#inspired by a Noah Kahan song

[crazybagelbitch]

not me getting another hotchiss fic idea when I'm already knee deep in other CM fanfics

[andiwriteordie]

little 5 or 6 year old mike accidentally breaks his arm on the playground one day (either because he’s clumsy or maybe unfortunately because kids are mean to him and to will), and he has to get a cast, which he absolutely hates. his mom insists that it’s going to be okay, because now mike can ask people to sign it! he can make new friends this way! and mike just... doesn’t have the heart to tell his mom that he really doesn’t think anybody in his class would sign his cast.

but then will, his only friend, his best friend, shyly asks if he can sign it first, and of course, mike says yes. and as will is signing it, mike gets a genius idea in his little kindergartener brain, because his best friend is the best artist that mike knows and mike doesn’t want his cast to look dumb and look empty.

so, before will can pull away, mike shyly asks him if he’s draw on the rest of mike’s cast. anything that will wants. mike trusts him. he just thinks it would look so much cooler with will’s drawing on it. 

and what else can will do but say yes?

mike comes home that day—his plain white cast transformed completely with little doodles of knights and animals and superheroes and anything else that will can think of and that he had time for at recess and at lunch. his cast is canvas of artwork that he holds near and dear, and there, scrawled messily in the corner, is the name of the artist. the name of his best friend.

will.

[leiawritesstories]

Stick Season (Part 1)

Rowaelin Month 2023, Day 1: Song Fic

inspired by "Stick Season" by Noah Kahan (giggles in Frederick) I've had so much fun writing this and I am beyond excited to share it with all of you! happy Rowaelin Month once again! <3

Word count: 2,480

Warnings: swearing, bad decisions, heartbreak, not-great parenting, angst, simmering sexual tension, pining idiots in love but they won't admit it

Enjoyyyy! (yes there will be more, i promise)

@rowaelinscourt

Prologue

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Downtown Orynth, Vermont, still looked exactly the same as it always did when Aelin paid her occasional, brief visit to her hometown. Same “cozy” wooden buildings, same storefronts lining Main Street, same pine boughs wrapped around the light posts, same dusting of snow brushed across the rooftops in a postcard-picture kind of perfection. Same kindhearted shopowners waving at her as she strolled down the cleanly swept sidewalk. 

If she smiled hard enough, maybe she could pretend there wasn’t a gaping hole in her heart. 

Three years since she cut the other half of her soul out of her life, and no amount of friendship and laughter and girls’ nights could fill the empty chasm that leaving Rowan left in her. 

“Aelin?” The voice came from her left as she passed the local bookstore, a place where she’d spent some of the happiest hours of her youth. 

She turned. “Philippa!” A genuine smile curved up her lips. “I didn’t think you were still working here all the time.” 

Philippa waved off the mild protest with a flippant hand. “You know how busy it gets at this time of year, my dear.” She pulled Aelin into a warm hug. “It’s so good to see you again!” 

Aelin melted into the older woman’s motherly embrace. “Want to know a secret?” 

“Is that even a question?” Philippa laughed, opening the bookstore door and nudging her inside. “I live to collect secrets.” 

“Of course you do,” Aelin chuckled. “Well, here it is: I wasn’t planning to be back home this year. Or next year. Or anytime soon, really.” She blew out a short, sharp sigh. “I’m only here because…well…” She trailed off, not fully ready to voice the reason she’d returned. 

Philippa patted her arm. “It’s alright to let yourself grieve, dear. Your mother’s passing was a shock to all of us.” 

“And something of a relief,” Aelin mumbled under her breath. 

Ever tactful, Philippa pretended not to hear. “Will you be here through New Year’s?” she asked, smoothly changing the somber subject. 

Aelin nodded. “Yes. I’ll drive back to New York sometime around January fifteenth, unless Dad needs me for longer. I’m working remotely until then.” 

“Thank goodness for modern technology, right?” 

“Right.” She half-grinned. “I don’t suppose you’re still resisting that modern nonsense, hmm?” 

Philippa pretended to hide. “You caught me.” 

Aelin fake-groaned. “How many times have I told you that it will help the bookstore grow? Think of all the customers you could reach with something as simple as a website and maybe an Instagram profile!” Pasion seeped into her words, coloring her thoughts with excitement. “And you could easily keep up with the online orders–that crappy old monitor you have barely runs basic word programming, let alone internet.” 

“You be nice to Mort, now,” Philippa teased. She’d named the bookstore’s ancient computer Mort in honor of the many times it had brushed with death. 

“Mort deserves to be laid to rest once and for all,” Aelin laughed. “Are you trying to keep me in town or something, asking when I’m heading home?” 

“Maybe.” The older woman’s laugh lines crinkled as she grinned. “Or maybe I’m just planning to offer you a job here while you’re in town.” 

“You know I work in publishing, right?” Aelin raised her brows. “I’m pretty sure that’s enough books and book stuff for one woman.” 

“How long has it been since you remembered why you work in publishing in the first place?” 

The question made Aelin stop in her tracks, mind whirling as she sifted through years of memories. “I…years. God, it’s been…years.” For a moment, yearning flickered across her face. “Maybe not since the last time I volunteered here at Christmas.” 

“Exactly.” Philippa gave Aelin’s hand a motherly squeeze. “Christmas season is far too busy for one old woman to handle alone. So…will you help me?” 

A fond smile curved Aelin’s lips. “Of course I will.” 

~

Snow-dusted evergreen boughs adorned the lampposts of downtown Orynth, weaving their crisp pine breezes through the early evening air. Hands tucked into the pockets of his quilted flannel jacket, Rowan strolled down Main Street, determined to avoid being sidetracked into one of the golden-lit shops that smelled invitingly of cedar, maple sugar, pine, and spiced cider. Christmas scents always had been his weakness, despite the pain he couldn’t separate from the holiday. 

A single paper bag dangled from his left wrist, the only sign that he’d been out shopping for the holidays. His entire brood of cousins was about to descend upon Doranelle, the next town over, for the next few weeks, so he’d come into Orynth to pick up a few things. He refused to admit that the massive canister of peppermint hot cocoa mix was an impulse buy–it had been on sale, and he knew how much his relatives adored all the sweet holiday treats. 

It had nothing whatsoever to do with peppermint hot chocolate being Aelin’s favorite. Nothing.

“Whitethorn?” The call came from his left. 

Rowan turned towards the voice. “Who–” 

“Whitethorn! It is you!” Aedion Ashryver stepped out of Staghorns Tavern, a popular local brewery. “Come inside, man, have a drink.” He pulled Rowan into a brief, back-slapping hug. “Good to see you again.” 

“Good to see you too, Ashryver.” Rowan returned the hug but hesitated at the offer of a drink. “I dunno about the drink, though.” He raised his shopping bag. “Gotta go home and prepare the place for the Whitethorn horde.” 

Aedion snickered. “You’re still letting them crash at your place, huh? Thought you would’ve liked the house to yourself every once in a while.” 

Rowan shrugged. “It’s a big house, and I live alone all the rest of the year.” He flashed Aedion a smirk. “Besides, Sellene and Enda would just barge in anyways, so I might as well allow it.” 

“Fair enough.” Aedion glanced into the brewery, waving off someone inside. “You sure you don’t want to grab a quick drink? I feel like we haven’t seen each other in forever.” 

“Yeah, give me a rain check on the…” Rowan trailed off into silence, his brain stalling at the sight of Aelin Galathynius opening Stag’s door and grabbing her cousin by the arm, halfway through a teasing jibe about Aedion wasting his body heat trying to warm up the December chill. 

“...not worth it to–oh.” Her wide-eyed turquoise gaze slammed into Rowan with all the force of an avalanche. 

“What are you doing here?” The question, though whispered, tore out of him with the force of a deafening scream. 

Aedion brushed a protective touch over Aelin’s shoulder, murmured something softly into her ear, and slipped back into the brewery, wisely leaving the two of them alone. 

She swallowed thickly and steeled her spine, meeting his stare head-on. “I’m home for my mother’s funeral and the holidays.” Her tone was cool, detached, nothing more than an old acquaintance responding to a casual question. 

“I–I had no idea,” Rowan murmured. “I’m so sorry, Aelin.” 

“Don’t be.” She snorted quietly, her shields snapping back into place as swiftly as they’d fallen. “About Evalin, Rowan. Don’t be sorry.” A pause, a crack in her controlled exterior. “I can’t say I am.” Her expression sharpened. “Can I ask what you’re doing out here…um, by Staghorns?” 

He read the unspoken question, finding himself surprised that she hadn’t asked outright. “I was in Orynth to pick up a few things before my cousins get here tomorrow, and I was heading down towards the parking lot.” Downtown Orynth was strictly car-free, so the town had built parking space by the edge of the no-traffic zone. “Your cousin saw me, so I stopped for a bit.” And held off the alcohol, he added, silently. 

She nodded in understanding. “I…I should go.” She turned. 

“Wait!” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand, stopping himself with bare millimeters between his skin and hers. “I…when are you leaving?” 

“After New Year’s.” The words were clipped. 

The shields encasing his heart slammed back down with finality. “So you’ll just up and leave again, no warning, not telling anyone?” He laughed, a sound as brittle as the winter air. “I don’t know why I expected any different.” 

“Some things never change,” she whispered, half to herself, her voice teetering dangerously close to anguish. Without another word, without a backward glance, she yanked open the brewery door, walked in, and vanished into the crowd packed into the bustling space. 

His heart a tangle of stormy emotions, Rowan turned on his heel and strode down the rest of the street, not stopping until he reached his pickup. There, he dropped his shopping bag in the back seat, leaned himself against the truck’s battered old green frame, and breathed as deeply as he could. Eyes screwed shut, he allowed the flood of memories to wash over him, sinking into the aching familiarity of her golden hair and wild laugh, her burning resilience and unwavering strength. The watery croak of her voice when she told him she was sorry three years ago. The tsunami of anger and rage and grief and torment that had ripped through his whole being for weeks after that afternoon.

Then he locked those precious, shattered memories back into the dark recesses of his mind, swung himself up into the truck, and drove off into the December night. 

~

Three Years Ago

Rowan pulled into his driveway in shell-shocked silence, muscle memory guiding him out of his truck and into the house. He kicked off his boots in the mudroom, shook the loose snow off the soles, and placed them neatly on the rack. Numbly, he shed his thick winter jacket and hung it on its peg, made sure he was free of tray snow and ice, and walked into the warmth of the wood-paneled house. 

A beer bottle shattered at his feet the second he came through the door. 

“The hell y’been, boy?” His stepfather’s slurred words were barely distinguishable. 

“Work, then the store.” Rowan had learned years ago to keep his words as brief and subdued as possible, lest he face another of Arobynn’s famous eruptions of drunken wrath. “Picked up another six-pack.” He placed the case of beer bottles on the kitchen counter. 

Arobynn squinted at the six-pack. “Leas’ y’did one thing right,” he sneered. “Clean up the fuckin’ floor, boy.” He grabbed two bottles of beer and stumbled back out into the living room, where he collapsed into his reeking, tattered old leather recliner and lost himself in his usual world of alcohol and blaring television. 

Rowan clenched his fists and jaw and picked up the broom. He made quick work of the broken glass, dumped it in the trash bin, put away the broom, and grabbed some food as he hurried off to his room. Arobynn’s alcoholism was a blessing, in a way–he confined himself to that side of the house, not moving much between the den, the kitchen, and his bedroom and bathroom. It meant that Rowan could stay in the master bedroom, which was at the other end of the house, and keep the rest of his family home as clean as possible. 

Every time he looked at the single portrait of his parents that adorned his bedroom wall, he swore he could hear their sorrow at the state of their once-beautiful home. 

That goddamn crash had taken so much from the Whitethorn family. 

Rowan was only a child when he lost his dad, and his mother had been so buried in her grief that she’d failed to see the giant blaring red flags of the first man that showed her any affection. She’d married Arobynn Hamel partially out of what she thought was love and partially out of necessity; the property needed another pair of adult hands to maintain it, not to mention another income. It was only a few months before Arobynn’s true colors showed themselves. 

For five years, Rowan’s mother had stayed strong, protecting her son by sacrificing herself. She’d protected her son from his stepfather’s fits of drunken rage, from the anger that reverberated through the house, and even from the knowledge of her medical diagnosis. When he lost her, too, Rowan lost all hope that his life could be anything but alcohol and anger and abuse. 

Then he went away to college and met Aelin, and her warmth rekindled his frozen soul. 

Watching her drive away from him mere hours ago had ripped the fragile, carefully patched scraps of his heart into bleeding shreds. 

Fuck it. If he didn’t blow off some steam now, he’d do something he’d regret later.

As silently as possible, Rowan slipped out of the house, crossed the snowy yard to the barn, hauled open the door that desperately needed some oil, and flicked on the overhead lights, illuminating the large, chilly, wooden-beamed space. He’d slowly transformed the barn into a gym over the years, picking up old equipment at estate sales and local gyms who were remodeling or getting rid of old machines and other stuff. Right then, he only had eyes for the punching bag–his favorite way to release the pent-up anger his fists itched to rain down upon Arobynn’s worthless face. 

He took off his jacket and sweatshirt, pulled on his well-loved boxing gloves, and strode over to the punching bag. With a grunt, he launched into a punishing round of strikes and punches, pummeling the taut leather sandbag with enough force to send it rocking on its chain. That first volley loosened the knot of tension in his chest, opening the floodgates, and every tangled, indecipherable, raw emotion he’d bottled up came pouring out in the erratic rhythm of his gloved fists (and occasionally his shoes) against the punching bag, interspersed with hoarse yells, broken shouts, curses, groans, and grunts. He lost himself in the slap of leather on leather, barely remembering to draw breath, slapping and punching and kicking until the flood of grief and pain and rage had subsided enough for his head to clear. 

Chest heaving, rare tears seeping hot and salty down his face, Rowan sank to the weathered wooden plank floor, buried his head in his hands, and felt the crushing weight of abandonment, an old familiar companion, press down upon his shoulders once again. 

Although he didn’t know it, Aelin was curled in the same position on the floor of her childhood bedroom, her face buried in her hands, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. The same anguish tore through her ruined heart, a white-hot knife of grief and guilt piercing her to her core. Leaving him was the last thing she ever wanted to do; it was like splitting herself in half. Yet she had left him, tossed him to the snowy curb without a backward glance. Leaving him shell-shocked on the edge of the highway, heart in his throat and the winter wind whistling through his empty hands.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[hella1975]

NOAH KAHAN COLLABORATING ON HOMESICK WITH AN UNANNOUNCED ARTIST IM LOSING MY SHIT

[highdefinitions]

i don’t think you all understand the impact the great divide by noah kahan has had on me

[deanmekel]

‘If I could leave, I would’ve already left’

When I look out of my window, I think of you

I imagine I can see the hills rising up in the distance, beyond all the roofs

If I could, I would open the window and jump them, running back to you

 

But I worry about her, if she will eat dinner without me, if there is someone else to hold her hand

I worry about him, when he cannot see my face on the weekends, who will eat his cinnamon rolls and sugar cookies when I am not there

 

All my friends that I already hardly see and then I would even less

My cat living with my parents that is still mine

The friends I go out walking with and laughing with till our stomachs hurt

My sister and my parents that I already see only once a week

All the plans that aren’t making themself, the months lengthening before I see them again

My high school best friends that I only see when the ones in the band are playing a concert

 

I already miss them all like you

And still, I think of leaving every single day

Sometimes I am terrified I never will

For I cannot leave any of them behind

 

But I hope to one day hug them all so tight

When they promise me we will see each other again

And I know we will

Because I love them all the same as they do me

Even when I have run back to you 

[zukkaoru]

oooooo okay for the wip ask game. uhhhhhhhh breathy. or maybe sweet?

“Don’t—” his voice breaks off into a breathy gasp as Tetchou’s teeth graze his skin.

the song was true and the sky was black

Dazai has never particularly enjoyed the taste of alcohol. It’s too bitter or too sweet or there’s too much carbonation or the aftertaste sits so heavy in his mouth he thinks it might crack his teeth.

let me rot (call me back)

[elegantdemoness]

Skeletal Sea Horse Word Drawing

[jerzwriter]

Five Songs

Thank you for the tag @dcbbw!

Oh, I have so many more than 5 that I listen to an awful lot, but 5 that are currently getting a lot of playtime in my world are:

About Damn Time - Lizzo

Inner White Girl - Jaquel Spivey (Michael R. Jackson) (A Strange Loop)

On the Wheels of a Dream - Brian Stokes Mitchell and Aurda McDonald (Ragtime)

Growing Sideways - Noah Kahan

The Great War - Taylor Swift

Tagging these 10 folks, but please, anyone, feel free to join in:

@mydemonsdrivealimo @cariantha @aallotarenunelma @icecoffee90 @genevievemd @liaromancewriter @potionsprefect @lucy-268 @jamespotterthefirst @angelasscribbles

[antigerrymanderingspiderman]

i know it’s kind of silly, but it makes me so upset when i see something i love, a show, a movie, a song, whatever, and people make content about but they don’t get it. and i’m not talking about the good fan work, there is so much great fan work and i love that. im talking about all these silly jokes and skits about things that mean so much to me. like i’ve seen so many times the same joke over and over about the pillow fort in nick and charlie, and like yeah sure that’s a bit silly, but like it’s over and over again, you would think it is a major part but it’s not. or like i know the hunger games is super main stream, but when i see these skits of like “oh what if me and my bestie were in the hunger games” and it’s just not funny. it ignore any point of the book.

and yes im being a hater, yes this sounds gatekeepy, but it makes me angry.

[thebluedragoncave]

I'm the kind of delusional that thinks every Noah Kahan song was written specifically for me

[batastraffyq]

we ain't angry at you, love. you're the greatest thing we've lost. you'll be far. you're gonna go far!

[leiawritesstories]

Stick Season (Part 3)

thanks for putting up with the writer's block lol :) if you've been reading this au, you have my heart and all my love (hehe because it's Noah Kahan...all right i'll stop) there will be one more part, maybe two :))

masterlist

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: talk of death/funerals, swearing, lots of emotions, tears, idiots in love (kind of?)

enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Black wool peacoat cinched tightly around her waist, Aelin stood at her father’s side, her gloved hand in his, and stared vacantly at the square granite plaque that marked the site of her mother’s earthly remains. 

Evalin Ashryver. Beloved Wife and Mother. May She Rest In Eternal Peace. 

Rhoe placed his free hand against the plaque, leaned his head against the cold stone, and closed his eyes, the creases on his face more pronounced with sorrow. His lips moved silently, exchanging private words with his departed wife. Aelin remained steady at his side, surprised that she had been unable to shed any tears throughout the simple, poignant memorial service. Deep down, Aelin had loved her mother, and no amount of criticism or disapproval could completely quench that love. 

“Aelin. Ae–Fireheart?” Rhoe’s voice broke through her reverie. 

She shook her head. “I’m here.” 

“Are you ready to go?” Her father’s question was nothing but kind. 

“Yes.” She cast a final look at Evalin’s plaque, turned, and walked side by side with her father out of the mausoleum. “Dad?” 

“Hmm?” 

Aelin released a shaky breath. “I…Is it bad that I haven’t cried?” Worry creased her forehead. “I feel like a horrible daughter, but I haven’t cried. Or even really felt that sad.” 

Rhoe stopped, faced his daughter, and took both of her gloved hands in his. “No, my Fireheart, it’s not bad.” He wrapped Aelin into a hug. “I know your relationship with your mother was…ah, complicated. It’s not bad that you haven’t shed any tears.” 

Aelin felt her throat tighten at her father’s quiet reassurance. “I love you, Dad.” 

“Love you too,” he returned, his words clogged with tears. “Perhaps someday you’ll feel like visiting her stone, and perhaps then you’ll cry. But maybe not.” He looped his arm back through hers. “It does not and never will make you a bad daughter.” 

~

Rowan had needed to get out of the house–with all the cousins there, it was often a wild whirlwind of chaos, and his type-A personality couldn’t handle it 24/7. So Sellene and Enda had kicked him out, sending him into town with a short shopping list that ended up taking hours to complete. 

It wasn’t his fault that he’d had to drive clear over to Rifthold to find a stand for the Christmas tree, because of course the only hardware store in the region that had tree stands in stock would be thirty miles away. 

There was only one more item on the list, though, and Rowan had been avoiding it for as long as he possibly could. Why the fuck did Sellene want a book on “holistic herbal healing,” for gods’ sake? He was going to look like an idiot buying that. She’d left him a note saying Orynth Shelves had the book in stock, so at least he wouldn’t have to go terribly far, and Philippa–who owned that bookstore–was a sweetheart who’d known Rowan since he was a kid. 

He glanced into the display window of the bookstore as he walked up the street and cracked a half smile. Philippa must have had some volunteers from the high school help with the holiday display, because she had great love and knowledge of books, but she did not have great knowledge of artistically pleasing book displays. Short stacks of holiday books, from classics like A Christmas Carol and How The Grinch Stole Christmas to modern novels with brightly colored covers sat atop a blanket of fake snow and mingled with little decorative log cabins, plastic pine trees, and even a ski lift. Soft yellow twinkle lights gave the charming display a cozy, small-town feel, and the whole effect was that of a little village in the mountains offering winter books galore for enjoyment. No, Philippa definitely couldn’t have planned and executed that display by herself. 

Nobody was at the front desk when Rowan walked in, the bells on the front door jingling behind him. He headed straight for the section where Sellene had told him the book she wanted was, located the title, and plucked it off the shelf. And grimaced. It wasn’t ugly or obnoxious, but the words Holistic Herbal Healing for Beginners were lettered in large, decorative script on the cover. There would be no doubt what the book was. He muffled a sigh and walked back to the desk, hoping Philippa wouldn’t tease him too much about the damn book. The desk was still unattended, so he rang the little bell. 

There was a rustle of papers from the office in the back, and a moment later–

“You’re not Philippa.” Before the words were fully out of his mouth, Rowan knew how stupid they sounded. 

Aelin pressed her lips together, her characteristic sign of holding back laughter. “Sorry to disappoint.” She glanced at the book in his hand, and an irrepressible grin tugged at the corners of her lips despite her valiant effort to stifle it. “Getting into alternative medicine, hmm?” 

“I–it’s not–huh?” Rowan’s brain finally caught up with the fact that Aelin had made a joke. 

“It’s for Sellene, isn’t it?” She tapped the tablet in her hand. 

“Yeah.” He passed her the book. “She’s had me running errands all over creation for hours. Had to drive all the way to Rifthold to find a fuckin’ stand for the tree.” Aelin scanned the book’s barcode, a small smirk curving her full, plush lips. Lips that Rowan still dreamed of tasting three years later. Pull it together, idiot! “This is the last thing on her list.” 

“I didn't think she was into holistic herbal healing,” Aelin drawled. She glanced at the total. “That’ll be $12.99. Cash or card?” 

How about I take you on a date instead? For some inexplicable reason, those were the first words on Rowan’s tongue. “Card.” Aelin nodded and slid a card reader across the desk. He tapped his credit card and the little reader flashed green. 

“Thanks for coming to Orynth Shelves!” She handed him the receipt and gave him her brightest customer service smile. 

He blinked. “Wait…are you actually working here?” 

“Temporarily, yes.” She knew him too well–anyone else would have bristled at his question, thinking it offensive. “Since I’m home through New Year’s.” Unless he was seeing things (which was a very real possibility, considering that ninety-five percent of him still ached with love for Aelin Ashryver Galathynius), he could have sworn there was something deeper than exhaustion hiding beneath the smile and the paper-thin veneer of cheerful humor. 

“Does that…you’re not alone, are you?” 

“No.” She paused. “I’m with Dad, and Aedion decided he was going to crash at our house, so he’s there too.” 

“Typical Aedion.” 

“Yeah.” She cast him a glance that, as always, saw more than anyone else ever saw. “What about you? House full of wild children?” 

“And adults,” he added with a wry grin. 

She huffed a soft laugh. “No wonder you got the shopping list.” 

“Should I be offended that you think I’m always the designated shopper?” 

“Of course not. I know you too we–I know how you are with chaos.” 

The words she hadn’t completely said trickled into the frozen corners of his heart, filling him with some kind of warmth. I know you too well. “I know you do.” He hadn’t meant to say it like that, in that soft, low voice he only ever used with her. 

Raw longing flashed across her face, quickly muffled by blank, controlled politeness. “Thanks for visiting Orynth Shelves,” she repeated, this time in a whisper that cracked on the last word. 

“Aelin,” Rowan breathed, feeling his pounding heart spill into his expression, “I want to see you again.” Because he did. 

Three years without her was three years too long.

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” she returned, conflicted. 

He tucked the book under his arm and braced his hands flat atop the desk. “Since when have we done what other people think is the best idea?” 

A single tear glittered in the corner of her left eye. “I’m going back to New York in less than a month, Rowan. I…even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t deserve to see you.” 

The words stabbed him right through the heart. “Whoever told you that was spewing bullshit,” he said, his voice soft but firm with conviction. 

She smashed her lips into a flat, tight line, keeping her composure from crumbling. “I…why?” The question just about broke her chest in half. “Why would you want to see me after what I did?” 

“Because I lo–loved you.” It took all of his restraint to keep his hands where they were and not place his fingertips to her fallen face and lift her chin up. “Because you’re still the better half of my heart, and nobody will ever change that.” 

“Ro,” she breathed, shakily. She lifted her eyes to his, and the depth of the grief in her gaze paired with that familiar nickname threatened to break him in two. “I’m…not sure.” 

“I’m sure.” Damn his restraint to hell. He reached across the desk and, tentatively, placed his hand atop hers, the barest possible slice of contact. “Please, Ae.” 

She drew in and released a deep, uneven breath. “Okay.” Beneath his hand, she turned hers over and flattened her palm against his. “When are you free?” 

~

The Stone Castle, a restaurant in downtown Orynth that had been owned by Emrys since as long as Aelin could remember, was as warm, welcoming, and bustling as ever when she walked in the front doors on Friday evening. She’d worked there for a couple of years when she was in high school, and the place still felt the same. 

“Miss Galathynius, as I live and breathe!” Emrys himself appeared from gods-knew-where and shook Aelin's hand warmly, his smile creasing his cheeks. “It’s been too long since you were home.” 

“It really has.” She grinned at the jovial older man who cooked the best food in fifty miles. “New York can never compare.” 

“You flatter me,” he chuckled. “Now don’t tell me–are you meeting a certain Mr. Whitethorn tonight?” 

Her silence and rising blush was an answer in itself. 

Emrys beamed. “You know where to find him, then.” 

“You meddle far too much,” she teased, laughing wryly. “Thanks, Emrys.” 

He winked. “Have a lovely evening, my dear.” 

“I’ll do my best.” Aelin shed her heavy winter coat, hung it neatly on a peg in the coat room, adjusted her purse on her shoulder, and walked towards the back of the restaurant with her heartbeat suddenly hammering twice as fast and nervous questions clogging her mind. Should she have agreed to this–was it too soon? Was it too much? Would it be wrong to back out now? 

“Hey.” As if he could sense her, Rowan was suddenly in front of her, steadying her with one large, warm hand on her upper arm. “You look gorgeous, Ae.” 

A small smile curved her lips. “Thanks.” She linked her hand in his and let him lead her back to their table, the same booth they sat in every time they came to Emrys’s restaurant. “You clean up pretty well too, Rowan.” 

He cracked a grin. “Would I sound desperate if I said I’ve missed you?” 

A tiny corner of her iced-over heart melted. “Not at all.” Her grin turned softer. “I missed you too.” More than I’m ready to admit, she added, mentally. 

Neither one of them needed to look at a menu, so a brief silence fell over their little booth before Rowan exhaled shakily and the question tumbled out of his lips. “Why, Ae?” 

Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes at the way his simple, plaintive question sliced right through all the walls she’d built around her heart. “I…” Something she didn’t know how to name stopped her before she could rattle off her usual spiel about it wasn’t working anymore. “I let myself think too much,” she finally admitted, voice hoarse. 

“Fireheart,” Rowan breathed, reaching instinctively for her hands but stopping himself–gods, the man had always been too perceptive. 

Aelin linked her fingers with his, grounding herself in the solid, reassuring warmth of his rough palms. “On the drive home that day, I…my mother called, and she was…you know how Evalin could be sometimes.” 

“Indeed.” His thumbs stroked idly over her knuckles. “So, she called you?” 

“She didn’t try to hide her displeasure that I planned to stop at your house first,” Aelin murmured. “She…she was always finding some fault to pick at, some flaw to criticize, and I should have said I was farther away so she wouldn’t get on my ass about seeing you but I wasn’t thinking because I was so godsdamned happy to see you again so I just said I was going to your house, and then she told me I didn’t care about my own family and it just–” The sob she’d been strangling broke free, escaping as the first tear slipped down her cheek. 

“I’m so sorry, Ae,” Rowan whispered. Gently, he reached up and caught her tears, brushing the salty crystal drops away from her cheeks. “You never should have had to go through that.” 

“I let her get in my head,” she croaked. “I let her disapproval control me.” 

He slipped around to her side of the booth, hesitantly offering to hold her. “She was never pleased with anything, was she, love?” 

Aelin tucked herself into Rowan’s side, half in his lap, and pressed her face into his shoulder, an old familiar position in which he’d held her so many times before. “Never.” 

The heat of her silent tears seeped into his sweater, but he didn’t give two shits about the clothing. He’d sacrifice his entire wardrobe if it meant holding her in his arms like this. 

“I’m so sorry, Ro,” she murmured, raising her head to meet his open gaze, her turquoise eyes shrouded with tears. “I ruined everything–gods, I was so shallow, you probably still hate me for it.” 

His heart cracked at the wavering insecurity hiding behind her words. “I have never hated you, Ae. Never.” He swept a stray tear from her cheek. “You shattered me when you drove past, yeah, but even that could never make me stop loving you.” 

Breathless, she blinked, stunned to her core by his words. “You…what?”

“I love you, Aelin Galathynius.” His thumb traced her jawline. “To whatever end, right?” 

“How?” she choked out, curling her fingers into his sweater like she was afraid this was all some kind of dream. “I broke us apart, Rowan.” 

“And you’re putting us back together as we speak,” he said. 

The pure conviction in his voice, and the love she’d always had from him but had been too protective of her heart to fully feel, seeped through the cracks in her armor and filled her depleted heart with warmth. “Are you sure?” 

“With you? Always.” 

She sniffled. “You’ve always been too good to me, love.” 

“Impossible.” For the first time in three long years, he tipped up her chin and touched a whisper of a kiss to her lips. “Nothing can ever be too good for you, love.”

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[gingerwerk]

Perhaps… I Have found a fic title after all…

[itsonlydana]

"Flower On My Skin" | hobbit

pairing: Thranduil x human fem!reader 👑

Thranduil gets his hair braided and thinks too much.

warnings/tags: bittersweet, more fluff tho, swf, King Thranduil needs a break

words: 1,9k

an: this is a gift for the lovely @tigereyesf who always comments on my posts on ao3 🤍 the lyrics are from Noah Kahans song "Your needs, my needs'

+ masterlist +

🌿 reposts and comments are appreciated, they motivate me a lot and keep me writing <3

Thranduil understands that permitting you to be near him might not be wise. It could very well rank among the least advisable decisions he's made in ages.

But he did, he invited you again and again, sending horses and carriages to transport you ever since he found out you traveled all the way from Dale by yourself whenever he sent a letter.

Until he didn't need to anymore.

Not because you wouldn't come, but because you didn't leave.

Never in a million years would anyone have guessed that the stoic Elvenking would invite a human to his palace on more occasions than his own kind and surely no one would have ever thought that he would start courting them.

Yet here he was, sitting in one of his many blooming gardens, swatting away the hand that was currently trying to gather his hair.

"Stop this," Thranduil's stern voice would've had any other shiver in fear of losing their head, though it only makes you giggle.

"Please, let me braid it again," you stable yourself with your hands on his shoulders and lean over, chest pressed against his strong back.

"No, you little nuisance. I shall not! You know of the meeting I will attend later, we do not have the time."

Even though he can't see your face, he knows you roll your eyes at him, he can feel it in the huff you let out before letting go of him. The warmth of your body disappears as you stand up from the bench and throw one challenging look over your shoulder.

Thranduil watches how you lift the skirts of the gown you're wearing, the finest of silks that you've adorned with little handmade bows from the village, and flop down into the grass. There is not one care on your face that the hems will surely stain and that there are perfectly suitable marmor benches all over the garden and only one of those occupied by Thranduil himself.

You seem to ignore them every time you two spend time out here, he noticed you are much more content with your naked feet buried in the high grass and your hair intertwined with the flowers that grow here.

At first, he couldn't understand the fascination you harbored with nature.

Of course, he had a deep appreciation for the forest surrounding his kingdom, the strong resistance of the trees had been an inspiration for the winding halls, the water flowing through the roots and gifting life and the ever so steady wind reminded someone who lived a thousand years that some things, though they change, never completely disappear.

You, on the other hand, could not be separated from nature in any way whatsoever. There had been the flowers, first only on your side of the bed when he'd invited you to sleep next to him, and one day he woke up to find a vase filled with Astilbe flowers on his nightstand and on his vanity as well.

You also spend most of your day either wandering through the woods (which left him restless and worried until you accepted the sword he had his blacksmith forge for you) or meeting him here in the gardens. He would never tell you but before you, he hadn't walked or maker-forbid, sat there for decades.

Now, he found himself soaking sunshine more days than not, reading Elvish poetry to you while you rested curled into his side with one of his hands brushing your hair, or, chasing you on his Elk through the forest, following the sound of your horse and your laughter.

Your infatuation with nature and the stubbornness of pulling him along made him fall for you, deeply and most ardently and he knew that one day he would need to survive the sight of forests and gardens and flowers without the urge to burn them to the ground for outliving you.

As he watches you examine the colorful flowers and gather them in your lap, he isn't sure if he will be able to contain that anger against the gods if the time comes.

You are oblivious to the dark clouds hanging onto his thoughts, he makes sure that you'll never see the heartbreak he lives through while loving you because he knows, he knows that you would do everything in your power to make him happy.

This is who you are, a human that lives and loves and pours all that you are into those around you, he sees it in the gentleness of your hands cupping the flowers before plucking them, in the way your tongue learned a new language for you wouldn't accept not studying it for an answer if you lived here.

You live to love and love to live.

Thranduil shifts, forgetting that there are guards stationed around the gardens who could see their King doing the unthinkable but he doesn't care.

Not with you sitting a few feet away from him, your dress spilled around you, a full smile on your face as you collect the flowers growing there for you, their little heads turning to you as if you are the sun for them as well, and not just for Thranduil.

If you notice him standing up, you give no sign, you don't even stop humming, and the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth at this stubbornness is far too strong to stop it.

"Melethril nîn," he says quietly and his shadow falls over your body. The symbolism and fear of him taking away the sun from you has him clench his jaw. His pain is impatient as if it doesn't know he's going to live longer than he wants to and that it has all the time to break him down.

He quickly shuts those thoughts away behind the sight of you tipping your head back to smirk at him.

This is not the time to dwell on the future, not if he can exist in the moments he shares with you instead of fearing the time when he'll have to think back on them.

"Don't tell me you missed me," you tease.

He scoffs and –surprising you enough to let out a squeak– lowers himself onto his knees next to you.

Eye to eye, he feels much more comfortable, despite the stains that he knows now graze his robes.

"You know," he starts and lets his gaze wander over the flowers in your lap, however, you managed to collect this many of them in such a short time awes him, "the meeting can wait."

You catch onto the meaning instantly, your eyes lightening up even more. The golden rays of the setting sun reflect in them and he reaches forward to cup your face in the palm of his hand and gently leans towards you, capturing your lips in a long kiss that has you gasping.

"Now," Thranduil swipes his thumb over your lower lip, as you separate, tugging playfully at it and giving into another kiss before he continues, "Have your way with my hair, my love. I know you did not collect those flowers for any other reason."

You gasp ingeniously. "You are by far the wisest Elf I've ever met," you say and scoot –maker, he makes a note to get another dress just like this made because surely this will be ruined by the time you leave the gardens– behind his back.

While you gather his hair in your hands, this time without him trying to stop you but relaxing into the soft tugging, you mumble: "So wise, they should make you King."

He chuckles at that. "Ah, but I would need a Queen by my side. Do you know where one could find on–ahhh," his teasing words get swallowed by a sigh as your fingers collect some fine hairs on the side of his head and surely completely on accident run over the shell of his ear to the delicate tip.

"Ooops," you sing and just as his body calms, you repeat the action, even have the gall to scratch the skin with your nails and he melts into a puddle.

His ears burn, not just the one your breath hits but the other one as well and he can feel the blood shoot into his face as well, crumbling the stoic and straight-laced composure of the King who is already on his knees.

"You witch," he presses out between his clenched teeth and hears you giggle. "I should have never told you about that," he murmurs more to himself, trying to regulate his heart beating inside his chest like a wild rabbit on the loose.

You laugh once, a "Pah!" while you tug on his hair, "You didn't tell me," you say and he feels something get pushed inside the braid you are working on, "I found out all by myself."

Thinking back to the night that started this completely outrageous behavior trait of you fiddling with his ears whenever he doesn't pay you enough attention or he says something that teases you a bit too much, he can't tell if you are right or him.

A few years ago he would have shut you down completely because the King would never be wrong but now he grumbles under his breath, agreeing that you must be correct.

Then again, there are many new things that you brought into his life.

He laughs more freely, and not just out of spite of viciously.

He cares more, for you, for his son, for nature and sometimes even for the dwarfs he trades with.

He is formed by you, shaped by your untamable ways of never letting a rainy day ruin your mood.

He is nothing but wax in your hands.

Here, sitting in the gardens and letting you weave flowers in his precious hair, he is no King, he is just a soul yearning for your touch, a flower reaching to bloom in your golden light.

Thranduil's eyes flutter shut as you braid and weave and run your hands over his scalp and through his hair.

He may have fallen asleep, lulled into a trance by the warm sun caressing his face and your voice humming a melody as sweet as any words that you speak, because when you let go of the delicate braids and let them fall into the rest of his hair, he opens his eyes to a pink and purple sunset.

The birds sing their last song and the trees rustle, shaking their branches and leaves as if they would ready themselves for the animals coming to rest in them.

There is a pleasantly chilled breeze that comes with nightfall, one that brings the smell of flowers and grass.

"There," you press a gentle kiss to the skin right behind his left ear, "all done."

For a moment Thranduil is disappointed that you are finished but then he turns to find your smile and all is right.

"Thank you, meldanya," he says, already closing in to express his gratitude with a soft kiss.

You nudge your nose against his, eyes shut in contentment. "Thank you, for letting me. Le ni meleth," you say quietly.

"Always," Thranduil's gaze wanders over you, bathed in rosé and golden hues, the cheeks flushed from the air, your hair wild and untamed, and flowers all over your lap. He grabs a few of them, inspecting the stems and probing them with his sharp nails.

"Let me repay the favor," he effortlessly lifts you, smiling wide at the laugh bursting out of you as he sets you between his legs and onto his robes.

"I want my Queen to wear a fitting crown."

[railingsofsorrow]

call your mom

[spencer reid x reader]

SONG INSPIRATION » CALL YOUR MOM by noah kahan  

summary: you're tired of seeing spencer reid struggling on his own and decides to take matters into your own hands: by taking him into a late-night drive through virginia  

pairing: spencer reid x f!bau!reader

w.c: 2.1K

warnings/content: exes to lovers trope (they're best friends); grief (implied); depression symptoms; isolation; spencer needs a hug; hurt/comfort; long hair is mentioned (the best spencer era shut up)

A/N: this is from the same universe of late-night talking but can be read as a standalone. it's my birthday and I used it as an excuse to post this cause I just finished it.

navi

masterpost

criminal minds masterlist

━━━━━━━━━ 

“oh you're spiralin' again,

the moment right before it ends,

you're most afraid of.”

━━━━━━━━━ 

You knock twice, unsure. It is past 9 in the evening and you don't know how this would not bother anybody. But you think about the reason why you're in front of his door and you knock three more times, strong, certain knocks. You need to see him, that's final. 

The door opens to reveal a messy haired Spencer with his work clothes still on and crumpled, showing you he was probably laying down on the couch about to fall asleep or having trouble doing so.  

“Did I wake you?” Your face twitches into a grimace as guilt overtakes your body. 

"No," Spencer's knitted brows tell you he's confused why you're there in the middle of the night. Concern soon takes over. "Are you okay? Did something happen?" 

You are quick to brush him off. "Nothing happened. I came to pick you up." 

"Pick me up...?" 

You nod, crossing your arms. "This is an intervention. We're going out for a drive." 

His shoulders sag, and he shakes his head. You recognize the familiarity of Spencer's ability to shut people down, but he can't do that to you. Not tonight. 

"I'm fine." 

"No, you're not."  

You also know he's not going to shut the door on your face. You bite your cheek, taking one step closer.  

"You're not taking no for an answer, are you?" 

"Sorry." But you're not, really.  

He meets you downstairs, you're resting against your car, staring at the night sky as the night breeze tickles your bare arms. Something soft and warm covers you up and you glance down in surprise. He's silently adjusting the cardigan around your shoulders and you don't have the heart to tell him you did bring a coat and it's in your backseat, but you feel comfortable with the smell of books and coffee in the fabric so you stay quiet.  

"Where are we going," He deadpans, shutting the door with a sigh as he enters the passenger seat.  

"We're driving. No final location." 

No complaints come from him before you turn the car on, so you take that as a good sign and start  driving.  

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“stayed on the line with you the entire night

'till you let it out and let it in.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The satisfaction of driving through the city late at night comes from the fact that there are no cars honking repeatedly and in a rush to get somewhere. Things are slightly less hectic in traffic after rush hour.  

You drive slowly through Powells Creek Bridge, stealing a glance beside you to see him tilting his head to watch the Potomac River.  

You wait.  

And wait.  

Until, finally. . . 

“Did you know that the Potomac River is approximately 405 miles long, which makes it the fourth largest river on the Atlantic coast? It flows through the Appalachian Mountains and it serves as a natural border between Maryland and Virginia.” 

You bit your lip to prevent yourself from grinning.  

It feels like a breath of fresh air to hear him ramble about something after the tense silence he chose instead this entire week. 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” Spencer is staring at the view outside as your drive, you observe when you stop on red sign. His jaw has a stubble, revealing he hasn't shaved in a while. The way his hair moves to fall off behind his ear and he tucked it every time makes he seem angelic almost. Not almost. He's beautiful.  

You caught the hair tie on his left wrist before you start driving again. 

“Have you ever used it?” 

It was a simple plain purple hair tie. You bought a bunch for him when his hair used to be longer and he would get annoyed when his strands fell on his eyes as he read. When you saw purple hair ties in the place you usually get your hair products, you immediately thought of him, even if you didn't know if he would use it. 

You've never actually seen him use them at work, but he wore them on his wrists religiously and he'd give one to you when you needed it. 

“Used what?” He stopped gazing out into the road to look at you confused.  

“The hair ties.” 

His eyes fell to his wrist. “Oh.” A beat. “Yes, I use it.” 

“You do?” You ask, a tinge of surprise in your tone. “I don't think I've ever seen you wearing it.”  

Spencer huffs out a laugh. “I won't wear it at work. I do at home, though.”  

“Bet you'd look good with your hair tied up.”  

Silence.  

Sometimes you can't control what you say and things come out without you thinking twice about it. This time, though, you should've thought twice. 

“You think so?” Spencer asks, voice small, barely audible if everything wasn't so silence.  

“Sure.”  

“I like it, it helps when I don't want it sticking to my face.” 

“Yeah, they're useful.” 

You feel his stare and your cheeks burn a little with the attention. You turn on an avenue.

“I like wearing them because you gave it to me.” Do you know what I'm saying? He thinks, tongue itching to clarify what he meant I wear it around my wrist because it's a piece of you I have with me all the time. It comforts me. Like now.  

“Because I gave them to you?” You repeat like a stupid person.  

Spencer keeps his eyes on you for a moment before returning to stare at the view outside. His eyes fall shut as the wind enters through the space left open of the car window. It tickled his nose and he smiled a little. 

Grief can creep up on you without warning. In a moment, you're okay, going about your routine as always. Then, you're buried in your couch, with a book close to your chest in a foolish attempt to feel the warmth of someone who's no longer there.  

━━━━━━━━━ 

“he's greatest fears and wringing hands and the loudest silence.”

━━━━━━━━━ 

No warning. Like a slap on your cheek. 

It's funny because Spencer has always dealt with everything by shutting people out. In his childhood, he didn't had a lot of people so he didn't worry about that. But today, surrounded by what he calls family that he met through the FBI, it's harder to do that.  

It's familiar to isolate himself. To just lie and say I'm fine, because he's done it all his life so why change now? Because he has people now.  

He has you.  

Does he deserve it? No. Does he have the strength to shut you out completely? Also no. He may ignore calls and texts from the rest of his team, but you? Spencer doesn't have the heart to do that. He sends a text back, a dot, just to prove his alive but not ready to face the world. 

And then you show up at his place, carrying nothing but your strong-willed persona, inviting him out to drive with no destination in sight.  

Intervention. Could he call it that?  

━━━━━━━━━ 

“medicate, meditate, swear your soul to jesus

throw a punch, fall in love, give yourself a reason

don't wanna drive another mile wonderin' if you're breathing.”

━━━━━━━━━

Spencer doesn't care, really. He admits silently that he feels somewhat better that you're there. Close to him. He feels less empty. 

“Stay with me, Spence.” 

He looks at you, gaze falling to his cardigan around your shoulders. Back when you were together, you used to steal it to wear it on every jet ride even if you had a jumper on your go-bag. Spencer never complained or asked for explanations, the fabric would smell like you afterwards, so it was a win-win situation.  

“I'm here,” he said. “It's not like I want to put myself in the ER by stepping out of the vehicle while you're driving.” 

Your lips twitch in amusement. 

“You looked far away just now.” 

“You notice too much.” 

“You think so?” 

“Yes.” 

You leaned back against the seat, letting out a sigh that told him you would say something serious. Something he should pay attention to, that he should listen. He always listens to you. 

“I care about you.” 

“I care about you too.” 

“Yes well,” Delilah turns the car in a street to park it. Everything was so empty but they are not about to get murdered in the dark because they're federal agents and federal agents do not get killed in the dark in an empty park. “you seem to forget that I care sometimes and you worry me.” 

His brows twitch with guilt.  

“Sorry.” 

“I already forgave you when you got out of your apartment.” 

Spencer looks at you, gaze traveling across your face. The streetlights reflecting across your features remind him of a painting. He's glad he's got an eidetic memory to never forget that image. 

━━━━━━━━━ 

“don't let this darkness fool you

all lights turned off, can be turned on

i'll drive, i'll drive all night

i'll call your mom.”

━━━━━━━━━

“You didn't have to do that,” Spencer says, staring at your hand on your lap, he stops himself from reaching out. “I just needed some space. Some... silence.” 

“Yeah, but your silence is deafening and I missed you.” She offers him a small smile and Spencer notices they have stopped. The car was parked around an empty area.  

It's around three in the morning, understandably so, no one is around.  

“You missed me?” 

“I lost to Emily in chess, I need to upgrade my abilities and you're the teacher for that.” 

That got a chuckle out of him and you feel satisfaction course through your body. The display of emotion just now, even though small, was way better than the apathetic person she saw one hour back at his door. If it means she gets to make him feel a little bit better, driving a whole hour at night is worth it. Or twenty hours straight.  

Your conversation enters a steady rhythm. About the past week. About traffic. About the weather. Anything. You were just happy he is talking. Spencer's voice is addictive and if you didn't have him rambling about statistics or mathematical facts during a case, it wasn't the same.  

"I have to confess something." You announce, laughter dying out. 

Spencer raises a brow at you, folding one of his legs under the other before turning his body to face you by leaning against the door.  

"You do?" 

"It's not a work gossip, don't act too excited." 

His lips tug upwards in amusement. "Do I need to hide a body or something?" 

"Don't worry, you'll be the first to know if I commit a crime," you say, twisting your body to grab something from your backseat. "I had that for a few weeks, but I guess this is the right time to give you."  

Spencer is expecting the cardigan he caught a glimpse of a few minutes before but instead, he finds a book in your hands.  

"A book recommendation."  

He takes it from your hands with a lazy smile on his face. "We haven't done that in a while." 

"Yeah." 

He says your name, studying the book with a pensive look on his features. "Thank you for bringing me here today." He looks up from the hardcover to meet your soft gaze staring back at him. "You got me to get up so... thank you." 

You nudge his feet with your own. "Don't thank me. Like I said before, I need to improve my chess abilities."  

We never played chess, we just talked. He thought while hugging the book to his chest. He would start reading it as soon as he got home. 

One of his hand raise up to touch yours and you let him play with the rings in your fingers. He said once the cold metal against his skin was soothing. 

“Spencer,” your voice is gentle but serious. “You know I'd drive all night if it means I get to see you okay.” 

━━━━━━━━━ 

“oh, dear don't be discouraged

i've been exactly where you are.”

━━━━━━━━━

“You don't have to.” 

“I want to.” 

“I know.” 

And some of the heavy burden that had been laid upon his shoulders seems to let go for the time being. His eyes don't look so grey and his forehead momentarily forgot the permanent frown. 

Spencer feels like breathing fresh air.  

So he'll allow himself to be a little selfish and hold onto your company for longer.  

“Do you want to play chess?” He can't help the grin stretching out his lips when he notices your surprise. Excitement takes place. 

“Yes—I mean, that's the only reason I came to see you.” 

“Right,” he nods as if it's obvious. “Of course.” 

“I didn't miss you at all, I really need to get back at Emily. She never won against me!” 

Spencer leans back, watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes, hands itching to touch yours and never letting go. Your voice is the best remedy he could ever ask for.  

“If you say so.”  

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“i'll drive, i'll drive all (night) night

i'll call your mom.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

taglist: @lilyviolets  ; @whore-for-spencer-reid ; @yeonalie ; @ninkieminjaj ; @hoeshissworld ; @r-3dlips ; @pleasantwitchgarden