn’t be any of the topics you’ve already volunteered, because you wouldn’t want to make it easy on me,” Spencer reasons. He clasps his hands together and sits back in his seat before raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“Genius, truly,” Cat taunts sarcastically as she twirls the watch around her finger.

“So, what is left that I wouldn’t want to admit?” Spencer muses, eyebrows drawn together in contemplation. Cat shrugs her shoulders at him and another moment of tense silence passes.

“Love,” Spencer utters, and Cat’s incessant twirling of the watch comes to an abrupt halt.

Got her.

“Is that what this is all about – love? For my mother?” Spencer whispers, and when Cat fails to respond, he shakes his head. “No, not for her. For you. You want me to admit that I’m actually in love with you.”

Cat purses her lips together.

“Don’t get me wrong – I love my fairy tales as much as the next girl – but I’m not delusional,” Cat says as she crosses her arms.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Very sure. So sure, in fact, that I had Lindsey leave a clue for you in that little scrapbook in your apartment.”

I scrunch my face up at that. The clue in question had been a message inscribed on the back of an old photograph;xx-xy. We’d originally deduced that the message, the female and male chromosomes, was to confirm that Lindsey was working with Scratch. But now? Now I didn’t have a clue what Cat was talking about.

“I couldn’t have you come all the way down here and make a guess until I was positive. That is…” Cat pauses for dramatic effect, a sly smile on her lips. “… until I tested positive.” Cat punctuates her words by placing both hands on her stomach, and the action makes me raise a hand up to my mouth in shock.

No. There’s no fucking way.

“What, you’re pregnant?” Spencer asks, confused.

“No, we’re pregnant.”

I feel my knees buckle upon hearing the admission and I blindly reach for the chair to my left.

This cannot be happening.

“No,” Spencer says, shaking his head adamantly.

“Oh, yes,” Cat replies. “Mazel tov.”

“Here you are, ma’am.”

I reach for the file, my movements stilted and awkward.

“Thank you,” I mumble to the guard, who gives me a peculiar look before leaving the room. I waste no time in flipping through the file, heart pounding wildly in my chest as my eyes skim over the page until –

Positive.

I slam the file down on the table.

“Fuck!” I yell out in frustration. I’m thankful then for the thick, concrete walls, because neither Spencer nor Cat show any sign of having heard my little outburst. I place both palms down on the cool metal of the table, my breaths coming out in haggard puffs as I try to rationalize it all.

“- not possible,” Spencer’s voice coming through the speaker snaps me out of my thoughts. I cut my eyes to the window to find Spencer pacing the room. “Even if you are pregnant, the baby’s not mine.” Spencer comes to a stop behind his chair and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Except for the part where it is.”

“That’s completely preposterous. You’ve been in prison,” Spencer points out as he once again takes a seat across from her.

“So have you.”

“And we’ve never-”

“I know. We’ve never…” Cat trails off with a suggestive waggle of her brows. “Ask me how I did it. Come on, ask me.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, but he indulges her nonetheless.

“How did you do it?”

“I had Lindsey dose you in Mexico. You lost time. And I gave her very specific instruction on how to get you in the mood,” Cat admits.

“What?” Spencer snorts cynically. “Did she pretend to be you?”

“Why, would that have worked?”

Spencer leans forward and shoots Cat a cruel kind of smile.

“No.”

For a split second Cat’s face falls, but only for a moment and then she goes right back to smiling that wretched grin.

“Yeah, I know, I know. Believe me, I know exactly where I stand on the Spencer Reid hot or not list,” Cat sighs. “So, ask me again.”

“How did you do it?”

“I told her to pretend to be Y/N.”

For a second I think that I misheard her – the blood rushing in my ears almost overpowered her admission – but the way Spencer’s entire body tenses before he looks back at the window tells me that I didn’t.

Why me?

Spencer gulps hard before he turns back around. I find my way to the chair nearest me and collapse into it.

“How do you know about her?”

Cat gives him an unimpressed look.

“It wasn’t hard, seeing as she’s your very best friend in the whole wide world,” Cat teases as her eyes wander from Spencer to the glass behind him. She waves at me, endlessly amused, before turning her attention back to Spencer. “But that isn’t all that she is to you – is it Spencie? At least, Lindsey didn’t think so. At first, she thought the two of you were tangled up in some kind of sexy little tryst. But then I had Lindsey do a little digging, and, well, that’s when we found out about the boyfriend.”

“Stop.”

“Oh, it seems I’ve struck a nerve!” Cat trills gleefully. “Shall we call her in here to join us? I know she’s just on the other side of that glass. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about how pathetic little Spencer Reid pines after her like a school boy with a crush.” She pouts her bottom lip out in mock sadness. “There’s just something about unrequited love that really tugs at my heart strings.”

Oh.

For the second time since arriving here, my hand comes up to cover my mouth as I struggle to process Cat’s words. She can’t be right, can she? Spencer had never done anything that eluded to him seeing me as any more than a best friend. Perhaps she got it wrong. Lindsey saw me come and go and she just assumed it was something that it wasn’t. There was no way that Spencer -

“I said stop.”

The underlying plea in his voice is enough to make tears well in my eyes. If what Cat is saying is true, that means that Lindsey . . .

“All it took was Lindsey saying she was Y/N for you to crumble like a house of cards. You really made it too easy.”

“You’re lying.”

Cat chuckles. “Listen to you, you’re not even trying to deny it.”

“It didn’t happen,” Spencer argues, voice so quiet that I have to strain to hear it.

“Hey, I was thinking, if it’s a boy, we should definitely call him Spencie Jr.”

Spencer pushes back from the table so abruptly that both Cat and I flinch, and he’s almost out the door when Cat delivers one final dig.

“-But if it’s a girl, I think we should call her Y/N. I mean after all; she played such a huge role in in her own conception!”

The sound of the door slamming behind him as he trudges into the room is enough to make me bolt up from my seat. Spencer comes to a stop at the center of the room, eyes wide and full of remorse as he looks over at me.

“I-I… I’m…”

I try my best to muster up a smile but I worry that it comes out more as a grimace.

“Later,” I murmur, and Spencer winces before nodding his head in defeat. I walk over to the table and open up the file. “She’s not lying about being pregnant.”

Spencer joins me at the table, eyes skimming over the document.

“She’s three months, and the timeline matches, but that doesn’t mean-”

Spencer yanks the file off the table and hurls it at the window, shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair.

I take a step back and Spencer curses under his breath.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you,” he sighs. “I just… need a minute.”

I press my lips together and nod.

“Take all the time you need. M’gonna go call Emily,” I murmur.

Spencer closes his eyes and lets his head hang low.

“Yeah, okay,” he whispers dejectedly, and the despair in his voice is enough to stop me in my tracks.

“Spence?” I call out. He looks up at me from underneath his lashes, more than a little bit timid and scared. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m not leaving you.”

I open the door and step out of the room, but it doesn’t close before I hear the quiet ‘thank you’ drift from within.

Spencer waits until the door clicks shut behind her to push away from the table and head back into the interrogation room. He couldn’t bear the thought of her overhearing any more than she already had. As far as Spencer was concerned, Cat had just singlehandedly ruined the one good thing he had going for him, and at this point, he had nothing left to lose.

“Let’s pretend you’re telling the truth,” Spencer starts. “That means I guessed it, right? The secret, the one I don’t want to admit to? It’s my child?”

Cat looks up at him with bored eyes and Spencer feels his unease begin to give way to rage.

“Is that your guess?” Cat asks. “You only get one, remember?”

Spencer takes pause, before shaking his head.

“No. It’s too easy,” he decides.

“Believe me, getting pregnant with your baby was not easy,” Cat mutters, and Spencer’s lips press into a tight line. The implication of it is enough to make his skin crawl. He feels violated and absolutely disgusted, but still he tries to school his impression into one of indifference. Spencer thinks about his mom, scared and confused, and that’s enough incentive to make him focus on the task at hand.

“You misunderstand. It’s too easy emotionally,” Spencer explains in a clipped tone as he sits down. “Because I can take your child from you. The child I had absolutely no role in creating, but a child that I would care for better than you.”

“That’s rude,” Cat seethes as she slowly lifts her head from off of the table.

“It’s true. You can’t be a mother, Cat. I’m not trying to insult you – it’s your psychological makeup. You literally do not have the emotional skills to care for another human being. You’d lose interest in your own baby the way a six-year-old loses interest in a pet hamster. This baby is simply a means to an end, which is to keep me here and playing your game, guessing like a fool and assuming something that I never should have assumed in the first place.”

“And what would that be?”

“My mother’s already dead,” Spencer says, and the words taste positively foul in his mouth. “She was dead before I walked in here”

Cat’s lips pull into a frown.

“She’s not dead-”

“Yes, she is,” Spencer reiterates as he rises from his chair.

“No, because that would be cheating and I don’t cheat. You cheat!” Cat panics, voice growing louder the closer Spencer gets to the door.

“I’m done playing,” Spencer says as he turns away, reaching for the door knob.

“Get back here!”

Spencer pulls the door open. “Goodbye, Cat.”

He has one foot out the door when;

“I’ll let you talk to her!” Cat yells out as she slams her fist down on the table.

Spencer lifts his eyes up from their spot on the floor, and it’s with a jolt of surprise that his eyes meet Y/N’s. It feels to him like it always does when he sees her – like some great relief that floods through his entire body in an instant. He feels guilty for it, now that she knows, but that doesn’t stop him from basking in it. The feeling grows when a triumphant smile graces her lips, one that says you’ve got her, Spence. You’ve got her right where you want her.

Spencer is positively rejuvenated by that smile.

He reluctantly pulls his gaze away from her and focuses back on Cat. He’s come too far now to fuck it all up.

Spencer pulls his phone from the depths of his suit pocket and hands it to Cat. He watches on as she dials the number, and his heart beats so fast that he wonders if she can hear it. The sound of the dial tone ringing fills the room, and Spencer can only hope that the call will be long enough for Penelope to trace.

“You’re early,” a voice that’s unmistakably Lindsey’s calls out. Spencer lets out a shaky breath of relief.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Did he guess?”

“No, not yet,” Cat sighs. “We need proof of life.”

“All right, hold on,” Lindsey says, exasperated, and her words are followed by several seconds of muffled rustling and what Spencer deems as some sort of liquid being poured.

“Spencer!”

His heart practically bursts out of his chest as he lunges forward, yanking the phone out of Cat’s hand and bringing it up to his ear.

“Mom - mom, are you okay?”

“I don’t… know-”

Spencer opens his mouth to reply when the gut-wrenching sound of an explosion rips through the tiny phone speakers, distorted and so loud that it makes Spencer’s ears ring.

“Mom!” Spencer desperately yells into the phone, but all he gets in reply is a ‘gotta go’ from Lindsey before the line goes dead. Spencer growls out a string of swears, throwing his phone down on the table before leaning over the table.

“What the hell was that?” he yells, and he’s vaguely aware of the sound of the door opening, but he can’t focus on anything other than his own rising panic.

“I don’t know,” Cat replies, opening her mouth to continue but Spencer cuts her off.

“Lindsey said you were early. Was that a signal?” he bellows.

“Spence, come on,” Y/N tries to interject. Spencer feels her hand on his shoulder but he shrugs it off before bringing his fist down on the table.

“Was that a prearranged signal to kill my mother?!” Spencer snarls, eyes wide and teeth barred. He feels positively feral, images of his mother in all sorts of terrible states of distress flashing through his mind like some grotesque picture show. “Tell me the truth!”

“No! I am!” Cat shouts back.

“Tell me the truth!”

“I am!” Cat spits out, eyes flashing angrily. “You wanna know the truth? Your mother is an Alzheimer’s-ridden moron who’s getting dumber by the day and if she’s dead, it’s your fault!”

Something comes over Spencer then, and in an instant, he’s shoving the table out of the way and pushing Cat against the wall. His hands find purchase on her throat, not dissimilar to how hers had on his hours before, but instead of dragging his fingers against her neck, Spencer’s clamping down on it as hard as he can, taking great pleasure in the way she gasps for air as his hands tighten. Everything around him fades away until all that he can focus on is that way that her pulse feels under his hands – the way it starts off strong, before tapering, slower and slower until he can barely even palpate it anymore.

“I’m going to kill you,” Spencer hears himself whisper as he presses down hard on her windpipe. “M’gonna fucking kill you.”

Cat’s eyes are fluttering closed now, and Spencer shouldn’t enjoy the way the light in her eyes starts to dim. He shouldn’t but he does – in fact, it prompts him to press harder and harder and –

A harsh yank pulls Spencer away from Cat, and as soon as his hands begin to loosen Cat splutters in an attempt to catch her breath.

“Spencer, she is pregnant,” Y/N yells in his ear, and just like that his tunnel vison fades away and Spencer feels the adrenaline leave his body. He only realizes that his hands are still on Cat’s throat when Y/N yanks at his arms again. “Fucking let her go, Spencer!”

His entire body goes limp and he allows himself to be drug away from Cat and out of the room. Spencer’s heart still pounds and his blood is still roaring in his ears, but the satisfaction has given away to shame. He steals a glance at cat as he’s being pulled from the room, and despite her ruffled appearance, she’s grinning at him – smiling as if to say see? I told you that you were just like me.

Spencer stumbles into the other room, steadying himself on the wall to keep from faceplanting onto the cold hard floor. Now that the adrenaline has expelled itself from his body, he’s left shaky and panting and ashamed.

The feeling of Y/N’s eyes on him as he braces himself on the wall only exacerbates his mortification. What will she think of me now? Will she think me to be some kind of monster? Spencer wouldn’t blame her - he’s held that same opinion of himself for months now.

Spencer stands there, face turned downwards as he catches his breath, and when he can take the weight of her gaze no longer, he darts out of the room and down the corridor.

Being alone is preferable to being a disappointment, Spencer thinks as he flees the room.

It doesn’t take long for her to find him sitting in the floor, knees to his chest with his face downturned. Spencer hears her before he sees her, and he prepares himself for the yelling that’s surely to come.

She surprises him when she slides her back down the wall until she’s sitting beside him, legs sprawled out in front of her. He doesn’t look up – fearful of what he might see when he looks into those beautiful eyes of hers. There had been love there, before all of this happened. Not the kind of love that was reflected in his own, but it was love just the same and Spencer thinks that it might kill him to see that love replaced with disgust. So he doesn’t look. Instead, Spencer just sits there, slumped over and pathetic, hoping that she doesn’t pick up on the fact that his hands are shaking.

“Richmond County police just reported a gas station explosion. One victim – male. Whatever Lindsey did, we have to assume that your mom’s still alive,” Y/N murmurs. Spencer lets out a shaky breath and his grip on his knees tightens. It’s good news, and he’s grateful, but it does nothing for the overwhelming guilt that’s eating away at him.

“Hey,” she whispers when he doesn’t reply. “Can you look at me, Spence? Wanna see those pretty brown eyes. Please?”

Spencer chokes down the sob that threatens to come out. He shakes his head.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened in there. That… That’s not me. At least, I don’t want it to be,” Spencer whispers. “Emily should’ve sent someone else with me. I never wanted you to see me like that.”

Her small, incredibly soft hand comes to rest on his own and Spencer closes his eyes at the feeling. Y/N flips his hand over and intertwines their fingers and Spencer can’t help but think that’s she’s showing him way more kindness than he could ever deserve. But he’s selfish, unable to deny himself of the feeling of her hand in his, so he clings onto her hand for dear life.

“I’m so scared that this is who I am now,” Spencer mumbles, prompting her grip on his hand to tighten.

“No, Spence. Don’t say that,” she chastises him. “You’re the best guy I know. Everyone has a breaking point – Cat just knows how to bring you to yours, is all.”

“You… You don’t know…” Spencer trails off, still unwilling to look her in the eye.

“I do know, Spence. I may not have been able to visit, but I asked about you every day,” she says as she shuffles closer to him. Spencer can smell her perfume now, subtle and sweet and comforting. “I know that two inmates, Frazier and Duerson, killed your friend in front of you. I know that they wanted you to move heroin for them, and I also know that if you didn’t, you would’ve been next. Anyone in your spot would’ve done the same.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Hell yes, I would have,” Y/N persists, and Spencer can’t help but to look up at her from behind where his unruly curls fall into his face. “I would have, Spence. If someone was threatening my life, you bet your ass I would have done the same thing. It doesn’t make you a bad person – doing whatever it takes to survive does not make you a bad person.”

She must pick up on the hesitancy that lingers in Spencer’s eyes, because she decides to continue.

“You know who does think like that? That – that in you doing what you had to do in order to survive somehow makes you a psychopath?” Y/N pauses long enough to point her thumb towards the direction of the interview room. “She does.”

Spencer watches the realization wash over her face, and for a split second he’s terribly confused. It isn’t until a ghost of a smile pulls at her lips that he catches on, and when he does, he has to stop himself from doing something terribly stupid like kissing her.

“She does,” Y/N reiterates when she sees that Spencer finally caught on. “Because she knows.”

“That’s the secret,” Spencer thinks aloud. He pushes himself to his feet and begins to pace down the corridor. “The one that I don’t want to admit about myself.”

“Hold up, Spence. Let’s talk through this, because she will not lose to you twice. She already said that this wasn’t about the two of you being the same.”

Spencer scratches the back of his next, nodding to himself.

“Then she’s all about the game. She thinks that I cheated the last time because I lied about her dad, so it’s integral that she beats me by following the rules.”

“But, Spence, she’s the one that makes the rules. She can change them to ensure that she wins.”

“-Which means that I’m locked in-”

“Like she is.”

“She needs me locked in, playing by her rules, a game I can’t win, so she-” Spencer pauses then, and an actual, honest to God smile creeps its way across his face – the kind of smile that was only reserved for Y/N. “I got it.”

Spencer doesn’t elaborate, because he doesn’t need to. He can tell with one look that she understands, because somehow, she always does. Spencer offers her a hand and hoists her to her feet.

Spencer almost laughs as the two of them step back into the room. Of course, she would be the one to figure it out. It seems like she’s always saving him, these days.

“Guess that’s one way to get you to put your hands on me.”

Spencer feels a twinge of guilt, but he pushes it to the back of his mind as he holds a hand out to Cat.

“Dance with me.”

Cat lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want the people watching to hear what I’m about to say.”

Cat is still suspicious, but she takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet anyways. Spencer puts his arms around her and the two of them begin to sway back and forth. Spencer suppresses the urge to pull away when her hand lowers and intertwines with his own. It’s rough and calloused and cold – a direct contradiction of Y/N’s – and Spencer positively loathes it.

“You had eyes on me while I was in prison, didn’t you?”

“Spencie, don’t ruin the moment,” Cat groans.

“I don’t want to, but I’m on the clock. Answer my question, am I right?” Cat places her head on Spencer’s chest, her hair smelling of some generic bar of soap, and Spencer wishes more than anything that he was smelling the familiar notes of honeysuckle and vanilla instead.

“Yes, you’re right. I wanted to make sure things were just as uncomfortable for you as they were for me.”

“That’s how you timed everything so perfectly. Like sending my mom and Lindsey to visit me when I thought I was at my lowest.”

This piques Cat’s interest and she lifts her head up until her eyes meet Spencer’s.

“Thought? You’re sure you weren’t?”

“No, I wasn’t. Because I didn’t feel bad – I felt scared at how much I enjoyed poisoning the other prisoners. I had a hundred ways of getting myself out of that situation, and I picked the one that would cause them the most pain.”

“Well, look at that,” Cat hums. “You might end up saving your mother’s life after all.”

A moment of silence passes as Spencer contemplates his next move. Before he can get the words out, Cat breaks the silence.

“They won’t get there in time. They must be on their way, right? Your team is too good to wait around, but you know me. I always have a contingency plan,” Cat murmurs, hands dipping under Reid’s suit jacket. She rubs her palms across his chest in slow circles and Spencer tries hard not to squirm. “They’re walking into a trap, and the only way out is if you give me your phone and you guess – right now.”

Cat removes her hands from Spencer’s chest, crossing her arms and fixing him with a pointed look. Spencer reaches down and pulls the phone from his pocket, passing it to Cat who wastes no time in taking a seat at the table once more.

Spencer’s skin tingles, half from anticipation, half from fear. They’ve come too far for him to misstep. He thinks of his mother – of how the next two minutes will determine her fate, and Spencer clenches his hands into fists at his sides.

Here comes the moment of truth.

“When we first sat down, you said you were going to show me what kind of man I am. And you have.”

“Every time I dial a number, you’re getting warmer.”

“At first, I was furious, because the secret had to be the baby inside you. How could it be anything else? But then I realized that somehow, you knew I liked hurting those men.” Cat dials another number, prompting Spencer to continue. “Now, I know it’s both things.”

“So, which is it, Spencie? Come on, don’t fumble it now. You’re at the one-yard line.”

“You’re not pregnant with my child. You got pregnant with Wilkins to put me in as compromised a position as possible. But it should be mine – I wish it were mine. Because you and I… we deserve each other. That is the real secret.”

By the time Spencer finishes speaking, tears are steady falling down Cat’s cheeks. With a shaky hand she presses the call button, and Spencer watches on with bated breath as the phone rings.

“Kill her.”

When Cat receives no reply, she pushes out of her seat and begins to pace around the room. “Lindsey, I said kill her.”

“You bitch,” Lindsey curses, sounding positively heartbroken in the way only a jilted loved could. “You’re pregnant?”

“Lindsey, sweetheart, it’s complicated, okay?”

“No, it’s not,” Lindsey whispers, and then the sound of the dial tone is all that’s left.

Not a second later, Y/N bursts through the door; the figurative light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

“We’re clear.”

Spencer snatches his phone from Cat’s hand before turning to face Y/N.

“Is my mom okay?”

“Yeah. She’s fine.”

“We do deserve each other, by the way,” Cat calls out, prompting Spencer to pivot and face her. She slides back into the seat and shrugs her shoulders. “You guessed right.”

Spencer falters for a moment, but then a voice in his head is reminding him that he deserves the world. And that voice sounds a lot like Y/N.

“You lied, by the way. You were going to kill my mother regardless.”

“Yeah, I think you really liked hurting those men. Once you cross that line, you can’t ever go back. And you’ll never get her to love you, either. You and I are too fucked up to be loved.”

Spencer takes two steps forward before he bends down, reaching out and clutching Cat’s forearm in a tight grip. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his watch off her wrist and back on to his own.

“Watch me,” Spencer whispers, and without so much as a parting glance at the broken women sitting at the table, Spencer walks towards the light.

The elevator ride up to the bullpen is a quiet one, not unlike the jet ride before it. I had about a million questions that I was dying to ask, but I thought it best to let Spencer stew in silence. The poor guy had been through enough in the last twenty-four hours – he didn’t need me hounding him on top of all of that. Besides, I wasn’t entirely sure where to start in the first place.

So, Spence – how was prison?

I heard you got the shit kicked out of you. How interesting, so did I! Wanna trade war stories?

I hate to put you on the spot like this, but was that little tidbit about you being hopelessly in love with me true? Just curious.

As wonderful as all of those conversation starters were, I didn’t really think that now was the time to breech any of the aforementioned subjects. So, instead, Spencer and I communicated in stolen glances and shy smiles, and that more than sufficed for the time being. We had all the time in the world to talk later - there was no need to rush.

I can practically feel Spencer shaking with anticipation when the elevator ride comes to a close, and the two of us share one last, longing glance before the doors open and Spencer steps out and into the arms of his mother.

There’s not a dry eye in the house when Spencer and his mother reunite, and it takes Emily ushering us all away to keep us all from devolving into sniveling messes right in front of the elevator. We all scatter about the bullpen, and after a quick trip to the bathroom I meander to Emily’s office.

“Derek Morgan – you are a sight for sore eyes,” I whistle as I walk into the room, not stopping until I’m pressed up against two-hundred pounds of rock-hard abs.

“Ah, little bit. I sure have missed you,” Derek laughs as he presses a kiss to the top of my head.

“To what do we owe the pleasure? I’d be hard pressed to believe that you just decided to drop in at three o’clock in the morning.”

Derek lets out a sigh and the smile drops from his face.

“I wish I was just here to say hello, but we may have bigger problems. I got a text from Penelope saying that Reid was out of prison and that he wanted to see me. And that he was staying in an FBI safehouse where he was putting his mother up for the night.”

I cast a glance at Emily, who shakes her head.

“I didn’t approve of that,” she explains, and just like that, a weary feeling settles over everyone in the room.

“I think we all know what this sounds like,” Derek says.

“A trap.”

“I know we’re all tired, but we may have a new lead on Scratch.”

“Somebody did a bang-up job of cloning my cellphone to send Morgan a text luring him to a nonexistent safehouse. And whoever that somebody is has mad skills,” Penelope explains.

“The kind of skills Scratch has,” Stephen mutters, earning a round of murmured agreeances.

“Were you able to trace where the hack came from?” Luke inquires, earning an affronted glare from Penelope. She shakes her head at him before turning to Derek, who’s watching on with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Do you see what I have to put up with?”

Derek chuckles and gives Luke a pointed look.

“Alvez, you’ll always get a location with this one.” Derek reaches forward and rubs Penelope’s shoulder, and it’s impossible to miss the way Luke’s eyes zero in on it.

“Down boy,” I whisper at him. “Green isn’t your color.”

“Shut up.”

I roll my eyes good-naturedly before turning my attention back to Emily.

“Obviously, Morgan can’t come with us. He’s a civilian now.”

“We’ll miss you out there,” JJ chimes in.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it out there in the field with you guys. I think about it every day. But between my old friends and my new friends, you guys are gonna go out there, you’re gonna handle your business, you’re gonna make people feel safe, and then you’re gonna go home. And that’s all that matters.”

“Civilian life has turned you into a sap,” I tease.

“Is it just me, or has this one gotten mouthier since I left?”

Penelope pats him on the arm.

“Someone had to fill the silence.”

After everyone has the opportunity to tell Derek their goodbyes, it’s a mad dash to get everything we need to roll out. I pull my hair into a ponytail and shuck off my blazer, only to replace it with my Kevlar. I’m in the middle of securing the last strap as I hurry down the hall when I come in harsh contact with the front of someone’s chest.

But it’s not just someone – it’s Spencer.

“I thought you left already?”

Spencer lets out a strained chuckle.

“Uh, yeah. I was on the way out when Penelope texted and said Derek was here. Mom’s sitting with Anderson while I go talk to him.”

I nod in understanding.

“Good ole Anderson,” I manage to say, trying hard not to cringe at my awkward choice of words.

“Yeah,” Spencer mutters, shuffling his feet as he looks anywhere other than my face. “There’s a case, I’m assuming?” he says, gesturing to my vest.

“We think we have a lead on Scratch, actually.”

Now, that gets Spencer’s attention. His eyes finally settle on me, and his brows furrow.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me? I need to go with you-” Spencer makes a move to brush past me, put I stop him with a hand on his chest.

“Back it up, Spence. There’s absolutely no way Prentiss will sign off on that, and even if she did, I’m still saying no.”

“And I’m supposed to listen to you?” Spencer tries to keep his face neutral, but his lips twitch as he fights back a smile.

“Mm. What I say goes, and I say that you need to go home and not even think about work for at least a month. You certainly could use the break.”

“A whole month, huh?”

I nod, looking up at him with a faux serious expression.

“I better not see you around here for at least that long, or there will be repercussions.”

Spencer finally does smile at that, and I can practically see the way he’s mulling over his next move in his head.

“Does… Does that prohibition extend only to the work place?”

I tilt my head to the side.

“I’m lost.”

Spencer scrunches his nose up and his eyes dart across the hall before eventually settling back on me.

“It’s just that, well, I don’t really know where this leaves us. Will I still see you outside of work, or is that all messed up now?”

“Why would that be messed up?”

Spencer closes his eyes and he lets out a haggard breath.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?”

Even though he can’t see me, I smile up at him anyways.

“On any other day I absolutely would, but things are a little… hectic right now. How about we put a pin in this conversation until things slow down a bit?”

Spencer slowly opens his eyes and they roam over my face, searching.

“You’re not uncomfortable? Considering everything that, uh, she said about me? Especially the part that pertained to you?” Spencer asks, meek and unsure.

I shake my head.

“I think you’ll find that I am very much the opposite of uncomfortable,” I reply. We stand there for a moment longer, just basking in the fact that after three long, miserable months, we’re finally together again.

Spencer opens his mouth to say something, only to be cut off by Emily calling my name from further down the hall.

“Duty calls,” I chuckle, pulling away from Spencer. “Tell you mom I said hi, and I’ll be by to visit once you have time to get settled in,” I call over my shoulder.

I make it a good ten feet down the hall before Spencer’s tugging at my hand and pulling me flush against his chest. He hesitates for a moment, and a flash of uncertainty clouds his eyes, but then he’s pushing it down and pressing his lips to mine.

Spencer’s lips are slightly chapped, but so, so warm as they move against mine. My response is instantaneous – I don’t hesitate for a second before I’m kissing back. The kiss is slow and tentative, as gentle and tender as it is intoxicating. It’s everything that a kiss should be and it ignites a fire in me that has me grasping at Spencer’s shirt, desperate for more. The hand that isn’t cupping the side of my face presses firmly against the small of my back, urging me forward until absolutely no space is left between us.

Every drag of his lips against mine acts as gasoline to a flame, and I can’t help but think that Ray Bradbury said it best. It is a pleasure to burn.

I’m the first to pull away, but it isn’t because I want to. What I want is to stay just like this – entangled in Spencer Reid – until not an inch of our bodies lay unexplored by the other. But when Emily calls out my name yet again, I force myself to stop.

“I really need to go,” I murmur regretfully, and Spencer nods.

“Yeah, I know.”

But that doesn’t stop him from going in for one last, delicious kiss. This time when we break away, it’s his doing. I don’t have the self restraint to pull away twice.

“Pinky promise you’ll come back to me in one piece?” Spencer says as he lifts his pinky finger up in offering. I link mine with his, and I smile a dopey grin at him.

“Of course, I will,” I reply. “After all, you and I are due for one hell of a conversation.”

I shoot him a wink before I’m running down the hall and slipping into the elevator just before the doors close. My teammates all shoot me curious looks, but I pretend like I don’t see and I lean against the wall, trying and failing to slow the rapid beating of my heart.

It’s Stephen who approaches me when we all file out of the elevator and into the parking garage.

“Spencer Reid wouldn’t have anything to do with that love-sick look on your face, would he?”

I attempt to school my expression, but one pointed look from Stephen has me devolving into a fit of giggles like I’m a goddamn school girl.

“Possibly.”

“Possibly my ass. When we get done with this case, I expect a full explanation,” Stephen chuckles as he climbs in the back of the SUV.

“You gossip like a teenager, Walker,” I tease as I climb in after him.

“What can I say? You kids keep me young.”

I let out a loud laugh at that.

“Best shrink a girl could ask for.”

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

- Unknown

taglist: @90spumkin, @wave0fg00dvibes, @bartlebyreid, @goldenxreid , @crubbycrab, @djreid , @waywardswain, @anotherr-fine-mess , @shadyladyperfection , @memoriesfornobody , @fakeauthor , @easygoingtheatre , @haylaansmi , @criminal-minds-reider , @leavesofgrass-stark , @anitazut, @reidspurplescarf , @xoprincessmel, @pinkdiamond1016, @eldahae, @itsametaphorbriansblog, @ziggystardustxo

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angeloncewas · 3 years ago

Note

Does the fact that CCs can now get away with a lot by pointing fingers at mcyttwt concern you as well? I keep thinking about that part specifically regarding the party thing. I don't think these responses would be tolerated if they came from other content creators. This is one side effect of the toxic behavior on twitter I feared.

Ohhh boy. Yeah, it does.

(Sorry, I don't think you wanted an essay, but it happened.)

I am very happy that the problems with mcyttwt and the culture it has cultivated over the past few months (give or take) is being brought to light and directly addressed. It's some bullshit cliché rhetoric, but the first step really is recognizing that you have a problem and at first glance this speaks to good things.

We've seen it happening more often in a variety of cases. Remember that thing I always bring up about the twibbons? And how it's completely ridiculous to demand a mass-change of profile pictures on a public platform for the sake of your personal well-being? Well, a similar problem arose yesterday, and the responses were... really good. Some of them were rude - people always take stuff too far - but the top replies were a polite, but firm, "if the pfps are bothering you, maybe you should get off of Twitter." That's progress ! Very good progress as these people recognize and encourage the curation of ones' own environment and mental health. And that's just one example - I've seen plenty of others where I was pleasantly surprised by the way Twitter users pointed out the bad behavior in their midst.

The new problem (or one of them) is that people tend to think in a very black-and-white mentality. I'm not saying I don't - we're all in this together - but it first felt worrying to me in response to Jawsh's repost of his tweets. The ones that fiercely condemn what he refers to as "stan culture," seemingly generalized to twt communities.

People were agreeing with him. Not like a "he makes some good points" type of agreement; a wholehearted, all-in, fuck these people and this platform and everything that mcyttwt is attitude from the stans' own mouths (or, uh, keyboards). The discussion was no longer "here is what our community is now, here are the problems, here's how we fix them," it was about pointedly distancing themselves from that toxic - and frankly embarrassing - group they were just in.

And that's where we get to the content creators themselves.

The timing lines up nicely with that burner thread - the one showcasing mcyttwt in all of its horror and glory - but I'm more inclined to call that a coincidence than a catalyst. Regardless, the creators - after months of cc neg and twitlongers and DNI lists only growing - think that they're fully aware of the state of the "mc twitter" fandom. That it really is this hivemind of crazies who rag on everyone for every little thing. Jawsh was right, Schlatt was right, stans fucking suck and are idiotic little fatherless mentally ill children-

Do you get where I'm going with this?

I'm trying not to sound too slippery slope fallacy-y because I know that poking fun at the flaws of your fanbase (or ones adjacent to you, depending on who you are) doesn't mean you're about to go full Noah Hugbox on their asses. And, at the end of the day, this specific instance was just a legal party with some surrounding debate. A debate that they... didn't even stop to consider. Which is fair, I suppose, they don't owe us anything, but like I said that makes me worried about the precedent that's unwillingly being set.

The fact of the matter is that it's very, very easy to slip into one of two parties: for, or against. When it comes to content creators, this is usually the blind rage they go into when they see criticism and the automatic way their brain files it into the tidy folder up there labelled "hate mail." I feel like we've already seen Dream get close to becoming that kind of person (understandably, he gets a lot of shit) -but he managed to catch himself around his first contact with Hasan and things (I think ?) have been pretty decent since then. Great.

There's no telling how other creators will react to that kind of shift though. And I know it doesn't sound like a big deal because "we don't control their lives," but I'm thinking big-picture here. I'm not pulling arguments out of my ass when I say that seeing "mcyttwt" as a bullshit community full of keyboard warrior sjws who need to go out and touch some grass is a full 180 from the current state of the fandom and that's not inherently good. Mcyttwt is extremely hyper-critical, but their concern often stems from genuine fears as minorities and wants to do better and make sure that other people do the same. I don't think that people outside of the community see that and a lot of the people who criticize it don't want to because they're not actually invested in the community's well-being, they're just mad they can't be racist without getting ratioed anymore. Yes, it's just the internet and some things are pointless to get mad at, but the online space is still the real world and people's shitty-ness is still... shitty.

Do I think they can get away with anything? Not really, no, but I'm curious to see what the future holds. It's easy to be apathetic and say "I don't give a shit what creators do" - have a sort of relationship where criticisms are dismissed because their attitude in turn is "fuck those people" - but in my opinion that's not a healthy way to consume content. That's how all those awful fucking people slid on by for years and the community was dominated by "edgy" folk who'd sooner mock you for your pronouns than give a performative "trans rights." I hope for progress, but this feels a bit like regression.

#DISCLAIMER #THIS IS AN OVERDRAMATIC PERSPECTIVE I AM SPEAKING IN HYPOTHETICALS AND TALKING ABT TWT LIKE IM LOOKING AT A CRYSTAL BALL #you're free to argue with me but pls dont come in here like 'youre reading too far into it' because i know that's literally the point #the other option is that things just keep going as they always have and thats not an interesting topic at all #i dont think im reading TOO far into it but like im a paranoid person so im just built different im weird im a weirdo i dont fit in #okay i think i lost my mind typing this #angel answers #blxtxntly #long post #discourse #cc critical #fandom critical #negative #mcyttwt critical #ask to tag ig idk adhfsdk

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mollygetssherlockcoffee · 4 years ago

Text

Broken

Pairing: Spencer x Fem!reader

Summary: When Rossi makes a comment which upsets the Y/N, Spencer is there to reassure her

Warning: Mentions of rape and murder. Talk about the medical condition Poly Cystic Ovary Syndrome. Sadness. Fluff at the end

Words: 1,824

A/N: As someone who has this condition, this a drabble I have always wanted to read.

Master List HERE!

This last case had been particularly hard for you. You’d gotten your diagnosis three days before you left for California on a case involving an unsub forcing women into pregnancy, only to kill the mother and sell the child. The latest victim to have been found, Amelia Bragg, had been found on in a ditch. She had been raped, repeatedly, but she had not given birth and wasn’t pregnant. However, the signature of the female gender symbol carved onto her hip post-mortem indicated it was the killer you were after.

“Why didn’t she have a child like the others?” JJ asked, looking from the screen where Amelia’s picture was shown to the files in her hands.

“She had a condition which made it difficult to have children… she was ‘broken’” Rossi had replied, glancing at Amelia’s medical records. “PCOS and endometriosis.”

“PCOS? What’s that?” Derek asked, looking towards Reid for an answer.

You jumped in first, not even looking up from the file in front of you, “Poly Cystic Ovary Syndrome. Follicles surround the eggs, making ovulation difficult. As such, their periods are irregular, and they struggle with fertility. Women often experience head hair loss, while gaining excess hair in other places, such as their face, due to increased androgen. Also, they can experience increased pain anytime through their menstrual cycle, on their period or not. People with PCOS tend to struggle with their weight, due to the hormones. Also, they’re more than likely to suffer with mental illnesses such as depression or anxiety due to the imbalance of hormones. Endometriosis is where tissue similar to the lining of the room grows in other places, like the ovaries or fallopian tubes. Endometriosis causes a lot of the same problems as PCOS, but it is known to be much more painful.”

The room is quiet for a moment as the team takes in your words. You don’t look up, you can’t look up. Rossi’s words had hurt you and you couldn’t help but answer before Reid. It was a subject you had knowledge in, you had done for a while. You best friend, Jamie, had endometriosis and you had done your research after her diagnosis in an effort to support her.

“How do you know that, Y/N?” Derek questioned, his voice gentle as he realised you might have experience with the conditions.

You shrugged ad remained silent for a moment. You didn’t really want to tell them all. Sure, they’re your friends, family even, but did you want all of them knowing this? Finally, you settled on a half-truth, “I know people with the condition, so I learned about it.”

You’d caught the unsub in the end, but not before another girl had been kidnapped. Thankfully, the team had gotten to the house, and then into the underground ‘lair’ before she was raped. It was horrific done there. It was dark and with the mass of six women, all in various stages of pregnancy, crammed into the small space, it was dirty and humid.

The women had been sent to the hospital for a check-up and the unsub taken to the police station to be processed. With the case complete, Hotch decided to postpone the flight home until the morning, saying everyone deserved a night of rest.

And that was how you found yourself sitting on your motel bed, arm around your knees, as you cried.

You’d been having troubles for a while now. Your periods were irregular, only having one every few months, and yet you often walked around with pain low in your belly and back. You often had to wax your upper lip, while you often lost long strands of your hair. Your moods swung, and your weight was a like a seesaw.

You’d went through this for more than a year before you went to the doctors. They’d listen to your symptoms before ordering a thorough blood test which came back with results saying you had excess hormones. This wasn’t enough for a diagnosis, and your doctor had sent you for an ultrasound.

And there they were. Little follicles surrounding your ovaries. There was your answer, you had PCOS. You’d been fine with the diagnosis. You had friends with the same condition, and you knew the ins-and-outs of it. However, what Rossi had said really got to you. In that one instance, your entire mental approach changed and your mind told you that your body was broken. That you were broken.

And that hurt.

PCOS was currently incurable. Medication could be taken to help the symptoms, but there was nothing to stop them. When you wanted a child, you could take medication which may help to be able to conceive but there was no guarantee that you would become pregnant. You were broken. The one thing you were designed for, as a woman, was something you couldn’t do. You were a woman, you were meant to bare children. Yes, you’d never through about having children before but now the choice had been taken from you.

There was a knock at the door. You held your breath, keeping the sobs back. There was another knock. A moment passed before the knock sounded again.

“Y/N, open up… please, I know you’re in there” Spencer begged, knocking on the door again. “Please, just let me in.”

Out of everyone on the team, Spencer was who you were closest to. When you had first joined the BAU, he had helped you with your paperwork. He knew you weren’t a huge fan of clubbing, so while the rest of the team went for drinks, he invited you to go with him to his favourite café. You’d get together every week to watch the newest episode of Doctor Who and when the season ended, you would just watch reruns. Spencer was the one you had warmed up to first, and he was still the person you’d consider as your closest friend.

Knowing that Spencer wouldn’t go away, you pushed yourself to your feet. You opened the door enough for him to squeeze through and quickly closed it behind him. Spencer entered the little room, moving to drop the armful of snacks on the bed before turning around to you.

He didn’t speak, just opened his arm. A fresh wave of tears burst forth and you rushed into his arm, burying your face in his chest and letting the tears fall. His arms wrapped around you securely, holding you to his chest tightly. His chin rested on your head as he held you to him, his thumb rubbing over the top of your arm where his arms wrapped around you.

After a few minutes, you calmed down, your snobs turning to quiet sniffles. He gently released you but took your hand, leading you over to the bed. You climbed on, grabbing a packet of gummy bears before you curled in his side.

“So,” he started. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

You wiped your hand under your eyes, getting rid of another tear. “You remember that I told you I hadn’t been feeling to great and that I had that appointment at the hospital for some tests? Well, I got the results.”

“I know. PCOS” your head turned so quickly that it took your eyes a moment to catch up and focus on your face. “I know the symptoms of it Y/N, and… I had suspicions. Your knowledge of it confirmed those suspicions. You have much more than just a ‘friend offering support’ knowledge.”

“What Rossi said…” your lips rolled between your teeth and you shook your head, looking away from Spencer. “I wasn’t really bothered at first by the diagnosis but when Rossi said that Amelia was ‘broken’… that hurt. Is that how people see me, how I am, broken?”

“Of course, you’re not broken” Spencer reassured you, pulling you tightly into his side. “Rossi didn’t mean it like that. He meant it as broken for the unsub, in the unsubs mind.”

“I know how he meant it” you assured him. “Its just… I can’t help but feel like people will think I’m broken. And who would want a broken girlfriend, or wife? I’ll have these mood changes, weight problem, hair troubles for the rest of my life. And I’ll struggle to have a child too… Who would want someone like me?”

A firm hand grasped your chin and turned your face. Spencer looked at you, his face more serious than you had ever seen it. His jaw was set and his eyes held such an intensity, that you struggled to make eye contact.

“Who wouldn’t want someone like you? You’re amazing” he reassured you, his voice firm and full of sincerity. “You’re kind, funny, smart, a little too sassy at time, generous and…and gorgeous. You’re amazing. You helped me find a place for my mom, you bring me my favourite coffee and a doughnut every time I’m sad. You drive me to and from work because you know I hate to drive. You are amazing. Your mood changes? Everyone’s moods fluctuate, yours maybe a bit more than others, but that doesn’t matter. Your weight? Y/N, you’re perfect. And your hair? That shouldn’t matter to anyone because its not about what you look like, its about who you are. There is nothing saying you won’t be able to get pregnant. Yes, it’ll take longer and you made need help but still, it can happen. And if it doesn’t, there are other options. Like surrogacy or adoptions. And that’s even if you want kinds. You don’t have to have them. And the man you’re with should accept all of these things because they are what make you you. And you are amazing, you’re perfect. If they can’t accept you as you are, this perfect person, then they don’t deserve someone as amazingly brilliant as you.”

Your heartbeat wildly in your chest as you stared at Spencer. Your eyes prickled with tears again, but this time, they were in awe of the beautiful things he’d said about you. The way he spoke about you… you felt warm inside, you felt appreciated, cared for… you felt loved.

Your hand lifted to cup his face and your thumb traced his cheekbone. His eyes were soft as they met yours, the light brown orbs full of warmth. Your eyes trailed to his films, his prefect lips, and slowly, you leaned in. He met you halfway, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss.

The kiss was soft and gentle. His hand trailed from your chin to the back of your neck, tilting your head to allow him better access to your mouth. You sighed into the kiss, the warmth in your heart all consuming.

Slowly, he pulled back from the kiss, his eyes meeting yours again. “Y/N, you’re prefect and… I…I love you.”

You smiled at him. “I love you too.”

You pulled him towards you to kiss him again.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #cm #criminal minds #david rossi #derek morgan #criminal minds fanfiction

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anika-ann · 5 years ago

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The Best Mistake of My Life - Pt.1

Type: One-shot/ch1 of a series

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 4100

Summary: A soulmate AU. They say having a soulmate is a blessing. Who wouldn’t love the idea of star-crossed lovers, right?

Neither Steve Rogers nor you consider yourself lucky though. It probably has something to do with the lines written on your skin. Because if the words are anything to go by, you’re not sure you want to meet each other.

Warnings: swearing, light angst, FLUFF

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Steve Rogers was born a sickly baby.

Born a sickly boy to a single mother in the time of great depression, money thin, his health even thinner and having a pathetic number of friends; though that never really bothered him. What his friendships lacked in quantity was hundred times compensated by quality. Bucky Barnes’ loyalty was everything Steve could ask for.

And what Steven Grant Rogers himself lacked in height and strength of body was made up for by the strength of will, amount of determination and a great compassionate heart, ready to welcome anyone sans bullies there.

Perhaps God had seen that Steven would grow into a man carrying his heart on his sleeve and decided that this man should be blessed with a love so magnificent they would tell stories about it; people always had. People were always telling tales about soulmates.

Having a soulmate wasn’t necessarily rare, but not everyone was bound to have one. Being one of the lucky ones was an amazing gift; a promise of a connection as unbreakable as the thread of fate, a promise of an unconditional love.

To know person had found the one, their soulmate, those who were blessed with one wore a brand on their skin, a clue to allow them to recognize their destined partner; a set of words.

It was the set of words what was troubling Steve Rogers the most. Despite Bucky’s reassurance, despite his mother’s last words, despite Steve willingness to fight everything else the world would kick into his way, he found moments in his life he cursed the words written on his skin, reminding him how weak he would always seem to people.

Above the visible line of his collarbone, sticking out on his rather skeletal frame, there sat the words of doom:

‘Oh no, there must be a mistake.’

The very first time his soulmate would spoke to him… they would be disappointed and silently praying that whatever force was behind bounding souls together made one hell of a misstep. A mistake.

That was what Steve was going to be to his soulmate; a mistake. A failure. A disappointment.

And why wouldn’t he be? Ninety pounds of rattling bones, list of illnesses longer than his birth certificate…. Every girl Bucky had ever tried to set him up with out of pity (which Bucky would deny until his last breath) had been disappointed.

“Maybe she’ll be more into brunettes. Maybe she won’t believe her soulmate is blond at first,” his friend would say, “or she’ll be from Queens and wouldn’t get over the fact you’re not, but once you’ll show her the true Brooklyn charm, she’ll fall to your feet.”

Then he would always pat Steve’s shoulder, pulling him into a one-arm hug and tried to get him a date once more.

Steve didn’t believe him. He never did, but recognizing his friend felt better if Steve played along, he would smile and poke his ribs in return.

“Whatever you say. Jerk.”

…

Much later, when he said to Peggy Carter that he was waiting for the right partner to dance with, he was starting to admit to himself that he wasn’t thinking about his so-called soulmate as the one. After all, he went against all odds, against rules, against destiny itself when he had been accepted to the army regardless of his fragile body. Maybe, just maybe it meant that not ending up with his soulmate was what would happen one day.

When he crushed the Valkyrie to the ocean, not even having taken a chance on Peggy Carter despite her obvious interest, he must admit he had been lying to himself.

His last realization concerned his soulmate; despite wanting to fight against the whole world, he couldn’t make himself to take a chance on Peggy Carter, a brilliant woman who was not carrying the right set of words.

His last regret was that he would never meet his true love.

His last thought was that maybe, his soulmate never had a set of words spoken by him on her skin – her first words to him might as well be the ones spoken when reading his obituary, somehow knowing he was supposed to belong with her.

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The moment you were old enough to understand the meaning of the word ‘soulmate’, you were intrigued by the concept; it probably had everything to do with the fact that you too were supposed to have a person meant to be your other half.

Every parent was bound to be delighted when their child was born with that kind of blessing, but the older you were getting, the more you understood what kind of a shock might occur when a kid had rather strange line supposedly spoken to them by their universe-chosen partner for life.

There were people who had words like ‘shit’ on them; literally. Not very delightful. Sometimes there were general lines like ‘Hello, how are you?”. Good luck hunting down the right person. In contrary, some people had a name on them; ‘Hi, I’m Peter Cameron.’ Lucky bastards.

And then… then there were people like you, whose words were just… weird.

“But I really am 95,” you mumbled under your breath, tracing the handwriting right under your collarbone subconsciously, the first thing you did in the morning if you remembered – which wasn’t every day, not by a long shot.

“This is the stupidest thing ever…”

You shook your head and started to get ready for your day at the office.

Your opinion on your soulmark had been changing during the years. You had had a period of fascination, simply being proud of carrying it. Then you had understood the meaning of your words, and you had been horrified and desperate at the idea of meeting your soulmate at such age or worse, having one that old while you would be thirty or something when encountering them.

Then had come the phase of how could I avoid having a grandpa as my soulmate. Maybe the number meant something different – your soulmate’s weight (you really wouldn’t care for that, you reasoned), his temperature (he might be hypothermic at the moment, no?), his hotel room number, the number of a seat in a theatre perhaps… there were so many possibilities, right?

Now, you just tried not to think about it too hard. You had had boyfriends, never lasting longer than few months sans the one exception of George, who had turned out to be the biggest asshole in the world despite your belief he had might have been the one; until you had caught him in bed with another girl.

Maybe it was that deep inside you had never believed in the relationships you had, because the guy never said the right first words. Or maybe you were full of shit and you couldn’t keep a guy interested, god only knew – hence not thinking about it too hard, going on with your life and taking it as it was.

You might meet him, you might not. It wouldn’t be the first case of never encountering a soulmate. Life was funny that way.

Best not to let it ruin your day. A rather nice day it was, today. If you only didn’t have to spend it in the crowded office with people demanding their licences and taking out their frustrations on you. Well. You were a grown-up; you had to be okay with things not always being okay. Which sucked. But that was life.

…

You had a chance to have a shortest coffee break to exchange ‘hello’s with Ryan – your actual favourite person in the world, your platonic ‘soulmate’ (not in the ominous sense of the word), your boss who never really acted like a boss – and that was it. Apparently, half of Manhattan had gotten their licence this very date years back, so the office was ridiculously crowded. Thank god for the glass between you and the jungle; it shielded you at least partly.

You grabbed the file of request no. 57 that day – you were like a machine, okay, you couldn’t remember the office ever managing to deal with so many in only three hours – pulling out the documents and the licence to make another driver happy.

Your hands were acting on autopilot and you didn’t even glance up when an ID was pushed to you through the small space between the glass and the counter, checking the renewed licence first.

Your first thought was ‘oh wow’. That guy on the photo was gorgeous. You couldn’t help but snap your head up, checking out the real-life thing.

OH WOW.

Scratch the ‘gorgeous’. Replace it with ‘unreal’.

You were tempted to ask if he was made by an ancient sculptor and then brought to life, because his body was as incredible as his face; the broadness of his shoulders begged for a touch. His muscular arms were not so hidden in the sleeves of his dark green shirt. The shoulder-waist ratio was clearly a God’s mistake, a one you were thankful for.

Forget ancient sculptures. His face must have been sculptures by angels and they left him with a halo of blond hair as a reminder. And his eyes. Oh god, such pretty eyes…

He gave you an unsure smile, opening his mouth to probably accuse you of staring and you quickly dropped your gaze, returning to check the licence before you would give it to him.

Your hand froze hovering above the date of birth. You hesitantly looked up again, biting your lip guiltily despite not being the one who had messed up. You felt kinda sorry for him waiting the line for nothing.

“Oh no, there must be a mistake…” you half apologized, half said only to yourself, meeting his suddenly alarmed gaze.

You put on your most apologetic face, hoping he wouldn’t be too mad. How had someone messed it up again? The birth dates were with typos all the time. How?! There were only numbers for God’s sake! It wasn’t like the person inserting the data to the computer had to spell Buchwald or Mxyzptlk or something like that!

Damn you, Sheryl or Kira or you whoever have done this!

The man – Steven Grant Rogers, as you had learned from his sadly valueless driving licence – was staring at you, speechless. You were honestly getting worried, though you weren’t sure if you were more scared for him or for yourself in case of his reaction escalating.

So you went to explain.

“Uhm… I’m really sorry, mister-“ You quickly eyed the name ID he had given you, checking if the office got the name right at least. “-Rogers, but there seems to be a typo in… in your birth date. I apologize for the mistake our institution made, even though I wasn’t the one to-- you don’t need to know that, it doesn’t matter-- I’m so sorry you have to come here again, but I can’t really let you walk around or rather drive around with a licence claiming you were born in 1918, so…”

You had become so flustered, your cheeks burning, talking and talking without being able to stop, not making any sense even, until-

“But I really am 95,” he admitted sheepishly and you wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement, when something in your brain clicked.

The click was about as loud as an atomic bomb falling on Hiroshima. You were sure everyone had to hear it.

It shut you up immediately. Your whole body froze, your mind buzzing uselessly, not a single thought staying long enough for you to actually understand it. Until two words got stuck, shining in red letters like a neon sign in your brain.

Holy. Shit.

“Excuse me,” you squeaked, grabbing his useless licence and mechanically rising from your seat, walking away.

The moment no one could see you as you got into a hallway, you broke into a run. You acted on instinct. You ran and you ended up in front of Ryan’s office, stumbling in without knocking and without an atom of oxygen left in your lungs.

Ryan’s neatly combed hair swayed as he snapped his head to the door, his eyes strict until they took the newcomer – hint: you – in, widening instantly.

He quickly jumped to his feet, pacing to you.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice filled with worries.

You weren’t able to answer, because—holy shit. Your eyes frantically scanned the room, unable to meet your friend’s gaze. “I-- I-“

A hand landed on your shoulder, your eyes immediately falling on it on instinct. Shit, you couldn’t breathe. Could you?

Ryan’s free hand found you chin, tilting your head so you faced him. “Hey, baby, look at me! What happened? Was someone too much of an asshole to you?”

“I’m not-- he’s-“

Ryan’s face screamed concern, but he had fixed it in a second, soothing smile on his lips. He led you to his sofa, the calming blue cushions enveloping you.

“Sit down on your ass and gimme that,” he maneuverer the document off the steely grip of your fingers, sitting next to you as he looked it over. “Huh, quite a looker this guy. So what did he do?“

“I—the- the licence says he was born in---in 1918,” you stammered, finally able to breathe in properly and speak.

Ryan squinted at the date and then rolled his eyes.

“Oh jeez, again? Why is it so hard to just get it right? I swear I’m gonna have to fire Sheryl, she’s a disaster. What’s wrong with her? It’s not like they would be making a licence for someone that old! There’s a photo goddammit!”

“Ry-Ry… he said he was 95.”

Another eye-roll was his answer. “Yeah, I can count. He would have been if he was born in 1918 instead of 1981.”

“No, you don’t-“ you licked your lips and swallowed against the lump that grew in your throat. Your voice was as shake as your hands. “He just told me that. That he really was 95.”

Your friend observed you silently for a beat, not following. And then realization hit him like a train.

“Oh. OH. No shit?!”

It was your turn to stare silently, your mind loud enough to make noise and fill the space of Ryan office.

“Damn, does he really look like that? Lucky bitch!”

“Ryan!” you yelped in surprise when his fist bumped your shoulder, almost knocking you off balance.

It worked though. It grounded you and threw you back to reality. You tried your best to calm your breathing, but damn. This guy… he was your soulmate. You just met your soulmate. And he wasn’t a grandpa. He didn’t weight 95 pounds either. You weren’t in a hotel, neither in a theatre.

No. The number was only about one tiny mistake— oh, ohhh shit, what was the first thing you had said to him? Oh fuck. Way to go, girl!

“Are you okay?” Ryan asked rubbing the spot he had punched.

“No!” you shot back immediately, your mind racing.

“You know what I mean. You look better now. Though I gotta say, so is he. His face really is quite easy on the eyes. How about the rest of him?”

Ry-Ry, your bi-side is showing.

You chuckled at the easy talk, the tension from your shoulders falling a bit.

“Well… yeah, he’s like a model. So out of my league…” you muttered, remembering your ogling. This guy was your soulmate? Wasn’t it a mistake?

Ryan was suspiciously quiet; normally you would expect him to scold you for selling yourself short. Instead, he was staring at the licence, his lips parted in silent shock.

What now?

“What?” you demanded, following his line of gaze.

Ryan just chuckled, the incredulous sound ringing, echoing in the quiet space. “Girl, I hate to break it to you, but I might not fire Sheryl just yet.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Remember that one time aliens were falling from the sky?”

You blinked in surprise at that question, not following his train of thoughts. “Uhm… yeah? Pretty hard to forget that…?”

You were lucky you hadn’t been smashed under a building that day. Many people in Manhattan were, some sadly not. So yeah, you remembered.

“You remember the waitress from the café talking after the incident?”

“Oh my god, Ry-Ry, just spill it! I’m not following!”

Your friend huffed in exasperation, shoving the licence in your face, his finger on the name.

Steven Grant Rogers. Yeah, you could read too.

“That name should ring a bell, you dumbass! Would you say that this guy is handsome enough to be Captain America?” he hissed, making your heart stop.

Oh. Oh shit.

OH SHIT.

Your brain short-circuited.

“Oh my god. He really is 95,” you breathed out, your brain somehow choosing the least logical reaction to this whole revelation.

Ryan laughed. “Ding-ding, we have a winner! Holy crap, baby, I think you just got yourself a superhero soulmate!”

And just like that, you started panicking again. You gulped, watching the driving licence as if it could blow up.

“Shit, Ry-Ry! What do I do?” you whispered, desperation soaking through. What were you supposed to do upon that revelation? Captain America was your freaking soulmate!

Ryan smiled at you reassuringly, patting your cheek. “Not coming back to your spot behind the counter today, that’s for sure.”

“But-“

“I’m going in. I think this place won’t blow up if I fill in for once. I sure hope I remember the process, though I’m probably not gonna be as efficient as you are.”

You didn’t know what to say. Hell, you didn’t know what to do! But yeah, not coming back to the jungle sounded good, especially given your frantic escape.

“You really would do that?” you asked hesitantly and Ryan just rolled his eyes. “But… Ryan, what the hell do I do?!”

Your bestie gave you a lopsided smile and a wink, patting your cheek patronizingly once more before heading to take over your workplace.

“Whatever you want, baby. Whatever you want.”

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While you were having your own freak-out, Steve was standing at the counter, dumb-struck.

He couldn’t believe it. You had actually said those words. And judging by your reaction to his own, he must have said yours. Which… yeah, congratulation, Rogers, you had given your Universe-chosen dame an amazing note on her skin. To be fair, so had she.

Incredible.

Impossible.

His soulmate was in this century. In this millennia. That was what he got for ever thinking he could escape fate; a slap right in his face.

Because while for several cherished moments, he basked in the light on his soulmate not considering the pairing with him the infamous mistake the words on his skin claimed… he soon learned that it didn’t mean no heartbreak for him.

You had taken an abrupt leave to the back of the office and never came back.

Few minutes later, a man emerged from the door you had disappeared into, taking your seat and without a second look on Steve’s ID, he explained that Steve would have to come here again.

Steve didn’t care for the process of getting his driving licence renewed in the slightest, barely listening. His gaze was at the door to the hall, opened ajar, the door you didn’t return from after learning he was meant to be your partner.

When he had seen you behind the desk, he had considered you a beautiful dame, certain his heart had skipped a beat when your eyes met his. The sight of you was burned into his brain, now forever as a painful memory.

Clearly, you didn’t want him. Not because he was sickly, 95 pounds or 5’7’’ or all bones. Not because your words to him were about a mistake. Not because he was from Brooklyn. No. Honestly, Steve didn’t know why, what could scare you off so soon. He just knew you had escaped at the mere sight of him.

With his mind fuzzy, he walked out of the building into the bright nearly midday sun, blaming the sharp rays for the sting in his eyes. He sighed, running his hand down his face, suddenly bone tired.

“Mr. Rogers?” a shy female voice addressed him, instantly making him turn around to its source.

His lips parted in awe. There you stood, your airy floral dress reaching your knees, played with by the softest breeze. Hesitant smile on your lips. A tiniest spark in your eyes as he subconsciously took two steps to you, just to prove you would still be there if he came closer. You didn’t disappear.

“Y-yes?” he stuttered, actually feeling like the small man he had used to be before the serum.

You quietly introduced yourself, meeting his eyes once more, effectively stopping his heart again. You offered your hand for him to shake and he, feeling like he was dreaming, something else possessing his body, kissed your knuckles as he would have done if meeting you seventy years ago.

The most adorable heat warmed your cheeks at the gesture and you casted your gaze down; but Steve did catch a glimpse of the earlier spark shining brighter before you hid yourself from him

“I… I believe we have a lot to talk about,” you whispered and he instinctively gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go and shifting a half step closer to you. The corners of his lips unwittingly turned up, something warm building up in his chest as you returned the smile with hesitance.

“Yes, I think we do.”

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Nicolas J. Fury was sitting in his office, waiting for the door to finally open. There was something bugging him – and that something was about 5’7’’ tall, had red hair and was doing whatever it wanted, messing with his business. On top of that, she left him waiting; he had requested her ten minutes ago and she still hadn’t arrived.

He couldn’t help but let his sarcasm show when she came eventually.

“Agent Romanoff. Thank you for coming. Now, care to explain me why did you insist on Rogers getting his driving license renewed in person when we have done it for him already?” he demanded, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk.

The agent just shrugged. “He needs to meet people.”

“Don’t give me this shit, Natasha! What are you not telling me?”

Slow smirk spread Natasha’s lips, perhaps a bit smug, but she didn’t say a word.

“Romanoff-“

“Alright! Jeez, Nick, you have to work on your patience when it comes to Rogers, I swear…” she teased him. However, at least she started talking. “I might have run his… words through the system Stark provided us.”

Realization dawned to Fury. There was only one system she could be talking about. The soulmate matching one. Insert the words of a person and it would search the database for a possible match; everyone’s words were being put into the database at their birth. It made SHIELD’s work easier in case criminals happened to have a soulmate; the connection was so unique it usually offered a weak spot even for the rotten people.

Nicolas Fury raised his eyebrow expectantly, while Natasha just watched him, amused as she had the upper hand. The man rolled his functioning eye and sighed exasperatedly. Why was he keeping her around again? Oh right, she was his best agent.

“Fine. Did you find a match?”

Natasha snorted. “I didn’t even have to look for a match. There aren’t many women with ‘But I really am 95’ written on their skin,” she explained dryly and Fury just wanted to growl, cursing mentally.

How had no one thought about using the database in the first place?! It had cost them a lot of money, okay? They had it for a reason!

“She clean?” he inquired instead or swearing out loud and Natasha scoffed.

“Like a whistle, not even a speed ticket, which is rather ironic. She’s boring, really – she’ll be perfect for him. Can I go now? I have an ass to kick.”

“…Rogers’?”

“Barton’s, actually. Have a good day, Director,” Natasha spun on her heels and headed to the exit gracefully.

“Hey, I want her file!” Fury complained, already knowing he wasn’t going to receive it from her.

“Find it yourself!” she threw over her shoulder cockily, her red hair swirling with the sudden movement of her head.

The director of SHIELD tried to keep his amusement in check, controlled by the irritation, but he lost. The corners of his lips twitched as the door clicked behind his best spy.

Why did he keep her around again?

He started the search for the words Natasha had said, sinking into his chair comfortably.

Alright, no doubt future Mrs. Rogers. Let’s see how boring you really are.

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Part 2 (originally this was only meant a one-shot)

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Tags: @cxptain @mermaidxatxheart @smilexcaptainx

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Thank you for reading!!

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minimitchell · 4 years ago

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callumhighwayweek day 4 - “you’re not jealous, are you?” (ao3 link)

Callum likes working at ‘Roasted’. It’s a nice enough job, the pay is better than with most student jobs around here and he meets lots of interesting people. Granted, a lot of them are kind of snobby and definitely a lot more of the hipster variety than what he’s used to, coming from the East End and all, but it is a fun job.

And it’s not like he’s going to be here forever.

He started working at the coffee shop in his second year of Uni, having seen their job listing for a barista on Instagram of all places. It’s pretty on par for the shop though. The owners, an older, alternative couple he’s only met a handful of times, are living in Bali for the better part of the year and the coffee shop is mostly being managed by their daughter. She’s laid back and funny and a really great boss.

And Callum has learned a lot in the last year and a half he’s been working here. He’d only done bar work in the past, pulling pints and washing dirty glasses, but he genuinely likes being a barista. He feels good whenever he remembers an order from someone who comes in regularly, he likes seeing their faces when they discover some new latte art he practiced and he doesn’t even mind serving teen girls for the sole purpose of them taking a picture with their names on their cups afterwards.

He likes it because he likes making people feel good, even if it’s just with a coffee, and he likes putting a little smile on their faces - and it also doesn’t hurt that he gets free drinks and free cake samples all day long.

“And a wonderful day to my favorite colleague as well.”

Oh yeah, there’s also Ben.

Ben had started two months before Callum even got the job here but by the time Callum had completed his training, Ben was already working like a seasoned pro.

He’s also in his last year at Uni, but he’s in a completely different department than Callum is. He’s a business major, spending most of his time across campus from Callum, who’s studying social work. On paper, they shouldn’t really get along considering their wildly different interests and plans for their future jobs, but they immediately clicked.

At one point during a quiet shift they got talking about their aspirations and Ben had told him he’s planning to take over his dad’s businesses when he’s done with Uni and maybe even expand them further. Callum thinks Ben can easily do that; he’s dead smart.

He’s also devastatingly handsome, as Callum noticed the very first time they met. Ben has these captivating blue eyes and an easy, welcoming smirk on his face at all times. He’s definitely a people person, able to make easy chit chat with just about anyone that comes in. He has this aura of confidence and assurance around him but it doesn’t make him come across as arrogant, not at all.

They spend most of their shifts together talking or teasing one another when they aren’t swamped with work. Ben likes to try almost every cake they’re offering that day, feeding little bites to Callum when he deems it ‘worthy enough for him’ and Callum likes to use Ben as a guinea pig for his latte art, trying out new designs or perfecting his existing one’s.

And when business is slow or when they’re about ready to close up in the evening, they get to talk with one another. What started with them talking about their degrees and course work quickly moved onto deeper and more substantial topics.

Callum talks about being the first person in his family to go to Uni and the pressure he feels on himself because of that. He tells Ben about his desire to make a difference in the world, to help children who come from the same rough parts as himself. Ben on the other hand talks about his family a lot, about the need to prove himself in a big family you otherwise get lost in, about the feeling that he needs to compensate for his dad’s disapproval.

Disapproval stemming from the fact that he’s gay.

Yeah, he told Callum about that as well. It was a small revelation to him and Callum couldn’t help but tell him it’s the same for him. It feels like a new, deeper, level to their friendship.

It’s also the full source of Callum’s misery.

Because before this revelation, Callum could accept that the little infatuation he’s developed for Ben was entirely for nought. He was under no impression that this crush was ever going to be reciprocated because, to be completely honest, Callum had just assumed that Ben’s straight.

But since he knows that this isn’t the case at all, it almost feels like his crush has doubled or tripled in size; like maybe it has grown even more because there’s now this tiny, traitorous voice whispering that there might be a chance for them. Assuming he’d ever actually have the courage to ask Ben out.

He hasn’t so far; every time he even thinks about asking Ben to go out with him he chickens out in the end, afraid that Ben will laugh at him. Or even worse, that he’ll never want to work with him ever again. Because while he does like working here, he likes it even better when he’s working alongside Ben.

“How did your exam go?”

Ben joins him behind the counter, going to wash his hands before he starts taking over for Callum behind the till. He’s wearing a black polo underneath his burgundy apron and his hair is nicely tousled; Callum is itching to run his hands through it.

“Aced it. Hopefully.”

He pulls a face, trying to play it cool even though they both know Ben understands Advanced Marketing better than most people in his course. Callum didn’t expect anything less than an ace from Ben.

“‘Course you did.”

Ben sends him a wink, strolling over to the display counter and observing what they have on offer today. There’s a fresh carrot cake there Callum’s dying to share with Ben later. He steps next to Callum behind the till, logging in with his cashier number once Callum signs off and the way he rests his hand on Callum’s lower back while doing so, makes his heart throb in his chest, hammering all the way up into his throat.

Maybe today is the day he finally has the guts to ask Ben out on a date.

The shop gets busy shortly after Ben gets here and they don’t even really have time to get a breath in-between all the coffee and cake orders they have to prepare. It’s a fairly small shop and only two people are always scheduled to work on weekdays so they’re busy until the midday and after-work rushes are over.

Callum saves the last piece of carrot cake for Ben - even though their manager always yells at them for not giving everything to the paying customers - and Callum is just about to get it from the stock room to surprise Ben with it when this guy leans on the counter in front of the till.

He’s seen him before a couple times - tall caramel latte, Callum thinks. He doesn’t look much older than him and Ben, probably a fellow student, and Callum doesn’t like him for the sole reason that he always flirts with Ben when he comes in, trying to make him laugh or smile bashfully at the ground.

Callum hates even more that it works most of the time.

It’s no different this time. The guy says something that makes Ben laugh, making a show of dropping a five pound note into their tip jar after he’s paid just so Ben can see him do it and leers after him when Ben goes to make the drink for him.

He leaves with a wink in Ben’s direction afterwards and Callum eats the whole piece of carrot cake by himself in the stock room as some weird form of silent protest.

They don’t always work together.

Ben has a lot of afternoon classes and works late or mornings, whereas Callum is almost exclusively at Uni in the mornings and comes into work afterwards. So yeah, sometimes their shifts don’t line up. And then some other times, it’s just bad luck.

Callum tries not to sulk when he hears that Ben called in sick today. He knows it’s probably nothing too bad but they’re advised to stay home at any possible sign of illness regardless, for hygienic reasons and all that.

He likes working with Keegan, who came in for Ben today, as well but he was really looking forward to seeing Ben.

It sounds dramatic but the day drags on and on without Ben here, cracking jokes and making Callum weird drink combinations to try. Callum thinks it can’t get any worse but at close to five a very familiar face walks through the door.

It’s the guy who always flirts with Ben and Callum watches from behind the counter as he scans the area, looking around to see if he can spot Ben presumably. Callum almost feels bad for the devilish glee coursing through him at the knowledge that he won’t be successful today.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

Callum is trying hard to stay composed and give at least the impression that he’s being friendly. The guy gives him a barely-there smile, obviously not very interested in making a good impression on anyone other than Ben.

“I was wondering if Ben is working today?”

“Sorry, I can’t give out that kind of information.”

He tries not to revel in the eye roll the guy gives him but it’s hard not to. Yes, it’s incredibly petty but Callum can’t help it, he’d rather work the morning shift every day for a whole month than see Ben go out with this cocky prick.

The guy heaves a sigh and gives his order - one tall caramel latte just like Callum thought it was - and Callum punches it in for Keegan to prepare. Callum tells the guy his total and waits until he presses his card against the reader, nodding when the transaction goes through.

Callum thinks he’s about to put money in the tip jar but instead, the guy fishes a white business card out of his trouser pocket and slides it across the counter towards Callum.

“Can you give this to Ben? My number is on the back.”

He doesn’t wait for Callum to take it or even agree, moving along the counter to get his drink from Keegan. Callum tries not to openly show his annoyance at the bloke, grabbing the card and stuffing it into the pocket of his apron.

Over the next few hours he forgets all about the little piece of paper still hiding in the fabric of his apron. He’s cleaning the appliances, waiting for Keegan to be done with mopping the floor so they can close up for the day, when he realizes the business card is still in his possession.

He pulls it out of his pocket, looking at the bland text written across it in bold letters. Which student even carries a business card around with them? Even his name is obnoxious - Tristan, ugh. He doesn’t even feel bad when he, completely accidentally of course, lets the card fall, watching it sink to the bottom of the trash bag and getting covered by the old coffee grounds a moment later.

Oops.

Callum forgets all about Tristan and his stupid little business card, mostly because his next two shifts are spend with Ben again. To be completely honest, Callum could probably forget anything else around him exists whenever he’s in a room with Ben; it’s gotten that bad for him.

He’s completely determined to ask Ben out today, spurred on by the all of a sudden very real chance that someone else might get there before he can, and he doesn’t want to risk that. He’s been in love with the guy for close to a year now, he won’t waste another day.

Callum is in the back room, restocking the cups and lids before the evening rush begins when he hears Ben laughing at something behind the counter. He pokes his head through the door to see what’s so funny, but he doesn’t feel like laughing at all when he sees bloody Tristan standing there, arrogantly smiling at Ben.

He’s too busy seething at the fact he probably missed his chance with Ben now, can already see Ben accepting the number and going on dates and probably falling head over heels for this stupid guy, to remember he chucked the guy’s number in the bin. The one, he’s apparently asking about judging by Ben’s confused face and slight head tilt.

The distance between the stock room and the till is too great to make out any coherent words so he doesn’t know what Ben is saying in return, but it’s pretty clear this Tristan guy will throw him under the bus any moment now. God, how is he going to explain this to Ben when he inevitably asks why Callum didn’t forward the guy’s number? This is so not how he wanted this to go today; he could cry at the thought alone.

Ben turns his head to look in his direction and Callum has to duck back into the room in a flash, praying that Ben didn’t see him spying on his conversation just now.

He isn’t exactly proud of hiding in here afterwards, waiting for Tristan to leave and just staring at the different sized lids and brown paper cups with their logo emblazoned on the side. It’s definitely the most cowardly thing to do but Callum honestly feels like crying right now. He can’t bear to hear the guy he’s so stupidly in love with talk about going out with someone else; he just can’t do it.

It hurts knowing he’s never going to get the chance to make Ben see how perfect they could be for each other. Because he just knows he could make him so, so happy; Callum’s sure of that. He feels it deep in his chest, right where his heart is slowly twisting and turning.

“So, uh, you got something you wanna give me?”

The sudden shock at hearing Ben’s voice right behind him makes Callum flail his arms around, knocking over a whole stack of lids and sending them cluttering to the ground right in front of Ben’s shoes. He doesn’t really know what to say, whether he should admit he’s thrown the number away in a fit of pure jealousy or not, and the conflict must show on his face because Ben immediately takes pity on him.

“I told him we hadn’t seen each other since then so you didn’t have the chance to give it to me.”

“Thanks.”

The ground seems much more interesting to him than Ben’s expectant face right now and he’s scuffing his shoe along one of the many stains littering the light grey linoleum. Ben tries to catch his eyes, leaning down to enter Callum’s eyesight.

“Are you gonna tell me why you didn’t?”

Callum remains silent, only giving Ben a slight shrug in response to his question. Ben waits him out though, leaning against the doorframe until Callum finally sighs and meets Ben’s eyes. Time to get it out, he reckons.

He’s about to confess, to lay his feelings bare, when Ben preempts him.

“You’re not jealous, are you?”

His voice is light and joking but there’s an undertone to it. Something that sounds almost daring and hopeful; like the prospect of Callum being jealous of someone wanting to ask him out doesn’t annoy Ben but that he’s actually maybe hoping it’s true.

The thought makes Callum pause, taking in the slight smile on Ben’s face and the bright sparkle in his eyes. It makes him brave enough to finally admit his feelings, to finally take that plunge into the unknown, uncertain.

“I was working up the courage to ask you out for weeks now, months even.”

Ben’s smile stretches out across his face, transforming his face into something even more beautiful than normal. He takes a step towards Callum, tangling his hands around the straps of Callum’s apron, pulling him further into his own body.

“So ask me.”

Ben is smiling up at him, his fingers running up and down the skin underneath the straps and he feels the touch burn through his shirt. He looks loved up for lack of a better term and Callum has the brief thought that they could’ve spent so much time being with each other already, but it doesn’t really matter now. They got there anyway.

“Will you go on a date with me?”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

Ben pulls him down against him, sealing their lips together in a careful kiss. It’s the most perfect thing Callum’s ever tasted, ever felt in his entire life. His hands settle on both sides of Ben’s face, guiding him back onto his lips again and again and again. Until their lips are red and puffy and customers are yelling to be served.

They get fired two weeks later for spending a little too much time in the stock room.

It’s worth it.

#chweek2021 #callumhighwayweek2021 #ballum fic #my writing #yes i watched too much love victor and wrote a coffee shop au sue me

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aquarianlights · 4 years ago

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I am in a serious financial bind. 😥 If anyone is in a position to listen & help or signal boost, pls keep reading...

This is from my apartment complex. I am in low-income housing. I called them & sent them proof I could pay on the 23rd. I told them I could (just barely) put 100 down now & they said that was too little.

They said they would file for eviction on the 16th, which adds $150 to my rent. They will cancel the court date and eviction on the 23rd when I pay.

But that doesn't cancel the $150 filing fee.

Idk where that $150 would come from. Idky they think it's fair that someone who cannot pay should be forced to pay even more??? That makes no sense. I can only just barely afford my rent every month as is.

These are from my energy company. I apparently owe them over $600. I genuinely do not know how this happened. We were on the phone for a very long time trying to figure it out & I was in tears for the latter portion of it because I swear I paid.

I usually keep record of my payments via taking a picture of my receipt since they are electronic, but my dog chewed up my phone (which I have pics of if need be for evidence) and broke it, so I had to get a replacement phone sent to me from the insurance company & nothing transferred from the old phone, so all my pics were wiped.

I found no record in my emails, either.

The meds I am taking to try to go into remission and the autoimmune disease itself both cause brain fog and issues with time warping, so it is possible maybe I skipped a month or something, but I highly doubt I would have skipped up to 600+ dollars worth of payments.

I have tons of electronic and hard copy calendars & they are all synced and constantly updated so that I know when payments are due. I also have text and email reminders sent to me, but I could find no reminders in my email for MONTHS now until they were telling me they were going to shut my power off if I didn't pay this. Idk why I was not sent reminders for months???

In the end, I agreed to set up a payment plan. Paying, like... 50-60ish on top of whatever my electric bill is every month for 12 months. It was the lowest they could go.

I can barely afford my electric bill as it is, so idk how I will be able to do this? They did give me a list of charities in my area so I will be using what little energy I have to call around & see if any of them would be willing to help me pay this. Idk how those work (they're mostly churches???), so I'm just gonna try & see what happens. 🤔

On top of all that, I *think* this is telling me my Medicaid has been cancelled but I'm not 100% sure?????

I'm going through treatment for a very serious, disabling problem that should last ~1 year and rn Medicaid is picking up what my Medicare doesn't cover and some of my doctors/specialists and treatments are medicaid only.

If I lose this, I'm basically done.

I know they'll do backpay if I get it back, but Idk if I *will* get it back. I'll be trying to get it back, but in the meantime, I guess I'll just have to pay out of pocket, idk??? Which I do not have.

I have lost almost ALL autonomy due to this autoimmune disease, which (in a very simplified form) is basically my immune cells "eating" my muscle tissue. I can barely get out of bed. Treatment should put me in remission & give me my life back. I am seeing a rheumatologist, neurologist, dermatologist, PCP, physical therapist, psychiatrist, psychologist, and going to a holistic pain treatment center that does a different kind of physical therapy to bring down pain levels (which I was put into that program by my rheum). All of these are in relation to & necessary for my disease. I am going through TONS of testing almost weekly now & trying out treatments like IVIG and chemo where I am in the hospital hooked up to an IV for 4-6+ hrs of that day and the cost of those things without Medicaid picking up what Medicare doesn't cover is astronomical. I have to sign waivers every time I get my blood drawn (which is almost weekly now), do tests, and do treatments saying I will pay if Medicaid does not pick up the extra.

I already have crippling medical debt; I don't need more. I'm scared they won't let me do any more tests or treatments if they see I am just letting it all go to collections & am not paying.

This could mean the difference between having a life worth living (to me) where I am happy & thriving & autonomous or being bed-bound & living a life of just existing from day to day & miserable & in pain & suffering & unable to do anything for myself. This is literally life and death for me because I wouldn't be able to handle continuing to live in the latter scenario. I cannot handle living like I am now. Knowing my treatments are progressing is what keeps me going. Knowing I can go into remission is what keeps me going. Knowing my future is one completely different from now is what keeps me going. But if I cannot have that and am destined to live in this current state, it's just not worth it. I don't know a person alive who would want to live like this.

Finally, my anger noodle needs to get to the vet for MULTIPLE things. Nothing is, like... life threatening or super immediate like his cancer was last year, but they're things that need to be addressed in terms of preventative care & to make sure he isn't in pain.

He needs his trachea checked, possibly x-rays for that, maybe more...

He needs some medication updates, needs a physical, needs a full groom & nail clip under anesthesia (for those who are not familiar with Echo, he has extreme fear-based aggression & usually gets this done under anesthesia; since I worked with him so much, he had his first non-anesthesia nail clip at the beginning of quarantine, but he has gotten worse during quarantine & with my muscle eating disease, I can no longer restrain him & don't have the physical strength to run a brush through his thicker fur as his winter coat is in, so I can no longer groom certain areas of him at home, so his tummy & back legs are matted & I fear he may need to be shaved... which breaks my heart since you don't shave double coat dogs unless medically necessary.), he needs a full physical, & needs to be checked over for MCT's.

He may also need a fecal test or something else, as he has been having odd bowel movements. 😥 His tummy has been upset lately.

I have been crying myself to sleep every single night & often during the day because I cannot get him to the vet. No, it isn't urgent or life threatening. But he is reverse sneezing more than normal & I worry about tracheal collapse, which is a common small dog thing & even MORE common in pomeranians specifically. Every time he has a fit, I think "Oh god, this is it. This is the time I'm gonna have to rush him to the e-vet & get slammed with a huge bill & he is not gonna be okay..."

It breaks my heart to see his legs & belly matted. He is horrible about letting me groom him coz of his aggression so he only gets a full grooms at the vet, but I do short grooming sessions at home with him nightly. Takes about 2 hours just to do the majority of one side of him (not even all of it; just most) coz he needs breaks & lots of praise every few strokes or he will tear me to shreds & hurt himself snapping on the undercoat rake. 😥

But now that my autoimmune disease has atrophied my muscles to the point holding up my phone without something to prop it up feels like I am lifting weights & tires my arms out with a lactic acid burn & pain, I can no longer groom him with the patience he needs & can only groom in 20 minute intervals at the VERY longest. By the time I have gotten one leg done during the week, his entire other side is matted. 😞 Matting on dogs---especially double coat dogs---hurts them. It's like if someone were to wrap your hair around their fingers & then pull it taut. It's a constant pulling pressure on their skin... it's painful & irritates the epidermis. I feel miserable feeling the matting on his back legs & tummy & now feeling the mats beginning to form on the rest of him. He hates me working them out, even with the detangling spray. I know it must hurt so much...

So he may need to be shaved at this point & that will destroy me. I feel sick thinking about it. But anything to get him out of pain. Maybe it is what's best for him while I go through this year of treatment & get my muscles back. But in order to do that, I need to get him to the vet.

The stress of not being able to get him to a vet is tearing me apart & literally making me physically ill.

He is my world. My everything. My #1. My heart dog. My priority in life. My entire universe revolves around him. I would do anything for him. Not a single person, animal, thing, etc, comes before him. It is KILLING me that I cannot provide proper care for him right now. I always always always make sure to sacrifice for him if need be & his things ALWAYS come first, even if it means I'm not eating or not paying bills or whatever. As long as he is taken care of & his needs & wants are met, nothing else matters to me. And right now........ I feel he is suffering because of my finances & the fact my treatment with building my muscles up is not going fast enough.

I cannot control the latter one, but the first one is something I can at least ask for help for. So that is what I am doing.

If anyone is in a place to help, these are my venmo & cashapp codes. I also have paypal.

💙 Venmo: @kqroswell

💚 Cashapp: $kqroswell

💜 Paypal: @kqroswell or [email protected]

If there is another form of payment you're thinking of, lemme know. I also have fb pay activated if you have me on FB (Killian Q Roswell).

Thank you to everyone who read through this & anyone who can help or reblog this. 💖

Sincerely,

Your v scared, struggling transman who really wants his bills/rent paid & his dog to go to the vet,

Killian 💞

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secondpubertyscene · 3 years ago

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8.14.21

This year has been one of major change. In Octavia Butler’s Parable of the Sower, there’s this quote, “God is Change. Beware: God exists to shape and be shaped,” and I think for the first time since reading it, I get what was being said. While I subscribe to the idea that there is a higher power of some kind, I also believe that we (as in, us as individuals) have great power as well. That power lies in our ability to change, to grow, to persevere. This year has been one of major change, and we really have to talk about it.

It is easy to look at this last year and think, “Well, that fucking sucked” because frankly, it did indeed fucking suck. I could write you a list of things that brought me great pain this year, unbelievable, undeniable, unrelenting pain that still lingers now. But, see, the beauty of it all is that none of that pain happens in a vacuum. Along with the pain, I’ve come through it all with more wisdom, more compassion, more empathy, more gratitude, more peace, more love, and more confidence. I’d like to share how those things all are connected, but first I would like to acknowledge something.

While I don’t know for sure if this is just an American thing, it does seem very clear that Americans aren’t fantastic at processing grief, death, and pain collectively. We often are encouraged to suck it up, to shut up about it, to not make others uncomfortable with our tears and trauma. I believe this is in large part due to the fact that American Exceptionalism doesn’t quite allow us to acknowledge when our systems have failed us or when we are suffering in the “greatest country in the world.” I don’t intend on participating in that toxic positivity or to dismiss the seriousness of the year past. I simply intend on acknowledging the nuances of my experiences, the complexity of it all. Now, let’s begin.

Without recounting every moment in large detail (in part because that would be far too much and also because I don’t need to relieve my traumas today), the events of the last year have been as follows: 1) COVID hit, 2) I had a severe emotional breakdown that resulted in a short stay at the hospital, 3) my grandma passed away, 4) I broke up with my partner of a year, 5) I was officially diagnosed with adult ADHD (inattentive), 6) I got into a PhD program for sociology (fully-funded), and 7) I moved to Ohio (two weeks ago now). So much happened in what feels like a blink of an eye. When you’re a kid, you think a year lasts forever. Now, a year feels like a couple months!

Anyhow, all of these things had super intense negative impacts on my life and most of them had super intense positive impacts on my life. Let’s talk about how. I won’t say that COVID had any “positive” impact on my life, because it’s still currently making things difficult and it is still destroying lives (full worlds) every day. The emotional breakdown that I experienced shortly after COVID began, however, was the impetus for some of the greatest change I would ever make in my life. It began with new therapy, medication for the first time ever to treat my mental illnesses, and a new relationship with boundaries.

Out of this breakdown, I came to realize a few things. 1) I wasn’t really feeling most of my life up until that point. That isn’t to say that I didn’t feel at all or that I wasn’t aware of my feelings all the time, but to say that most of the time, I numbed everything out that was too hard to bear. I didn’t cry, I didn’t write, I didn’t even take the time to try to identify exactly what emotions I did feel. I just lived through it and waited until I felt better. Or, I would breakdown with rage and then feel better. Therapy, especially the group therapy I participated in for a couple weeks after leaving the hospital, changed that in huge ways for me.

Because I was able to sit in my pain, in my discomfort, I was able to actually work through some of my issues. I began to identify the areas in my life that made me genuinely unhappy and began to grant myself permission to feel disappointment. I granted myself the permission to expect more, to want more. I granted myself the permission to set boundaries without guilt or shame. I granted myself freedom. It is an ongoing journey of mistakes and back-peddling and trying again, but it is mine and I am proud of it. Had I not had that breakdown, I don’t know that I would be where I am now.

My grandma dying is one of the most painful things I’ve experienced and honestly, I haven’t dealt with it all the way yet. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her in person, I still am battling the feelings of guilt despite knowing that there likely was nothing I could have done, and my chest still feels heavy thinking about her. Even as I write this, I feel that pain. I know she is not truly gone and that she lives within me, but oh, I do miss her physical presence. The nagging, the phone calls, the hugs, the cooking, her soft hair and beautiful hands. I miss her. Because of her, though, I have been able to rehabilitate another relationship in my life. The relationship I share with my mother.

My mother is a lot of things, but for whatever reason I continually forgot that she too is a victim of hardship brought on by nothing but sheer luck. In this last year, she lost her mother, the man that she loved, multiple cousins, friends that went back to childhood, and who knows who else. She suffered a lot this year and she has suffered a lot over the course of her 61 years of life overall. For the first time, I have been able to really acknowledge her as a full being with a complex history and understand her as a person, rather than just as a parent. I’ve set new boundaries with her as a result, boundaries that have completely change the dynamic of our relationship and will continue to do so as we both learn more about each other. Gone are the days where she relies solely on me for emotional support or financial support. Gone are the days where she feels comfortable talking down to me and then expecting any kind of favors from me. She understands and respects that I am an adult, that I am independent, and that I can terminate our relationship should it get to a point where I feel unsafe again. While this might sound like a threat or even negative, it is in fact quite the contrary.

We now share the belief that I deserve better from her and that my continued relationship with her is founded upon our mutual growth. That’s a beautiful thing that arose from us being pulled together by the loss of someone we both loved more than we maybe even loved ourselves. Thankfully, though, I have come to love myself more than anyone else on this planet. This newfound self-love and respect resulted in the severing of my relationship with my partner.

I won’t pretend like my ex was this horrible person because she wasn’t. She was kind, loving, intelligent, hilarious, unique, complex, and so many other amazing things. I still love her with all of my heart and have thought about her every single day since we broke up. It is not for lack of love that our relationship came to a close. The issue was that I needed more than what she could give. I needed someone who could really sit in my shit with me without invalidating my feelings jokingly because they didn’t know what else to say. I needed someone who could make me feel safe and secure, not fearful and insecure. I needed someone who understood boundaries as openings for futures, not closed doors. I needed someone who could show up for me the way I showed up for them, even when they hurt me, even when they lied out of fear. She wasn’t able to do that. She wasn’t able to stick beside me during the worst days of my life. She wasn’t able to see me beyond our relationship. When my grandma passed and our relationship was on the rocks, she made it about us. She didn’t stop pestering me about our relationship for long enough to give me support on losing someone who meant the world to me. I couldn’t trust her after that and I also realized, I wasn’t required to.

Boundaries in that relationship weren’t healthy. I felt unseen, unprotected, and sometimes even unloved. While I am sure that she has grown even more since we have parted, the reality is that when I ended things, I knew that doing so was the most fair thing I could do for the both of us. This is because I deserve someone who sees my value inherently. I deserve someone who takes the time to understand me, to love me, to see me. Not just see me and them together, but me as an individual separate from them. More importantly, I needed to be able to ask for those things without feeling guilty or bad. As of now, I still don’t know that she sees me as me, as a singular person, and maybe she never will. That is okay. I still love her anyway. I just love me more now. As a part of that love I’ve grown for myself, I also now have sought out more help for myself. This seeking of resources led me to realizing that I was ADHD and helped me change my life.

Being diagnosed with ADHD at 21 felt absolutely ridiculous. How could I be ADHD when I can sit still most of the time and have a pretty decent amount of impulse control? The answers came from my psychiatrist, breaking down the stereotypical understanding of ADHD and allowing me to find myself within the diagnosis. Finding the right combination of medication has been difficult, but what hasn’t been hard at all is finding more resources that help me manage my symptoms. It’s because of some of these resources that I am able to sit here and write this.

A huge part of ADHD is this perfectionist mentality that makes it nearly impossible to start or complete some tasks. Every time I sat down to write in the past, I told myself that I absolutely had to write every single day, once a day, or I should just not do it. When it came to this blog especially, I had so much shame when I failed to post for a long time or had a lull, that I would either consider deleting the whole thing to start over, or just never posting again. I realize now that those were just cop outs for my brain, that I can write as little or as much as I want because it is for ME. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it doesn’t have to be anything but what I need it to be. Waiting for perfection would have me waiting forever because it’s simply not how my brain works. Accepting that is a large part of how I got into my PhD program.

I’m not going to lie. I am still trying to figure out all of the feelings I have regarding this PhD program. I am shocked that I got in, shocked that I got full-funding, shocked that I am now in Ohio, shocked that I am in my own apartment, and overall shocked that I’ve made it this far in general. While I do not believe that I am stupid or not capable of greatness, I am realizing that I’ve always seen myself pursuing something more straightforward. When I was younger, I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted to do even as those things changed. I knew what was required of me, I knew what I would ultimately do, and I took refuge in that. Doctors go to medical school. Chefs go to culinary school. Forensic anthropologists get masters degrees and do field work. It felt clear cut, straightforward, safe. This is uncharted territory. What do you do post PhD? What do you do DURING PhD years? I suppose I’ll just have to find out!

Anyhow, this year has been intense. Change is always present in our lives and sometimes it brings with gifts that we can only receive when we’re healed enough to take them. I’m hoping to keep healing, keep growing, keep loving, and keep going. I’m learning so much about myself and about the world. I’m loving myself more than I have in the past. I am incredibly proud of where I am. And I’m not done yet.

#personal blog #vent blog #black ftm #black transman #black tpoc #black mental health #personal writing blog #sociology #sociology phd program #covid #grief

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jamielea81 · 5 years ago

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When We Were Young

Chapter 1

Description: Leaving the only home your daughter had ever known wasn’t part of the grand plan. But then again, sometimes taking chances can change your whole life. And you should know that, you’ve been doing that since the start.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: Slight angst, maybe a curse word or two.

Word Count: 2,271

A/N: Super nervous about this one. As always, this is strictly for fun as I know nothing about the personal life of Chris Evans. This series takes place in 2018.

*Italics are internal thoughts*

This is it. This…is…it. Okay, deep breath. Plaster on that smile.

“We’re almost there,” you sing-songed.

“Mom…” your daughter Ellie groaned.

Turning your head to the side, your co-pilot was currently nose deep in a book.

Better than her phone.

She’s a great kid and you really couldn’t complain. At fifteen you were pulling away from your parents as were most of your friends. It had been the two of you for so long that you were closer than ever. She didn’t keep secrets from you and you didn’t keep any from her. That had been your deal for years.

“I’m hoping we beat the moving truck there. Would hate to pay them to sit around,” you said eyeing the clock on the dash.

“It’s a moving truck and you don’t exactly have a light foot,” she replied, tucking in a bookmark and setting her book on her lap.

“What are you implying Ellington?” Smirk ever-present in your voice.

“It’s just that you tend to speed mother dear. When we were on the open roads in North Carolina that was one thing, but I don’t think you’ll get away with that in Boston.”

“Just wait until you start driving. You’re going to be worse than me!” you laughed. “But your probably right.”

“Don’t forget to sign me up for classes. You promised after the move you’d enroll me.”

“I know and I will. Let’s just get the school tour and the first few days of classes settled first. One step at a time,” you replied, giving her a soft smile.

Where did the time go?

“And are you ready?” she questioned.

“Ready for what?” you asked, small frown appearing on your lips.

“You’re new job. The new house. It’s an entirely different part of the country. It’s a lot,” Ellie sighed out. “Even I know that and I’m the one that wanted this change.” She placed her hand over your right hand that held the steering wheel.

“I’m ready.” You nodded your head because you really were. “This is for you, baby. But a little part of this is for me too. Change is good,” you said shrugging your shoulders. “That’s what they say right?” You gave her a questioning look which she chuckled at.

“Absolutely, mom,” Ellie agreed.

Despite your concern, the two of you made it to the townhome before the movers. The car was unloaded and food ordered before they even pulled up.

All of your furniture had survived the move, but now that you had it in the house, the beach vibe really wasn’t matching with the old brick row home. If your savings weren’t mostly depleted, you’d consider purchasing a new living room and dining room set. Only one box of miscellaneous knickknacks was damaged beyond repair from the move up the coast. According to your daughter, it was just an excuse to go shopping.

Ellie was tucked away in her new room organizing her clothes, promising she’d actually go to sleep in the next thirty minutes. It was a big day for her and you as she would tour her new school. The school specializing in engineering was the reason you were here. While Ellie didn’t inherit the social awkwardness you experienced in junior high and most of high school, she was also incredible smart. How your beautiful daughter turned out so well rounded only being raised by you was a bit of a mystery, but you thanked your lucky stars every night.

When Ellie came to you ten months ago with a glittery pink folder filled with the school’s brochure, a list of courses she planned to take, a breakdown of tuition cost, nearby neighborhoods, and a recommendation for one of her teachers, you knew she was serious. She had been talking about Harvard since she was nine years old when her school had a special speaker that had mentioned graduating from the esteemed university. She reminded you that when she did start her college career there, because she knew she’d get in, it would be a lot easier on you if you lived locally. Sometimes she was too smart for her own good.

Reaching out to a of couple old NYU classmate who lived in Boston was the easy part. Getting your small two-bedroom bungalow solid was the tough part. The house sat on the market for two months without so much as a nibble. The two of you got to work painting every room, replacing light fixtures, baseboards, and outlets. It paid off in the end as your house was in escrow a month later.

While you liked having a detached home, it wasn’t in the budget in Boston or in any of the surrounding suburbs. Your old classmate Hillary, who was happy to reconnect really steered you toward a row home. After searching Google for months, you found a rental in the town of Belmont that was conveniently located near Ellie’s high school. And just like that, you were saying goodbye to the only town she had ever known.

Wine. You needed wine if you were going to stop worrying and get some sleep yourself. If only you could find a wine glass. Digging through the one of three boxes labeled “dishes”, you gave up your search when you came up empty after the first box.

“A coffee cup will do.”

Filling the mug three quarters of the way full, you headed back to the couch, resting your feet up on the cushions and thought about how your lives were going to change. Ellie was excited for a new city and school, but you were sure she also held onto some anxiety on the inside as she tended to do.

When you were three months pregnant, you moved to Wilmington North Carolina with your college classmate Peter who was nice enough to offer you a place to stay. You certainly couldn’t go home to Kentucky. Not when you were pregnant and single. Not that you wanted to anyway. Wilmington is where you built your life for the last sixteen years and you missed it already.

You grew up in a very structured home. Middle child to wealthy parents who weren’t shy about how much they had. They had goals for you and for the most part, you obeyed. Piano lessons, cello lessons, dance, although, that one ended shortly after you started. Private schools, tutors, math camp, really anything that would help you succeed. You did well in school because you worked hard. Not that you had a choice really. College and then back home to work for your father’s company. No doubt they had a short list of potential husbands handpicked for you by your sixteenth birthday. You’d be engaged by twenty four, married, by twenty five, first child by twenty seven. It wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted to plan out the rest of your life, not have it planned out for you. Having a child on your own terms was very much a part of your plans.

Leaving work early after only two weeks at Hayward Financial was not on your calendar for the day. Two appointments with new clients had to be canceled with new ones set up for the following week. Receiving a call from Middlebury Engineering Academy that your daughter missed third and fourth period was most certainly not a call you expected to get. She loved school. Always had perfect attendance except for that one year where she got very sick with the flu and had to miss three days. Missing class was more painful to Ellie than the illness itself. Maybe you missed something. Maybe she wasn’t as happy as she seemed. She already had a small group of friends but maybe they weren’t good kids. You slammed your hands on the steering wheel.

“Where are you Ellington Rae?”

You had already called her cellphone three times and texted her twice as much but she wasn’t responding. Home was your first stop but she wasn’t there. The coffee shop was next. It was a favorite for the two of you, stopping there at least four days a week. Unfortunately, they hadn’t seen her. The pizza place, sandwich shop, frozen yogurt kiosk, library, that clothing boutique she had been begging you to take her to since her friend Carmen had mentioned it, all turned up empty. On the verge of tears, you pulled back into your driveway for the second time that day and called your best friend who not only felt a thousand miles away but actually was a thousand miles away in Wilmington. This was the hard part about moving somewhere new. You hadn’t met the neighbors, hadn’t introduced yourself to the parents of Ellie’s friends, barely knew her teachers. You had never felt more alone than you did at that moment.

“Gwen…” you said, voice barely holding on.

“What’s wrong? Shit. Give me a second, I’m going to step outside,” she said.

You got out of the car, walking up the stairs with the phone attached to your ear and your bag in your other hand. You pushed your shoulder up to hold the phone in place while you dug for the keys.

“Okay, tell me what’s going on.

“It was a mistake coming here,” you sobbed, dropping the keys on the kitchen island. “I miss Wilmington.”

“Oh babe. You love it there. You already told me you do,” she sighed.

“Not anymore. We’re coming home. I just need, um I just need to get out of my lease. We can stay with you right?”

“Always. But that’s not going to happen. Now tell me what’s bringing this panic on.”

“I can do this. Just act like you know what you’re doing,” Ellie said to herself, taking a big breath, straightening her shoulders, and walking out the door.

Leaving campus after second period was a lot easier than she thought it would be. Between the hustle and bustle of the hallway, watching the exits apparently wasn’t a thing teachers did. She walked three blocks from campus and ordered an Uber. The app was already on her phone from when her mom’s car got a flat and they decided to get lunch rather than sit around the repair shop. Her mom would be mad at her, but this was worth it and she would apologize for it later.

Her driver dropped her off in front of the booming convention center. She’d always wanted to go to one of these things, just never figured she’d be ditching school to do it. The building was massive with an impressive architectural roof. The engineer in her was beaming, but she wasn’t here for that. No, she was on a schedule. This was her one chance and she wasn’t going to blow it standing outside. Walking past the dozen or so smokers, she made her way inside the convention center, making a stop at the registration table to grab her credentials. While most attendees lined up early to be let in as soon as the doors were open, Ellie was not the average attendee.

Checking her phone for the time, she saw the dozen or so missed calls and texts. She was going to be in so much trouble when she got home and she honestly hated herself for making her mom worry. Ellie had an hour before she could line up for the one photograph she purchased months ago. Deciding to kill time in the vendor room seemed like the best option. Maybe she could buy something for you to make up for giving you wrinkles at an early age.

After browsing for some time, Ellie settled on two matching beaded bracelets in your favorite color for each of you. Maybe when you finally forgave her, you’d wear them and go to brunch like the two of you enjoyed doing back in Wilmington.

Combing her fingers through her hair for the fourth time, Ellie leaned to the side to check the length of the line once more. There were maybe twenty to twenty five people ahead of her, so she knew it would go fast. But if she had to hear how hot Chris Evans was one more time, she was going to scream. Ellie had rehearsed what she was going to say a million times in her head, but she wasn’t sure if she’d be able verbalize the words. An opportunity like this wouldn’t happen again, at least not one this easily.

She was led into a room with two other girls not much older than herself. They were here together and couldn’t stop giggling. Chris said hello and both said hello in unison causing Ellie to sigh.

“How do you want to pose for the photo?” Chris asked.

“Could we both hug you?” one of the girls asked.

“Yeah, that would be okay,” Chris replied, giving them each a smile which only caused them to giggle more and Ellie to roll her eyes.

After the girls said goodbye, two more people were ushered in the room behind Ellie. The assistant urged her forward to a smiling Chris.

“Hi sweetheart. How would you like to pose for our photo?” Ellie gulped in reply. “Don’t be nervous. How about I just give you a side hug?”

Ellie nodded her head as Chris wrapped his arm around her waist. She turned her head to face him, seeing that he wasn’t looking at her, but at the camera.

“You’re my dad,” she exclaimed.

Chris whipped his head to the side to face her. “What?” he whispered.

“You’re my father.”

Chapter 2

Tag List: @tanelle83 @pinknerdpanda @allaboutthebooz @estillion14 @panicfob @patzammit @heartislubbingdubbing @collinsstanharbour @twittytelly @linki-locks11 @ab-baybay @rda1989 @impalaimages @jesseswartzwelder @rainbowkisses31 @xostephanie @smoothdogsgirl @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk @xxloki81xx @thenormreedus @firstangeldragonranch @soitmightgetweird @maeleeme @denisemarieangelina @rvgrsbrns @icanfeelastormbrewing @velvetwonderbucky @kitkat1690 @smilexcaptainx @suppu97 @dangerouslovefanfic @dwights-new-plague @kelbabyblue @sweetlittlegingy @chrisevansforever @evansxxx @twittytelly @southerngracela @bitterstar88 @squirrelnotsam @kitkatd7 @lakamaa12 @dontbetooobvious @straightforwardly @mariswritingforfun @imaginesofdreams @anat2507 @captnstarryeyed @chrisevansfanfic @capstopavenger

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans x single mother reader #chris evans x you #chris evans reader insert #chris evans fan fic #chris evans fanfic #chris evans imagine #chris evans fanfiction

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spilled-some-blood · 4 years ago

Note

Can I get some Mark Hoffman? Just whatever comes to mind

Sorry this took me so long to answer, I have been feeling really ill lately

Summary: Mark has been near distraught since the result of Angelina’s murder, obsessed with that finding her killer, making her killer sufffer. After months of hostility between him, it all came to a head. And you couldn't let it end this way.

<><><><><>

Mark had been near distraught since the murder of his little sister Angelina. You never quite understood his obsession with getting revenge, to bring Angelina’s killer to justice, so badly. It was one of the only things he had talked about with any form of passion, his beliefs and opinions pushed to the side to allow for him to adopt a more placid demeanour, to keep quiet, smile and nod when asked anything. Talk less. Don’t let people know what you’re against or what you’re for. It was a phrase he’d uttered almost enough to be considered a personal prayer. One you’d heard enough to grow to despise. But never in relation to Angelina, where everything seemed to matter, for Mark to finally get a good rest. He had kill her killer, to bring Angelina to a full rest, and it was the only thing he’d worked so vigorously on for years and years. Losing that chance, you feared, was sending him to the brink of insanity.

Maybe if Seth had served a life sentence and not have been released… Maybe then he would have been less brash. After all, there was no denying that, even if the water had been boiling over for years now, for as long as you’d known Mark and loved him, he would never let go.

Since that day, one filled with furious writing from your long-term partner, Mark Hoffman trying to find this Seth person. You knew other people at the station worked like they were running out of time, but never had you seen your lover in such haste. Maybe if he hadn’t been as hasty, things would have turned out favourably, but alas…

This went on for months, sometimes simmering off, you hoping and praying that it would mark the end of the feud, but no, something else would reignite the fight, another insult from Strahm, an ill-spoken word from anyone at the station, hell, a glance the wrong way could spell an email long enough to lay, full length, down the stairs. Mark had managed to write an entire, itemised list of years of disagreements that he had had with Strahm, and that, while ridiculous, had been one of the more amusing letters to read.

But things seemed to come to a head not long after, despite this heated feud continuing on for far longer than it should ever have had to. The day had been quiet, for the most part, you brushing the knots from the hair of your daughter, Isabella, when Mark knocked on the door, peering into the room you both sat in. He looked exhausted, eyes dulled from lack of sleep, stress lines etched into his face, under his eyes, across his forehead, between his eyebrows that he furrowed far too often. But despite it being late into the evening, he was fully clothed, dressed immaculately.

“Is something the matter, my love?” You questioned, standing and leaving the hairbrush with your daughter as your hands gravitated toward Mark’s, squeezing them gently as he glanced to the ground.

“I’m heading out to meet Tapp, I hope to be home later in the evening.” He said, pulling you closer only slightly, eyes that seemed dull now filled with emotion, something just beyond your grasp, that wasn’t quite palpable enough to comprehend. Love? Fear? Relief? All of these at once? It was beyond you, but you wished to know.

Him meeting his friend and partner, David Tapp on such late notice seemed odd in itself, suspicion overtaking you, “Is something wrong?” You repeated, trying to identify the emotions hidden behind that stupid mask, that stupid fake smile and fake charm.

He shook his head, lying through his teeth, “Everything’s fine, I’ll be home by ten at the latest.” He assured, pressing his lips to yours in a chaste kiss, “I love you,” were the last words he uttered before marching away toward the front door, his pistol on his belt.

It took only a moment for things to connect in your mind. David Tapp was on vacation, the pistol, the time, the utterance of love matched with such emotion behind his eyes. Your love was about to do something that you knew wasn’t going to end well, and you weren’t sure if he’d be coming back alive.

You found yourself dashing back into the room almost without realising, sternly commanding your daughter to remain put as you sprinted upstairs to find clothes that weren’t mere bed wear, something socially acceptable to wear outside of your home, to chase down your lover in. But, you didn’t even get the chance to begin a rushed search before a piece of paper on your shared bed caught your attention, rolled neatly with a ribbon tied around to keep it secure. Fear pumping in your chest, you snatched it up, sliding the ribbon off the the paper without undoing the ornate bow, eyes scanning quickly over every word as you unrolled the parchment, messy blotches of ink showing just how rushed Mark had been while writing this. And your suspicions were confirmed with every line, admissions of love, of desire to elope, to say much more than he could manage in a short goodbye. You had to stave off tears as you remembered the situation at hand, scanning for a location, anything to go off, to end this stupidity before it started.

Finally you found it, a subtle joke at the more flimsy laws. Were you going to be too late?

Disregarding whatever fears you’d had over ridicule based on your attire, you rushed back downstairs, letter still clutched tightly in your grasp as you slammed the door open and ran across the streets, frantically trying to remember where the nearest dock would be. It wasn’t often you would have to find it, but god forbid you having to run in the freezing rain just to stop your idiot lover from becoming a dead idiot.

Why would Mark agree to anything as brash as this? You knew him, he did not condone violence such as this, at least you didn’t think so. He openly discouraged petty stuff such as this, but now-

You pushed aside your worries and confusement as a large building came into view with your lover’s car outside it barely visible under the mere sliver of moon shining in the sky, an eerie white outline the best you could make out.

You couldn’t let this happen. You weren’t about to lose him over a criminal that got released too early.

Without a second thought, you were running across the road, car horns blaring as the rain fell hard down on you.

You were gonna run out of time.

Your lungs screamed at you to stop and take a break but you couldn’t as you stumbled up the stairs to the building, slipping on how wet the stairs were. You watched the blood pour from the wounds on your knees but you ignored the pain and kept pushing yourself as you tried to open the door but it was locked.

Pulling the hairpin out of your hair, you started to pick the lock, a trick you had learned from Mark and finally opened the door running down the maze of halls.

The screams were echoing in your mind, it was a man’s screams, hopefully not Mark’s. You pulled open door after door that went past you, hearing the screams stop and your heart practically stopped and you ran faster, you had to be quick.

You came across a door that you tried to open but it was closed, the only way to look in was a little hole in the window.

“Seth...” Was all you could mutter, your hand over your mouth as you looked at his organs that were on the wall and a giant blade that had cut him in half, “he did it... He actually did it...”

Your lover, the one with whom you had raised a child, who kept to himself but held so much love and care in his heart. The man who brought you happiness, provided a family, a daughter more beautiful than anything you could bother attempting to imagine, was a killer now.

The tears that had fallen whilst running returned more freely, broken sobs alerting someone to your presence. You didn’t care, shaking and gasping, trying to remember how to breathe, how to calm yourself, but nothing was working. Your exhaustion was catching up to you, making you weak as you tumbled back down onto the ground, your soaked body, wailing as hands held you, arms wrapped around your shivering, quaking form. You were too late. You hadn’t been fast enough. You had failed. Your screams echoed across the halls, only weakening as you ran out of breath, hyperventilating in your panic.

The next hour passed so quickly, like a dream, or a nightmare, more appropriately, you barely comprehended it. Mark holding you close to his chest, as he ushered you away to his car, saying he would be with you in a scond, solemn in his expression. A blanket, tears, alcohol, tears, wailing outside the bar, blood, tears. And like that they were gone. Not just Seth, gone in body and spirit, but Mark. Mark hadn’t been the same, taking more time at work, quiet, distant, easier to provoke. Mark could see the tears through your facade though, trying to cope with him being a killer now.

#Mark Hoffman #Mark Hoffman x reader #Mark hoffman imagines #oh so much angst #seth baxter #Angelina acomb #saw #saw imagines #saw x reader #jigsaw #jigsaw imagines #jigsaw x reader

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celosiaa · 4 years ago

Text

ill for the holidays

Summary: “You know what I’ve just remembered?”

“What?”

“The Christmas you got ill while you were living in the archives,” Jon says, smile evident in his tone. “Do you remember?”

History repeats itself, often in cruel ways. This time, however-- Jon's love and care remain a wonderful constant, as Martin finds himself once again ill on Christmas.

CW: illness, discussion of dysphoria

(PS this timeline is not accurate, but imagine with me that the Prentiss incident happened later on in 2016, so Martin was stuck living in the archives over the holidays. Also Martin is trans because I said so lol)

tag list: @captaincravatthecapricious @airborneglitter @kindakola

“Bless you, darling,” Jon calls softly from the doorway of their bedroom, two steaming mugs of tea in his hands.

“Ergh,” is all Martin has the energy to reply before he pitches forward again, stifling three more harsh sneezes into his elbow before leaning back against the pillows with a sigh.

“Bless you again,” Jon says, handing him one of the steaming mugs. “And happy Christmas.”

Smiling through watery eyes, Martin carefully takes the mug. Jon cannot help but smile wider when the band on his left ring finger glints in the morning sun—the ring they had both decided would count as their Christmas presents this year.

“Happy Christmas, dear,” he says hoarsely as Jon runs a hand through his hair, pressing down on the locks which stand on end in the wake of restless sleep. “And thank you for the tea.”

“It’s no trouble,” Jon whispers, bending over to kiss Martin’s too-hot forehead. “You should probably take these as well—”

Reaching toward the nightstand, he grabs the box of tissues and tosses them into Martin’s lap before crawling back into bed himself. As Jon rearranges the blanket around them, Martin immediately presses up against him and tips his head to rest on his bony shoulder—a sure sign that he’s not feeling well at all.

“I’m sorry you’re ill, love,” Jon hums lowly, pressing a kiss into Martin’s hair.

“No, I’m sorry,” Martin replies, pausing for a moment to sniff wetly. “I’m sorry I’m ill on our first married Christmas.”

Jon can’t help but huff out a laugh at this.

“You know what I’ve just remembered?”

“What?”

“The Christmas you got ill while you were living in the archives,” he says, smile evident in his tone. “Do you remember?”

“Oh god, I thought I would die of embarrassment,” Martin moans, turning his face to nuzzle into Jon’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Jon argues, determined to let this be an amusing memory rather than an embarrassing one.

“That’s because you were nearly plastered the whole time,” Martin says, picking up his head to look at Jon, eyes sparkling good-naturedly.

“Wh—I was not plastered!” Jon sputters indignantly as Martin laughs.

“Nearly plastered. And I have a feeling you don’t remember it all anyway. So let me tell it to you.”

“Fine, fine,” Jon gives in with a smile, planting a kiss on Martin’s cheek. “Tell me everything, darling.”

---

(December 2016)

It’s holiday season at the Magnus Institute, and Tim has single-handedly decided that this will be their biggest celebration yet. Martin knows he’s doing it in a gesture of kindness; knows that the very existence of this massive extravaganza is an effort to bring the holidays to him, since he cannot leave the archives—yet he finds himself struggling through every smile, every drink, every song.

God, I’d give anything not to be ill right now.

His illness has been steadily worsening over the past few days, starting with a light dripping from his nose into his throat, lowering his voice a bit for the day. Not that he had particularly minded this—the voice dysphoria that often plagued him was quite pleased, in fact, but he could do without the soreness that tempted him into coughing near constantly. The days following had been spent battling ever-growing congestion—sinuses packed full, lungs not far behind. It was particularly irritating to him that this would happen now, during the holidays, after he hasn’t even seen the outside world for months. No one in the archives has been ill so far this season, so where could he have possibly picked this up?

Probably just a bit run down.

Something got me that didn’t hit whoever carried it in.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he leans back in his chair, watching the party around him as he desperately sniffs back the wetness threatening to drip from his nose. Of course, he had taken every possible precaution—loading himself fully with decongestants, cough suppressants, and fever-reducers, but it seems it might all have been for naught. Admittedly, most of the medications had been expired, having sat in the office first aid kit for years. He hadn’t been able to go to the chemist himself, and refused to even consider asking anyone to pick some things up for him. It had already been embarrassing enough asking Sasha to bring him some tampons—though of course she had been lovely, it was not an experience he wished to repeat.

He takes a shaking breath.

Just stop thinking about it.

Just have a drink, and maybe you’ll be alright.

Tim and Sasha are dominating the makeshift dance floor, both of their hair peppered with sparkling confetti, Tim’s neck adorned with garland and tinsel. The way their bodies move so freely, so naturally with the music, grinning drunkenly at one another all the while can’t but melt Martin’s expression into a fond smile. Catching his eye for a moment, Tim winks at him—grin spreading even wider, and pulling a blush onto Martin’s cheeks.

Prick, he thinks, smiling back through his beet red flush.

Scanning further to the left, he finds Jon standing against the wall, cornered by the bloke from research Martin knows fancies him. He squints a bit at the two of them, trying to read Jon’s expression, relieved to find a bit of discomfort there before—

Jon laughs. Heartily, and with a rare, gorgeous smile across his face.

Martin feels as if he could sink into the floorboards.

What is wrong with you?

Jon has a right to date whoever he damn well pleases.

Not like you’d ever have a chance anyway.

He sighs, but the breath catches in his chest, pulling him into a painful coughing fit—hastily stifled behind both his elbow and his closed lips. As he attempts to get himself under control, he glances back around the room, hoping no one has seen him—and with no small measure of dismay, notices that Tim and Sasha are approaching his table, arm in arm.

Shit shit shit

He sniffs hastily between coughs, swiping his sleeve over his dripping nose, disgusted with himself even as he does so. Mercifully, he manages to control the fit by the time they’ve really gotten close, reaching out for his drink at once to calm the raging furnace of his throat.

“Martin! There he is, the man of the hour,” Tim booms delightedly, sitting on the folding chair nearest him and pulling Sasha into his lap with a surprised shout.

“Tim! Shame on you,” she teases, swatting at his arm playfully.

“You love it and you know it,” he grins, nuzzling into her shoulder.

Martin uses their distraction as an opportunity to turn away, sniffling urgently against the rising buzz stirring up beneath the bridge of his nose, reverberating through packed sinuses. When he sees them peripherally turning their attention back to him, he plasters a smile back on his face, tipping his pounding head as casually as possible onto one fist.

“Having a good time?” Tim asks, resting his chin on Sasha’s shoulder.

“Y-Yeah! Yeah, it’s great, Tim, really nice job,” he says, trying to force his voice back into somewhat of his normal register.

“Fantastic! Can’t have you missing the holidays, can we? Now that would be a true tragedy!” he replies, clapping Martin jovially on the back.

Martin pitches forward at once, fighting back against his lungs, ready to burst with the jostling.

Not now not now not now

“You alright, Martin?” Sasha asks softly, still running a hand distractedly through Tim’s hair.

Offering her a quick smile, he nods vigorously against a few choked-back coughs, grabbing his drink at once and gulping it down. It barely helps, but it’s enough to get him through the worst of the painful tickling, though his eyes begin to tear with effort.

“Fine, fine, sorry—just choked on something, I dunno,” he lies, voice coming out in a bit of a croak.

“Well you’d better not choke and die before it’s time for karaoke!” Tim bellows. “Couldn’t stand to miss your lovely tenor!”

Martin quirks up a smile at this, blushing at the compliment, as always. Tim knows exactly how to push his buttons, and revels in it.

“We’ll see if there’s anyone still here who’s not too drunk to sing by then,” Sasha replies. “I believe I’m well past that point already.”

“Aw, come on Sasha, you can never be too drunk to sing karaoke! That’s what makes it great!”

They continue arguing like this for a while, and Martin finds his attention drifting back to Jon, who still stands against the far wall. A second person has joined in the conversation with him and the man from research, and Jon’s discomfort seems to have risen again, eyes flitting about for an exit route.

Then they lock on Martin’s.

Martin gives a little gasp, face flushing, the buzzing building in his sinuses at the disturbance. Looking away quickly, he hopes to god that Jon had not seen him staring, but when he looks back, Jon is already crossing the room toward him.

Oh shit.

The pulsing of his sinuses only continues to grow—of course Jon would be coming to talk to him now, when he’s a right mess, when he can feel congestion rising in his nose and throat.

I have to get out of here, he decides, extracting himself abruptly from the table.

“Hey, where are you going?” Tim calls after him, but Martin cannot bring himself to turn around—making a beeline for the men’s bathroom with all the energy he can muster.

As he ducks into the room, he sweeps his eyes around to check for any other occupants before grabbing desperately at the paper towels hanging over the sink. He barely lifts them in time to catch the painful sneezes that double him over—immediately causing his head to spin, coming one after the other in wet, heaving bursts. When at last his nose allows him to rest, he sinks down onto the floor of the bathroom, back braced against the wall. With all the effort he can summon, he does his best to clear his sinuses of their ghastly blockage—to no avail, the force of the breaths merely pushing his lungs into yet another coughing fit.

God, this is miserable.

It is in the midst of this coughing that the door opens, revealing Jon—who stares down at him in shock, frozen in the doorway for several seconds. Martin is quite certain he would rather sink beneath the earth, never to return than to be caught here in this moment.

Oh god oh god oh god

“…Martin? Are you alright?” Jon asks at last, recovering himself a bit and closing the door behind him.

“I-I’b fi—heh—” is all Martin can manage, consonants rounded out with congestion before his breath begins to hitch, desperately rubbing at his nose to keep control of itself while Jon watches him.

Jon furrows his brow, apparently unimpressed with this performance of “fine.” Crouching down slowly on the ground beside him, he peers concernedly into Martin’s face, which instantly flares up with heat.

I’m in hell. I’ve died, and this is hell.

“What is it?” Jon asks, so softly that Martin feels his heart could burst. “Are you ill?”

Damn it all.

If Jon has managed to guess the truth upon seeing him, Martin supposes there’s no way to hide it from him now—so he settles instead for trivialization.

“It’s fide, Jod—dod’ worry,” he croaks, wincing at his own pronunciation and sniffing in response.

Great. Excellent. Truly convincing.

“Hmm,” Jon replies articulately, before pressing the cool back of his palm to Martin’s scorching forehead—nearly killing Martin on the spot with the shock of it.

Oh Christ oh Christ

Jon pulls his hand back with a displeased huff, and a violent fever chill runs up the length of Martin’s spine.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he demands, short and snappish.

Something about his tone tingles at the back of his mind, drawing the words from him unbidden.

“Because…because I didn’t want to ruin the holiday, and Tim was so kind to set up this big party so I could celebrate, and I just…I just couldn’t bear the thought of spoiling it,” he says, the words spilling out of him in a rush.

He immediately clamps a hand over his mouth, gasping in horror at his own honesty. Jon looks about as shocked as he feels, alcohol undoubtedly leaving his expression unguarded.

“Wh—I…Martin, I—”

Jon is saved from his stammering by a fit of heavy sneezing, hastily stifled into Martin’s pathetic little hoard of paper towels. Disturbed by the sudden convulsions, his chest begins to flutter into a coughing fit once again—a bit harder to stifle now due to the sheer force of it. When at last he is allowed a brief respite, he leans his head back against the wall, breaths wet and heaving as he fights against the renewed dizziness.

“Christ, that sounds awful,” Jon mutters, reaching up to hand him more paper towels.

“Thadks,” Martin replies hoarsely, both in response to the paper towels and the insult.

Jon watches concernedly for a few moments, worrying at his bottom lip while Martin rubs the paper against the tender inflammation of his nose, desperately trying to ease the constant buzzing.

“Look, Martin, you’re not well—” Jon begins, before cutting himself off. “I-I mean, you know that, of course you know that, but—”

He breaks off again, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

“I’ve got some medicine in my office. Do you think you could make it back there?”

Martin huffs out a laugh before beginning to stand.

“’Course I can, Jon, I’m not—" he pauses when yet another wave of dizziness washes over him, bracing against the wall where he stands.

Jon reaches out his arms on instinct, but Martin brushes them off at once.

“Sorry, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

When Martin looks back at him, Jon is staring at him with so much open concern that it steals his breath away.

God, he’s gorgeous.

“I’m sure. Th-thank you,” he stammers awkwardly, allowing Jon to lead him back through the outskirts of the party and into the quiet of his office.

Once they’ve arrived, Jon ushers him in quickly, flicking on the desk lamp as he does so. The peacefulness that comes with the closed door is enough to make Martin sigh in contentment, watching distantly as Jon begins to rummage through a cabinet in search of the meds.

“Sit down, Martin,” he orders simply, no heat behind his words.

Martin can’t help but oblige, sinking onto the chair they use when people come to give their statements. As he does so, the pressure in his nose begins to build again, threatening to break through the surface at any moment—and he feels it’s only fair to at least try to avoid a mess.

“J-Jon, d’you—heh—d’you have ti—hh—”

“Right, right, of course, here—”

Jon fumbles hurriedly with a box of tissues that he pulls from the cabinet, nearly dropping them in his haste to hand them to Martin in time. By some miracle, he manages—Martin immediately doubles over into a fit of violent, unforgiving sneezes, which morph steadily into coughing, and then back into sneezing—caught in a seemingly endless cycle of misery. When at last he is able to look up, eyes streaming, Jon has fetched him a glass of water, and holds out a small pile of pills for him to take.

“Here, better hurry before it starts up again,” Jon mutters, shoving his offerings abruptly into Martin’s hands.

“O-oh—thanks,” he stammers, hot shame flooding his cheeks as he swallows them down.

When he looks up, Jon is chewing at his bottom lip again, brows furrowed—an expression that Martin has learned means he’s considering his words carefully. It’s one of those expressions that endears Jon so much to him that he could just get lost in it—and perhaps he does, for he startles at the noise when Jon finally speaks.

“Martin, I—I’m not asking this to pry, a-and it’s none of my business, but—but I’m just…concerned. Are you…are you wearing a binder right now?” Jon asks quietly rubbing a thumb into his own collarbone in a gesture of anxiety.

Fuck.

…I didn’t think he knew.

Instinctively, Martin hunches his shoulders forward, crossing his arms tightly—the mere mention of his chest enough to drag his dysphoria to the surface at the moment.

“N-No, I’m not—shouldn’t when you’re ill,” Martin mutters quickly, dropping his gaze quickly to the floor.

Jon lets out a small sigh of relief.

“Good, that’s good, I—” he breaks off, clearly noticing Martin’s change in posture. “—oh. Martin, I-I’m sorry, did I—”

“It’s alright, it’s not your fault,” Martin cuts in, trying to offer him a small smile. “And it’s…it’s thoughtful of you to ask. Erm.”

He looks back up at last, willing to do anything to make this even just a bit less awkward. What he finds when he does so is not a face overwhelmed with discomfort—but rather one softened with worry, and blushing with…something else as well, though Martin wouldn’t dare to put a name on it. He can’t help the wry smile that pulls one corner of his mouth upward.

“Jon, how many have you had tonight?” he asks, a bit teasingly.

“How many…how many what? Alcoholic beverages?” Jon replies, tilting his head in confusion.

Martin can’t help but laugh properly at this, for which he is thoroughly punished when it turns into a heavy coughing fit.

“Christ, Martin, I-I’m sorry,” Jon stammers, arms reaching out, then floating back to his sides repeatedly, unsure of the proper action to take.

Martin waves him off at once.

“It’s alright, it was rather nice to have a laugh,” still smiling through labored breaths.

Jon can’t help but quirk up a smile in return, face flooding with heat before he hurriedly looks back down.

“Erm—right.”

He coughs awkwardly before continuing.

“W-Well, is there…what else can I do? To help, I mean?”

He’s adorable.

God help me.

“Nothing, nothing—thank you for the meds, I—I suppose we should head back out to the party,” he says, rising slowly from the chair.

“Absolutely not,” Jon says sternly. “I’m taking you to bed, and that’s the end of it.”

Martin’s eyes go wide, another laugh threatening to bubble up in his chest at this choice of words. For Jon not to notice it…that must mean he’s pretty far gone. The way he stands now, tiny and cross and blocking the door, tells Martin that he ought to just give in and save himself the trouble.

“Alright, alright,” he complies, raising his hands. “But that means you’ll have to talk to Tim, and you know he gets weepy when he’s drunk.”

Jon nods his head in acceptance, with such solemnity that Martin has to cover his mouth to hide his foolish grin.

Oh, Jon.

“I’ll talk to him. Just…just try to get some sleep, alright?” Jon replies, grabbing Martin’s hand as he passes by to step into the hallway.

Martin’s face instantly becomes a wide-eyed tomato, and Jon drops his hand at once, stepping back clumsily.

“Sorry, erm…I’ll…I’ll see you on Monday,” he screeches before bolting back into the crowd.

Left in the wake of this, Martin can’t help but laugh and savor the feeling of Jon’s hand in his.

---

(present day)

“Oh god,” Jon moans, face buried in his hands.

Martin laughs hysterically now, wrapping his arms around Jon’s shoulders as his entire body shakes with laughter.

“Sorry love—I’m sorry, it’s just so funny,” he giggles, wiping the tears beginning to stream down his face.

“Glad to hear my mortification is so funny to you, Martin,” he huffs, pouting dramatically and crossing his arms over his chest.

Martin swings a leg over him, straddling his thin form and leaning down to cup his face.

“Oh, silly me, did I forget to say ‘adorable?’”

He kisses Jon’s forehead.

“’Handsome?’”

He kisses his jaw.

“’Charming?’”

This time, Jon wraps his arms around Martin’s neck, pulling him in for a proper kiss—smiling against him when he lets out a soft noise of pleasure. Jon parts his lips in response, coaxing Martin deeper, cherishing the way he can feel the warmth of his body growing ever warmer above him. Pulling him back down beside him, he tangles his body up in Martin’s, passion intertwining with the gentle softness Martin always offers him. Several minutes pass by this way, and Jon starts to think he could lie here forever, just lazily kissing in their bed. When Martin at last breaks it off, it’s with such urgency that Jon can tell instantly a sneeze is on the horizon.

“Here,” he says wryly, plucking a tissue from the box and handing it to him.

Martin takes it as graciously as possible, face continuing to screw up as his breaths hitch. At last, he lets it go—turning away from Jon a bit as he sneezes once, twice, thrice into the tissue, and finishing with moan as he rubs at his sinuses.

“Bless you,” Jon whispers, propped up on one elbow and rubbing soothing circles over his chest.

Turning back now, Martin grimaces up at him.

“I’ve probably gotten you ill now, Jon. We shouldn’t have done that.”

“Oh, we shouldn’t?” Jon teases, kissing a trail down Martin’s jawline and into his neck, pleased at the way this makes him squirm.

“I rather think we should keep going,” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at him, lips barely hovering above Martin’s own.

With a grin so full of love he’s fit to burst, Martin pulls him back down—and they spend the rest of the day in such warmth as can only be found in each other’s arms.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonmartin #tma sickfic #sickfic #trans martin blackwood #cw dysphoria #cw illness #my writing

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shypotato-translations · 4 years ago

Text

QTVW Chapter 18

Showbiz* Sexy Queen (V)

----

When Mei Mu Lan finished her rendition of the scene, the 'audience' on the other side of the room still hadn't recovered from the scene that had just happened.

Mei Mu Lan smiled slightly shyly and said,

“It's my first time acting, I hope you won't be offended by my bad performance.”

The words pulled everyone back from the previous scene and the director slowed down to say,

“……Cut …… You truly portrayed the ruthlessness and fickleness of the character. No one knows if the agent is really in love with the man in uniform, but each and every one of us, can feel the realness and complexity of this cheongsam-clad woman.”

So saying, he suddenly sat down in his chair and asked with a broad grin,

“How about that, now that you've seen the results, are you satisfied? There is no one in the world who can perform better than her, so if you don't have any objections, then the role is finalized?”

The crowd immediately nodded vigorously and, having witnessed the facts with their own eyes, all unanimously agreed with the director's proposal.

Mei Mu Lan smiled lightly and retreated from the other side of the room, she returned to the waiting room, still sitting on the previous sofa, opposite Bai Jieying who was now picking up the letter paper and looking at it carefully.

Mei Mu Lan looked at her and suddenly remembered this incident in the plot.

As mentioned in the novel, Bai Jieying, with the help of the male lead, managed to get the supporting female role in 《The Burial Man》, and this role is the Republican agent that Mei Mu Lan is performing today, but now, according to Bai Jieying's costume, she should be running for the role of an undercover agent of another tomb raiding family.

It seems that after the failure of the character Mei Mu Lan to die in the novel's plot, the virtual time order automatically fixed the bug, and the first meeting between the male and female leads, which was scheduled for the funeral, was delayed a lot.

Another woman returned from her interview and the director's assistant outside shouted to those in the room,

“Bai Jieying, you're up next.”

Bai Jieying smiled and stomped on the toes of her shoes and said softly,

“Here we go.”

As she walked outside, she stuffed the letterhead into the envelope.

Mei Mu Lan propped her chin on her hand, her fingers playing with her long, curly hair.

She thought to herself: Since she had now been cast in the role, it was time to perform well. From the clips she had performed earlier, the supporting female character was a person with a demonic spirit on the surface and a cold heart, and she did not feel overwhelmed to perform such a role.

She recalls the plot of the novel: After Bai Jieying's performance, she didn't get the role of the supporting female character, but in the end the cast chose to have her perform it, the reason being that she took the initiative to go to the male lead in the novel and agreed to become his mistress. And on the third day, after they had slept together for one night, the character who was originally set to play the role, had an accident and fell ill, and Bai Jieying replaced her as the supporting female character.

Now with the whole plot being disrupted, I wonder what Bai Jieying will choose to do afterwards?

But the matter was not her concern for the moment, so she did not pay much attention to it.

Now that she has been selected as the supporting female character, she will be working on the set for about three months or so, and during that time she will find the opportunity to spend a lot of time with Ling Yi Yao. But that alone is not enough.

The villains are ruthless and the most important thing is sincerity and time.

But when the film is finished, they won't be able to see each other for a few months.

They won't continue to work together until another play starts shooting and she gets the lead role in 《Love in a Fallen City》.

Mei Mu Lan frowned and tapped her cheek with a long, slender finger.

Maybe she needs to move. She thought of it this way, the original owner had just graduated from university and retired from the school dormitory, if she didn't buy a house, she would have to live in Aunt Wen's villa for a long time, this way, she would disturb Aunt Wen's daily life, and Mei Mu Lan would feel embarrassed; most importantly, although she had plenty of time, she also had to plan every step and calculate carefully.

Taking various factors into consideration, Mei Mu Lan decided to move to the vicinity of Ling Yi Yao's house.

As mentioned in the plot, Ling Yi Yao will buy a flat in the newly built Jiangnan district in the suburbs in half a month's time, where she will live most of her free time afterwards.

With this in mind, Mei Mu Lan thought about the money for the house.

She recalled the memories of the original owner, who had performed in national and international folk performances when she was very young, and her mother had kept all the money from these performances in a passbook account, which she could collect when Mei Mu Lan became an adult. And the savings of these ten years are tallied up to be a considerable amount of money, which is expected to be able to buy the whole Jiangnan district.

Now that she had the location and the money, the next step was to buy and renovate the house when she had the time to do so.

Mei Mu Lan secretly thought about it, time passed quickly and in a short while, all the women present had finished their interviews.

And after everyone had waited for about half an hour, the director himself came over and told everyone the result of the casting, which was that Mei Mu Lan and another woman were chosen, while Bai Jieying was not chosen because her performance was too raw and dull.

After the director had finished speaking, the women in the room were all smiling and saying goodbye one after another.

The director said,

“You two are very good actors, so take your scripts today, go back and rest for the day, get your affairs in order, and meet me on set tomorrow morning at 7am, I'll arrange for two crew members to come and teach you about the set. Do you have any questions? If not, then let's call it a day.”

Both of them shook their heads, thanked him and left.

After bidding farewell to the director, Mei Mu Lan went to the set to see Ling Yi Yao, and after saying goodbye to Ling Yi Yao, who was wearing a gentle mask, she drove back to Aunt Wen's house.

Aunt Wen was sitting on the sofa in the living room, her head slightly raised, her long, warm eyes overflowing with despondency and pain.

She was covered in smoke and the ashtray on the coffee table was full of cigarette butts, so it was obvious that she had smoked a lot.

At this moment, when she saw that Mei Mu Lan had returned, she immediately extinguished the long cigarette between her fingers, she went to the floor-to-ceiling window, pulled back the curtain and opened the window.

Before coming over and standing a little further away from Mei Mu Lan, she said,

“Well? What are your next plans?”

Mei Mu Lan bent down to undo the lacing of her high heels, and when she heard this, she tilted her head slightly to look over.

Her figure was reflected in the bright sunlight outside, the curves of her pretty body on full display, the high-waisted, open cheongsam in motion, partly spread out to reveal the long, straight thighs inside.

With a big smile on her face, like a child begging for sweets, she said,

“I was selected and the director said to take a day off today and wait until tomorrow to learn more.”

Aunt Wen twisted the fingers holding the cigarette and she said in a hoarse voice,

“Well, you've been out all day, are you hungry? Auntie Wen has cooked for you, now go and warm up.”

With that, she turned and walked towards the kitchen.

Mei Mu Lan changed out of her high heels and closed the door, she went back to her room first, washed the make-up off her face, took off her tight and provocative cheongsam and changed into her everyday casual clothes.

When she had changed, she sat down on the living room chair and in a few moments, three dishes and a soup were brought up and placed in front of her.

Mei Mu Lan finished her meal with graceful movements, wiped the corners of her mouth, and then said,

“Auntie Wen, do you have the bankbook my mother left me? I want to buy a house and move out.”

“clatter”, Auntie Wen's hands shattered the dishes by accident.

Mei Mu Lan frowned as she got up and walked over, picking up a broom dustpan and sweeping up the fragments, then she cocked her head and asked,

“Auntie Wen, are you hurt?”

Aunt Wen shook her head expressionlessly, her face much paler than usual, and with a trembling hand, she said,

“I've smoked too much and my hands are not steady. Sorry, sit down for a while, I'll look for your bankbook.”

Mei Mu Lan smiled and said,

“Next time smoke less, it's not good for your health.”

“Hmm, I know.”

When Mei Mu Lan got the bankbook, she immediately drove and went to Jiangnan District to reserve the house. After some formalities to buy the house, she went to the decorator's office and settled on a room to renovate the home and decorate in the style of the original owner's character, and she listed down the general renovation requirements.

The next thing to do is to discuss the details of the renovation, which can only be discussed in detail with the decorators when the renovation is official.

After all this, Mei Mu Lan was already a bit tired and after a quick wash and shower, she fell asleep.

The next day, she went to Ling Yi Yao and saw that she was busy acting in a scene from the script, so she sat and waited. On the way, she politely declined the director's offer to replace her with someone else to teach her, patiently and intently watching Ling Yi Yao's figure.

After waiting for more than an hour, Ling Yi Yao returned and Mei Mulan immediately picked up the thermos with green bean soup and handed it over.

Ling Yi Yao looked at her face without glancing at her, gave a gentle smile and said,

“How was it? What have you learnt?”

Mei Mu Lan shyly pursed her lips and said,

“You're a great actor! I didn't notice anything else but you.”

Ling Yi Yao's brow twitched: “……”

Mei Mu Lan handed over the thermos again, making its presence known, and said,

“Here's the green bean soup I made with love. You must be tired after acting for so long.”

Ling Yi Yao's expression stiffens: “……”

Mei Mu Lan forcefully put the thermos bottle in Ling Yi Yao's hand, then took out an unopened towel from the satchel on the recliner, tore open the bag and handed it.

Slowly and silently, Ling Yi Yao took the towel and then wiped the sweat stains on her face and the dust on her hands.

When Mei Mu Lan saw her finish wiping, she immediately took the towel back and put it in the bag she had just put it in, muttering under her breath,

“This is the towel with Ling Yi Yao's fragrant sweat on it, my 1024th collection, which I must keep until the sky and the earth fall apart and the sea dries up.”

Ling Yi Yao's hair stood on end: “……”

Ling Yi Yao's heart bursts into tears: “Help, there's a perverted fan here!”

Mei Mu Lan's heart is spilling over: “Help, Ling Yi Yao's sweat smells so good!”

#shypotato #yuri #transmigration #world hopping #QTVW18

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rpbetter · 3 years ago

Note

Urgh. Okay, full disclosure, I haven't been on tumblr much over the last week or so, because I was one of the people that Raven initially called out after the COAR mess, and it was in the interest of my own mental health to fuck off for a while so I didn't stress myself out into oblivion. So I'm scrolling through most of this stuff for the first time, and talking to other people who were targeted. And pardon my French here, but I'm fucking disgusted at the lengths Raven has gone to assert themselves as a victim, how many people they've affected, and the waving around of something as serious as suicide for brownie points.

I have sympathy for people who overinterpret things in a strictly emotional and mental sense (actual reactions aside) because they lack the maturity. There's always a reason for that, and it's not their fault. And I have sympathy for people if they legitimately feel suicidal. That, too, isn't their fault. If I hadn't been blocked, I would've reported Raven in case their claims were true as well, because yeah, I don't mess around with that stuff either. But what's unacceptable is how Raven acted on those sentiments and behaved towards others, even after people tried to provide perspective. How Raven claimed to be done with the drama, but continued inciting it; how they claimed to be suicidal and had left tumblr, but wrote what amounts to a "fuck you" in their header and were still putzing around on their blog, and were apparently still editing their posts until as late as today; how they claimed to have deleted but only changed the url; how they weaponized all of this stuff and used it as a tool for guilt-tripping. Like, come on. It's okay if you're down in the dumps, but it's not okay to treat innocent people like garbage, and carpet bomb half the RPC. To me, it really feels like there was an intent to weaponize all of their hurt, offense, anger, and suicidal ideations, despite the possibility it did come from somewhere genuine, and that's so harmful to anyone who is actually struggling with depression.

Every time someone weaponizes mental illness in this way, it just makes people more and more apathetic the next time someone is genuinely just hurting, and saying they feel like they're at the end of their rope. And it makes people suspicious of whether those words are being used maliciously, or legitimately. That suspicion and that association is now there, unconscious or not. And every time this kind of stuff happens, the association gets stronger. What happens if Raven does this again? Some people will still report, but some people might just scoff and walk away - people who might've actually acted before. So in a way, that kind of behaviour impacts Raven as much as it impacts other people.

And you know what? They're not the only one dealing with serious shit. I've been suffering from MDD for the last fifteen years, and I've been in the process of changing medications and having little success for months. I've been going through hell offline. I have a shit list of people I want to yell at because they're dragging their feet on really important things I need to function; I'm constantly running a deficit on spoons. Until a week or so ago, roleplay was one of the only ways I could unwind. So for Raven to bully me by sticking that stupid post in my tags, because they needed to make a scene on COAR, which I was obviously going to comment on (like many other people), then to "like" an unsubstantiated callout about me and other innocent people related to that mess, it's only worsened my own mental health. It sounds melodramatic, but really. Someone else mentioned this too, but the fear of being in another callout, and the fear of that first callout somehow exploding, was in the back of my mind all week, despite being away from tumblr. So that was a little anxiety-inducing, much as I tried not to think about it.

And I'm debating whether to return now, or take more time off, and I have no idea what to do. Because that callout post is still in my blog's tag. I'm freaking out because I was planning on approaching some people to roleplay, which is something I rarely ever do, but now I'm concerned that I'll contact someone, they'll look at my tag to get an idea of my writing/partners/who I am, and see the callout post, and immediately dismiss me because even seeing the word "callout" on its own will send up red flags, by unconscious association with more impactful drama. And as long as that callout is up, these fears are going to be there.

That's just not fair.

And Raven's "apology" is completely unacceptable. Like you and others said, it doesn't reach anyone who needs to hear it, because they've all been blocked. I would fucking love an apology if it came from a place of honesty, but am I going to receive one? Probably not. And even for the followers who can still see that apology, it doesn't address anything. It isn't directed to anyone in particular. It doesn't mention the specific behaviours that were wrong on their part. And miss me with the "my intentions were good" part. No, they weren't; going around blocks and sticking shit in peoples' tags is vindictive and entirely intentional in all the worst ways, and shame on them for pretending otherwise, and by leading with such a poor example for many roleplayers, some of whom are in their teens. One of the people who tried to message Raven (they, too, were called out on Raven's blog) was speaking to a nineteen-year old who was completely clueless about the extent of the manipulation Raven was pulling. They thought all of it was normal and acceptable behaviour. That genuinely terrifies me. And while I imagine if Raven was genuinely apologetic, they would've gone to the callout blog and ask them to delete the callout post (attempt it, at the very least), somehow, I don't think that would've happened given all of their prior actions. God forbid something else is going on there.

Phew. Yeah, I'm angry. Maybe I'm just biased and tired. But honestly, I have a right to be. Raven's apology is a handwave, and they know it. It's a slap in the face to me, to you, and to everyone else who was involved in this clusterfuck. They're not the center of the universe. They affected real people, with real problems of their own. Anyways, I am so sorry for this, argh. Really had to get this out, and I didn't want to dump it on discord or somewhere else; I sure as heck didn't want to go to COAR with it. But hey, maybe people here will feel less alone if I added my own account to the mix. The more, the merrier? In a sense, anyways. Sometimes if you feel like you've been singled out, it's nice to know you're not actually the only person it's happened to.

Sorry for saving your reply for last, Anon. It's such an important one, I wanted to be properly thoughtful!

I think that it is going to make some people feel less alone, and there is always some relief in sharing one's trials. That might be especially true when one has been unable to share them anywhere else. It's not like you can address this on your own blog right now, COAR is definitely not a safe place to do so, it's a very isolating feeling that is made worse for having done nothing.

Coming back and being required to wade through this shit was really damn disgusting to me as well, but at least in my case, I had neither been obliged to distance myself for the sake of mental health nor was I treated to the sickening display of drumming up ideas of victimization from someone who victimized me. What I experienced was just incredulity and disgust, I cannot imagine how incensing this must be for you, I am so very sorry. If it makes me angry having a degree of removal and watching in it real time? What you're experiencing...there really isn't a single word to adequately encapsulate that, I'm sure.

You've still expressed so many of the things I've thought and felt. I found all that initial behavior uncalled for, shameful, yet another display of what's actually wrong in the RPC, but it was increasingly upsetting to me the more I looked into it because it did feel a little (a lot) too reminiscent of the sort of bullying experienced in person. It's really something else to be viciously picked at by someone who keeps upping the game until such point as it begins to cause them trouble, then get to be painted the wrongdoer and punished in some way for it because they're presenting as a sympathetic victim. A more sympathetic victim than you, that's really what I mean, I'm just going to say it.

And that was already in swing by the time I got from the launch point to the smoking crater of then current events. I got to Raven's again after bouncing back and forth between their interactions with others, largely from COAR, yes, and the shit on the callout blog...to see...everyone else being blamed in increasingly drastic ways.

Because on tumblr, unlike reality, if you throw out enough times ahead of time that you have disorders people can get behind, you're more sympathetic, not less. So long as one has set that foundation and has others to broadcast it once convenient, any horrible action one undertakes is given a pass. Anyone disagreeing, anyone not tolerating the abuse, is in the wrong now. In the worst possible way, of course.

This whole thing began with incredibly unnecessary bullshit and every, I mean fucking every, further action taken was a new level of fucked up, but the trivializing of and damage done to the perception of mental health and differences is quite possibly the worst. Are those things that need any more of that? It's already such a problem! I already see suspicion and fatigue with this, every time it's given validation, it grows.

Even if I wasn't mentally ill, with one of the disorders that gets vilified even on tumblr, even if I were not autistic, even if I never knew a single person who suffered worse than I do from the the complications they won by way of being born, hadn't anyone I loved that took their lives, this would be extremely upsetting to me. Using the idea that "whatever I do, it's got to be acceptable because I am X" while not caring that anyone else is X, Y, and/or Z. Weaponizing it for bullying and sympathy simultaneously. Way too much. Incredibly gross and harmful, legitimately fucking problematic.

I want people to be taken seriously when they choose to speak of the boundaries their mental health requires, I want muns to be able to say that they are having a difficult time without it coming off (even to the rest of us with mental health conditions) as a ploy for attention/guilting for whatever action they desire be taken by partners, and I want people to take threats of oncoming, serious harm seriously. How are they to do this, when it is continually used as tool or weaponized against others? At very best, it becomes another thing to ignore and scroll by on the dash.

As we've all had the misfortune to experience or witness so recently, once it is weaponized, it's a problem of priority. I've said in damn near every message I've gotten that Raven isn't the only person involved here who has serious shit going on, but like the absurdity with trying to spin an accident as transphobia, or having the audacity to attempt speaking from a place of peace in a way that might benefit everyone, Raven included, resulting in a callout about being against ND people...it doesn't matter. Doesn't matter that any of us are neurodivergent, have serious chronic mental health complications, or are not cisgender. Raven was swinging that around like a flaming sword to drive off bigots real and imagined before we ever got their attention.

Attention they fucking asked for.

Reblogging that post from COAR was just like posting those rules. The intention was to get attention, and it was asked for with extreme hostility. I have no idea how that is coming off to anyone as simply them defending themselves. It was a great moment to either not out themselves as the person in the confession at all, not engage with it, quietly remove the post, or to reblog it and take responsibility in a meaningful way at that point. Can you imagine what a difference that would have made then? If Raven had chosen instead to reblog it and apologize for doing what they had. Just that. No shitty, snide little comments about how they're sorry, but still absolutely correct and here are five reasons why everything they've misconstrued won't be tolerated. Just an acknowledgment of wrongdoing, an apology for doing so, and awareness gained moving forward.

Their decision to interact with that post in the way they did wasn't just more of the same nonsense, it was actively upping the game. I don't really care if it was intentional bait or just continuing to let malicious impulse run free, it was used as bait. Everyone who interacted with that post was effectively consigning themselves to harassment, and if they happened to interact on literally any other topic that group held a passionately opposing opinion on, they were attacked for it. Curiously, it became necessary for them to be harassed by way of the callout blog, but that is getting a little close to off-topic, so, I'll leave it at that.

So, while I initially really wanted to have the appeal to Raven work because their expressions of regret that I was greatly on the fence about being genuine, I'd say those flags were accurate. I cannot believe that someone who took every opportunity to do the wrong thing is genuinely sorry. Sorry for themselves, absolutely, sorry for anything they did, not so much. This constant narrative I got of "they SAID they were sorry" and "they apologized again and again and took the posts down," including from Raven, is incredible. On that last one, they, yet again, couldn't actually address me.

Appropriate response: messaging me or reblogging that post (you know, the rules snippet I found right the hell there still, despite the claim of it being deleted and the final catalyst of me needing to say something after I saw that, nope, surely was not) with the acknowledgment of a single thing I said.

Extra appropriate response: ^ plus going to everyone who could still be located that they harmed with a genuine, individual, private apology.

Inappropriate response that was had: new post, shitty, childish tone like they at once wanted to argue with me and didn't want to drop the act, restating of this apology that had already been deleted and meant exactly shit while it existed, restating of how they deleted this post and couldn't control reblogs, ignoring that I literally reblogged the original copy from their blog.

Apology neither believed nor accepted. Just as it wouldn't be if my nephew came to my house, broke a bunch of my things, said he was sorry while throwing the pieces at my pet, then threw himself on the floor screaming that he said he was sorry when I told him to go have a time out.

(Yes, I absolutely did just make a comparison to a child, y'all can shit yourselves again. It's not my problem if you want to misconstrue "this person's actions are not befitting of an adult" as "Vespertine said autistic people are children!" Fucking miss me with that. I'm an autistic adult who pays my bills, apologizes, doesn't treat people like shit while trying to excuse it by being ND. You're offensive with that shit, and contributing to the negative perception people have of those on the spectrum. Be a good ally today! Don't valid that! Free ninety-nine offer!)

Again, sorry for yourself does not equal being sorry for what you've done. The former can contribute to the development of the latter, but as I said in a response yesterday, there has been no display of that beginning to transpire. I genuinely hope that will eventually be the case because that would be the best outcome, the only "best" outcome at this point. Even if it was two years from now, if it did happen, I certainly would not be kind to people refusing them any such growth in peace, and I hope that, by some distant chance, I get to prove that.

But...stating "my intentions were good" over any part of this is not remotely promising. When? Where? At what point? Oh, right, when you took it upon yourself to label a random mun you took issue with. That's when your intentions were good. Then, when you vehemently needed to defend that point by callouts and individual attacks under the guise of it definitely not being about your pride, no! It was the defense of everyone else! Defending the community by carpet-bombing it, yes. This is not a "the path to Hell is paved with good intentions" situation.

I am so disturbed about the nineteen-year-old mun, my god. I'm telling y'all, my anger and disgust almost reach what I think is a pinnacle, then there's something new like this.

I don't even subscribe to tumblr's ideology that anyone under twenty-five is an actual infant who needs be kept in a protective bubble and forgiven for all bad behavior with infinite kindness, nineteen-year-olds deserve the agency of the adultier adults they are becoming, but it is a transitional age. Especially today. Most socialization and formative ideas take place online, and by the time younger RPers are entering the adult sphere of RP here, they've already got some really unhealthy ideas. About themselves, about others. There is such a demand for rabidly performative action that gets internalized, it shouldn't be being heartily fed by people in the community they might look up to.

At that age, someone like Raven is going to be a person looked up to. They espouse all the right ideas, and it's an age in which aggressive interaction over those things is seen as amusing and correct, no matter how wrong the actions taken are or the basis upon which they are founded. When these people foster an environment of cruelty for questioning, of course, that is not going to be the natural response. The response is now going to be the requirement of being told otherwise with adequate proof.

I have suspected that many of the hateful anons I've gotten were from Raven's even younger followers who feel like it's normal, acceptable, and that everything they're being told by Raven's sales team over at the callout blog is absolutely true. Of course, they're now morally obligated to come harass me for the things they were told I did! I think it's likely that several of the anons people got were from actual minors, which is so many levels of scary and irresponsible. Really great example all around, yes!

Because whether it is one's intention or not, that is potentially exposing minors, or muns who are still close enough to be more negatively impacted, to who even knows what. As well as violating the rules of blogs who do not interact with minors for good reason, setting those blogs up for yet another callout for treating someone they didn't know was a minor the way they did or having "freak shit" on their blog. Setting up the other party to be treated with full hostility as an adult would be. Very cool, very responsible.

There is just so much here that is unacceptable, I don't think people who were not directly impacted or have never had a callout against them understand the results, and that is one more unacceptable thing you've been good enough to talk about.

Even while taking a break from the RPC, it affects you negatively. Wondering what you're coming back to, your blog is no longer a safe feeling space, and there's nothing you can do to "cultivate your blog" to change that. They've taken away the ability to simply block and avoid others, the thing that keeps all of us comfortable here as well as allowing that to be all of us no matter how disagreeable we might be to each other. Callouts negate adult behavior. Callouts mean that one doesn't know where more potential for harassment might be coming from, or how long we might have to be worried about that.

It would be a major concern for me as well about what putting myself out there to new writing partners might bring. What the success of that might be. It's incredibly unfair that they've made finding new people precarious and more unpleasant than it can be anyway. That puts all of the future of your RP here in question, and if you're like me, just dropping a muse, picking up another, and moving to a new URL isn't going to be a good choice for you. It isn't that simple if you dedicate time to a muse for a long period of time, when that's the case, that's the RP you want to do and have laid the groundwork for.

I don't know if it will help at all, but it has seemed to me, over the past several days, that there are fewer people in the RPC who are inclined to believe or support callouts than there once was. I was hoping that was the case, since there is always so much interaction on my posts against callout culture, but until this crap went down, I had no idea just how many people are not positive toward it. It has seemed to be that the people who are inclined to listen to callouts are just louder.

I've also noticed that those people have the same set of red flags, so maybe sharing that will help you or others?

They don't have simple, basic, reasonable Do Not Interacts. It isn't simply asking that minors don't interact because the mun is over eighteen, that muns writing a triggering topic not interact, or that sort of thing. No, it's URL dropping of specific muns, outright links to callouts or "receipts," and an accusatory tone about any topics or types of muns who shouldn't interact. Such as "nasty ass proshippers" or "pedo apologists shipping incest."

Their rules are reflective this as well. A statement cannot be made that they do not write, let's say, toxic ships and left at that. There will be some morality wank present about normalizing or romanticizing toxic/abusive relationships.

There are less assured flags, but literally, anything that stands out as an interest in RPC or fandom-based activism as opposed to an interest in writing, their muses, or even their friendships with a variety of muns. I don't mean a rounded-out interest in things, I really do mean a glaring predominance of buzzword-laden reblogs and PSA's while they've not written a reply, headcanon, or answered a meme in months.

I'm not saying any of that because I feel like you, or anyone else's, judgment is terrible or that you're oblivious to warning signs! It's just that when we've experienced bad situations, it can compromise our ability to see clearly. It becomes easy to see a potential threat everywhere, and maybe that seems contrary, but it's then easy to fail to see real threats from those we're blowing up. We question whether we're being just as judgmental as the people who wronged us, putting words in other muns' mouths and thoughts in place of their own as was done to us. While we still are afraid to be wrong in giving someone an in to ruining our time again.

So, please, don't feel like I'm questioning your intelligence or speaking from a place of ultimate knowledge, never making mistakes in such a choice! I just really hate that you, and many others, are going through this, and anything at all that I can think of that might help you move forward from this utter bullshit you've been through, I've got to try to grab it.

Because, Anon, like all those sharing their experiences these last few days, you sound like the kind of mun we need in the RPC.

You're someone willing to share with others for the benefit of others. You're being honest about your feelings of anger and even the hopeless sensation of whether it's even worth it to try to return, having your progress on and offline stomped on, while still maintaining a sort of fairness and calm that I know is not easy. Because that's the mature thing to do, it's the right thing, and unfortunately, those are usually the harder things to do as well.

You did the right thing in expressing your opinion and doing what people like Raven's group love to be on about, can only do through bullying: not tolerating it. I'd hate for the RPC to lose someone like you!

Just as your message matters to more people out there than myself, I have no doubt that your choice to not quietly allow this behavior mattered to more muns than you'll ever know. I'm sure that none of them would have wanted this result for you, but so many muns have experienced such toxic, bullying behavior over the years in which not a soul spoke up.

Many of you proved something very important with challenging Raven and the callouts blog, that unlike them, it isn't necessary for good people to even know each other to do the right thing. They have to dogpile and engage in cliquish behavior, what they do isn't coming from a place of inner ethics and strength, but what you all did? It's the opposite.

So, not only do I thank you again for sharing and providing the important support of simply not being alone to others, I thank you for being the example to the RPC that people dealing in callouts and generalized shaming cannot be, no matter their platform.

I hope that, whether you choose to remain, leave, or take a very long break, everything you've been dealing with starts to look up. I know it's easy to say things made hollow for their repetition and flippant use, like telling you not to let them win, or that their bullshit just isn't that important. So, I'm not going to say them.

It doesn't work that way when you're dealing with mental health concerns! You can logically know that this is just petty bullshit not worth being run out of something important to you, but that doesn't stop the worry, frustration, or depression. You can have all the determination in the world to hang in there, even the spite to back it up, but neither is a match for the things you cannot control coming from your brain. That is the cruelty of mental illness on the very best of days.

You have all of my respect, support, and genuine sympathy that this happened to you. No one should be allowed to continually and unapologetically go out of their way to throw a wrench into someone's hard-won progress. You did nothing to deserve this, and the people out there worth interacting with are going to be the same ones who will have no question of that.

Lastly, I also hope that some of the anons sharing their experiences have helped you feel less alone, or like you're not just irrationally upset. Please know that you're seen and supported as well! And that you are always welcome to talk more, vent, share successes here.

Thank you, Anon.

#vespertine #answered #anonymous #long post #drama cw #rp harassment #callout culture

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