#no man this evil should be wrapped up in a casing that looks this sweet and innocent

[reidrum]

good night moon | s.r

A/N: hi again ! this one is deeply self indulgent i fear but who cares i hope you like it as much as i do <3 ps let me know what kinda fics i should write next !!

cw: spencer reid x bau!reader, cm type violence, reader is afab but this only is referred to when mentioning reader is a daughter, sad thoughts, hurt/comfort, talks about nightmares, spencer just wants to take care you gdm it why won’t you let him

wc: 2.4k

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trudging up the stairs of the bullpen, you tried your best to use whatever sense you had left to beeline to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee. thank god the bau had minimal reflective surfaces because you’re sure you look like the evil old lady from snow white. that was just, your opinion of course. to everyone else you looked fine.

fine was so subjective. what did these fuckers know about being fine? they weren’t the ones on the mission. they don’t know what you saw, how you did nothing, how you couldn’t do anything.

“FBI hands up!” you yell holding your gun and flashlight at the unsub. he’s holding the victim at knifepoint, a twelve year old girl who reminded you too much of yourself.

this unsub’s MO was kidnapping eldest daughters of families that had sons as well, because he believed the son should be the eldest child with the most responsibility and that the daughters were only there to create more babies. the team had deduced that he was the youngest child to an older sister who he felt had too much control over him, combined with his fascination with the perfect nuclear family, it slowly turned him into a sociopathic killer.

“come any closer and i’ll slit her throat!” the unsub bellowed, getting dangerously close to her carotid artery.

“you don’t wanna do that, man,” derek says behind you, “just put the knife down and we can talk.”

“there’s nothing left to talk anymore! i’m already going to prison. there’s no point.”

you called out the unsub’s name, “i know how you’re feeling, i have a younger brother too and he feels the same way you do sometimes. what your sister did to you was not okay, but not all sisters are like that. we just want to care for our family. let them have the chance to be the big sister you wished for.”

the unsub seemed to contemplate your words for a minute, then looks up at you with eyes devoid of any light, “then this one is dedicated to you, agent.” and he drags the knife across her neck leaving waterfalls of blood coming out.

you’re not really sure what happened next. a gun went off, presumably derek’s, to kill the unsub. and then it was you screaming as you rushed to the young girl to try and stop her bleeding, but it was no use. the cut was deep enough to nick that damn carotid and all you could do was hold her in her last moments.

“te- tell my family i love them, and that i’m sorry.” the young girl spurts out so softly you almost didn’t hear it.

“no sweet girl, don’t be sorry,” you say through hiccuped cries, “i’m sorry i couldn’t save you.”

the last thing you remember was feeling strong hands carrying you out of the building. you couldn’t hear much, the sound of your wails pretty much masked anything in a five mile radius. you could taste the iron lingering in your mouth from biting your lip too hard and desperately collecting the salty tears and sweat trickling down your face. at first you smelled smoke and dust, most likely from being in the cave where the unsub was. but as you were being dragged away from the crime scene you were influxxed with a musky scent, and a hint of vanilla with that fresh laundry smell. spencer. the last thing you see are his worried little brown eyes staring down at you before everything goes dark.

that was monday. it is now thursday. the case had wrapped up, the unsub was dead the families were notified and now you all were in the office doing your paperwork for the case.

and all of you were doing fine, right? everyone else had already coped and processed the case, already stepping back into their normal life routines. but you, you couldn’t have it that easy, but god you wish you did.

since that day, you’d been holing up in your apartment with all the lights turned on. you sat in your living room, eating a bowl of fruit loops and watching bluey, because listen it’s a great show and we should acknowledge it. you cry out loud seeing bluey care for her little sister bingo, and it brings you back to that dusty cave and the bloodied hands.

you could feel sleep creeping up on you, yet you subconsciously found a way to push bedtime by doing menial tasks like cleaning, extra long skincare, watching a movie. when you ran out of things to do, you entered your room and just stared at your bed. how were you supposed to admit to yourself that the horror isn’t in the movie you just watched where the creepy demons kill everyone, but it’s what is waiting for you behind closed eyelids.

so the only logical solution was to just, not sleep. you whipped out every trick in the book to stay awake for as long as you could— energy drinks, coffee, splashing cold water, anything so you wouldn’t have to reface your plagued memories.

spencer observed you from a distance. he watched as you got coffee a whopping three times before 10am, you picking at your skin, not to mention the bags growing under your eyes. it was then he formed a hypothesis, he was a scientist after all. that you simply were not sleeping because of the case. it was much less a hypothesis and more of a fact because he knew exactly what it was upon first sight of you, hell he invented the sleep avoidance look.

and as the inventor it meant he knew the feeling more intimately than he would like to admit. spencer knew what it felt like to be debilitated by the confines of your brain, holding onto shreds of memories you know are not worth remembering but have somehow marked their territory anyway. and everyone coped differently, for spencer he isolated himself for days and then threw himself into work. for you? well, that was the next part of spencer’s experiment.

spencer approaches you in the kitchen as you’re pouring your fourth cup before noon, “hi.”

“hi.”

“how are you? feels like we haven’t talked in a bit.”

“i’m good, sorry i’ve just been. busy.”

spencer frowned internally, he knew you weren’t doing a single thing but working at the office. “are you okay? do you want to talk about last week?”

you cut him off abruptly and start walking out, “i really have to finish these reports spence, talk to you later.”

spencer knew better, he should give you space to cope by yourself. you were an adult, you can take care of yourself. but you shouldn’t have to, he thinks. spencer still tells himself he knows better as he’s waiting on your doorstep that night, about to the rapp the door.

after a minute of no answer he knocks again this time calling your name through the door, “will you let me in please? i want to show you something.”

still nothing. he continues, “i know what you’re feeling, and i want to help, please.”

he almost gives up and turns around when he hears the turn of a lock and slight creek of the door opening to see you in all your beautiful glory.

now you, you were definitely a sight for sore eyes. avengers pj shorts with a baggy uni t shirt, hair flying in any direction, and a look that spencer could only describe as grief. but god if you weren’t the most beautiful human he’d seen in his life, he’d be lying.

you were coming up on day 3? or was it 4? of no sleep. it’s not like you were not sleeping at all you took little 30 minute naps each day, enough to get you some shut eye but not enough to make it your rem stage of sleep.

spencer speaks again, “can i come in?” you nod silently and open the door wider for him to step in. he removes his shoes and it’s then you notice a big ole tote bag he’s lugging to your living room.

“what’s in the bag?”

“ah, come sit. i brought magical things.” he smiles playfully.

you shuffle over to sit a seat’s cushion away from him and watch as he starts pulling item by item from his mary poppins bag.

candles, essential oils, books, but specifically romance novels with the silly cartoon covers that he swears aren’t real books but you argue with him until he concedes, melatonin gummies, pillow sleep spray, and one more item that he’s holding onto for what seems to be dramatic effect. you’re not amused.

“and the piece de resistance,” he presents the last item, and you look confused for a second, until you recognize the item in front of you and immediately start tearing up. in his hands is a grogu weighted stuffed animal that he holds out for you to take. “i know you’re not sleeping. it happened to me when, you know. i figured it would be helpful if you had someone who could empathize how you’re feeling. and because you’re my best friend and i care about you.”

your bottom lip trembles, and you feel the ice block you’ve kept yourself in this past week start to melt uncontrollably. “spence…” you breathe out so quietly. he did all this? for you? doctor spencer reid went out to the store, and bought a grogu stuffed animal for you to cuddle at night to ease your loneliness?

the concept of being taken care of was so foreign to you, as the eldest daughter in your family it was always you taking care of others and making sure everyone was okay. but rarely did anyone check on you, how you were holding up. and you had learned to cope by yourself, to handle the big emotions by yourself, but for once, someone was willing to take all that weight off your shoulders and let you breathe. and god, did it feel so cathartic you could burst out in sobs.

so you did.

“hey,” he says scooting closer to you so he can scoop you into his chest, “was that a lot? penelope said i’d probably overwhelm you but all of the things i brought are scientifically proven sleep additives-“

“no i just, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” you whimper.

spencer’s eyes soften, “you deserve it. what happened last week… was hard. i just wanted to help.”

“thank you,” he hears a muffled response and rubs his hands affectionately down your back, “damn, all this crying is making me so tired.”

“see! the magic of the poppins bag.” he chuckles. you laugh too. spencer thinks all the flowers in a mile radius just bloomed.

“it’s just,” you start out, nuzzling into his chest deeper, “the second i close my eyes and dream, i see her. and how i couldn’t save her. and how the others i couldn’t save either.” you feel your chest seizing up again.

“okay well hey, hey. you did what you were trained to do. any other agent in your position would’ve tried talking him down the way you did. and your personal story gave you an advantage that no one else would’ve had. statistically speaking, you were the best chance at getting through to him. yeah it didn’t work, but it wouldn’t be probability if it always worked,” he cradles your face in his big hands, “we’re all so proud of you, you know. rossi’s waiting for you to be back on your feet so he can host pasta night at his hou- sorry his mansion again.”

spencer looks down at you properly to your tear stained cheeks and brushes your hair back. he sees the pain and tiredness fighting behind your eyes and asks softly, “what do you need right now?”

“i’m tired.” you lament.

“then lets go sleep.”

“i can’t.”

“why not?”

“im scared.”

“well that’s why i brought the stuff silly goose,” he taps your nose, “come on, let’s go set it up.”

spencer brings all the sleep aids to your room and sets them up appropriately, even plugging in your sunrise lamp to help with the ambient lighting. the only thing left to do is for you to get into your bed.

you both stand on opposite sides of your bed, and he’s waiting for you to get in so can tuck you in. you hesitate and look up at him with the same worried eyes he saw all those days ago.

“could you stay for bit?”

“i can stay for some time if you want” you both speak at the same time. you giggle again, spencer thinks an angel got its wings.

thank god he wore sweats and a comfy t shirt he thinks. he slid in under the blanket and holds it open for you to come in, “come on, you’re missing the cuddle party with grogu and i!” you beam widely and finally sink into your bed.

spencer pulls you into his chest, wrapping an arm around your shoulder blade, and the other taking a spot on your hip rubbing soft circles. you lay your head to rest on his chest, right above his beating heart. you try to let the metronomic thumps lull you to sleep, but spencer can still feel your eyelashes fluttering about on his chest. he knows what you’re thinking, because of course he does.

“look at me,” he nudges you, you look up at his eyes again and see nothing but pure love and reassurance as he continues, “you are safe. nothing can hurt you. i promise.”

“are you sure?” you let out meekly,

“i’m sure. it’s okay, go to sleep,” he presses a gentle kiss to the crown of your forehead. “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

you shakily take a deep breath, and close your eyes.

after five minutes of spencer rubbing shapes into your back, he can finally hear the soft snores coming from below. he places another kiss on your head, whispers, “good night angel girl,” and doses off.

you wake up the next morning feeling so rested and relieved you can’t help but give spencer a big hug that wakes him up. spencer thinks he’d be the luckiest man in the universe if he could wake up like this everyday.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 12: cooking/baking together

Masterlist flufftober 🎀

Reblog if you liked it!

Spencer heard a couple of noises in the kitchen that interrupted his sleep and he instinctively reached out to look for you on the other side of the bed, but he felt his breathing hitch when he realized that the place was empty.

If you were only drinking water, as you sometimes used to, there wouldn't be so much sound, so he became alert and searched through his things until he found his revolver. He cautiously left the room and crossed the hallway hoping to run into some lunatic or a thief, but it turned out it was just you in your pajamas attacking the refrigerator.

“Spencer!” you half screamed when you realized his presence. “My God, you scared me… What are you doing with that gun?”

“I thought someone had broken in!” He defended himself “And since I didn't find you I was afraid that something had happened to you.”

“No, everything's okay, love,” you said softly, walking over to where he was to take the gun from him and place it on the shelf. You hated guns and seeing your boyfriend with that in his hand made you nervous, even if it was just for self-defense.

“Are you going to make cookies?” he squealed looking at the dough mixture resting in one bowl and the bag of chocolate chips on the other side. He thought you were just getting a midnight snack, not that you were planning on baking something. “Why?”

“I can't sleep” you exclaimed, showing him a guilty smile from your spot “And I thought you could take them to work tomorrow.”

"Are you okay?" he insisted, approaching you to look at you more carefully “You only bake when something worries you”

“I hate that you know me so much”

“It's my job, baby,” Spencer laughed “What is it?”

“I was only worried about that last case you worked on. You know, that whole thing with the kids… it kept me up a little bit.”

Spencer sighed heavily and shook his head, feeling guilty for causing that to you. He avoided talking about work at all costs when he was at home for one simple reason: he didn't want you to have to deal with all that because he knew how much it affected your sweet heart to know all the evil that existed in people. The man stretched out his hands to embrace you in a hug and kissed your forehead gently, while you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“You have nothing to worry about, beautiful. This was one of the good ones, those kids came home safe and sound.”

“I know, but I can't help but worry. That's why I thought about making cookies, it helps me clear my mind.”

“You’re so sweet,” he laughed, pulling you closer to him in an attempt to make you feel better “Do you want help?”

“No, you don't have to do that. Go to sleep, you need to rest”

“But I want to help you,” he insisted and you ended up accepting, after all he was already awake and having his company would help you feel better.

You continued mixing the dough and asked him to prepare a few other things while you did, which he obediently did. At some point, when things were almost ready, your mischievous hand squeezed his butt and he jumped in his place, turning around with a surprised expression at your outburst.

“Sorry, you just look so handsome cooking,” you laughed, wrapping an arm around his body from behind and watching as he melted some butter on the stove. He thought that if you kept touching him that way, he would be the one who would end up melting “But I think you have something on your face”

"What is it?"

“Huh, it's a little thing…” you started to say, sneaking up until you were in front of him “Right there, look”

Spencer felt your finger smear something creamy right on his lips and that's when he started laughing, followed by the sound of your own laughter.

"Very funny"

“You should clean it, I can help you with pleasure,” you said with exaggerated kindness, while you stood on tiptoe to reach his lips. Your boyfriend resisted for a few seconds just to tease you until he finally gave in and you captured his mouth in a tender kiss.

You didn't want the butter to burn so you reached over to turn off the stove burner, never stopping kissing him. Your tongue ran over his lips to clean as best as possible the chocolate that you had put on it and he sighed audibly, really dizzy from your displays of affection. After a couple of kisses he grabbed your hip and with a skillful movement he turned you until you collided with the counter, where he kissed you slower, but also deeper.

“At this rate we will never finish the cookies,” he laughed against your lips, when you carelessly allowed him to separate.

“So help me knead them. And then we can continue kissing” you carefully pushed him away from you, guiding him to where you had the mixture resting. He took a handful of chocolate chips to put in your mouth and you gladly ate them, ready to make little balls for each cookie.

Between games and laughter, you finished preparing them and once you put them in the oven you kept your promise to kiss him again, ready to kill the waiting time in some way.

The next day Spencer arrived at work completely tired but also with a box full of cookies for everyone and, most importantly, lips deliciously sore from all the kisses he had received the night before.

taglist: @navs-bhat @reidwritings @tricia-shifting14 @spencerslove @vivian-555 @r-3dlips @rhiannonhippiegirl @taygrls @simp4f1 @sdddoobydoobydoo @taintedstranger

[murfpersonalblog]

IWTV S2 Ep7 Musings - Loustat: The Trial (Spoilers)

Imma split my Loustat musings into 3 parts, cuz there's A LOT to unpack. So I'll do the Ep3/4 & Ep5 revisits in the next posts; this is just general/initial Louis & Lestat stuff I wanted to respond to.

They beat the dog snot outta Louis, omg. They nearly snapped his neck! Louis was barely conscious, ofc his memory's spotty.

I LOVE how they're emphasizing the physicality of the Maker-Fledgling bond, first w/ Lou & Madz, now w/ Les. It's ofc all wrapped up in how much Loustat loves e/o, but its also their blood connection thru Amel. (I wonder how Louis Merrick'ing himself in Ep5 affects his connection to Amel if his heart didn't stop, cuz Armand stopped him from burning too much?)

And I love what Jacob said in the Insider, afterwards.

Fear that Lestat's come to exact revenge; excitement (a frisson of both negative & positive emotions, excited to see Les just cuz of the tension of having not seen him in so long, but also having all his nerves & senses tingling cuz of the tense anticipation & not knowing what to expect--hence: fear); fury cuz this whole mess could've been avoided if Les had told them WHY European vampires should be avoided at all costs; and relief cuz Les's' alive, his husband's ok.

But this time Lou KNOWS he's the real deal, cuz he can FEEL it--"it wasn't NOT his hand." And Dream!Stat jumpscare in Dubai, well well well; I thought Lou'd stopped seeing him on that Parisian bench? 👀

Here we effing go, whatever this French bish has to say better be good 🍿🍿🍿

I HATE HIM YOUR HONOR 🤣 Omfg take ONE thing seriously! Not the Roland-Garros, STFU! XD Lestat going off script got the coven like WTF?!

OML 🍿🍿🍿

Well that's not helpful at all--WHICH ONE!?

Les was asleep for the whole 100 years b4 he went to NOLA--but we KNOW this can't be true, cuz Les met Marius after he left Paris❗ SAM (the vamp) has been mouthing the words to this whole script, so I wonder if that's just what Les was TOLD to say, OR! It's what HE told THE COVEN, so they wouldn't know about TWMBK❗❗

NOT LES DOING A PIROUETTE INTO THE EARTH STAHP OMG 😭

THIS GAY QUEEN CAN'T HELP HIMSELF, I CANNOT

Awoke in 1908 & disembarked in humidified daughter of Paris, NOLA--but Les told Lou he was headed for Saint Louis, Missouri. 👀

"And who did you meet there?" DANG this is TENSE--Loustat finally making eye contact for the first time, Les having to see his husband all beat up & sad; as Claudia languishes in the background, as usual.

Not Louis with the cigar 😭

"The ACCUSED," LOL, Santiago had to catch himself--stay dehumanizing the violent evil Black man whydontcha; we see you. And Lestat had to feed him his own lines after derailing everyone with that homophobic soldier's evisceration.

Omg this sounds like every court case b4 they throw the book at a Black man. And the bored unaffected way the white audience just rolls their eyes & shakes their heads & smokes--they DGAF about Lou; they've already decided he ain't ish--A STONING.

LOUIS FACE. This is EXACTLY how folk in the fandom talk about Lou--and it came back with a vengeance during all that Loumand Maitre/Arun crap, as y'all were QUICK to jump on Lou being an evil pimp, even though your fave Daniel literally said that was just kinky roleplay Armand didn't take seriously when ish got REAL.

I thought y'all were just bartering for the "last bouquet of lilies"!?

Oh great, the coven's making Louis look like a perv predator. 🤦‍♀️ And the visual centering of Lou's dastardly mind-control waves like a halo over sweet innocent victim Lestat's blonde head, I CANNOT.

Omfg Louis face, SAME! If this crocodile-crying liar don't take his To Kill A Mockingbird, Central Park Five lookin arse off that stage! 🤬

Omfg Lestat I'm finna kill you myself. Omg this nonsense is too much; I know Lou, speak up, YES! But also, STFU, Les is actually tryna save your life by tearing your reputation to shreds. 😬🤦‍♀️

I loooove this effect when the coven uses the Mind Gift on them. They effed him up so bad his left eye started hemorrhaging. 😭

Armand don't you look away for an INSTANT, don't you even BLINK! You could've prevented this, EFF ALL Y'ALL in this nasty AF Theatre!

This gaslighting is hitting way too close to the way IRL court cases go when the innocent get the book thrown at them for crimes they didn't commit.

This is so painful to watch, but Sam Reid you better werk; the way he was yelling those lines had me shook, oml.

Les knows he's effed up, but what can he do? His eyes are going red; he's gonna cry. (His contacts look different, I thought they said they were gonna stick with purple eyed Les?) "I offered it to him in the church on the altar: My companionship." And Lou nodding along, cuz that was their wedding! 😭💔

I was wondering how these frames would be used. It's about the Ep3 race riots and vampire loneliness, the night Louis left & Claudia was made. But I love the implications, cuz how could humans know ANYTHING about hows vampires feel--which is SO important when they start lying about everything else that went down with how Claudia was made and how it would affect her as a "defective" vamp.

Even the VAMPIRES don't know how other vampires feel, and the capacity they have for enduring--Armand said it over & over to Louis in Ep3 and Madeleine in Ep6. Lestat came closest in S1 when he commented on Claudia's eternally 14-yr old metabolism & needing to eat more than an normal vamp, but beyond that none of them had a effing clue what Claudia was going through. They don't know REAL loneliness, even with her diaries telling them what she thought, not HOW SHE FELT.

(And I'm reminded of what I said here about Gabrielle telling Lestat what her loneliness felt like. I think "vampire loneliness" is different for every vampire; which is precisely why Gab (and Claudia) was able to walk away from her Maker/son & live alone; while Nicky & Louis went crazy.)

Lestat crying blood tears, daaaaang 😥

Kill this dude (but I stan a Loustat ally, LOLOL).

Imma stop here, cuz I've run out of Tumblr's stupid 30-pics per post, and the Ep3/4 revisit that "took all the pieces of Louis life, defiled them, bent them into a Lestat-shaped effigy" is IMO the JUICIEST part, with the most new meat to chew on.

[mistcloack]

About Taennie

I am bothered and nobody should care because it is not my business.

Writing all this here because, somehow, I can't wrap my head around the relationship between V and Miss Jennie. It bothers me and i do not know why.

Is V my bias? Absolutely not. I like to think I am ot7 but, i can't deny it, my eyes will always look for Jimin and the content I always click first on is Yoongi.

Am I a shipper and this broke my delulu bubble? Nope. Well, I am a Jikooker but I never shipped Tae with anyone before. So, that's not it either.

Did I honestly think that I had a chance with V? No, not for a moment have I fantasized myself with any BTS member other than meeting them after a concert and having some seju with them. Besides, I wouldn't trade my husband for any other man. Yup, not even for Yoongi.

Is it because it's the first Bangtan relationship that went public? Well, that is a bit of a shock, I admit, but listen, Army knows that these men aren't virgins. Imagine, just imagine, being a super hot (referring to all of 7 here), super popular, super rich, super talented young man in your twenties. I am mean, yeah. I would pretty much never sleep alone. They never admitted it but of course they aren't virgins.

So, let's see. I am not delusional and i know these men have healthy romantic relationships.

SO WHAT IS IT THAT BOTHERS ME?!

It has to be this specific relationship, right? Let's see. It's not about it being V i have established.

So it is Jennie? Well... I don't know her. Sure I have listened to a few songs of BP, not my vibe. I have seen a few interviews too and i will admit this kind of " I am super shy and a sweet little girl next door" attitude of hers is quite off-putting but A LOT of korean female idols are like this because of the aegyo culture. And don't tell me it's her character, because if it is that's even worse. She is a 27 year old global superstar. She should be breaking boundaries out there instead of giggling when getting a compliment. Remember Rihanna when she was 27? A fucking hurricane and that was a decade ago. I can name many more. Other than that I just don't know her. Maybe she is breaking boundaries and I am talking non sense right now, in which case apologies. She is absolutely gorgeous of course but nothing I have seen so far of hers and of her groups has made me come back for me.

So, it's not Jennie either. Well that leaves me with one alternative, the one i was dreading.

It's my curse in life. I expect a lot out of people and that's because I give a lot myself. Somehow, I expected more from V that going for the princess, the one that's pretty and cute and the photos over the fireplace that look gorgeous and the fairy tale that will never end. It's the cliché of it all. The pretty boy gets the pretty girl, they have pretty babies in a pretty house and they live prettily every after.

I wanted Tae to go for the yoga teacher that struggles to make ends meet. The cab driver girl in Seoul that is breaking gender stereotypes every type she puts her shoes on. The nurse who gets home with bleeding feet, the dancer that needs to get a second job because dancing doesn't pay the bills. The art student, the make up artist, the flight attendant. The phD candidate that tries to cure cancer.

It's not about the money, about Jennie being born filthy rich and through her talent and work getting even richer. It's the cliché. The prince and the princess. I wanted a dragon for Tae. An ugly duckling, the evil witch, the rebellious mermaid, anything other than the shiny princess in the castle.

Because, unlike Jennie, Tae was not born a prince. He had to claw his way to the very top with his hard work, talent and incredible bandmates.

Another thing that bugs me is how the narrative places BP on par with BTS, which is not true. Although undoubtedly the most popular k girl group they are not on the same level as BTS, with that they have accomplished and the obstacles they overcame. Or the art they have produced. Or the work they have put to their art. The whole "the guy from the most famous boy group is in a relationship with the girl from the most famous girl group" is not doing justice neither to Bangtan or V himself.

Tae is distracted but happy. This is all army wants. I wish them all the best and i hope they have a lovely relationship.

My opinion is irrelevant and I hope no one ever reads this. No tags. This was for me.

[luveline]

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

part one | part two | part three 

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Eddie goes home, you’re on tour, and the lines between you both continue to blur.

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining, kisses! tender neck kisses <3, past miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, sexual tension, TW mentioned recreational drug use, drinking, smoking, swearing 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Hawkins, Indiana, December 1990

Eddie listens to his walkman until it runs out of juice. Through the flight from California to Indianapolis, the hours-long bus ride that stops just short of Hawkins, and the final connecting bus on the outskirts. Some metalheads listen to strictly metal, but Eddie likes variety occasionally. Plus, he doesn’t think it’s possible to have ears and not love The Rolling Stones’ Some Girls. 

He has one girl on his mind the entire journey home. He tries not to think about you. He makes himself sick shoving you down into a crevice of his heart, so he admits defeat. His fingers twitch, eager to write about you. He has some lyrics in mind. Evil wretched girl with wicked sweet hands. Heart eater. Soft around the edges. 

He wants to write about your stupid chubby thighs and how they look in skirts. He wants to write about your wrists, your knees and their ever-present bruises. Metaphors for your sickly sweetness won’t stick; cruel becomes kind. Taunting turns teasing. 

It feels like it’s eating him alive, spine first. You’re gnawing on his ribs as he hikes the half a mile from the bus stop into Forest Hills trailer park. He can feel your thumb rubbing makeup off of his cheek as he drags his suitcase up the metal steps to Wayne’s —Eddie��s— front door. 

“Wayne?” he calls. It’s pitch fucking dark. He’s surprised he got all the way here without falling in some ditch. “Could you let me in? It’s freezing.”

He hears stirring from inside. He calls out again in case his uncle changes his mind. “Wayne, it’s me. I’m sorry it’s late. Please don’t leave me out here.”

He’s joking. Wayne would sooner shoot Eddie dead than put him in harm's way. He’s always been that kind of parent, hiding his deep rooted worry underneath a feigned reluctance. Footsteps shuffle and floorboards creak. The door opens between them, and Eddie shoves his suitcase and backpack inside without properly looking at his old man. 

“Eddie, what the fuck, kid?”

“Sorry,” Eddie says, looking up. Wayne’s squinting at him. He’s wearing jeans with deep creases. He must’ve been sleeping in them. “I timed it all wrong. Started coming home and I didn’t think about it. I walked here, you know that?”

Wayne hugs him. Eddie isn’t expecting it. It’s not like Wayne isn’t affectionate, he doles out shoulder claps and hair ruffles like candy, but their hugs are usually one-armed back-slapping affairs. This is a loose encircling with a scratchy cheek against Eddie’s forehead. 

“I’ve been worrying about you.”

Guilt sinks like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. Eddie kind of feels like he might puke. He wraps his arms around his uncle and breathes in his smell. Diesel and grease, sure, but so much louder than that is his mint and rosemary soap. 

The weight of Wayne’s arms over Eddie’s shoulders is one of his favourite feelings. He hadn’t realised how much he missed it, but then… maybe he had. 

He wants to tell Wayne there’s no need to worry, but he’s never been good at lying to him. “Think I might have fallen off the wagon, Wayne.”

“Well. Happens to all of us.” He pats Eddie’s back and steps away. He doesn’t look any older than the last time Eddie saw him. In fact, he looks good. Puffy-eyed but healthy. “I thought for sure I’d have to come track you down and drag you back for Christmas myself.”

Eddie locks the door and Wayne shuffles into the kitchen promising coffee and cake. He should protest, tell Wayne he can go back to bed and they’ll catch up in the morning, but he missed the small stuff like this, when he’d get home late from band practice or a midnight premiere of a sci-fi flick and his uncle would be sitting up waiting. 

Eddie loves being home. There’s something to be said about living like the rich —he loves all the high ceilings and endless cushy carpeting— but nothing feels as good as coming home. His room is exactly how he left it minus a few ashtrays and his super unsecret pot stash. The poster wallpaper and the cheap paint. His raggedy bedspread and the corners tucked in haphazardly by tired hands. Eddie resists the want to dive under the covers and slide into the dip in his mattress. He knows every box spring in that fucker, and he missed it. 

Eddie drops his bags at the end of the bed. All the clothes in his suitcase smell like Coors Light, so he changes into rags he left behind, a too-big pair of plaid pyjamas that slip down his hips and a sleeveless Motörhead shirt. Maybe. The emblem is worn to nothing but black lines. 

He follows the smell of coffee through the hallway and into the Munson kitchen, tightening the drawstrings of his pants as he goes, chin tucked to his chest. “I’m losing weight, Wayne, I’m like a fucking twig.”

“Don’t tell me that shit. God knows I taught you how to take care of yourself.”

“I’m stupid. I’m really stupid, actually.”

Wayne whacks the coffee maker. It whirs. “Pick a mug, son.”

“You been cleaning? I don’t wanna look down and see a spider in my cup.”

“Have you been cleaning?” Wayne asks. 

“It’s insane how much I haven’t been cleaning.”

“Some things don’t change.”

“You fucker,” Eddie says, laughing up a storm as he picks out his favourite mug, the Garfield one with a big scratch down the left side. 

“You fucker,” Wayne snaps back. “I should send you packing for the bad language alone.”

“They don’t make you clean your hotel rooms, Wayne, that’s the point of them.”

“I raised you better than that.”

“You did. I keep it classy, I swear, I just,” —Eddie sits down in his chair, watching Wayne stir in milk and sugar just the way he likes it, and feels more than sees as a familiar contentedness like a Gaussian film settles over their easy conversation— “don’t clean up after Gareth. He’s a monster.”

“Do me a favour, Eds. Try and be the best you can be, alright?”

He swallows. He purses his lips. A peculiar lump grows in his throat, but he bites it back and squares himself up. “Yeah. I will.” He thinks about all the parties and powders and girls. He’s never done any cruel shit to anybody and he’s a sweetheart with the ladies, but  there are times when he’d known he was lying before he even said he’d call. He thinks about some of the shit he’s said to you and has to wipe his sweaty palms off on his shirt. 

“I know we didn’t have shit when you were growing up,” Wayne says, not tearful or resentful, just honest as he passes Eddie his mug of coffee and sits down. “And all that money must feel good–”

“It’s not like that,” Eddie says.

“When I see my nephew on TV smashing up equipment worth more than his house–”

“I already told you on the phone it was an accident. And it wouldn’t be worth more than this if you actually cashed the cheques I send you. I know they aren’t bouncing.”

“I don’t want your money, Eddie,” Wayne says gently. It’s odd but not uncommon to hear him speak in such dulcet tones. “That’s not what I raised you for.”

“I know, you–” He cuts his insult off at the stem and scratches his head instead.

Eddie isn’t hankering for a tongue lashing tonight and his scalp is too itchy to focus. He hasn’t washed his hair in a week. It’s obvious just looking at him, curls weighed down and straightened out from the sheer grossness of it. “Shit, I’m disgusting,” he says. 

“You’re gross,” Wayne agrees. “I’ll cash a cheque when the bank opens and get you a bottle of degreaser.”

Eddie hides his smile with a long sip of coffee. It’s hot and awful, ‘cause no matter how much love Wayne puts into it, dollar store coffee tastes like burnt grounds from the get go. Eddie missed it more than anything. Sometimes he’s in the back of the queasy tour bus or lying on the floor in his hotel room coming down off of something risky and all he can think about is Wayne’s coffee.

Wayne has a hard and fast rule about drugs: if it isn’t green, I don’t want you touching it. Eddie still remembers the gasket he blew when he found that little baggy of red and white pills shoved inside an altoids tin. He can’t imagine telling his uncle what he really meant when he said he fell off the wagon. 

Hey, Uncle Wayne, I have this weird love-hate relationship with a girl I don’t really know, and I got caught up doing party drugs (unrelated to our relationship) until I got so high I blacked out, and when I woke up she was there and she was looking at me like you look at a bird with a broken wing, you know? Anyway, the memory of her face won’t leave me alone. It makes me feel like crying. So I haven’t touched anything in two weeks and I thought coming home for Christmas would make up for all the secrets I’m keeping, but now—

Now Eddie doesn’t know what he was thinking. He can’t tell Wayne any of that shit. He wouldn’t even know where to start. 

Wayne would ask something like, It took a girl for you to realise drugs are bad news? And Eddie would say back, No, that’s not it, it wasn’t just her. 

“I’m sooooo fucked,” Eddie says slowly, mildly, scrubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He drags his hands down his face and blinks against the burning he’s left in his wake. 

“You’re not fucked, kid. Lemme cut you a slice of cake.”

Wayne cuts him a slice of cranberry coffee cake and Eddie eats it in two bites. Wayne makes him a burger after that. He doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s closer to night or morning, but Wayne doesn’t mention it until the burger’s gone and an alarm clock is ringing. Eddie watches his uncle truck into the living room and feels crestfallen though he doesn’t deserve to. Eddie hasn’t been home in months. He imagines Wayne alone at the kitchen table with an empty greasy plate waiting on him and wants to cry again. 

Wayne returns in coveralls. He gets a good look at Eddie’s face and sighs, dropping a heavy hand into Eddie’s dark hair. 

“It’ll be fine,” Wayne says. 

I’m sorry, Eddie thinks. For being a bad kid. 

He’d said that once. Wayne was sweeping up a smashed plate after a long shift and Eddie, thirteen and defeated with an ache where his mom should’ve been, had been trying to apologise. It had felt so crushing, that broken plate. The last straw. He’d had tears running down his pale cheeks, his hands in his hoodie pocket desperately grabbing at one another. 

And when he’d said it, Wayne had just looked at him. On his knees with a brush, glass shards shining on the linoleum between them. 

You think you’re a bad kid?

Wayne isn’t old and he definitely hadn’t been back then. Thirty something with a crying teenager and what felt like all the world's self-loathing crammed into a tiny kitchen. Eddie’s older now, and he knows how much Wayne gave up for him. Not just his bedroom, which had been relinquished with little more than a shoulder squeeze and five dollars for posters, but a life. Wayne could’ve done anything. Could’ve been a rockstar. 

I ruin everything, he’d said. Teenage angst, maybe, but Eddie felt it in his bones. 

You ain’t ruined anything. 

He hadn’t known what to say so he’d cried, waiting for that nice heavy hand that tussles his hair and pats his back to finally strike out. 

Eds, you’re not a bad kid. Said so quietly. With a steadiness that meant truth. You’re my kid. Could I make a bad kid?

And yeah, there had been a threshold of sincerity and they were passing it. It was the late 70’s. Boys really didn���t cry. At least, not in public. So Eddie wiped his snotty nose in his sleeve and laughed, and then he got on his knees to clean up. 

“Try and sleep,” Wayne says now, older but unchanged otherwise. Still ridiculously forgiving of his not-so-young sprog. He looks at Eddie with his lips pressed together. Eddie wonders if he’s going to hug him again, but Wayne shakes his head. “Shower, you animal. I’ll be back early.”

Eddie sleeps. He showers. He washes his hair three times and doesn’t use conditioner so his curls don’t really curl but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He had a moment in the shower where he swore he remembered something you said to him when he was blackout on sniff cut with procaine and booze. Your voice tentative, the heat of your hand on his cheek. “Are you okay?”

He moans into his damp hands, limp hair hanging either side of his head and dripping into his pyjama pants. He can’t forgive his younger self for all the sleeveless shirts, not when Hawkins feels colder than the arctic circle and the window seal in the kitchen has been leaky for the last five years.

He thinks about going shopping, because no matter what Wayne says about degreaser, Eddie’s starting to realise that his uncle won’t be cashing any of the cheques he sent home, and if he wants Wayne taken care of he’s gonna have to do this shit himself, but he doesn’t know where his key is. 

“I’m a fuck up,” he says, catching his eye in the mirror as he straightens out. 

His reflection frowns at him. 

He did manage to get Wayne some shit from California before he came home; a real brown leather jacket from the 60s with minimal wear, though if Wayne wears it is another thing entirely; a Roy Orbinson record that’s miraculously unwarped despite Eddie’s poor packing; more sweatshirts than his uncle could ever wear through. Eddie knows he’ll try. 

There’s some other stuff. CD’s and a nice edition of War of the World’s. Whatever he could stuff in his backpack. 

“Are you going home for Christmas?” you’d asked him. 

He sat on the bottom step of a huge staircase and you the one above him. People walked around you without notice. Two rocks in a stream bed.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? You aren’t sure?”

He’d got stuck looking at your cheek, the soft curve of it and the highest point, where light like a small star had kissed you and turned his stomach, that’s how sick with envy he was. 

“I get it,” you’d said, “things at home aren’t always easy.”

“Not that. My Uncle Wayne is my hero.”

“And you still don’t wanna go home?” you’d asked gently. 

“It’s not about what I want.” He remembers this part in detail. He’d stopped looking at you, laying back against the stairs, each step digging into his back. The ceiling had been far away. 

You’d inched into his frame of view, looking down at him with an expression unreadable to his mixed up head. You weren't quite smiling. He still isn’t sure what it meant. 

“It is. That’s the whole point,” you’d said. 

Eddie’s all memory this morning. The ones with Wayne had felt less memory and more story, because memory is unfaithful, and over time we start to break down on the details, putting want in place of fact. But your face hovering above his as the soft strands of your hair ghost against his jaw, all your glitters and the shiny pink sheen on your lips, that’s closer. He remembers how you smelled, and how your tongue peeked out to wet your lips uselessly between words. 

Jet lag and the general feeling of you keeps him lethargic, but he cleans the house (and he’s always said house, even if some people don’t agree, it houses him, fuck you Jenny P from eighth grade grade) and makes dinner ready for Wayne when he gets home. He puts the radio on and tunes into Roller FM. When one of Godless’ songs comes on, he’s not surprised. He listens with his head lolled against the kitchen wall, eyes closed, and tries not to think about your fingers choking the neck of your bass guitar. 

—

Indy Rock Centre, Indianapolis, January 1991

Whoever arranged the tour is a sadist. You can’t believe that a team of professionals sat around a long glossy table with their coffee cups and finger foods and thought, yeah, that will work. You feel like you’re being fucking yo-yo’d between states. 

When you’d joined godless as a stand in for Millyanna, your dates had been plentiful but never as disorganised. Nothing compares to this shit. You wonder if going crazy is a sign of making it big, or if maybe you’re not cut out for all of this after all. 

Jan 22, Kalamazoo, Missouri. Jan 23, Toledo, Ohio. Jan 25, Los Angeles, California. Jan 26, Philadelphia; Jan 28, Indiana, Jan 29, Wisconsin. February? Back in Missouri, back in Ohio, a couple more state dates and then bam — Canada. Don’t worry though, after a week in Canada, you’ll never guess where you’re playing. 

Fucking Florida. 

At least you aren’t alone in your torture. For starters, there’s Morgan, your singer, and Ananya, your drummer, who will also endure and suffer. Then there’s the roadies, the techies and the groupies. The opening acts. The managers, the assistants, the personal assistants, the boyfriends and girlfriends and wives and mistresses. 

And what’s more, you're one of the hundreds of bands touring in North America this year. Maybe thousands. You certainly aren’t the first musician to have to suck it up and tough it out. 

Still, you like to complain. 

It’s your right, for dealing with Morgan. And also— you aren’t getting paid for the tour until after the tour is over, so really complaining is the wealth of the soul. You do get a weekly allowance, which is awesome and not something you were getting beforehand, working instead on an invoice. You’d play a show, you’d get paid for the show. This time you’re getting a flat rate at the end of the tour that’s been contractually agreed upon. It’s more money than you’ll ever know what to do with. One of the more shameful ways you waste time in your little bus bunk is trying to figure out where to put it.

I want a house, you think. A mortgage on a small, pretty house where the weather isn't too hot or too cold. And a puppy. Probably. Maybe a fish tank. I want a bed that spans from one wall to another and… 

You wince. For a moment, you’d seen something stupid, a pale face hidden in the pillow across the way. 

Two puppies, you think forcefully. 

You’ve played four shows already this week. You have one tonight in Indy Rock Centre, and another tomorrow in Wisconsin. You got to stay in the warm, non-vibrating luxury of a hotel room last night, but tonight you have to play the show and get straight back on the bus. 

“You’re gonna glare holes in her. What did she do?”

You stop your mindless staring and come back down to earth. Ananya’s smiling at you, thick eyebrows lifted in wait for your answering gossip. You’d been staring at Morgan where she’s sitting across the room in a plush armchair, cucumbers over her eyes and swarmed by makeup artists and hairstylists with a pedicurist at her feet. 

Ananya does all her make up herself. You want to ask her to do yours, but you worry her messy sweetness won’t suit you. She overlines her already big lips with a sticky red-pink, giving her an effect of having just been kissed (a lot), and rings brown eyes with a slick black kohl. 

“She hasn’t done anything. Yet. Today.”

“She has been a monster, hasn’t she?” she asks, sinking down into the couch with a sigh. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. Her curls are so healthy they bounce.

You hum your agreement and slide down with her. Touring again, Ananya has remembered how much it sucks to be alone without allies. Morgan gets especially volatile from the stress and close quarters. She’s nicer when you’re alone. 

She’ll still ditch you at a moment's notice, but you get it. It’s like high school. 

You miss Dornie. 

It’s cruel to make a friend and suddenly lose them. You can’t help thinking he won’t want to be your friend again the next time you see him. It had been so nice… so peaceful, to know there was someone in your corner. Dornie doesn’t care how famous you are or how much money you’re making. He just wanted to make sure you got home safe and talk about old movies. 

“I’m gonna go find something to drink,” you say. 

Ananya nods. “Bring me back a coke?”

“Yeah.”

Morgan stops you on your way out with a foot in front of your legs. “Hey, killer, I gave one of your passes to a fan earlier. Is that cool?”

“Morgan, when have you ever cared about my opinion?”

“Ooh, meow,” she croons, taking a cucumber from her eye to squint at you. “What’s the matter, baby? I figured you weren’t using them.”

You smile at her. You can’t help yourself. She stopped hurting your feelings a long time ago. “You want a drink from the machine?”

“Sparkling water, serf.”

If you smudge her nail polish on the way past it isn’t your fault. It isn’t cool with you that she’s given away one of your passes, even though you ask your general manager Angel to give them out at the beginning of the show every night. It’s presumptuous! Normal people don’t do stuff like that without asking.

Serf…

Your nose wrinkles. The dressing room door closes at your back and you take a moment to recall where you’d seen the bank of vending machines in the maze of white hallways. Indy Rock Centre is one of the biggest venues in Indianapolis, and you’ve been here before countless times on the other side to see Black Sabbath, Metallica, The Stacey’s, Doorway to Cooperstown. It’s where all the biggest and best get to play. You wish they’d given you a map. 

You can still walk around without getting recognised. You’re not a superstar, just a guitarist. You smile at people who smile at you and avoid the rest, dodging past black polo shorts wheeling equipment and busybody higher ups barking orders. Someone stands in a corner talking on a brick of a handheld phone. You stare at him for a bit. You’ll never get used to it, phones without wires. Next there’ll be TVs without satellites and electric guitars without amps. 

The vending machine shines like a red beacon at the end of the hallway. You hurry to it, feeding the machine your crumpled per diem one dollar at a time. You get a coke for Ananya, sparkling water for Morgan. When it gets to your own drink, the machine starts to revolt. It spits your dollar out unsympathetically. You pull it from the mouth and flatten it against your thigh.

It doesn’t work again. You nibble your bottom lip. Dollar pulled taut between your two hands, you lift your knee and rub it against your stockings. 

“Fucking fuck,” you whisper, watching in mild horror as the machine accepts and then rejects your dollar for a third time. 

You tuck it back into your purse, a pretty leather thing that clasps shut and fits perfectly in the small pocket of your jacket. It’s your luck, but whatever. They’ll probably bring a couple of bottles of water to the dressing room in a bit. Maybe even a cocktail bar. 

“Hey.”

Your internal monologue chokes. You question your senses for the split second it takes you to meet his eyes — baby browns, soft and flush with gorgeously long lashes. If there’s one thing about Eddie Munson, it’s that he has very sweet eyes. Not the kind you can replicate in daydreams. 

He’s dressed like a bitch. You’re so sick of him. He has his jacket tied around his waist and his shirt has no sleeves, the alarmingly shapely stretch of his arms on full display. Black ink climbs the hills and ridges of his stark veins, his herd of bats jumping as he offers you a dollar. 

You take it. You aren’t sure what to say, so you bask in the almost-silence, every nerve aflame as you feed the vending machine and click the button for your drink. Equipment cages rattle. Radios chirp. Your drink thinks from behind the red Coca Cola panel down into the bottom of the machine for collection. 

“What’re you doing here?” you ask finally, squatting to grab your drink. 

You stand, train your eyes on the floor, shove your drink under your arm, and crack open your purse to give him your defective dollar in exchange. He takes it without fanfare. 

“Are you busy?” he asks. 

Regrettably, no. The majority of soundcheck is done, and the show doesn’t start for hours. He gestures to the left and you follow, stupidly, with no idea where he’s leading you to and not a clue what he wants, leaving Morgan and Ananya’s drinks for whoever finds them. Eddie’s jeans aren’t as loose on his hips as they were the last time you saw him. His distracting arms are bigger, biceps like a taunt as he holds a door open for you. You take a breath as you pass him, but he doesn’t smell like anything. No sweat or cologne, no cigarette smoke. 

“Is it mean if I say you look good with clean hair?” you ask, squinting in the sudden brightness. 

He’s led you outside to the back of the venue. Your tour bus stands imposing at the end of the lot, surrounded by Godless branded vans and fancy cars. A truck beeps as it loads into the receiving area backward. 

“Probably.”

“You do, though. Look good.”

“So people tell me.”

Fuck, you think. Fuck it. If he’s gonna be weird about it then you’re pulling the olive branch back in and snapping it in half. 

The sky is white as snow. It hurts to look at, the sun like a steaming egg yolk covered in its own whites, thick clouds shielding her warmth. You pull the sides of your jacket together and button up, uninterested in catching a cold when the next six months of your life are planned down to the hour. Eddie puts his jacket on and zips it tight. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks. 

“Why?”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he felt self conscious. “Why not?” he asks. 

You nod. You and Eddie aren’t friends, but you aren’t not friends, either. You’re being cold because you’re seized with embarrassment, not because he deserves it. You have memories of his hand on your cheek, and a cherry stem between his teeth, and you don’t know what you said exactly but you know it hadn’t been amicable small talk. You hate him for knowing stuff about you that you’d wanted to keep secret, and you hate yourself more for telling him in the first place. 

“I came home for Christmas. I’m back in Los Angeles tomorrow night.”

“That’s convenient,” you say. 

“Just had to see you before I went,” he agrees. Deadpan humour is terrifying on him. 

He ducks under a low tree branch and holds it away from your face. Together, you begin to walk down the street and into the city, over patched sidewalks and past brand new stores. The mom and pop shops of your childhood are mostly gone. 

Conversations between you two have this odd oscillation between over familiarity and stilted nothings. You like over familiarity better, when you’re both prone to misunderstandings. You’d take snipping at one another over this strange quiet.  

“Is it nice? Being home?” he asks finally. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’ve been here for what, a month now? I just got here, and it wasn’t to see the ‘rents.”

Eddie lifts his chin to the sky a touch. Molasses of sunlight seep through the clouds now, racing to caress his waved hair and high cheekbones. “It’s been awesome,” he says, his eyes closed. His voice like tree bark, uneven but tough. “Makes me wonder what I liked about L.A. so much.”

“All the free stuff,” you offer. “And free girls.”

“The girls aren’t free,” he protests.

“You aren’t getting free girls?” you ask. 

“Are you?”

“Would that bother you?”

Close-lipped, his tongue pokes the skin under his bottom lip.

“You think stuff like that bothers me?” he asks. 

“It bothers some people.”

Eddie isn’t meeting your eyes consistently, but you don’t think he’s lying when he says, “No, it wouldn’t bother me. But my Uncle Wayne would fucking kill me if he heard me agree that the women are free.”

“How progressive.”

He visually bites back a laugh. He looks up from his shoes and sees you smiling and it breaks him, his laugh sputtering out in bits and pieces. “Shit, I’m just trying to be an okay person.”

You concede, “Fine, the girls aren’t free. They’re just very happy to sleep with you for very little reward.”

“Some might say the reward was, you know, pleasure–”

“Ew–”

“Don’t be childish. What did you want me to say? The reward is a long night of rough and tumble fucking–”

“I liked pleasure better,” you interject. You dance around a huge crack in the sidewalk and pause as you and Eddie reach a crossing. “All night? Really?”

“Want me to prove it?”

“I don’t think you could, Munson.”

“I could…” He rests his hand between your shoulder blades. “But I don’t think we’re there yet.”

He encourages you to cross the street, weaving and winding between parked cars, moving cyclists, and a small family bulldozing passers-bys with a twin stroller. When you’ve crossed to the other side uninjured, his hand falls away. The heat of his palm lingers.

“Good observation.”

“You’re sarcastic today. Or is being on the road making you cranky?”

“Being on the road is definitely making me cranky. It fucking sucks, I forgot how badly it sucks, and I don’t get paid day to day like I used to.”

“Oh, you’re getting a flat rate now? Go you, superstar.” Your walk is more of a crawl, the two of you turned to the left side of the street where children shriek and giggle in the outdoor seating of a restaurant. Eddie stops. “How’s the allowance?”

“You get one of those too?”

Eddie bumps his elbow into yours. “We’re kids. They know it. It’s pretty shitty considering how much money they make off of us in the end, but that’s an asshole thing to say, right? We’re lucky.”

You roll your shoulders. He’s more than right. Coming from nothing, a small town, with no college degree and no rich parents to float you, Eddie’s right. You might have talent and you might work hard but so do a lot of other people, and you’re here, and they’re working for minimum wage back home still hoping. 

You wish every kid like you could get to where you are, but they won’t. You’re more than lucky. You should buy a scratcher. 

“We’re fucking lucky,” Eddie says slowly. “And it’s awful anyways.” He grins. “Come to dinner with me?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner? I’ve been there before,” —he points to the restaurant you’d stopped across from— “and it’s nice.”

You’re insane and you agree. It’s not too fancy to feel like you’re on a date from the outside, and once you’re indoors you feel relaxed. With a glass of cider in your hands you feel positively giddy.

Eddie slouches back into a velvet booth seat that might’ve once been red. He keeps the jacket on and you’re grateful for it, lest you see his stupid nice arms and turn ditzy. His nose twitches as looks out over the restaurant floor toward the kitchen visible through a long window. It’s warm but not stuffy in here, the air fragrant with browning butter and minced garlic. 

The menus are sticky. You pretend to pour over one, not knowing what to say to break the silence. 

“I know I said you were being sarcastic,” Eddie says, “but I think I meant quiet. Even when you sound annoyed, I can barely hear you.”

“That’s dramatic,” you murmur, proving his point. 

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Well, in what way?”

“What way feels wrong to you?” he asks. 

Trapped. You sip your cold cider. He raps his knuckles against the table. “Come on, what have you got to lose? What did you say to me before?” His eyes soften. “Nobody would believe me if I told them.”

You tap your glass with your thumbnail. 

“I’m okay,” you say honestly. “Most of the time, I feel fine. Or, I forget what’s wrong.”

Eddie flicks his own glass. “Is this about feeling like nothing?”

“I don’t know why I told you that.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“And you were feeding me booze.”

“Don’t say that. You make it sound so shitty.”

“It wasn’t shitty,” you say. “Free drinks, right? What’s shitty about letting a pretty guy pay for you?”

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks.

You kick him under the table. You don’t know what comes over you, shy at your own honesty and irritated with his ridiculousness. I let you kiss me, you want to say. I’d let you do worse. Of course I think you’re pretty. You aren’t cruel — it’s more of a shove with the toe of your shoe. Eddie laughs through a gasp and kicks you back, heel of his converse flat to your calf. 

“You fucking–”

“Sweetheart?” he finishes. 

“No, fuck you. You string me around with your hot and cold act and now you’re coming to my shows taking me to dinner,” —your voice stiffens, thickens, as you glare at him from across the table— “asking me how I’m doing? And I’m the one who has to explain themselves? You tell me, Munson. Do I think that you’re pretty?”

Eddie’s sort of frozen, like a laugh got stuck in his throat and he really is surprised by your sudden anger. You might feel surprised yourself if you had the wherewithal. As it stands, your irritation and your want for an answer is too much.

He hits the toe of his shoe into yours. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry. I’m not… trying to string you around.” 

He doesn’t say anything else. You deflate, ashamed of your sudden outburst. Tired of all the games. 

“I think you’re pretty,” he says. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to say.”

The food arrives and saves him. You want him to explain —you want him to expand, needily, on what he means and how much he means it— and he clearly doesn’t. He grabs his fork and starts shovelling pasta into his mouth like it’ll magically turn the conversation to something more palatable for him. 

“I’d like to change my answer,” you say.

Eddie swallows harshly. “Can’t. All compliments have been locked in. Maybe at our next cat fight.”

—

Eddie’s heart isn’t pounding like he worried it might when he asked you to follow him into the bathroom. He pictured sweaty, shaking palms, his hands hesitant, a reminiscent picture of a past self who didn’t know how to make girls make noise. He thought the next time he was alone with you, it would be the tragic scene from the movies where the boy bears his heart and the girl can’t accept it. He’s not expecting you to understand. It’s getting to the point where the mean shit he said to you isn’t made up of words anymore but the image of you in the Prover Theatre with your sparkling dress and your dull eyes. He hates that he made you feel that way, and he should say sorry. He feels fucking sorry. 

“Don’t cut me,” you say, quiet so you won’t be caught together. 

“I won’t.”

“When was the last time you did this?” 

“It’s like riding a bike,” he insists. “I haven’t forgotten.”

You simper. Propped up on the sink’s counter, your skirt hiking up your thighs (imagine him covering his face with his hands, rocking his head from side to side, you’re wearing garters) and your jacket falling into the basin. You’ve turned one arm toward him trustingly, but apprehension plays clear as day over your mouth. He wants to remark that your mouth is pretty, but it’s not the right word. Perfect feels closer, but again, it’s not what he wants. He has a fascination with how you talk and when you don’t, how your lips have a mind of their own sometimes, nibbled and popped and pouting. 

“It’s easier if you take your shirt off.”

“How many girls believed that one?” you ask happily. He’s ecstatic. Dinner perked you up and now you’re all smiles and warm laughs. He doesn’t know why you’d been angry with him (he does) because you started it (not really), but you got something off your chest at least. 

“None,” he says. “I’m serious that it’s easier. But you really don’t have to take it off for me to make it look good.”

Eddie wields his small pen knife toward your arm. 

“I like my sleeves,” you say as he takes the hem of one such sleeve into his free hand. 

“Don’t be a baby.” He pulls it taut from your skin. You’re both smiling. Carbs are good like that.

“I have fat arms,” you try. 

He’s out of his mind. Eddie leans down and kisses the top of your arm quickly. “Shut up,” he says.

He doesn’t have time to think about what he’s done. It’ll torture him tonight when all he has for distraction are hotel sheets, and then tomorrow on the red eye back to L.A. He honestly doesn’t wanna look at you because if your nose is even slightly wrinkled he’ll have to turn to the gross toilet in the corner and chuck up, but he also doesn't want to freak you out. He looks up at you from under his lashes. 

You look flustered. 

Not disgusted. 

“I’m doing it,” he warns. 

“Yeah,” you say, nearly normal. “Fine. Make me look cool.”

“You admit that I look cool.”

“No.”

Eddie digs the tip of his pen knife into your sleeve and starts pulling. The fabric tears away in a jagged-lined but even circle around your arm, broadening a tantalising stretch. His stomach hurts a bit. To reach your second arm, the one furthest from him, he has to take up station between your spread legs. Or maybe he doesn’t have to, but he does, your thighs like two warm spots either side of him as he leans in close. 

“And this is what’s gonna make them all like me, right? This is the cement of my street cred?”

“Your street cred? No. And I don’t think anything you do could make them like you.” You lean back at his words. He pulls you back in, fingers braceleting your arm as he fakes taking a measurement. “If they don’t like you already, they won’t. Not your fault, not your problem. Who says you even like them?”

“I do, though. That’s my problem. I even like Little Miss Fleetwood,” you grumble. 

He raises his eyebrows to show he’s listening, stabbing at your sleeve and tearing slow. “She still tripping you up?”

“No. I’m just trying to make you laugh.”

He laughs under his breath. “Mission accomplished, baby,” he murmurs. 

Both sleeves sliced, Eddie steps away from you, ignoring the heat in his stomach to take you in. People who don’t know where they stand shouldn’t be so close to one another, he decides, ‘cause wishful thinking has him marking your hands as wanting. Your fingers move slowly as if through water, tip of your index on the left hand stroking down the back of your right marriage. Eddie pins salaciousness on everybody he meets —coke is falling out of fashion fast but sex is always in��� but he can’t get a faithful read on you now. He wants you to want to be kissed. Doesn’t trust that you do. 

“You look edgy.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” you ask.

“An awful way.”

You go quiet, your hands go still. You raise your head until it’s too much, and he realises he’s been moving back in. He drops the penknife in the sink on top of your jacket, putting his hand on your freshly bared arm and bunching the sleeve up as much as he can without it pulling at you. He’s greedy and he wants to palm at your skin like an asshole, that’s not your problem. 

“That bad?” you ask. 

He angles his face over yours. He needs two inches maybe three, and you’d be kissing. His hand falls down your arm to your elbow, clasping weakly over your skin. 

“No,” he says. He can barely hear himself. 

Greedy. His second hand comes up to your face, waiting, and when you lift your jaw just so he slots his hand under it and holds you. 

“What are we doing?” you whisper. 

What are ‘we’ doing? 

“Nothing you don’t want to do.” He widens the gap between you. 

“I know– I know that.” Your arm ventured forward, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. You tug it gently, pulling him forward again. “I just don’t understand it. You. I don’t get what’s happening, Eddie.”

“Well… I was going to kiss you.” Eddie fights to sound the way he feels, out of his element but so earnest his chest aches. “I really, really… want to kiss you.”

It doesn’t feel like admitting defeat, as he’d initially thought it might. Neither does it feel confessional. You can’t confess to a secret already known. 

He kisses you just once. A light brush of his lips against yours. Anymore than that and he knows he’ll start making promises like someone who has room for them. His eyes scrunch closed hard and he struggles not to squeeze your poor cheek as the pressure of your lips builds, as they part, as he pulls back and you chase him. He can’t kiss your mouth anymore than that, but your hands are grabbing at him, pleading and twitching and cold against the searing skin of his abdomen as they search underneath his shirt. Eddie feels the soft curve of your hip under his hand, knowing he can’t fuck you here, and undecided on whether that’ll be his ruin or his saviour. 

You shudder as he kisses down. His hands are hungry but his mouth is sweet, gentle like you deserve as he noses down the column of your throat. 

“I don’t get you,” you say, your fingertips sewn into his hair, scratching over his scalp lightly. Your breath catches as he parts his lips. His teeth scratch over the damp crescents of previous kisses. 

He loses himself in the ticklish feeling of your hand and the heat of your skin. “Hm?” he hums. 

“I understood you better when I thought you didn’t like me.”

He kisses up to the soft crook of your jaw before edging you away, just enough to see the sad set of your eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, utters, like you’re trading secrets. His thumb rubs your cheek, a rough touch. He’s never been much good at aligning his words with actions; his heart and his hands. 

He doesn’t know what to do to fix your sad frown. He kisses you again in case that’s what you wanted but couldn’t say, and it works for a handful of blessed, wretched seconds. You kiss back hard. Eddie has to break it to take a breath. 

You rest your forehead against his. It slides slowly to his nose, and eventually you’ve bowed your head, your hands slipping down to his elbows. 

“I feel sick all the time,” you say. Your hands flex against his skin. “The only time I feel alright is when I’m playing– when I’m making something.” You press your head to his chest. “Or when I’m with you.”

Eddie thinks of all the shitty decisions he’s made. His restlessness, his bad attitude. His propensity to assume the worst. How he’d taken your thumb rubbing a smudge off of his cheek in the Prover Theatre as a jab, rather than a helping hand. 

He wraps his arms around you. 

Your head fits under his rather well. 

“I know what you mean,” he says. And out of everything he’s told you today, that’s the hardest to say aloud. 

Eddie hugs you in the dim light of that dingy bathroom knowing he’s running on borrowed time. All too soon, you’re pulling apart and he’s helping you off of the counter unnecessarily. You don’t hold hands on the way back to Wings Stadium. He thought you might. You’re quiet. He tries to cheer you up, feeling more and more like he’s done something wrong the closer you get to the venue.

He doesn’t have anything to offer. You’re both on tour now. He doesn’t have a clue when he’ll see you next, or what he’ll say when he does. 

Miraculously, he gets you back to your dressing room. He gives your cheek a quick squeeze. 

“Play well tonight,” he says. 

“I always play well.”

You do. He watches you from the VIP section a couple of hours later, impressed. Mildly nauseous. His thumb worries the edge of the pass until it splits in his hand, paper coming apart from cardboard. Your singer might be a handful, but she knows when to be discreet. He slinks out before your set finishes through a side entrance, and his head races with your image. If it weren’t for your cut sleeves and the flank of your upper arm glowing under the stage lights, he’d put his kisses down to surreal delusion. 

Eddie doesn’t notice the lone photographer hiding in the eaves. 

The photographer notices him. 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

!!! thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging, it helps so much! Let me know what you thought, what bits you liked and what you want to see next

can you feel another spat coming along 0.0 I honestly had so much fun writing this one especially the scene with Wayne and then the end scene in the bathroom <3 it’s always crazy to see hours and hours condensed into chapters like this but idc I’m having the time of my life and hope u guys r too! the word count is now at a solid 26k I believe though so it does feel rewarding in that way

[muffindaddystyles]

Can you write overprotective long hair harry imagine?? Like he always hovers the reader when she is doing something or even nothing. Or when she needs to run errands he always go with even though its not required. And when reader fell sick he is full on mommy daddy mode dom!h vibes

A/N: OOPS I GOT EXCITED AND WENT OVERBOARD WITH IT :D

Harry’s awfully sweet. He’s a literal sweetheart with those marble sepia eyes, hazelnut curls and that big golden kind heart of his's.

But, to people he’s intimidating. From the black loiter of tattoos, a silver of piercing to the corner of his plush bottom lip and those long curls of his's that frays his broad strong shoulders turns everyone too giddy to talk to him and he's okay with that – bunch of loosers anyways whom he doesn’t want to waste his time on chit-chatting.

Then Y/N came into his life and his world flipped upside down, in a beautiful way (where he felt like floating into the crashing waves of crystal sea). It felt like she made him see the world through pink heart-shaped glasses and everyone’s just bursting into rainbows, puffaw! Boom! Their heads blasting with colourful confetti and ribbons.

Even though his slight grouchiness towards people lessened he still doesn’t gives two fucks before punching the shit out of someone if they in any way hurts, be rude and try to take physical and emotional advantage of, Y/N.

His bunny.

He’s too protective of her. And why wouldn’t he? She’s his everything. His little miracle and his hype-person, his lovie.

He’s the softest peach for her. The guy who walks and everyone scrambles away to give him a way, is whipped for his girlfriend.

He’s always having his strong arm looped around her waist when they’re out and walking, going to hold her hands instead if she’s too wiggly, keeping her close to his chest while he holds their coffees and sweets.

Whenever they’re doing grocery he’s always wheeling the cart around how much Y/N insists and pouts, he likes it that way. Hearing her blabber and skim her eyes down the ingredients labelled on the products then tossing it anyway with a shrug – makes him want to smooch her wet in kisses.

If they’re partying out with friends. Which they rarely do, (Y/N sometimes makes fun of them saying they’re getting too domestic day by day) he’s always having her put in his lap, his screwed up expression lazing when the alcohol starts to kick in and he’s just a blubbering mess of nonsense, and a very horn dog with his cock bloating up in his tight skinny jeans.

Not that he doesn’t let her have a breather and enjoy herself. He indeed does, they’ve a healthy relationship where they keep trust and faith in eachother.

But, sometimes he gets super jealous when people steal his little girlfriend away from him and once home he’s cuddling and oodling her, kissing her face all over with loud smacks and not letting her be away from him another second even it’s too bring him water or to get rid of his smelly socks.

Other times. When he’s particularly very jealous. The serious ones where Y/N unintentionally spends a tad more time at some of her classmates to wind up their upcoming project, he’s driving himself to pick her up and knocking at the door harshly and then dragging her out of there not letting her carry her stuff and huffing and puffing while throwing her things in the backseat.

Because Jeremy’s a sore rascal who’s shit at hiding his crush for Y/N and he should know better to whom she belongs. His innocent baby is too naive towards the possible hints and evil intentions of people.

“Oi. What got into you today?” She brushes the loose curl that escaped from his bun and let her fingers slide down his tight set angry jaw staring him a bit concerned upon seeing him this furious and ruffled up from nowhere.

“You’re mine,” Is all he'd respond. Smashing his lips against hers in a an ardent kiss and glide his palm down her ass to squeeze it and bring her closer grinning when she squeals into his mouth giving him a chance to slip his tongue in and kiss her deeper and sloppier.

“You’re a silly geese.” She giggles whisper into the mess of pecks and lock her elbows around his neck to give him an eskimo kiss.

“Watch y’mouth.” He glares her intensely loving the way Y/N gulps timidly bobbing her head.

“You’ll get a spanking today,” He always likes to warn her before hand. He wants her comfortable with him in every case and it’s downgrade monstrous to treat the person you love like a mean bitch out of blue -- so whenever she deserves a punishment he already announces her of it, warming her to the idea and giving her time to back away if she doesn’t want it.

“What did I’do now!” She whines and he nibbles onto his knuckle glancing her way in disbelief other hand on steering wheel, “What did y'do?” He asks her sternly. Spreading his palm over her thigh and squeezing it grimly.

“Did y'even care to look at the time, Y/N?” Oh boy. She’s in real trouble. Her name on his tongue never fails to turn her insides gooey and pause her heartbeat horribly. A red light for her to being bratty before she falls into the deep black dig of trouble.

Reaching home. He’s throwing her on the bed and demanding her to lay still on her tummy while he puts a pillow under her and spanks her bum sore with his rings imprinting her skin pink, though he never forgets to take care of her afterwards – putting a cool cream to soothe the burn and letting her sleep on his chest so she wouldn’t come in contact with the sheets as he kneads her asscheeks with gentle hands.

.

He could never have his hands to himself when she’s cooking and baking for them. Always, poking and prodding around having her head tucked under his chin, her embraced in his arms from back swaying them along to Hozier while she reads the recipe she wrote on one of the tiles.

“Stop!” She giggles, squirming in his arms when he blows raspberries against the dip of her neck and then creates growly noises biting and lapping into her skin, “You’re gonna burn our lunch!” She pressed her hips against his crotch to push him away and that warmed him more, delving his fingers more into her hips with a throaty groan.

“We could have a takeout.” His breath shuddery against her ear as he tries to pry the spatula away from her and kiss her grumpy whines down when the pots actually got burned, “I’ll wash and scratch them.” He’d assure picking her up and wrapping her legs around his hips and slipping his fingers in her hair to tug them and bring her mouth down against his’s to taste her.

“Wants to fuck you so bad, baby. My cock’s been weepy fo’ hours without your touch.” He groans, taking her hand and sneaking it inside his joggers to make her feel how stiff and erect he’s for her.

“I just gave you a blowie in the morning!”

“Blowie isn’t equivalent to fucking!”

.

“What y'readin,?” He scoots closer to her end of sofa with a smirk and towers over her trying to take a peek of whatever she’s reading with such intensity and then rake his warm palms up her calves to lay them over his thighs while he snuggles her wrapping a chonky blanket around them.

“Shhh baby girl, just want you to be more comfy.” He mumbles into her hair scratching his short nails against her scalp in soothing motions and watch her melt against his touch, eyes fluttering as she lurks dangerously to the verge of sleep.

“You always do that. Whenever the hot part’s about to come, you make me all sleepy.” She mutters laying her head against his clavicles gazing him up with hazy eyes, sighing in feign disappointment when he grins down at her in quite victory and gives her a sloppy kiss.

“What do y'need erotica fo’ baby? When your man’s the living walking momentum of sex.” He pouts, grazing his teeth down her neck and leaving a fresh hickey at her throat.

“That’s infact not, true. You’re such a cutie!” She beams up at him never failing to give him dancing butterflies in his stomach and he doesn’t admits it but he likes getting treated soft and gentle by his girlfriend.

“Such a shame. My own little love doesn’t find me sexy.” He grumps dramatically making her scramble hesitantly and turn to him in their tight embrace, cradling his face in her cold palms, “No. No. I find you sexy. I just don’t like sexualising you.” If Harry didn’t turn into a puddle before he indeed did now as he melted into her touch and kissed the inside of her hands lovingly.

“You’re sucha sap!” He whispers at her in fake offence and plant his lips against hers, patting her bum to make her hug him more tightly.

.

On cleaning and laundry day’s. He’s always helping her. As they scrub and mop the floors together, might fuck on them bubbly floors too if Harry’s lusty gaze remains on her spilling tits for too long.

“Thinks your floral bra needs a wash too, moppet.” His gradual attempts to lure her with his fingers stroking her thighs seductively always turns into a win when she nods shyly into his neck and let him have an easy access to her panties.

They’re always having a warm, full of essence bath together cleaning and washing the dirt off eachother after that.

Then sharing a cuppa tea while folding their clothes together on the bed and he’s always trying to tackle her into mattress when she laughs at his terribly folded clothes compared to her neatly binded ones.

“Your sucha menace,” He jests with his nose skewered up while he smacks her ass.

“Talk for yourself, Styles.” She retorts, tangling her knee around his waist and pulling him down into him. Puffing out relaxed breaths upon feeling safe and protected under his weight and Harry always smiles into the crook of her neck when she tries to cuddle him as if she wants to be his skin.

..

He’s the most daddiest when she’s drunk, sick or stressed.

Never letting her go out of his sight when she’s dancing on the floor with her friends. If some man even tries to approach her and breaths in her direction he’s sprinting towards her and pawing at her hips to situate her closer to him whilst blowing those potential guys off with a monotone expression.

“Harry! Do a lil dancey dance with me!” She giggles, making him sway with her and looking up at him with glassy floaty eyes.

“Bunny. ‘s late, time to go home.” He tells her, pinching her chin to plant his lips against hers and she squirms giving him a timid smile, “Okie. But I’ve to pee.”

“Me too!” Her friends chimes from behind her and Harry rolls his eyes playfully, gesturing all of them to follow him.

“C’mon you spies, not lettin’ ya’ll go alone.”

He waits for them outside the washroom while they do their business and he has his arms always splayed open for when his lovie comes back and he’s welcoming her in his embrace warmly with a sweet smile.

Dying with fond injecting in his every vein when she slurs and blabbers, “Home.”

Walking her up the stairs of their flat’s building is the most hefty struggle while she’s a sleepy, clumsy and giggly muck of doe gleaming eyes and swollen pretty lips drooling over Harry testing his patience while he makes her take one step at a time.

“Darling, bunny, just some mo' steps lovin’.” He coos at her, putting a firm hand under her bum and heaving her up into him so she doesn’t falls.

“Mhmmm you’re so pretty, daddy.” Harry’s head snaps in surprise as he stares down at her in adoring amusement and push her head under his chin while she slings her arms around his waist lazily.

Sometimes, she gets him so flustered he doesn’t know how to respond.

She whines and cries in dishevelment when Harry makes her sit on the cold marble counter and wipes her makeup off.

“I just wan’ to sleep!” She toes at his torso trying to push him away but he grabs it and tuts, glowering at her strictly, “You’re g'na complain in the mornin’. Sleepin’ with makeup makes ye' breakout remember?” When she still huffs and slumps giving him a hard time to clean her he’s pinching her chin and giving her a gentle jerk.

“Bunny. Stop with ye' battiness.” He grunts not letting his facade slip when she mewls stroking her cheek up and down his lightly stubble covered cheek softly.

“Else what? Y'never punish a sleepy bunny.” She smirks at him foppishly and lazily knowing damn well that one of thing Harry doesn’t do’s tease or punish her when she’s tuckered out and on the edge of sleeping on him.

“You don’t test me bratty woman.” She squeals when he takes hold of her panties to pull them down her legs, slapping her mound once discarding it in the hamper and he sighs when she’s already snoring lightly, slobbering his throat with her mouth parted comically.

After pattering her face with loving kisses he’s tucking her under the layers of blankets and letting her use him as her stuffie.

..

“Aw poor baby.” He mumbles, kissing her forehead when he finds her burning up against him and he’s quickly rummaging for thermometer from the night stand and the tissues he had stashed for emergencies.

“I don’t feel good,” His heart breaks when Y/N croaks out weakly and tries to crawl up his chest to stuff her face in his musky neck but her frail limbs gives out making her cry out.

“It’s okay bunny, ‘s okay. How but I make you some soup. Then y'take your medicines like a good girl of mine, then if your condition gets worse we’ll go to doctor, yeah baby?” He talks to her gently and sweetly, stroking her hair and peppering kisses to her temples.

“Just last bite, moppet.” Harry hovers the spoon infront of her and sighs when she shakes her head pushing his wrist away, “I’ll puke.” She sniffs blowing her nose harshly in the tissue .

“The bin’s right here, bunny.” He smoothens his hand down her spine putting the tray aside carefully to snuggle and comfort her as she cries softly against his chest.

“’M so sorry baby, you’ll be alright in the morning.” He couldn’t see her in such condition. It pulls and tugs at his heart so painfully he feels himself hurting.

“Oi. Why you crying, hmm?” He cups her cheek and makes her look at him as she skims her eyes away from him jn embarrassment.

“I —- You’re so caring and loving, treats me so good and it makes me c.. cr–-,” She hiccups finding it hard to breath and Harry rubs her back, whispering affinities in her ear making her finally sob, “Cry....” He chuckles softly pelting kisses upon kisses on her puffy eyelids, soaky dried up cheeks, her frowned up forehead, her wobbly chin and her nipping love bites down her chest then blowing raspberries at his own slick covering her skin making her giggle through her hiccups.

“I love you.” She whispers droopily, head lulling to his chest when the effect of medicine finally starts to kick in.

“I love you too, I want my healthy and happy bunny back.” He mumbles, inhaling a huge puff of her scent and squishes her lovingly.

[unhonestlymirror]

There is a Ukrainian legend about a woman, who was walking through the forest in the rain and heard a cry. She looked around - it sounded from a child. She took a baby in her arms, wrapped it in a raincoat - and then saw - the hooves.

The woman understood that she held a chortenya (a little demon, a cursed spirit) in her arms - however, the only thing she thought was: "So what? Should I leave it crying in the rainy night???" She warmed the chortenya in her raincoat, carefully sat him under a pine tree and went away.

After that, everything started to go well in her household.

Although on the territory of Ukraine there are also ideas about chortenya as an evil devil who seeks to lead a person out of the world and take their soul, in most stories chortenya appears as a loser demon. Ukrainian cursed spirits often become victims of anecdotal situations.

In particular, a story about how a woman fools a chort is popular in Ukraine: "The man went to the forest, to chop firewood. He wanted to go over the stump but there was a bunch sticking out. He accidentaly grabbed his balls by it and said: "Ah! May the chort take you!" - and the chort appeared immediately. "So, are you selling them?" - "Yep, I'm selling." — "And for how much?" - "Come on," says the man, "well, how about that, a million!" Chort gives him a million: "When?" - "Come back in a week." — "Okay, fits." A man comes from the forest happy, one day passes, the second day, and on the third day the man is sad. His wife comes up and says: "Man, why are you upset?" The man answers: "Ehhh, my wife, I'm not yours anymore. I'll be soon not a man, but a woman." — "And why?" — "I sold my damn balls to chort." The woman says, "Ho-oh-oh, so when is he coming?" "He says he will come on Saturday". — "He-he-he! Man, I deceived so many undeceivable people, the chort would be not a problem at all." Saturday comes, the woman goes: "Man, put on my clothes, tie a scarf above your eyes and stand by the stove, and I'll wear yours and go to thresh." A man is rattling pots over there by the stove, when - the chort comes in the house: "Woman, where is your husband?" — "Currently pounding. So what?" — "Well, I need him, he sold me his balls." - "Go to him, I don't know..." Chort comes: "Well-well- so what? Give me your balls." The "man" answers: "What? Da ty sho? A chort like you just came recently. Wasn't it you?" - "No! No way!" — "Look: he took them and only the hole remained and the blood is flowing"... (The man's wife had her period). She drops her pants. The chort looks. "Oh," he says, "who was that? My brother must have overheard you selling me your balls, so he came and took them away!" And that's how the woman deceived the chort".

Domovyk - a "housekeeper" - is another cursed spirit in Ukrainian culture, it is believed that every household has him - and the more hair he has, the richier are people living here. He can also be called as "a shadow of human being". In most cases, the presence of a domovyk in the house is interpreted as positive. He helps the owner in everything, with whom "everything is done", protects the home. However, sometimes he can be hostile: scares, does a lot of noise - in a word, he causes "damage". Whether a domovyk will harm depends on his preferences, although the behavior of the house owners also influences this. Because domovyk doesn't like it when the house is not cleaned, when people curse there, when they wipe the table with their bare hands or leave a knife, garlic, open salt, etc. on it overnight.

In order for the household to contribute, he had to be fed. For each dinner, a few spoonfuls of food were left for a domovyk, something sweet in the night on the table, candies, bread, porridge were placed in the attic or stove. The main thing is not to accidentally salt the food prepared for him, because then you shouldn't do expect good things.

There have been a number of options for inviting a domovyk to a new apartment, although sometimes he is not invited at all, it's believed that domovyk, as the housekeeper and shadow human being, will move on his own.

Another interesting point is that Ukrainians aprehend sorcerers more than cursed spirits because first do harm consciously. However, sorcerers are not always evil in Ukrainian legends.

I'll probably do part 2 in a while

[oh-for-fic-sake]

Their Alright... For A Boomer

Masterlist

Summary: Being a girl with a larger chest always got you attention, maybe having your nipples pierced to try and fell more confident handt been the best idea, but how can you regret it when your latest client; the sexy Mr Cavill  was ogling them but could this end up being more then just that one time you were eyed by a hot celebrity?

Warnings: Suggestive, No Smut, Fluffy? Cute and funny, Swearing

A/N: this was a request from @fanficlover91​ i hope you like this hun, i tried to keep it hot but sweet and respectful? Which was a struggle but i hope i got the vibe you wanted. And as always i hope you all enjoy.

Taglist: In Reblogs.

You blushed as you looked down the lense at your model. He smirked sweeping his eyes over you non to subtly. You could feel the blues penetrating you with a hot stare. The was the distinctive fast clicks on you camera snapping a burst of shots managing to capture his smirking face and eyes sweeping over your form appreciatively.

You stood tall and smiled pulling away double checking the shoots. You bit your lip. Fucking hell this was both the best and worst job you had. Henry Cavill was the most enticing male you'd ever had the pleasure to photograph. He didn't even have a good side, every side was good! There wasn't an unflattering angle on the man!

"And that's a wrap? I think we have everything we need Mr Cavill" you said professionally making to move away from him and begin to swap sd cards and label them before packing away. Henry gawfed and rose quickly panicked almost.

"I- err no! Wait I was... Well hoping that I could have some more done?" he said chaseing you across the small studio you could hear his agent Leah scoff from the side lines. You frowned and looked to her nervously. The woman had been watching and tutting, scoffing and clicking her tongue through the whole session. It actually made you nervous, wasn't she pleased with the shoot? You were worried, being freelance this was your first time doing a celebrity shoot for a magazine but the usual photographer was in hospital having a stroke a few days prior and you were the only free photographer in the agency that was close enough to take the job. Sure you wasn't well known but still it was a little disheartening to have someone seemingly unimpressed with your work.

But it was when you eyed her you saw she wasn't giving you the evil eye. Her frown was directed at henry, a scolding look you'd give a misbehaving child. You frowned a little puzzled, but shook it off in favour of looking to Henry. Your actual client.

"More? I... I? Thought the piece only needed a few to choose from? They were very ah... How do I put it? Thorough? With the brief" you explained hoping Leah would step in and clarify just what was going on. Because you didn't have a clue.

"I yes but- I'd love to top up my portfolio? You know? I err yeah have a few changes going on and... I mean a few greys and such... Just want to update it a tad... I'll pay obviously- I'd pay anything for more time please?" he pleaded watching you closely eyes wide and bright full of hope.

"I... Err" you shifted swapping your camera from one hand to the other and craned your head around the man trying to spy his agent. But you had no hope of peeking around this gargantuan man. Just like with the camera he demanded your full attention.

"And for Instagram and stuff! There's only so much I can do in a selfie... I'd even recommend you- advertise your work!" he quickly added sounding desperate now. It would help you out if you did have a few shots of him for in your own catalogue. It shouldn't matter but having a celeb under your belt was actually a good thing. It meant you'd acted professionally and been good to work with.

"I suppose so, I do have a few extra sd's here... Tell you what I'll do another shoot for you as long as I can pick a few to put in my portfolio? Then we both update our files?" you nodded to him speaking slowly. He grinned and relaxed nodding quickly pleased with himself for wrangling more shots. You'd never know he was just glad to has more time with you.

"Oh yes absolutly! That's fine here should we get started now or?" he asked biting his lip trying not to stare at you for too long. But it was hard you were fucking stunning!

"Oh yeah sure iv got time, let me just sort these out and set up, need to switch, you've tired my poor camera" you said with a grin trying to ignore the man as he beamed at you looking excited nodding enthusiastically. You backed up and spun around trying not to blush as you felt henry gazing openly at you.

"Right well if the magazine ones are done I will be off then" Leah called packing up her bag with a small chuckle to herself. You froze and spun quickly seeing her seemingly abandoning you with Henry.

"Wha- oh you don't have to you can stay-" you tried to reason unsure why, I mean who wouldn't want to be alone with this huge glorious man? Maybe you just didn't trust yourself with him? He had been 'making love' to the camera all afternoon. Smouldering bedroom eyes that was making it hard to focus. You had been getting hot under the collar all day as you kidded yourself he was eyeing you, not the camera or would be readers.

It didn't help that you had caught him oogling your breasts earlier. But you wasn't mad, it was your own fault. It was the Hight of summer and you had on a string vest with a thin bra, that you could clearly see your nipple bars through. You didn't feel uncomfortable or anything, you didn't blame Henry for looking. You cant exactly ignore your tits.. The were pretty large for your frame. You were curvy but they were as one ex put it 'exceptional'. And besides he had looked not touched and he hadn't been a creep about it. In fact he had done a double take and then blushed when he realised he had been caught looking. But as you said you get that with big boobs, you'd had it your entire life, it was actually one of the reasons you'd got them pierced. It helped with your confidence and you convince yourself that they were looking at the bars. Not you per say.  

"Okay aunt Leah I will see you in a few days." henry interrupted you quickly smiling practically ushering the woman out the door. He moved fast ever picking the womans phone and juice bottle to help her leave quicker.

"Yes, behave Henry I'll see you soon" she said with a giggle before calling a thank you and goodbye over her shoulder at you. You swallowed nervously and gave a quick bye as the door clicked behind her and you were left alone with Henry. The man groaned stretching as he spun around a huge grin on his face, making your knees tremble a little. Fuck.

Henry came over and watched you closely as you scribbled the name and date along with the publication name on the sd case label. You tried not to notice as he hovered biting his lip then took off the blazer and threw it on the table beside you drawing your attention as he did grunting a little. The v neck letting the smallest amount of soft looking chest fuzz that had been teasing you all day. He grinned slyly as he caught you eyeing him and crossed his arms over his chest flexing for your benefit. You gasped and quickly looked back to the camera in your hands inserting a new scarf into the new fully charges camera.

"Soo how do you like this kind of work?" henry said casually trying not to seem like a creeper but god damnit he couldn't stop eyeing you. If he had known how sexy you'd be he would have demanded to be doing a bloody swim wear shoot!

"You mean people?" you stuttered trying not to look him in the eye. Not that it helped because the rest of him was just as fucking sexy! You quivered all over desperately trying to remember how to breath, yet didn't want to draw in too deep a breath and make your tits bounce for him and look like a slut. There was a very fine line for a big busted girl, to much wobble will make you look like your trying to get attention.

"I mean celebrities, magazines we were told you mainly do private shoots for events and model portfolios" he offered leaning forward as he leant back on the desk next to you hooking one ankle behind the other. The way he stood placed his crotch in your line of sight as you looked down and worked on setting up the camera. You flushed. Oh god he looked er... Bigger then you'd thought earlier, not that you were looking but... Well you couldn't help notice the package! The man was a fucking serial man spreader! And that thing was huge! With the muscles he was packing he could probably bench press you with his crotch!

"Oh well its different... And you sir popped my celebrity cherry" you froze on the spot as you said that, it had meant to be an ice breaker, a joke but instead had sounded fucking creepy!. You snapped up to him making to apologize as your face flamed mortified but he had thrown his head back laughing. The deep rumble sent chilled down your spine.

"Well I'm honoured to have popped your cherry~" he teased placing a hand over his heart with a cheeky grin making you blush and nod then turned to him with the new camera all set up.

"Soo where do we start?" you said moving on quickly looking up at him trying to forget the whole cherry comment.

"Where ever you want me, i will let you take the reigns command me as you will" he chuckled standing tall once more and looked about the room casually to the various small set ups, different furniture, seats sofas and mini tables dotting the space.

"I... Okay then you said Instagram? How about we start with some facials-FACE SHOTS! Face. Shots. Not facials fuck. Shit" you quickly tried repairing the damage whist cursing yourself wanting nothing more then to be swallowed up by the floor.

"No, no love facials sounded perfect~" he said winking before gliding past you making you stutter and almost choke on your breath. Oh good lord this was a bad idea. You followed as he sat down on a sturdy sofa and looked head on at you and bit his lip once again watching you with a sultry look.

And that was the beginning. You followed him about taking various snaps whislt having small talk. He seemed to be very flirtatious as he spoke, dropping lines and compliments as he made eyes at you. You flushed each time clamming up at his suggestive comments. And rightly or wrongly you flirted back trying to seem cool and suave. But inside you were fangirling unable to belive you were here with this incredibly gorgeous man teasing one another. On a few occasions he even growled as you scampered about him, crouching and taking shots from blow getting some delicious angles that dampened your knickers. Then in between all this he managed to get little tied bits. You'd told him you were on agency freelance and were trying to get into the social media platform as it seemed easier in this day and age rather then to be in fashion photography. You wanted to be commercial not private but no one would really take a chance anymore.

Then you suggested a few shots on the sofa laying back trying to think of something different for your portfolio, maybe a body length shot. He was quick to agree and dived onto the sofa saying he had an idea you swallowed nodding not fully trusting the look in his eyes. But that was forgotten as he relaxed stretching out over the sofa legs crossed and resting on the arm of his hands behind his head and a devilish smirk looking down the lenght of his body. You knelt at his feet trying to get a flattering image of him looking down but cursed as the camera wasn't playing ball. The lense was focusing, this was why you used the other one first, the camera had a few issues and was temperamental.

"What's wrong?" he asked frowning a little at you as you growled pulling the camera away fro your face and began trying to manually focus the lense.

"Oh its.. It wont focus.. It does this sometime, really need to throw it out but.. She was my first I'm sentimental" you said feeling silly as you battled with the camera.

"We all are with our firsts... How about you come closer instead, I really want to see this shot, never done one at this angle.. Out of all my shoots your the first to suggest this~" you froze and looked to him but he just smiled impishly at you. Slowly you rounded the sofa and leant over him positioning the camera at his stomach as he looked right into the lense giving you a definite bedroom eyes, half lidded and burning. Both dreamy and amazingly sexy. It was as if he could see you beyond the lense, as if it wasn't even there!

"You can come closer love, I wont bite, not if you don't want me to~" his voice was low and teasing, luring you in like a siren. You trembled and moved along him but he tutted and moved a hand to your hip and pressed, coaxing you onto the sofa and sat you on him making you straddle him. You gasped squeazing your camera tighter as he moved you easily, warm palms holding you both delicatly and firmly. You could see in his eyes he was weary unsure if he had gone to far but you squeezed him between your thighs and relaxed making him grin up at you getting the message you didn't mind at all. You aimed the lense at him once more and got the shots you wanted.

"Perfect! Mr Cavill" you said actually a little sad that this session was over. It had been nice playing this little cat and mouse game with him. But all good things come to an end.

"Ah now i have a policy love, when a womans on top they can call me henry, among other things~" he said smoothly laughing as you chuckled nervously fiddling with the camera in your hands and shifted over him a little.

"I will try to remember that for next time boomer~" you teased managing to overcome your nerves as you pulled away the camera with a giggle winking at him as he stuttered. For a second you thought you'd gone too far but a quirk to his lips made you relax once more.

"That hurt, that was hurtful" he teased pouting not releasing you from his lap, instead holding you tighter, fingers digging into your sides making you gasp and bit your lip as he pulled you to his crotch and ground into you teasingly.

"I'm so sorry~" you uttered breathless trying to keep yourself together. But this man was something else, like a drug- the devil all fanged smiles and smooth words. God you were fucked, you knew this man could do anything to you and youd thank him for it~

"I doubt that" he cooed and slid his hand higher growing more and more confident. The last few hours of casual flirting had built up his appitite. There was no misconceptions, you wanted him as much as he wanted you.

"Oh yeah?" you said coyly tipping your head to him playing along willing for this to happen, whether it be a one of fuck or something longer. You didnt have any complaints~ this was your body and youd enjoy it with who ever you wanted to!

"Yeah prove it!" he hissed and moved quickly sitting up and swinging around planting his feet on the floor. You yelped as he moved surprizingly fast and managed to keep you in his lap now face to face with you eyes roaming your face settling on your lips.

"And how should i do that" you teased tilting your head skimming your lips with his as you spoke. He groaned and held you tighter making you whine breathlessly willing this to happen. You wanted him and you wont deny yourself the chance.

"Make and old mans day" he said plainly and leant back resting on the back of the sofa, you watched him closely and brought your hands to his shoulders prodding at the neck of the t shirt and drew your fingers down slowly feeling him shiver at the light skimming fingertips.

"Oh really Boomer? And how would i make and old mans day?" you teased once more making him grunt but he quickly caught himself as your fingers smoothed over the teasing curls that peeked over his top. You scratched over them lightly with your nails making him draw a needy breath and chuckled at him. He was sexy and cute~

"By accepting a job offer?" he said before smileing smugly as you paused and frowned. Had you missed something? Was he after a freebee?

"Job offer? Really another shoot?" you snorted suddenly not feeling sexy, more like he was trying to butter you up for some fuck for parts shoots or something. He sighed and began speaking before you could get yourself all twisted. But then again you could have taken his offer wrong.

"Manage my social media. I have many companies and brands reach out to me for endorsements. They want me caught wearing their brands. But I'm to busy most of the time I cant make it to the locations they want. It actually doesn't seem worth it most of the time, with cost of flights and time lost travelling to and from studios itd be easier if I had my own personal photographer that travelled with me its be easy, slip on the clothes and what not take a few snaps and then you touch them up and post them on my social media." he explained watching as it sunk in that he wasnt trying to pull a fast one. Well he was but not trying to fuck you over... Just fuck you... And keep you because you were fantastic and he wants nothing more then to have you around hime as much as possible. In the single dat he had spent working with you, you had enchanted him, not only were you sexy but you were good at your job and easy to work with but also funny and cute and he needed to get to know you.

"Of course its a very big venture and we'd have to have a few dinner and lunch dates to work out all the nitty gritty" he added after a few beats of silence trying to make it clear he was interested... Very interested~ it worked as you fluched and a playfull look donned your face your fingers began stoking his chest hair once more. He relaxed shuddering under the nails as they teased his curls.

"Is this a big ploy to get a date Boomer?" you purred his new nick name making him groan when you squeezed him between your thick thighs once more grinding on him and the considerable bulge below you that twitched.

"No... Maybe is it working?" he said quickly hissing at you shifted in his lap once more, his hands snapping to your hips trying to still you before he came undone in his boxers. You were a very dangerous woman and something told him you knew.

"Well it sounds like an offer I'd be very, very interested in taking further~" you clarified giggling when he swallowed dryly and eyed you surprized that his plan had seemed  to work.

"Good to hear~ so got anything planned after this?" he asked feeling a wave of confidence at the prospect of snagging a date with you. He hadn't meant to sound so eager but... He was eager and that was that.

"Yes" you said with a straight face and got up off of him spinning around heading to the table with your camera bags. You gave him a glance and giggled seeing him still sitting there gobsmacked legs wide open and his crotch that was now definitely bigger then it had been earlier.

"O-oh" he stuttered seemingly unsure how to proceed. You giggled as he fumbled over his words. Then decided to grant him some mercy and began speaking whilst popping out the sd card from the camera labeling it like the previous one.

"You see I had a very cheeky client today who asked for a shoot last mineut. But I wasn't to bothered he was very very sexy even if he was a boomer, but get this out of nowhere gave me a job offer? And we're having dinner- he promised pizza~" you giggled glancing at Henry as he slumped in the seat realising halfway through that you were talking about him. He smoothed his hands over his face and jumped up coming over to you shaking his head.

"You know I'm not actually a boomer?" he quipped folding his arms. You rolled your eyes at him as you packed your stuff away making sure to recheck everything.

"Have you seen your selfies? Your a boomer, boomer" you teased making him scoff but laugh at the name that has now stuck.

"Wait you've seen my selfies? What do you think?" he asked wanting feedback on the silly shots he took. You paused halfway through zipping up your bag and turned facing him fully giving him a thoughtful look then shrugged

"Their alright... For a boomer" you giggled when he preened for a second then his face dropped into a pout when you finished the comment.

"I repeat...That was hurtful" he said covering his heart with a kicked puppy look making you laugh and hoist your bags over your shoulder and make for the door with him hot on your heels.

"Its fine boomer a second date will make up for it I'm sure~" you sniggered at him playfully looking back at him as he followed you out of the door.

"A date for each time you call me boomer? Deal" he quipped walking along side you offering you his arm like a true gentleman unlike the teasing horny little shit he had been all day. Not that you minded either. Gentleman on the streets, freak in the sheets and all that jazz.

"God we may aswell marry now then boomer" he laughed nodding in agreement the banter from the day still in play as you both left the building.

"Seems so, I mean were at ten that's what the kids consider boyfriend girlfreind territory" he anounced with a sigh playing on the 'boomer' joke making you giggle and roll your eyes as he mentioned the tally. Then you frowned and quickly counted your 'boomers' and opened your mouth you correct him, arguing that ten was incorrect.

"I think its nine boomer- ah see what you did their sneaky boomer!" you cried pushing him playfully at his little trick. He roared with laughter and quickly tangled his fingers with yours dragging you back alongside him guiding you down the street towards a place he knew served pizza, he didn't remember but apparantly he promised pizza...

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

49%

Title: 49% 

Summary: If there’s one thing that Spencer hates more than rejection, it’s spontaneity. But sometimes the things (and people) we love outweigh the things that we hate.  AKA a series of events leading up to a weekend wedding between the BAU’s finest Dr. Spencer Reid and his partner in crime, Y/N. 

Word Count: 1365 

Warnings: none 

Author’s Note: I hope that you enjoy reading this! I really appreciate all of the support and kind words :) 

49%

Spencer Reid is terrified. Nothing could compare for the pure fear that courses through his veins in this moment. Not even the times he’d run into hostage situations without wearing a Kevlar vest or even in the most lonely parts of his life. He figures that he’s terrified because he has so much to lose. Never in his life did he have someone that loves him as much as Y/N does. And that terrifies him. Somehow, when Spencer is with Y/N he’s simultaneously a man numb with love and a little boy shaking with fear. He knows that he should have gotten over this fear of rejection years ago. He knows that Y/N would never intentionally hurt him. He knows that she loves him more than anything. 

So why? Why is he so terrified to ask her to marry him? Logically, there’s no reason for her to say no. They’ve been together for 3 years, which is long enough at their age to enter into an engagement. It’s not like she doesn’t want to get married; he’s seen her Pinterest wedding moodboard. She talks about their children, almost like they're already here. She wants to get married and she wants to have kids, but the question that bounces around in Spencer’s mind is does she want that with him? 

“Next!” the barista calls Spencer forward to the counter to order. 

“Hi, I’ll have an extra large black coffee with 6 Splendas, and uh, a large iced green tea with honey,” Spencer orders, pulling out his credit card to pay for the drinks. Coffee is probably not the wisest choice, but what can Spencer say the heart wants what the heart wants. 

Spencer awkwardly waits for his drinks, trying to ignore the small box that burns a whole in his pocket. He’d bought the ring a couple of months ago, right after a case that both of them almost didn’t come home, or worse almost came home in a casket. 

“Two drinks for Spencer!” a barista from behind the counter calls, telling him that his drinks are ready. Spencer takes a sip of his coffee, the sweet liquid burning his tongue. Taking a look at the time on his watch, Spencer decides that it’s time to head to the park. 

It’s a short walk to the park, but it seems like it’s the longest walk of his life. Maybe if he wasn’t so nervous or terrified, he'd be able to enjoy how beautiful was. Spencer might be a complete ball of nerves, but he’s a romantic at heart. He wants this to be a perfect start to their perfect life. He finds the park bench that he told Y/N to meet him at. He sits there, waiting for her to show up and waiting for their life to start. 

Spencer’s leg bounces up and down. He should have worn a different pair of shoes. These Converse are so old and ratty, he thinks. He thinks he looks ridiculous in his cardigan and corduroy pants, what was he thinking? He can’t actually expect that she’s going to yes to him. 

While his thoughts are occupied by the constant inner commentary of rejection and ridicule, he fails to her the leaves crunch behind him. His vision goes black when his eyes are covered by a pair of familiar feeling hands. Y/N’s laugh gives it away instantly, but Spencer’s constant vigilance does cause him to yelp in a high pitched squeal. 

“Spencer! It’s me honey,” Y/N says, wrapping her arms around his neck and peppering his cheek with quick kisses. It’s the kind of kisses that say “I’m happy to see you” and “You’re the only one I want to see”. It’s at times like these that he doubts his doubts; maybe he can have faith and hope and lean into the romantic side of himself. The side of himself that sees them walking in the park with a baby stroller, playing on the playset with their children, teaching their kids how to drive in the parking lot and sitting on this bench when their backs hurt all the time and their faces have a few more wrinkles.

“I’d know that laugh anywhere, Y/N” Spencer says, watching her move to sit next to him on the bench. 

“Ohh, thanks for the iced tea!” She says, taking a sip of the cold drink. Even though it’s barely winter, Spencer still can’t believe that she can drink iced beverages in any kind of weather below 50 degrees. He nods and kisses her on her cheek, which causes a small giggle to emerge. Spencer is still kind of surprised that his affections can elicit such happy responses from her. 

“So,” Y/N starts. “Why did you leave our house at 7:00 AM and text me to meet you here?” 

“Umm,” Spencer says, the nerves bubbling to the surface. You can do this, Spencer, he thinks. You can do this, she’s not going to say no. She can’t say no. At this moment, Spencer is really wishing he had his passport with him and a getaway car to jump in, just in case Y/N says no.

“Did you know that only 3% of weddings happen in a courthouse?” Y/N asks at a completely stunned Spencer. 

“Yeah,” Spencer says timidly, not entirely sure where this is panning out, but grateful to listen to his girlfriend. It beats the alternative, him saying something stupid and her laughing at him; him fleeing the state and ending up a magician in a Las Vegas casino. 

“Yes, courthouse weddings are a great alternative, they’re affordable and efficient for couples who just want to get married without all that fuss,” Y/N adds, looking at Spencer. 

She’s profiling you, Spencer thinks. Don’t make eye contact. He knows (and she knows) that the moment he looks into her eyes, he’s done for. Las Vegas here he comes….

“And 51% of marriages end in divorce,” Spencer tells her, before he can even think about what he’s saying. Great he thinks, the day that he’s supposed to propose to her, he’s talking about divorce statistics. 

“You know that I failed statistics in college, Spence?” Y/N asks him. 

“I think I remember you mentioning that,” Spencer says, now thoroughly confused as to where this is going. 

“I have an evil plan to seek revenge against statistics, so I think that it’s my life mission to prove them wrong,” Y/N finishes, pulling something out from her bag. 

Spencer can feel his heart beating in his chest. He’s even more terrified than he was before. Suddenly all those songs that Y/N made him dance to late in the middle of the night make complete sense. 

“But, I also think that it’s my life mission to spend the rest of my life with you, Spence. So, I know that it’s not alway the case for the girl to propose marriage, but I think that you deserve someone to propose to you,” Y/N says, very quickly. 

Spencer sits there on the bench with Y/N sitting right next to him, utterly speechless. Did she just….

“You want to marry me?” Spencer says, dumbly. 

“Of course I do, Spencer! Give me your hand, I got you an engagement ring and-”

Spencer, suddenly fearless, cups her face in his hands, effectively making her quiet. He works on the surge of confidence, leaning in and kisses Y/N on the lips. It’s like he’s kissing her for the first time in his life. It’s like his first kiss ever, but it’s the first kiss of all the kisses of the rest of their life. 

“So I’ll take that as a yes,” Y/N says, breaking apart from Spencer. 

Spencer lets out a laugh, completely forgetting why on Earth he was so scared to propose. 

“So you’re not the only one who had this idea, Y/N” Spencer tells her, reaching into his cardigan pocket. He hands her the velvet box and reveals the vintage ring that he picked out from the second hand jewelry store. 

“Spencer? Is this why you told me to come here? Oh God, I ruined your proposal!” Y/N says, embarrassed that she messed with Spencer’s plans, knowing how nervous he can get. 

“On the contrary Y/N, I’m sure that this is the best possible proposal,” Spencer tells her, as she lays her head against his shoulder. 

“Spencer,” Y/N says, suddenly serious. 

“Yes, fiance?” Spencer teases. 

“How would you like to be in the 3% of marriages? Like as soon as possible. Like tomorrow? I don’t think I can wait another second not being married to you,” she confesses. 

“As long as we’re in the 49%, I’ll do anything you want.” 

[zacharybosch]

Tasseomancy - chapter 2

🧁 in which ed and stede successfully treat themselves 🧁

chapter 1: tumblr / ao3

read chapter 2 of Tasseomancy below or on ao3!

They met again at the same time the following week. With nothing to do all day except wait for the time to pass, and feeling unsettled with some weird fizzy energy that he didn’t really understand, Ed had ended up arriving at Jackie’s way earlier than he needed to. He scuffed his feet around outside for a while, strangely reluctant to go in. It had been easy last time when he found Stede in the café, a little safe harbour in a confusing sea of aeropress and oolong. What if— what if he went in this time and picked something shit and they could tell that he didn’t know what he was doing? Or he said one of the weird drink names wrong and they laughed at him?

He could just get a black coffee. No funny milk or Italian names like fuckaccino or whatever. Coffee was easy, classic, everyone approved of coffee. But that tea he had last time was so much nicer than any shitty coffee he’d ever had in his life… What was it called again? It was a colour and a name or title or something. It wasn’t the Earl Grey that Stede was originally going to have. Earl black? No. Earl r— gr— br— blue! Okay, it was definitely blue. And what else? Maybe not earl. Blue man. Blue man man. Blue duke? No, come to think of it, it wasn’t a male name at all, was it? Blue queen? Fucking hell, maybe he should just get the cof— Blue Lady! Fucking Blue Lady tea, amazing, that was the one, Ed could walk into the café and order a Blue Lady tea and make everyone believe he knew what the fuck he was doing.

He ended up ordering a tea for Stede as well, and pastries too, since Stede had mentioned pastries last week. And then he also got muffins and some little fruit tart things, because they looked so cute and there were only a few left in the display case anyway so he might as well, right? It felt faintly ridiculous to be so charmed and excited by something as simple as buying tea and cakes, but he hadn’t been lying when he told Stede that he’d never had time for this kind of thing before. For Ed, buying food had always been greasy kebabs at one in the morning, cardboard-tasting lukewarm fast food between jobs, or handfuls of sticky sweets that were leftover at the end of another sweltering summer day working food carts on the beach. Hydration was cheap energy drinks, and bitter black coffee that tasted like pure shit.

Eating well, in a way that nourished and excited him rather than just begrudgingly enabled his continued existence, was one thing that Ed really and sincerely wanted to be better at. But food was— difficult. Or rather, food was confusing and complicated and there was so much to learn, and how embarrassing was it to be a whole grown adult who could only name about four vegetables and only remembered to eat roughly eight hours after waking up? Food had always been a necessary evil and nothing more; as a child, meal times were endured fearfully, because the longer he was around his dad the more likely it was that something would set him off. As an adult, eating was just a waste of time that could have been better spent working.

Food had never been a treat, but he was determined to make it one now.

The barista packed everything up in a paper bag and handed it over along with the cups, and then Ed went back outside to wait for Stede. Too late he realised that he probably shouldn’t have bought the drinks just yet and they would be cold by the time Stede arrived, and just as he was about to head back inside the café to ask for a tea towel or something to wrap around the cups to keep them warm, he saw Stede crossing the street and coming up towards him.

“Hi, Ed!” Stede called out with a cheerful wave.

“Just rolled outta bed,” he shot back. “How’s it going man, you good? I got us drinks already, more of that yummy tea, and some other stuff that was just getting lonely on the counter by itself. Cakey things.”

“Oh no, am I late? Sorry, I tried to leave work as early as I could—”

“Nah it’s all good, I just got here super early so I figured I’d sort us out.” It also felt really fucking nice to just be able to spend money and not think about it, especially when it was for someone else and he knew they’d love it and then they’d see how good Ed was, but admitting that felt a bit too personal.

The most endearing smile that Ed had ever seen bloomed across Stede’s face. “That’s very thoughtful of you Ed, thank you. I hope you’ll let me pay next time?”

“Yeah, totally,” he lied. Ed had already decided that if having his tea and cake paid for made Stede smile like that, then there was no way he was ever going to let Stede pay. And besides, Ed could fucking afford it and Stede couldn’t. “So what do we do now? How do we know when we’ve successfully treated ourselves?”

Stede took his cup from Ed, and they began a leisurely walk down to the seafront again. He made a thoughtful noise as he sipped his tea, and then said, “Well, I suppose we’ll know when we feel a nice little spark of contentment, joy, warmth… something like that. When we stop thinking about something bad that might’ve happened recently.”

“And how many times do we have to do it?” Ed asked, thinking about several unpleasant memories he’d very much like to erase with treats. “How many cups of tea does it take to get rid of bad thoughts?”

Stede gave him a funny look. “One has to be very careful not to fall into the trap of using treats as a replacement for therapy and self-reflection. Believe me, I speak from extensive experience.”

That was certainly interesting. Stede definitely didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would ever need therapy. “Is that why you’re counting the pennies now?” Ed asked. “Tried to spend all your bad thoughts away?”

Stede sighed, and looked a little forlornly at the cup in his hand. “Not exactly, no. It’s… well, it’s a long and probably quite boring story. I used to be wealthy, very wealthy, though I never did a thing to earn it. I was a name and a legacy, and was living the life that went along with that. It wasn’t my life though, and yes, I did try to make it easier to endure by spending… a lot… but when you feel like your very existence is out of place, there’s no amount of artisanal marmalade and silk scarves that can really make it any better.”

He paused then and looked hesitantly at Ed, lips pursed to say more but apparently unsure about whether it was okay to carry on. Ed got the distinct impression that Stede really wasn’t used to talking about himself this much, but he was intensely curious about Stede’s whole deal and so gave him an encouraging nod.

A ripple of relief crossed Stede’s face, there and gone again, and then he carried on: “All credit to my dear ex-wife Mary, she helped me to finally realise some fundamental truths about myself, and so when we got divorced I gave everything to her. The money, the land, the businesses, it’s all hers now. I just hope it went some small way to making up for the years of her life that I wasted.”

“Ex-wife, huh?” Ed said, trying his very best to sound completely neutral and not at all disappointed. They’d reached the promenade, and made their way down onto the beach proper, feet crunching over the pebbles. “I kinda just assumed you were gay, y’know, because of the whole…” he gestured vaguely at Stede and his outfit. No straight man wore that much gold trim.

“Oh I am, but it seems I was the very last person on Earth to figure that one out. I thought coming out to Mary would be the hardest thing I ever had to do, but she was so…” Stede’s mouth was starting to look dangerously downturned. Shit. Ed hadn’t meant to make the man cry. “I don’t deserve her kindness, I never have done. I wasn’t a good husband or a good father to our children.”

Ed knew a thing or two about bad husbands, bad fathers, and he also knew the difference between those who were genuinely bad and those who were just in the wrong job. “Hey, no, come on man. That’s not fair on you. You were struggling, I bet you did your best.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, Ed, but no. I shirked my responsibilities and hid away from all the difficult truths I couldn’t bear to face. I was a coward and my family suffered for it.”

What could Ed even say to that? He’d spent the last week thinking that Stede was a happy-go-lucky, glass-half-full kind of guy. Had the whole world sussed out and was just happy to be here and living in it… but he clearly wasn’t doing as well as Ed thought if this was how he viewed himself. He’d gone on and on about how important it was to treat yourself nicely last week, but apparently that advice applied to everyone except Stede himself. Ed might need a few pointers in learning how to be a man of means and leisure, but Stede definitely needed lessons in basic self-worth.

“I think we need to eat these muffins,” Ed said, stopping abruptly and plonking himself down on the pebbles, “before you slide any further down that shame spiral. You’re a cool guy Stede, don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I suppose,” Stede sighed, carefully arranging himself next to Ed and accepting the slightly squashed muffin that was handed to him. A few seagulls walked over and started eyeing them menacingly, no doubt plotting to grab a beakful of food. Ed chucked a handful of pebbles in their general direction and they flew off, squawking indignantly.

It was a little cooler on the beach than it had been the previous week, and the sunset was broken up by swells of pink and grey clouds. The waves crashed against the shoreline a little more forcefully, and the air felt thick and heavy. Ed’s hair was whipped around by the breeze, and it occurred to him suddenly that in all his years spent working on the coast, he’d never once come to the beach for pleasure. And what a waste that was; even now, perched on the brink of some rather questionable weather, it was a lovely place to be.

He could probably stand to make a few nice memories here. Overwrite some of the old ones.

Ed leaned back on his elbows, wiping muffin crumbs out of his moustache as he looked up at the sky. “Storm tonight, I reckon. Rain’ll probably come in soon.”

“Oh no, really?” Stede said, dismayed. “I don’t have my umbrella with me. I hope it won’t be too heavy a downpour, this bag isn’t suitable for the rain at all.”

“Where did you get that?” Ed asked, looking at Stede’s intriguing little tote bag. It was colourful and frilly and ridiculous and he’d never seen anything like it before.

“Oh, well, I made it actually,” Stede said, looking a little bashful. “From scratch.”

Ed grabbed the bag and peered at it more closely, running his fingers carefully over the fabric. Was that silk? It felt like silk. “No fuckin’ way man, that’s so cool. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this earlier. Is that what you do for your job? Design bags and stuff?”

“Ah, not really. I’d love to, one day. I do alterations and mending at a launderette and dry cleaning shop. I’m— not very good, if I’m being honest with you. They give me the simple stuff, but anything more complex than replacing a button or turning up a hem goes to John or Frenchie. They own the place.” Stede turned to look at Ed still fondling the bag, and smiled. “It’s not much, but I really enjoy it. I’m so much happier doing this than I ever was in board meetings and executive offices.”

“Can you make a bag for me?” Ed asked, wide-eyed, holding the bag up by its silky ribbon straps and twirling it back and forth.

“Um, my skills really aren’t up to that kind of standard yet. I had a lot of help with this one.”

“Okay, well, when you open your own fancy bag shop I’m gonna be first in line to buy one. That’ll be a really good treat for myself. Bonnet’s Bag Boutique. Can’t wait.”

“I think it’ll be a while before that happens. If you want to treat yourself with a nice new bag, though, I could take you to that luxury department store in town. They have a lot of fancy bags in there. I used to go there a lot, before, and I still have my membership card so—”

Ed’s face shuttered almost immediately. “Yeah, I uh, did already try going in there actually, couple weeks ago. Doorman wouldn’t let me through. Said the stuff in there wasn’t for me.”

Stede looked absolutely appalled. “Edward, I’m so sorry. Forget I ever suggested it. Let’s— I’m sure there are plenty of other better places we could go. I’ll find somewhere.”

Ed had never felt smaller in his life than when that doorman had turned him away. He’d known from a young age that a store like that wasn’t intended for people like him; as a young kid he’d drag his feet past the lavish window displays, desperately curious to know what else was inside the building but never wanting to admit it. In his innocent child’s brain, before he’d been taught some very hard lessons about the world and his place in it, he thought if he just worked hard enough, he’d be able to become the kind of person that the store was intended for.

Even as a world-weary and pessimistic adult, Ed had kept this thought tucked secretly in the back of his mind, hidden guiltily under layers of jadedness and cynicism. But the doorman had disabused him of the notion with one brutal remark and it was heartbreaking and humiliating, all the more so because the doorman had been about half his age and clearly took great pleasure in barring his way. Ed could still hear that smarmy fucking voice in the back of his head, recommending a shop across town that was more his level. Ed could probably afford to buy the deed to the whole damn building if he wanted to, but this guy had just looked at him and seen trash.

“No, fuck that guy. I want to go back there. There was a— a cool belt I saw online and that’s why I went there in the first place. I deserve to go buy that fuckin’ belt. And they can’t turn me away if I’m with you, right?”

“If they try, I will burn the place down,” Stede said, and the look in his eyes told Ed that he was being completely serious. How had it only been a week, and yet Stede was already vowing to commit crimes to defend Ed’s honour and dignity? And how was Ed utterly willing to let him? He’d been told many times in the past that he’d bend over for anyone if they showed him even the slightest crumb of affection, but he’d never really believed it until he looked at Stede, at the hard set of his jaw and the angry frown on his brow, and felt himself leaning in, just a little.

A fat, heavy drop of rain landed on Stede’s cheek, and he yelped. “Oh— shit! There’s the rain,” he said, putting a protective hand over his bag. “Should we find some cover?”

Ed would’ve been perfectly content to sit out in the rain and get a good drenching. There was nothing like a storm at the cusp of summer and autumn to invigorate you and get the blood pumping. But he could see Stede glancing anxiously between his bag and the ominously rolling clouds, so they grabbed the remainder of their food and jogged over to the awning of a beachfront gift shop.

And not a moment too soon, as within two seconds of getting under the awning, the heavens opened and the rain came pummelling down. Seagulls cried out and scattered, food cart operators started frantically packing up shop, and Ed and Stede looked at each other and laughed.

The rain smelled amazing, that fresh, hot smell that only came after days of warm and sticky weather. Ed closed his eyes and filled his lungs with a few deep breaths, sticking his hands out from under the awning to get splashed.

“Feels good, man,” he said with a smile. “I always liked the rain. ‘Specially after a summer like the one we’ve just had, fuckin’ sweaty and nasty every day.”

“I like to listen to it at night,” Stede said. “The bed is built into the bay window in my flat, so even if it’s soft and light I still hear the rain pattering against the glass. And when I open the windows I can hear the ocean. I love falling asleep like that.”

“That sounds— really nice. I should do that. Um, in my own bed. Obviously.” That fizzy feeling from earlier in the day was back again, so Ed quickly changed the subject. “Whereabouts do you live, anyway? The rain never stays this heavy for long, I think it’s already letting up a bit. You might be able to make a run for it if it’s not far.”

“I’m in the flats above the old shopping arcade, you know the art deco one? About fifteen minutes on foot, give or take. The building’s quite shabby now and you can hear it every time a neighbour so much as sneezes, but it still has most of its original signage and balustrades from the twenties, so I find it quite charming.” Stede looked down at his bag and started trying to shove it underneath his blazer. “I think I can make it.”

Before he could really think too hard about what he was doing or why he was doing it, Ed pulled his own ratty leather jacket off his shoulders and draped it over the bag in Stede’s arms. “More waterproof,” he said. “I’ll walk with you.”

“Won’t you get cold?”

“Nah, I run pretty hot. And the rain’s refreshing.”

The fifteen minute walk ended up taking thirty, as Stede kept on stopping to point out pretty little things in shop windows, and they also had to shelter from another particularly violent downpour. They ate soggy pastries in a shop doorway while they waited for it to pass, and Ed secretly hoped that it would just rain and rain all night long, so he’d have an excuse to stand next to Stede in this little doorway and let his mind (and maybe his hands, who knew) wander to some very silly places.

As they stood there, pressed up against each other, Ed had the absurd thought that maybe he was living in a romcom. For the vast majority of his life, he’d felt as though he was in one of those gritty and depressing movies that had a statement to make about society or capitalism or the inherently ugly nature of humanity or whatever — which, fair enough, his life had been pretty fucking shit, but his life was also so much more than just the bad parts. He didn’t belong in that movie, he’d been dropped into it by mistake and assumed the role because that’s all that was available for him, but the costume never fit. He played the part, rolled with all life’s punches and threw plenty of his own in turn, but it wasn’t him.

He fit here, in this romcom doorway, watching the rain with this endearing, earnest man next to him, feeling prickly in his fingers and bubbly in his chest.

Eventually they arrived at the entrance to Stede’s building, nestled between two shopfronts in the middle of the arcade. Stede dawdled, talking about this and that, absent-mindedly playing with the sleeve of Ed’s jacket where it was still draped over his bag. Ed nodded and smiled and looked at the damp ends of Stede’s hair curling over his forehead. His lungs were full of petrichor air and his tongue heavy under the weight of a hundred what-ifs.

“...well, anyway, I suppose I really should let you get on your way. Sorry the rain ruined the evening a bit.”

“It wasn’t ruined,” was all Ed said, reaching to take his jacket back. Stede was still holding on to the sleeve, and for a brief moment the leather was taught between them, and they just looked at each other for one breath, two, three. Then Stede let go, and the jacket flopped back against Ed’s body, and he slipped it on over his shoulders. “G’night Stede,” he said, softly. “See you soon.”

“See you, Edward.”

Stede disappeared behind the door, and Ed stepped out from under the cover of the arcade. Just then, the rain began yet again in earnest, and Ed stopped to let it wash over him. What the fuck was going on? Stede was such a weird little guy, with his outlandish homemade bag and his fervent promises of arson, and Ed was going absolutely googly over him. He was quick to fall in lust, sure, but this didn’t feel like that at all. Had he cracked? Did he finally have time now to have a mid-life crisis?

He was just about to start walking off when he heard the creak of a window opening and then a yell of, “Hey! Ed!”

He turned and looked up, shielding his eyes from the rain with his hands, and there was Stede hanging out of a window on the top floor of the building. “What the fuck are you doing, man?” Ed called back, and then immediately dodged as an umbrella came flying towards him, pointy end first.

“For your journey home! So you don’t get wet!”

Ed was already soaked to the bone, but he picked the umbrella up anyway and grinned. “You’re a fuckin’ lunatic, Stede!”

[hotchseyebrows]

it's a matter of seeing

a derek morgan x penelope garcia fic

a/n: hello again beloveds !!! today i present to you Another derek and penelope are kissing for the first time fic. what can i say, it's simply the best. thank you as always to the spectacular @blkantigone for being my supportive and helpful first reader and editor, love youuu! thank all of you for reading (im getting faster between uploads, have you noticed?)

title is from emily l. by marguerite duras. full line is "I don't know if love's a feeling. Sometimes I think it's a matter of seeing. Seeing you."

rating/warnings: gen audiences :) two vague allusions to sex but nothing even close to explicit, its more just in the way it exists in the background and derek is injured but it's superbly minor

read it here on ao3!

Derek steps closer to Penelope. “You had to see me. With your own eyes.”

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Yes, silly goose, that’s the usual way of seeing.”

-

Derek gets hurt on a case, and Penelope worries. He's fine, but she still worries.

word count: 2028

Derek glances at the time on his phone. Almost midnight, though it could be closer to 4 a.m. for how tired the team is tonight. A long case in Colorado kept them away from home for almost two weeks, and all Derek wants is to pet his dog and sleep in his own bed.

“Could this elevator ride be any slower?” Emily groans from where she’s leaning on the wall behind him.

“You know, Prentiss, I could have just gotten a late night taxi or grabbed one of the last trains.” Spencer is rocking back and forth on his heels next to her, a yawn growing on his lips. 

“Nuh uh, kid, I’m getting you home whether you like it or not. I just wish you didn’t need that notebook from your desk tonight.”

“Sorry,” Spencer says, cringing slightly. Derek looks back to see Emily nudge his shoulder with a fond grin. Spencer’s shoulders relax.

“Why are you coming up, Hotch?” Derek asks the man in the opposite corner from Emily.

“Files.” Hotch stays facing the elevator door, only glancing at Derek.

“No way are you planning on staying here and working tonight– Hotch. We’ve been gone for two weeks–” (“Almost two weeks,” says Spencer. Derek waves him off.) “– you should be going home.”

“I’m just grabbing a few things. I’ll get back on this elevator with you.” Hotch glances at the time on his own phone then, unlocking it to open a text message from Jess. Derek sees a picture of smiling Jack for a split second before he looks away. “Jess is already expecting me.”

Derek hums in acknowledgement. He rolls his shoulder as the doors open and they walk towards the bullpen together.

“Shoulder still hurting, Morgan?” Emily asks. The day before they came home, one of the unsubs got the jump on Derek, tackling him to the ground. Emily easily subdued him, but Derek landed funny on a wayward pipe. His shoulder has been bothering him ever since. He nods in response.

“I’ll be fine.” Emily scoffs at him, but says nothing. He will. Eventually.

Spencer holds open the door for Derek. “Here, Morgan. So you don’t aggravate your injury.”

“Hilarious. Ha ha. When’s the stand-up tour? Have you been moonlighting at comedy clubs, pretty boy?”

Spencer sticks his tongue out at him. He quickly pulls it back in his mouth when he catches Hotch looking at him. To their surprise, Hotch cracks a small smile. “Reid has a point, Morgan.” Emily lets out a laugh that is more a cackle than anything.

“Evil. You’re all evil.” He walks through the held open door anyway.

Most of the desk lamps are off, the bullpen empty this late. But his chair is spinning slightly and his light is on. A mop of blonde hair, today a mess of curls with a large sparkly flower pinned at the top, bounces as the chair spins.

“Baby girl, what are you doing here?” Penelope spins to face him, a brilliant smile flashing onto her face immediately. “It’s late. You could have gone home hours ago.”

“Where’s JJ and Rossi?” 

“Already in their cars on the way home. We all needed something from up here first.” She’s standing now, and he steps in front of her. “Don’t avoid my question, Mama,” he says, lightly tapping the tip of her nose.

Her smile falters, worry breaking through. “You got hurt.” Her eyebrows crease as she looks him over.

Derek raises both eyebrows. “Yea, but I’m okay. A little injury.”

The crease does not go away. “You got hurt. I don’t like when you get hurt.” He uses his non injured arm to pull her in for a hug. She wraps him in her arms immediately, her face pressing against his chest. The usual private shiver dances down his spine at the feeling. He rubs a small circle on the middle on her back as the tension bleeds out of her.

“See, baby girl? I’m fine.” Penelope picks up her head and looks at him. “Heart’s still beating. Blood’s still pumping. It’s just a little booboo.” She laughs at his word choice. “I’m okay. Promise.”

“You’re gonna rest at home? Ice it, or heating pad it up, or whatever you need?” He nods. “And you’ll call me if you need my help?”

“I promise.” She pops on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “You’re cute when you’re worried.”

Penelope tilts her head back and laughs. “I’m always cute, Derek Morgan. Don’t you forget it.” She never looks more beautiful than when she laughs. 

“I won’t,” he says, moving his arm to her waist and walking them both to his desk. Spencer is closing his bag at his desk while Emily leans back in his chair, eyes closed.

“Okay, I’m ready,” says Spencer, nudging the chair with his foot. Emily blinks her eyes open, sitting up. “And I can drive, Emily, you’re more tired than I am.” She opens her mouth to argue, but a yawn comes out instead. She hands Spencer the keys without a word.

“Why are you here, Garcia?” Emily asks.

“Had to see my sweet love in person as soon as you got home.” Derek’s heart flips in his chest. “I worry,” she says simply. Emily nods, giving Derek a long look.

Hotch appears at the top of the stairs next to his office. “I’m leaving.” The unsaid addition of that means you are too rings out from the eyebrow heavy look he gives them all.

Derek grabs the file he needs and a novel his sister sent him from his desk drawer quickly. “Come on baby girl, I’ll walk you out.”

“My very own Prince Charming,” she says as she loops her arm through his.

Spencer starts telling Emily about a Russian film festival coming up in a few weeks as they lead the way to the door. Hotch is close behind, silent but listening. Penelope pulls on Derek a little and they follow. 

She puts her head on his shoulder. On reflex, he kisses the top of her head. Not for the first time, he thinks about how easy it is for her to slot into place in his life. She just fits, no matter where he is or what he’s doing. There she is, a voice on the phone or the person spinning in his desk chair in the middle of the night solely because she needs to see him in person.

He falters as they walk through the glass doors. Penelope only makes it a few steps before she’s looking back at where he’s frozen, mind whirring. Emily is pressing the button to the elevator ahead of them. “Der?” Penelope asks.

“Why are you here?”

She tilts her head. “I told you. I worry.”

“You could have called Penelope. You did call, we talked on the plane.”

Now she blushes. She never blushes. “I had– I had to see for myself. I didn’t want to wait until Monday.”

A realization washes over Derek. “You had to see,” he repeats, a smile growing on his face.

She sways a little on her feet. “Yes, I said that.” The trio at the elevator notices them lingering by the doors, but Hotch stops Spencer from calling out with a knuckle brush to the forearm.

Derek steps closer to Penelope. “You had to see me. With your own eyes.”

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Yes, silly goose, that’s the usual way of seeing.” Derek takes another step, now only an arm’s length away. 

“It’s midnight on a Saturday. And you waited for me here, alone.”

She nods.

“Even though we talked today and you know that I’m okay, that I’ve had worse injuries.”

She nods again.

“Penelope,” he says, voice barely a whisper. He steps impossibly closer. “Why are you here?”

A look of fear settles on Penelope’s face. “Derek–”

“No, it’s alright!” He grabs her hand. “I just need you to say it.”

She softens, something like hope lighting up her eyes. “If you need me to say it, then you already know.”

He releases a loud laugh– the kind of joyous sound that comes unbidden from the bottom of the stomach. Leaning forward, he rests their foreheads together, watching her reaction. When she smiles, he knows for sure. “Yea I do,” he says.

She leans in across the tiny distance between them and presses their lips together. Derek forgets about the lingering ache in his shoulder in favor of this new feeling. He swings an arm around her waist and straightens up, pulling her flush against him. She wraps her arms around his neck, a soft sound humming against his lips. He’s about to slip his tongue into her mouth and carry her off to an empty office when someone clears their throat from across the room.

Penelope pulls back first, automatically hiding her face in Derek’s neck. Emily is hiding a smile behind her hand. Hotch’s eyebrows are raised slightly, the ghost of a smile around his eyes. Spencer makes no attempt to hide his glee, fingers tapping together happily. Derek grins at them. “Can I help you three?”

“Just thought you’d want to carry on somewhere else. And the elevator is here.” Sure enough, Emily has a foot in the elevator door. She shows him her full grin this time. “Not that we weren’t having fun watching the show.” 

He scoffs. “Next time, we’re charging a ticket price.” Penelope giggles.

“Next time?” she whispers.

He nods. “If you want.”

“Yes! Yes. I want. Very much so.” He smiles, a full eye crinkle 1000 watt smile, and interlocks their fingers to lead her to the elevator. She slots in right at his side, putting her head back on his shoulder. 

They stay that way the whole way down and keep their hands together as they walk to the parking lot. Emily makes kissy faces as she and Spencer get into her car. Spencer waves happily. Hotch gives them a soft smile before he disappears around a corner.

Derek pulls her in for another kiss right next to Esther. Just because he can. “Follow me home?” he mutters against her lips. “We don’t have to… tonight. Next time. But I’ll make breakfast.”

She traces a spiral on his upper arm. “Okay. It’s a date.” He kisses the tip of her nose just to hear her giggle.

She gives him one more kiss before gently shoving him in the direction of his car. “The faster you get to your car, the faster we get home.” He blows her a kiss before jogging to where he parked two weeks ago. She catches it and puts it right over her heart.

The streets are almost empty as they drive, and Derek keeps pulling up next to her at stoplights to ask if she comes here often or if she wants to race. By the time they arrive at Derek’s apartment building, it’s almost one a.m. and they are both dead on their feet. Still, they stop to kiss in front of his elevator. They kiss again just inside of his front door and again when he hands her an old shirt to wear to bed. He has the urge to pinch his arm, just to double check that he’s not still asleep on the plane. But no, there she is, brushing her teeth in his bathroom with a spare toothbrush. He's never felt this kind of peace with someone else in his space. She has toothpaste on the corner of her mouth and her eyes are bloodshot from exhaustion. I love you, he thinks.

“What?” she asks. “You’re staring.”

Derek hums, wrapping an arm around her waist. "Do you blame me?" He grabs a tissue and blots away the toothpaste. It's a slight deflection, but it's not the moment for what he's really thinking. She scrunches her nose and smiles.

"No. You have good taste."

"Damn right I do, baby girl. The best taste." 

They don’t kiss much when they lay in Derek’s bed, too tired to do much more than cuddle up together and turn off the lights. But Derek doesn’t mind. He’s already thinking about breakfast.

[purplelea]

kingdom hearts for the character thing ^-^

Okay so I'm gonna answer you both here since... it's the same ask haha ^^" @pinelo tagging you so you get the notification

Anyway let's go boysssss

Blorbo

Xion definitely. I love her so much, ever since I discovered her story in days the only thing I wanted was to see her come back. The idea that she didn't even have a face until Roxas saw her as a real person is soooo good. I love this message in kingdom hearts, that anything can be real and have a heart as soon as someone see them as having one. "By ourselves, we're no one. It's when others look at us, and see someone, that's the moment we each start to exist." Thank you Joshua. These words have never been more relevant than for Xion.

Skrunkly

And here I will put... Player :) "But it's not a character, it's supposed to be you!" Nope. Not at all. Player is their own character. You may customize their appearance, but they make their own choices. They have their own personality. Would you, as the one playing KHUX, have chosen to join the dandelions? Probably. But Player did not. Anyway. Player my beloved. The speech they gave for Ephemer is living rent free in my mind. Also the scene when they pretended to be controlled by the Darkness? Ephemera just told them "hey Skuld and I are going to sacrifice ourselves for you" and Player went nope. No no no you are not doing that. They didn't even hesitate. My heart.

Scrimblo Bimbo

I'm going to put the whole twilight gang here (Hayner, Pence and Olette). MY BELOVEDS. I wouldn't say they're so underappreciated honestly but given how much love they deserve it's still not enough. They're so brave and funny and kind. Just a group of friends looking to enjoy their time and make new friends, but their new friends always get wrapped into super weird things. And there's also this friend that was only friend with digital versions of themselves. Oh, doesn't matter. He's their friend now. They're gonna save an old man from an evil man with Hayner's super flying sidekick to find him. They're the best.

Glup Shitto

Well it's not so much of an "obscure character" since the KH4 trailer, but considering only KHUX, then Strelitzia. Do I even have to explain myself? She's so sweet and kind and she absolutely did not deserve this. I don't think she would have been able to change Player's mind though, even if she managed to talk to them. But she was convinced that she should try despite everything, and I admire her for that. I can't wait to see more of her in kh4.

Poor little meow meow

And here is the case where I put... Isa!!! I love him so much. I hated him at first during days and kh2 but the implications of everything he did during DDD and kh3 really made me change my mind. Suggesting the idea of the replicas and suggesting to go fetch Even himself, explaining to the scientist his plan before letting him join the real org, then asking him to have demyx deliver Roxas' replica, then having Xion fight Axel and insisting on Axel and Roxas' names so she would wake up. King.

Horse Plinko

Character I would torture for fun? OH BUT YEN SID OF COURSE. I hate this guy. Relying only on Sora to fix the worlds and then scolding him when he fails? HE'S JUST A KID! Get up from your dumb chair and do something for once! No that one time in kh3 doesn't count. He could've done something sooner. The only thing that prevents me from sending him to superhell is because he isn't responsible for the death of thousands of children. And while we're talking about it...

Eeby Deeby

YOU. *grabs the MoM like a feral cat* YOU ARE GOING TO SUPER HELL. You know I get that he's doing this to destroy the darkness. I get it. It's true. Everything he's ever done has only been with one goal: to get rid of the darkness for good. But if Eraqus was a good example of how light can corrupt people, then MoM is an even better one. Is destroying the Darkness for good really worth all the hurt he caused? It's a question worth asking.

Ask game: give me any fandom!

[mochiusagifanficchaos]

Sherlock x Mute!Reader •Part 7•

Metal crashed against metal as you yanked wildly at the handcuff around your wrist until you felt warm blood running down your ice-cold hand.

Silently sobbing you sank back on the bed. The sudden lack of noise made the dark room even scarier.

How have you ended here? What happened and why the hell can't you remember?!

These thoughts got stuck in your head, drove a rollercoaster, and made you feel sick.

Helpless you tried to remember what had happened, tried to puzzle everything together but the last thing you remember was going to bed alone in your flat.

Alone.

The word echoed in your head.

Something in the back of your mind told you that this wasn't right.

There was this feeling, this feeling of being watched. You had it right before you fell asleep.

Suddenly you remember that something was being pressed on your face. You couldn't breathe anymore and smelled something sweet. Panicking you had woken up and saw someone standing next to your bed. He was pressing you down and covered your mouth and nose with a piece of cloth.

It was Jonathan.

You screamed inside your head, wanted to punch yourself for your stupidity of trusting a man you barely knew instead of trusting Sherlock.

Your eyes darted to your left as a door was opened with a loud squeaking sound and bright blue light fell into the room.

A man was standing in the frame and threw a large shadow on the ground.

"Finally awake?", a deep voice asked with a sarcastic undertone and his heavy steps resounded through the room as he walked towards you.

"Oh, it was so easy to twist you around my little finger", he hummed as he tugged on his black curls, pulling down the wig from his head and revealing short blonde hair.

He chuckled as he saw the scared look on your face.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not gonna harm you.", Jonathan pulled a phone out of his pockets and stood there for a while, typing something, before he sat beside you on the bed and turned the camera on, holding the phone away so that you both were visible on the screen.

"As long as Sherlock does what I want."

"Let's play a game, Sherlock.", the man in the video said and grinned evilly.

Watson heard this sentence for at least the 20th time in a row now since Sherlock kept restarting the video which he received 10 minutes ago on his phone.

"Watching it over and over again won't get (y/n) back here.", Mycroft said, trying to bring his little brother back to his senses but Sherlock completely ignored him, restarting the video again.

Annoyed Watson stood up from his chair and snatched the phone out of Sherlock's hand: "That's enough now."

"I should've stayed with her.", Sherlock mumbled under his breath and ran his hands over his face, his black shirt stretched over his back and arms as every muscle in his body tensioned.

Suddenly he stood up and threw his hands in the air: "For god's sake I should've stayed with her!"

"It's not your fault.", Watson tried to calm him down, shook from his unusual behavior.

"Don't fool yourself, Watson, of course, it is! That lunatic is just kidnapping her because of me."

On Sherlock's phone popped up a message from an unknown number and Watson gave it back to Sherlock. He swiftly opened it, just to nearly drop it as he saw the content of the message.

It was a picture of you sitting on the bed, a blanket half over your shoulders and your right hand was laid over the left. It was dark but Sherlock still noticed the handcuffs and the bloody strains underneath them on your skin. Your hair was parted to both sides of your face and you had a smile on your face. A forced smile, your lips were curled up but your eyes showed fear.

The phone rang loudly and Watson jumped.

Sherlock answered the call with a cold expression.

"Such a pretty girl, don't you think?", the man on the other side chuckled darkly.

Sherlock's hand tightened around his cellphone: "Don't you dare to touch her.", his voice had a deadly sound and even Watson needed to gulp since he never heard him talk like this.

"Oh, I won't, what are you thinking of me? But you should hurry.", the man made a dramatic pause. "It's getting really cold in here."

He chuckled again before he hung up.

Slowly Sherlock lowered his hand with the phone and stared blankly out of the window.

Watson didn't dare to speak and waited for Sherlock to tell him what was up, but he stayed silent and the only noise was the beeping of the disconnected phone call.

Without a word, Sherlock turned around, threw his coat over and rushed with fast and heavy steps past Microft and Watson and down the stairs. Watson followed him to the street and just about made it into the cab in which Sherlock had hopped in.

"Where are we going?", Watson asked as the car started driving.

"The national gallery."

Your shaking ice-cold fingers were wrapped around each other, your knees were tugged under your chin and your arms were pressed at your body to keep the warmth inside.

Your teeth silently chattering was the only sound in the room, beside the rattles of your handcuffs around the bed frame sometimes when you shifted your weight.

Jonathan had left you alone hours ago, he said that he needed to prepare something for Sherlock and you were scared of what he had planned, scared of what he might do to him.

His evil laugh still echoed in your head and made you shiver more than the cold air around you.

"If you're ever scared, my love, then count to three and think of me, count to ten and think of a friend, count to a hundred and your fear will be tamed"

You remembered your mum saying this to you whenever you were scared after what had happened to you as a child. After you lost your voice.

Warm tears rolled over your cheeks as you counted to three and thought of her smile and laugh, her warm embrace and her soft voice.

More and more tears rolled down your cheeks and you began sobbing as you thought about Sherlock.

1

Thought about him taking care of you on the day you had burned your hand in the café.

2

Thought about this proud smile he had on his face when you kept the keys for the register.

3

You remembered the day when he got you out of the hospital to eat some chips together.

4

And then took a ride with you on the London Eye. You knew that he had watched you and had a smile on his face as he saw you being so amazed by the night view.

5

You thought about the days you had tried to ignore and allure him since he wouldn't talk to you about the case and ended up being followed by a slightly sad and jealous Sherlock. Now you were sure that he hadn't understood his own feelings at this time and probably was really confused why you made him feel like this.

You chuckled slightly. When you would get out of here alive you would try to seduce him even more, you loved the look on his face when he was too confused about his own feelings.

6

The picture of you sitting on Sherlock's lap, both of you sleeping, popped up in your mind.

This was the moment you got aware of that you really loved him. You never felt so safe and like home before, then in his arms.

The thought of this brought a warm feeling back and you noticed that you had stopped sobbing and shivering.

7

You remembered him entering the café after not having seen or heard from him for over three months and that smile that crawled on his face as he saw you.

8

He had pulled you in this tight hug instead of saying hello and made your heart melt.

9

A loud bang ripped you out of your thoughts and brought you back to the dark and cold reality.

You held your breath and listened to if there were any other noises but everything remained silent.

Just as you gave up on listening a bright light suddenly flooded the room and you had to cover your eyes, pressing your face into the stinky mattress.

Blinking you tried to get used to the lack of darkness and it took you some seconds to see the big tv on the opposite wall.

It showed Sherlock and Watson who just came running into a big white room with paintings on the walls and you immediately noticed that it was a room from the national gallery.

"Will you tell me now why we needed to go here?", Watson asked out of breath as he watched Sherlock examining every painting in the big room.

"The picture.", Sherlock just answered and walked into the next room. "He made her look like the Mona Lisa and where do we usually find paintings?"

"The national gallery", Watson sighted.

Suddenly Sherlock's phone rang and he hesitated for a second to pick up.



"Where's (y/n)?", he asked straight out.

"Oh Sherlock, I'm not gonna make it so easy for you. Don't you remember that I wanted to play a game?", the voice on the other side said with amusement.

Sherlock tried hard to keep a straight face: "I already solved your little puzzle to get here and I don't want to keep on playing."

A loud laugh suddenly echoed out of the speakers from every corner of the room and Watson whirled around.

"If you don't want to play the game then you won't be able to safe (y/n). Aren't you having fun? I thought you liked puzzles, Sherlock."

The voice filled the room with a dangerous atmosphere.

Sherlock remained silent, grinding his teeth.

"I see, good choice.", the voice chuckled. "You know, I'll give you something to think about: she's here, somewhere, and I already told you where."

Sherlock narrowed his eyebrows, he couldn't think of anything right now, the feeling of fear for you had crawled into him and wouldn't let go anymore.

He took a deep breath and placed his hands in a praying position to his lips.

His eyes darted fast over the paintings on the wall to find anything that would show him where you were captured.

But he couldn't find anything.

"There got to be something!", Sherlock muttered and ruffled his hand through his hair in frustration.

A chuckle echoed out of the speakers again: "Oh Sherlock, don't make it so hard for yourself. I said that I already told you where she is."

Sherlock stopped in his actions and his eyes widened.

"Stupid!", he suddenly scoffed. "My god, Watson, why didn't we notice that earlier?"

"What? What didn't we notice earlier? Sherlock!"; Watson shouted after Sherlock who already ran down the hall.

A swear escaped Watson as he chased after Sherlock's flapping coat...

Next chapter will be up next weekend!

Thank you all so much for reading and your nice comments 🥺 ❤

Tag list ❤

@misselsbells06 @fictionalhoomanofnowhere @a-paper-cut @viviace

[themurphyzone]

PatB Oneshot: Poor Unfortunate Soul

Summary: Brain doesn’t think Pinky would be a very good villain. Pinky decides to prove him wrong (but mostly he wants Denny's).

AN: I’ll be honest, Dark Pinky isn’t for me. So how to compromise writing a villainous Pinky with normal Pinky? Well...you’ll see. 

AO3 Link

Pinky gasped at the TV, crumbs of popcorn falling out of his mouth. Brain stopped chewing and looked away from the screen, unable to stomach the scene of Lupin and Sirius forcing Pettigrew out of rat form as he attempted to flee the Shrieking Shack. 

No matter how many times he’d seen Prisoner of Azkaban, Brain always found it uncomfortable to watch Pettigrew transform into a pathetic, sniveling human who acted like he hadn’t sold his own friends out to a homicidal madman.  

Sure, Voldemort was the villain while Umbridge was the personification of government corruption, but there was just something downright insidious about Pettigrew. 

Pinky’s eyes were blown wide open as Pettigrew pitifully tried to plead his case. The simpleton was always so surprised about this plot twist no matter how many times he’d seen this movie.

The more he pondered, perhaps Pinky was the exact reason he found Pettigrew worse than the larger threats of the Harry Potter world. The man played into the worst of rodent stereotypes with his cowardly and backstabbing nature.

But Pinky?

Not a single disloyal bone in his body. It was a lesson Brain had taken to heart after his disastrous second birthday. Pinky was far too sweet and simple to even think about betrayal. 

Tears flowed down Pinky’s face as Lupin transformed into an emaciated werewolf, so Brain discreetly nudged a pack of Kleenexes his way. Pinky flashed him a grateful, wobbly smile, then reached for a tissue and blew his nose. 

Pinky always cried at this part. And while Brain found the scene emotionally gut-punching too, he considered himself above displays of crying during movies. 

Mufasa’s death didn’t count. Dirt always lodged in his lacrimal ducts whenever he watched that scene. That was all.

Brain’s fists clenched as the cowardly Pettigrew abandoned everyone to die. 

Though his escape was an essential plot point for the rest of the series, Brain wished the protagonists could’ve caught Pettigrew and delivered justice for betraying those who called him a friend.

He knew how the movie played out, but Pinky acted like he was watching it all for the very first time. Sometimes, watching Pinky when he didn’t care what happened on-screen was much more interesting. Especially when Pinky insisted on not skipping Order of the Phoenix. 

Pinky hugged his knees, tail draped tightly around him as the Dementors attacked Harry and Sirius. The rest of the movie would be loaded with those undead abominations. Brain had learned from unfortunate experience that Pinky would have nightmares if he didn’t cut off the fear before it took root in his subconscious. 

Slowly, Brain moved towards Pinky, careful not to make a sound lest Pinky catch him in the act. He took a deep breath to steel his resolve, placing a hesitant hand on Pinky’s back. 

Pinky turned to look at him. 

“Eyes on the screen,” Brain commanded. It was easier to do this when Pinky wasn’t watching him. 

Pinky obeyed, humming softly as Brain patted soft fur. A long, flowing tail wrapped around a crooked one. Pinky sat up a little straighter. 

The Dementors wouldn’t haunt Pinky’s dreams tonight. Not as long as Brain had something to say about it.   

o-o-o-o-o

“-and I’m so happy Sirius and Buckbeak got away! D’you think I could ride a hippogriff? Why are they called hippos when they’re not hippos anyway? I don’t think wizards know their animals very well, Brain.” Pinky’s chatter continued into the ungodly hours of the morning. Only the people unfortunate enough to work early morning shifts on Saturday would be awake at this time.

Brain rolled onto his stomach, covering his ears with his pillow to block out all the extraneous noise. One con about taking nights off from world domination was that his body just didn’t want to sleep even when he was tired, and Pinky’s exuberance only amplified the issue. 

“Troz! Prisoner of Azkaban is my favorite out of the Harry Potter movies. But my favorites are also Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber and Goblet...oh! And Order has Luna Lovegood of course! Love her! What’s your favorite, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Ooh, you shouldn’t lay like that. You need to breathe!” 

The pillow was completely ineffective as a sound buffer. Brain was sorely tempted to keep up his current position out of pure spite, but he had to give up and lay on his side so he wouldn’t suffocate.

“No favorite. Hippogriffs are fictional. Hippo is Greek for horse and does not refer to a hippopotamus in this context. You think cows cluck and chickens moo, Pinky. Now go to sleep,” Brain sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Perhaps he could trick his exhausted mind into believing Pinky wasn’t there if he couldn’t be seen. 

He had an urge to stay awake though. If his subconscious latched onto hippopotamuses, he’d just have that nightmare with the rich hippo couple and Rockefeller baby all over again. He shuddered at that memory. The pain and humiliation from that hippo-sized booster shot had been oddly vivid. 

“Okay. G’night, Brain.” The bed shifted as Pinky flopped onto his back. 

All was quiet. 

Brain curled into a more comfortable position, ready to drift off to a dream world where he was an emperor on a golden throne, Pinky was dressed in royal finery while leading a resounding chorus of We are the World, and all knelt before their authority. 

“Brain?” 

And there went the dream. 

“What?” Brain snapped. Part of him wanted to knock Pinky out himself, but that would require moving his arms. He didn’t want to move out of his current position.

“Just pondering. Poit,” Pinky yawned. “Before sleep ponderings. Those kinds are the best, Brain. Cause they get weird and tangerine-y. Bet you get those too.” 

It was true. When his plans weren’t derived from Pinky’s inane ramblings or current events, they were often the product of pre-sleep thoughts. While he wrote down all he could remember afterwards, the plans pulled from those tangents tended to be the craziest and illogical in hindsight. 

He tried not to rely on them too much, but if his conqueror’s block was high or creativity levels were low, he didn’t have much choice.

“Yes,” Brain confirmed. 

But his curt answer wasn’t enough to deter Pinky. 

“Cause I was pondering about villains,” Pinky said. “Like Pettigrew. Cause what if I had something that makes me a villain?”

As much as Brain wanted to dismiss the idea of a villainous Pinky due to the sheer absurdity of the concept, he supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility either. 

But Pinky as a villain? A mouse who gave up his soul for the sake of Brain’s desires and argued against promoting harmful cigarettes to children? 

It was just ludicrous. 

“Pinky, you lack many prerequisites for proper villainy,” Brain said. “Except for the dramatics. That’s the only trait you have in common.” 

“Oh. Well, I could certainly try,” Pinky replied. 

Yes, and someday pigs would evolve and develop flight capabilities. 

If he were in a clearer state of mind, he would’ve argued out of obstinance. But right now, it was incredibly early on a Saturday morning and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Discussions on villainy and world domination could wait a few hours. 

“If you can prove me wrong, you can select the next restaurant we’ll go to,” Brain yawned.  

Pinky rarely got to choose the restaurant, given Brain’s sophisticated palate, but at this point he was willing to try anything to get Pinky off his back. 

Then Pinky went from figuratively being on his back to pressing against it, his tail curling around Brain’s. Pinky’s jaw rested against the back of Brain’s head. The added pressure released a tenseness around Brain’s shoulders, one that he’d been previously unaware of. 

“Denny’s,” Pinky murmured, nuzzling the back of Brain’s ear. The sensitive appendage flicked. Nobody was around to witness that involuntary reflex, so Brain let it pass. “A Grand Slam with pancakes and syrup and bacon n’ eggs…” 

Within seconds, Pinky was out like a light. He wouldn’t remember this conversation, too busy thinking with his stomach instead of properly pondering with that fluffball of a mind. 

With Pinky’s warm fur against his back and soft narfs against his ear, Brain’s thoughts gently trickled away and yielded to peaceful sleep. 

o-o-o-o-o

Though it was probably noon by now, Brain still didn’t want to open his eyes. Why bother? No scientists to pester them, no leftover plans or materials to hide away so they wouldn’t be discovered, no tedious mazes to run on Saturday. 

Pinky had gotten up sometime before him, and the space beside him was empty, giving Brain room to stretch out in whatever way he liked.  

Then he heard a harsh scraping noise, like someone was dragging something heavy across the counter. That wasn’t unusual for Pinky if an object caught his short attention span for some inane reason. 

However, there was also the sound of laughter accompanying the noise. Pinky was giggly and bubbly to a fault, but this brand of laughter was different. 

Almost malevolent. 

A chill ran up his spine, but Brain ignored the feeling. Pinky’s evil laugh was still firmly in Saturday morning cartoon villain territory, he told himself. 

Even if he sounded a little too good at being evil. 

Apparently, Pinky had remembered the bet after all. 

Brain slowly opened his eyes, about to find Pinky and tell him to knock it off, only to find that it was much darker than it should be for daytime. But it wasn’t dark enough to impede his vision. When he looked up, he found a sheet had been pulled over the entire cage. He couldn’t see anything outside the cage.  

Pinky being secretive would surely spell disaster.  And it hadn’t been there last night, so Pinky was the only culprit. 

The wheel stood empty, a fresh oil can beside it. Brain rubbed his eyes, partly to wake himself up and partly out of disbelief. He was normally a light sleeper, but if he hadn’t heard Pinky maintain his wheel at all, then he must’ve had a deeper sleep than he thought.

He climbed out of bed and marched towards the unlatched cage door, though the corner of the sheet was pulled over it. He would’ve swept it aside, but an unopened cup of Rice Krispies with a half-empty bottle of milk, napkin, and spoon conspicuously placed next to the door gave him pause from leaving the cage. 

His stomach growled. 

“Well played, Pinky,” Brain admitted. A breakfast barricade to delay him? It was rather creative, not that he’d ever let Pinky know. 

The Rice Krispies made satisfactory snap, crackle, and pop noises as Brain poured the milk inside. Then he scarfed down the cereal, half-expecting Pinky to come in and drag him outside for whatever he planned. 

But Pinky seemed content to let him eat first. 

Once he finished eating, he dragged the empty cereal cup and milk bottle behind him. But even his simple two-step plan of throwing his current load into the garbage and finding Pinky were laid to waste the moment he set foot outside the cage. 

For Pinky had unleashed his inner interior designer and completely transformed the room in such a short timeframe.

Large, sweeping blackout curtains covered the windows, even the skylight. According to the digital clock atop the TV, it was 12:30 in the afternoon. But if Brain didn’t know any better, he would’ve believed it was midnight. 

No wonder he’d been so inclined to sleep in. 

Long strands of Christmas lights hung on each dark blue wall, which was otherwise untransformed. Other than the digital clock, they were the only available light source. But rather than their usual festive association, the unblinking reds, greens, and blues lent a rather ominous, otherworldly quality to the room.  

Brain dispelled the fear. It was irrational when he’d traversed the dark lab at night a million times before. 

Perhaps he was focusing too hard on dumping the leftover milk into the sink. With absolute concentration, he pushed the empty cup and bottle over the counter’s edge and into the garbage can below. 

As he backed away from the edge, he saw a large mixing bowl with a stepladder set by it. Wisps of steam rose from the inside of the bowl. This must’ve been the source of the scraping sound he’d heard earlier. Curious, Brain climbed the stepladder and peered inside. 

It was just warm water though. 

He tried not to feel too disappointed. But even if it was mundane right now, surely it had to be here for a reason, right?

Or Pinky didn’t have any reason at all and he just wanted to fill a mixing bowl with boiled water. Both options were possibilities.

As he continued his search for Pinky, he walked past rows upon rows of test tubes filled with brightly colored substances. Electric green, dreadful purple, deceptively calm cerulean…

He wasn’t sure what kind of chemistry experiments they were running, but he wished someone had enough sense to label the test tubes.

Beakers and tubing distorted his reflection, a prickling sensation traveling down his spine and forcing his fur to stand on end. He smoothed it down so he didn’t bear a passing resemblance to a cotton ball. The slightly colder than normal temperature wasn’t helping. 

The distortion was simply a natural refraction of light passing through liquids. That’s all. There was no reason to get worked up over natural phenomena.

That didn’t stop him from leaping back when a wide, smiling human face suddenly appeared as he navigated a sea of flasks. 

His heart threatened to leap out of his chest, his breaths growing heavier.  

There weren’t any humans in the lab right now, he reminded himself. And the smiling face was frozen and unmoving. It wasn’t real. 

Brain cautiously poked his head around the flask, keeping it as a buffer between himself and the unknown threat. 

Against the wall, several of Pinky’s Barbie and Ken dolls sat in a row. The one whose face appeared on the flask was on the far left, her blonde hair in a ponytail. All of the dolls were in colorful swimwear. One of the Ken dolls had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head. 

The dolls were normal. No creepy alterations or missing body parts. 

But as Brain approached and inspected the dolls closely, their positioning seemed...odd.

Yes, their plastic visages displayed smiles as if they were en route to a Miami beach party, but their arms were stretched above their heads or out to the sides in warning. Their legs laid flat against the ground. Duct tape trapped their legs to the ground and wrapped against their torsos, sticking them firmly to the wall and preventing them from falling over. 

An interesting choice for decor, to say the least. 

But enough was enough. Time to find Pinky and force a coherent explanation out of him. 

One of the Barbie's arm pointed to the back of the room, so Brain followed her instruction. It led him straight to Pinky’s dollhouse, and Brain cursed himself for being so taken in with the environment that he’d neglected to check one of Pinky’s favorite toys. 

The pink plastic door was wide open, a deadly invitation into danger. Brain’s ears pricked as a song floated through the air. 

“Things are working out according to my ultimate design,

Soon I’ll have that little rodent and the planet shall be mine!”  

The melody was accompanied by a sinister cackle. 

Brain wanted to barge in and demand Pinky to cease his foolishness immediately, but his fingers curled against the doorframe instead, urging him to heed caution. 

“I can hear you!” Pinky singsonged from behind a section of dollhouse that was curtained off with jingling Mardi Gras beads. “Won’t you come inside so we can talk properly?” 

Brain rolled his eyes, sweeping the bead curtain away. “Pinky, I’m aware of our deal, but this is rather excess-” 

Then his mind registered the scene that lay before him. 

Pinky perched on a stool in front of a mirror as he applied a red coating of lipstick. That wasn’t unusual for him. 

But he was also clad in a backless floor-length dress with thigh-high slits. The dress was dark as night, leaving his shoulders and arms exposed. His fur was dyed a light lavender, save for his messy white tuft, which was gelled so that it stood straight up.

A small seashell necklace sat just above the low cut dress, purple earrings hanging from each ear. Pinky didn’t turn around, blinking coyly at Brain in his reflection, which sported heavy blue eyeshadow. 

He set the lipstick down, and Brain stared at the enchanting movement of manicured, polished red nails as deft fingers picked up a small brush and dipped it into a makeup kit. Then Pinky applied a beauty mark next to his lips.

The next thing out of Brain’s mouth was a very intelligent ‘um’. 

“You shouldn’t lurk in doorways,” Pinky purred, his voice low and sultry. “It’s very rude. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?” 

She didn’t have time to teach him a lot of things, given his kidnapping at an early age, but that wasn’t the point.  

“Why in Ptolemy’s name are you Ursula out of all villains?” Brain asked, once his voice came back. 

At least it explained why Pinky had redecorated the room to resemble an underwater cavern that doubled as a villainous lair. It was an excellent use of space. 

And the Barbies and Kens...those were the stand-ins for the helpless sea polyps.

Pinky must’ve been deriving a lot of satisfaction at seeing that realization dawn on Brain. 

“Why not?” Pinky shrugged. He puckered his lips and kissed his reflection, leaving a red lip-shaped mark behind. “Besides...isn’t there something you’re after? Something you want oh so very much, but haven’t been able to get?” 

Brain scowled. “You know perfectly well that I’m trying to rule the world, Pinky.” 

Pinky snapped his fingers. “And that’s what I can help you with! The only way to get what you want...is to become a human yourself.” 

Well, he’d never considered that before in the pursuit of world domination. There was something about manipulating his genetic code and changing his species that didn’t sit well with him, even though he detested the challenges that came with being a lowly lab mouse.

But it made sense. 

Humans only respected humans. Becoming a member of the dominant species would be an asset for sure! 

But Pinky didn’t have the means to make that happen...right? 

“You don’t know how to manipulate mouse DNA into a human one,” Brain said. 

“Oh my dear, sweet Brain,” Pinky crooned as he stood up, slinking over to Brain. Brain crossed his arms, forcing himself to stare Pinky straight in the eye and not show any signs of yielding. He made a point out of not watching those sashaying hips and tail. “Helping poor, unfortunate mice like yourself is my one passion in life! Why, without it, I’ll have to slink away and become a crazy cat lady! And then who will those poor souls turn to?” 

“A glass of alcohol, I presume,” Brain replied. 

Pinky’s tail came to rest around Brain’s shoulders. The tip tickled Brain’s nose, and he held it away from his face as Pinky pulled him out of the dollhouse and back to the tied up Barbie and Ken dolls. “Maybe, maybe...but a real person they can lean on, I mean. One that knows a little...magic.” 

He flicked his finger at a beaker filled with a lavender substance. The beaker sailed through the air, dumping its contents into the mixing bowl. A purple haze rose from the bowl. 

“That’s telepathy, not-” 

Pinky gently pressed a finger to Brain’s mouth to hush him. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he scolded. “It’s true that I did some rather — how would you phrase this gently — unsavory things before. But I’ve repented! Turned over a new leaf! Seen the light! And now I use my talents for those lonely and miserable enough to seek my services.” 

Then Pinky moved away from Brain, flicking his tail against Brain’s nose to direct his attention to the wall. Pinky wrapped his arm around the Barbie with a red polka-dotted bikini. “You see, Barbie here grew up where she didn’t have much opportunity. Poor girl had to work two jobs to make ends meet, and hardly a cent to show for it! So I offered her a chance to get away from it all...and she took it.” 

Brain gulped as Pinky moved onto the Ken doll next to Barbie. He was awfully convincing, even when the subject in question was inanimate. Pinky played with the ascot around Ken’s neck. “And this young man? Well, he wasn’t having much luck with the ladies. So I gave him a few pointers, maybe a knickknack or two to help speed things along. However…” 

Pinky indicated the tape that bound the dolls to the wall. “I wouldn’t worry about this too much, since you’re a mouse of your word, but sometimes...they couldn’t pay me back in time. So I found a different way to collect their debt.” 

“Yes, I’m sure you have much to gain from restraining children’s toys,” Brain said, tilting his head up to hide his uneasiness. 

They looked less marketable and more like hapless victims wallowing in despair, despite their smiling faces. He chalked it up to the wall’s resemblance to a dimly lit marine cave. 

“Oh, I get some odd complaints every now and then,” Pinky shrugged. “But alas, that’s what happens in this business.” 

He plucked a purple sash from Barbie and wrapped it around his head, fluttering his eyelashes innocently. 

Not that he was fooling Brain. 

But he didn’t have time to process that nonverbal gesture, for Pinky threw the sash around Brain, his tail looping around Brain’s waist. With the sash locking his arms against his sides, he was helplessly corralled to the mixing bowl. He dug his feet into the surface beneath him, but it was no use. Pinky was far stronger than he. 

In physical terms of course. He tried to keep his eyes on Pinky’s face and not his...well, he was a male mouse...he didn’t have...unless he padded...

Stop, Brain. 

A finger slipped under Brain’s chin, tilting his head up. “Not to worry,” Pinky purred, and the room suddenly went from cold to sweltering. “I have your solution right here.” 

To emphasize his point, blue and green test tubes poured their contents into the bowl. The colors melded together, the resulting haze forming a rough image of the world. 

“Here’s the deal. I’ll make a potion that can turn you into a human for three days,” Pinky declared, dragging his finger along Brain’s chin. Now that Pinky’s grip had loosened, Brain ripped the sash out of Pinky’s hands and threw it aside. 

The stroke of Pinky’s finger along Brain’s fur was enticing, and he pushed it away exactly for that reason.  

“Before sunset on the third day, you’ve got to find someone of royal blood,” Pinky said. A golden liquid swirled out of a beaker and formed a crown in the center of the world. It was an image of which Brain had dreamed of for so long. He tried to touch it, but it was far out of reach for him. “Then this charming person has to fall in love with you.” 

That sounded...feasible. Three days was a rather generous deadline. Most of the time, they were on a time crunch between eight to twelve hours.  

Pinky produced a pink felt heart and held it between two fingers. “Then you have to seal your love with a kiss. And not just any old peck on the cheek, but a kiss of true love.” 

A what? 

Brain huffed. Of course this plan would have such a ridiculous stipulation. He’d gotten his hopes up for nothing. 

...and why was he treating this like it was real? 

Because Pinky. 

Yes, that was the only explanation. And not even a rational one. 

“Oh dear, don’t pout so,” Pinky smirked. The expression was fogging up Brain’s mind. “What else is there to seal amour but with true love’s kiss? It’s a tried and true method, after all.” 

He chuckled at his own joke. Brain rolled his eyes. 

“If this certain someone kisses you by sunset on the third day, you’ll have the world permanently. But if they don’t, you turn back into a mouse.” 

Pinky tossed the felt heart into the mixing bowl, the solution emitting a pink puff of smoke. 

“And you belong to me.” 

A dangerous edge crept into Pinky’s tone as he whispered into Brain’s ear, and the appendage fluttered uncontrollably until Brain forcefully snatched it to cease its movement. 

Pinky tossed a hair tie, penny, and eraser nub into the mixing bowl, then leaned against a long pencil case as he awaited Brain’s reply. 

“Suppose I agree to your deal. What then?” Brain asked. 

“Well, there’s the matter of payment,” Pinky admitted. He stretched his lower limbs and tail as he rolled onto his stomach, exposing his long lavender-dyed legs. Brain tried not to watch the motion too closely for fear of hypnotism. “If you want something so badly, something of equal value has to be given. Equivalent exchange, as they say.” 

“And what exactly do you want?” Brain asked, though he knew the answer. 

He’d seen the movie. 

“Your voice.” 

Pinky’s smile was too wide and manic for Brain’s comfort. 

“In other words...” Pinky hummed as he leaned forward, his nose was just an inch away from Brain. “...no more talking, singing, zip!” 

He popped the consonant and mimed zipping his mouth, throwing away an invisible key.  

It was so warm that Brain couldn’t feel his face. 

“Now, now. Don’t be alarmed, Brain.” Pinky stretched luxuriously as he stood up. His tail slinked around Brain’s waist again. “You have your pretty face. And you shouldn’t underestimate the importance of...body language.” 

Pinky’s hip bumped into Brain’s, his leg sliding all the way out of the slit of his dress. He batted his eyelashes and blew a kiss to an invisible audience. 

Brain covered his face, ears flat against his back. He was fine. Just had to think about...something. What was he trying to picture exactly? 

No mathematical formula could save him from the horror that was stupid, sexy Pinky. Curse those mathematical miscreants! They abandoned him in his time of need!

Pinky climbed up and down the stepladder, tossing chemicals and liquids and all sorts of things inside. The bowl rocked back and forth dangerously, bubbles spilling down the sides. 

Brain didn’t dare get close. The inside of the bowl surely were an unholy abomination. 

But that didn’t stop Pinky. 

“Now a dash of zort, a sprinkle of poit! Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble! Fire burn and cauldron bubble!” Pinky cackled, throwing his arms up in the air. “Abracadabra troz! Bibbidi bobbidi narf!” 

The mixture now to his satisfaction, Pinky flicked his finger at a notepad and pen, sending them hurtling towards Brain. 

“Just sign on the dotted line, you poor unfortunate soul,” Pinky said.

Well...playing along couldn’t hurt. Even when there was a biohazard right in front of him. 

And no, the bowl’s contents weren’t the biohazard here. 

Brain took a deep breath and signed his name. 

The moment he finished, the notepad and pen flew out of his hands and into the bowl. 

Pinky wiggled his fingers over the bowl, green smoke rising to the ceiling and seeping past the edges of the blackout curtains to the outside. No smoke detectors went off, though Brain wasn’t surprised. ACME was rather lax on safety protocols. 

“Beluga sevruga, come winds of the Caspian Sea! 

Larengix glaucitis

Et max laryngitis

La voce to me!”

With a wide grin that spread from ear to ear, Pinky climbed down the stepladder and placed one hand on his seashell necklace, the other tickling the base of Brain’s neck. Brain ducked his head instinctively to stop the ticklish sensation, trapping Pinky’s hand under his jaw.

“Now sing.”

It was rare that Pinky commanded. Brain hated taking orders, yet something compelled him to obey.

Those coy blue eyes demanded, so Brain willingly gave.

And he sang.

Though he was hoarse from surprise at first, Pinky’s finger traced the outline of his neck, up his chin, to the corner of his mouth. Brain imagined his voice growing stronger...could see his voice taking physical form, flowing out of him and into Pinky’s seashell necklace.

Pinky doubled over in laughter as an explosion rocked the counter. The bowl sparked and smoked, its base clattering against the surface with loud metallic bangs. 

Brain broke out of his trance as a sludge-like wave with various melted objects slithered down the rim, creeping ever closer. 

He wasn’t taking any chances. 

Grabbing his maniacally howling companion by the arm, Brain quickly bopped him over the head to halt the laughter, then dragged him over to the window for a quick escape. Pinky recovered from the bop and shimmied past the blackout curtain. Brain took a moment to collect the ACME credit card he’d pilfered from an employee several weeks ago, then followed Pinky onto the windowsill. 

Pinky jumped first, safely landing in the bushes below. Holding the credit card above his head, which was no easy feat since the card was about the same size as him, Brain jumped as an explosion rocked the building, and his ears flattened instinctively to shield him from the worst of the noise. 

As predicted, he landed in Pinky’s arms. 

And it was somewhat mortifying now that Pinky’s eyes had gone from coy to blindingly innocent, even with the heavy eyeshadow. Shoving the card between himself and Pinky’s face, Brain climbed out of his arms. 

“Narf! So how’d I do, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Was I convincing?” 

Brain dusted off a bit of lavender dye that had rubbed onto his arm. He hoped it was fur-friendly. “You created a dangerous biohazard, toyed with my perception of reality, and overall you were a flirtatious nuisance.” 

Pinky’s tail stopped wagging. 

“So yes. You were indeed a convincing villain,” Brain said. He tapped the credit card. “And to fulfill the conditions of our original deal, I shall now treat you to Denny’s.” 

He was a mouse of his word. 

“Hoorah!” Pinky cheered. He twirled around in excitement, his black dress swirling around him as he danced all the way to the sidewalk. “Let’s go, Brain! I wanna look at all the lovely pictures on their menu!” 

“You’re going like that?” Brain called after him. Didn’t he want to change out of the Disney villainess ensemble? 

“Well you’re naked! So there!” Pinky stuck his tongue out at him. 

With a sigh, Brain joined his companion on the sidewalk. Pinky skipped over to a patch of white flowers blooming next to the sidewalk, gently cupping the petals and cooing at a ladybug which landed on a blade of grass next to his foot. 

Truly a convincing villain. 

And Brain’s poor unfortunate soul was helpless under his power. 

End AN: I deny selecting Poor Unfortunate Souls over other villain songs specifically for the body language line. You can’t prove anything. 

I HC that Brain would hate Pettigrew more than any other Harry Potter character. I was trying to write a villainous Pinky...somewhere along the way he turned into Pinky Suavo. I don’t get it either XD

There's some folks taking care of the biohazard the mice left behind. Don't worry, the lab's still standing. It's just their problem while the mice get Denny's. 

[morwensteelsheen]

so @tinacharles and I have sort of been having this conversation about the varying levels of culpability of all the men in Éowyn’s life re: her abject fucking misery, which got me to thinking about how that discussion would play out in-universe.

I know it’s pretty popular (and not incorrectly so, imo!) to have Éomer being fairly distrustful of Faramir, but I think it's underplayed just how much ammunition Faramir has to be out-and-out fucked off with Éomer on Éowyn's behalf.

Part of that understatement is a desire, I reckon, to see all the named Rohirrim as basically innocents, manipulated beyond aid by Wormtongue, and functionally helpless until Gandalf and the Three Hunters show up, but that's a take that is, imo, too reliant upon what we get in the movie canon and not reliant enough on what's actually written in the text! The point of Théoden's downfall is that it is his pride and his hubris (and not any magic!) that is his undoing, and it is Gandalf's reminders that his responsibilities are greater than the weight of the injuries to his pride that "brings him back" so to speak. The ability to stop fucking around exists at all moments within Théoden, there is no magic, no great battles, not valiant rescues involved, it's just about him putting his big girl panties on and dealing with his own life. But because there's a tendency to see too much of the movie canon in these characters, their relative culpability in Éowyn's immiseration is largely erased, which is incredibly unfair both in terms of treating these characters with the nuance they deserve, but also in terms of treating Éowyn's misery with the seriousness it deserves!

And a key element of this is Éomer's complacency/culpability in all of this. I often quote the conversation between Gandalf, Aragorn, and Éomer after the Pelennor about Éowyn's ~fundamental unknowability~, but I think it is, uhhh, pretty fucked up that Aragorn, Faramir, and Gandalf are all able to spot out Éowyn's deeply destroyed mental health within minutes of coming into contact with her (and yes, it is true enough that they're all powered-up slightly by magic-ish things) while Éomer, who has spent literally his entire life around her, doesn't really have an inkling of what's actually going on in her interior life. That's really upsetting to me, and is no doubt deeply upsetting and isolating for Éowyn, who has basically no other people in her life until Faramir shows up (you know, after she literally tries to kill herself!).

More than that, when Gandalf and the Three Hunters show up and immediately break Théoden free of his pity party, we don't get a sense that undermining Wormtongue has any actual political repercussions—Hama (👑) immediately names Éowyn as the favoured heir to the throne, which says that she's got a substantial amount of organic support where and when it matters. Yes, it's true they immediately have to go fight Saruman's forces in Helm's Deep, but Helm's Deep is a pretty unique battle in the books for how "small" it is in terms of coalitions: the Rohirrim fight that sucker almost entirely unaided! So if a consequence of unseating Wormtongue had been facing down Saruman's lot on the battlefield (assuming that he would have been prepared to do so at any point before the canonical Battle of the Hornburg), we know that the Rohirrim could have handled it, and what's more, they might have been in an even better position to have handled it, because Théodred would have likely still been alive, alongside however many men they lost at the Battle of the Fords of Isen. A lot of words to say: there's really no indication that there was a danger, per se, to beating Wormtongue's ass down; but we do know that there was some obstacle. Tolkien goes pretty far out of his way to hint that it's a lack of will that's doing most of the work there. As readers, I think we're all mostly content to ignore this element of Éomer's complacency because we do largely see Éomer at his best and most noble, but I think we do a real disservice to both his and Éowyn's characters for not dealing with that more intimately.

Anyways, my original point is that I think Faramir has really good reason to be quite grumpy with Éomer and I think he'd actually probably be supported in that frustration by Éowyn, who would almost certainly be pretty chuffed to finally have someone fighting her corner after so many years. I don't know exactly how Faramir's frustration would manifest—almost certainly not with the level of vitriol and overtness that his frustration with his father manifested itself, but I do think he would be very good at making sure that Éomer is keenly aware that Faramir is Unhappy about his actions/lack thereof. That, I think, adds a really interesting dynamic not just to Éowyn and Faramir's personal life, particularly as they're off starting their lives together, but also their political life, given that Éomer is the new King of the Riddermark, shown to be exceptionally close with both Aragorn and Imrahil, and, of course, is later married to Faramir's cousin—some of Faramir's last living family.

Edit: just picked up the books to double check some stuff so adding cites beneath the cut

On Théoden's 'malady':

"the influence over him that Gríma gained when the King's health began to fail. This occurred early in the year 3014, when Théoden was sixty-six; his malady may thus have been due to natural causes, though the Rohirrim commonly lived till near or beyond their eightieth year. But it may well have been induced or increased by subtle poisons, administered by Gríma. In any case Théoden's sense of weakness and dependence on Gríma was largely due to the cunning and skills of this evil counsellor's suggestions."

From Unfinished Tales, V. The Battles of the Fords of Isen.

On Éomer Missing The Fucking Point:

"But Aragorn came to Éowyn, and he said: ‘Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow. The arm that was broken has been tended with due skill, and it will mend in time, if she has the strength to live: It is the shield-arm that is maimed; but the chief evil comes through the sword-arm. In that there now seems no life, although it is unbroken.

‘Alas! For she was pitted against a foe beyond the strength of her mind or body. And those who will take a weapon to such an enemy must be sterner than steel, if the very shock shall not destroy them. It was an evil doom that set her in his path. For she is a fair maiden, fairest lady of a house of queens. And yet I know not how I should speak of her. When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not, Éomer?’

‘I marvel that you should ask me, lord,’ he answered. ‘For I hold you blameless in this matter, as in all else; yet I knew not that Éowyn, my sister, was touched by any frost, until she first looked on you. Care and dread she had, and shared with me, in the days of Wormtongue and the king’s bewitchment; and she tended the king in growing fear. But that did not bring her to this pass!’

‘My friend,’ said Gandalf, ‘you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on.

‘Think you that Wormtongue had poison only for Théoden’s ears? Dotard! What is the house of Eorl but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek, and their brats roll on the floor among their dogs? Have you not heard those words before? Saruman spoke them, the teacher of Wormtongue. Though I do not doubt that Wormtongue at home wrapped their meaning in terms more cunning. My lord, if your sister’s love for you, and her will still bent to her duty, had not restrained her lips; you might have heard even such things as these escape them. But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?’

Then Éomer was silent, and looked on his sister, as if pondering anew all the days of their past life together."

From Return of the King, VIII The House of Healing

[legends-live-in-memories]

Talk So Pretty, But Your Heart Got Teeth

AYO another day another oneshot as a part of the MGI Trope Tussle! BUT WAIT THERES MORE thanks to @nightlychaotic for letting me continue her oneshot that can be found HERE! 

Fics Masterlist

Dickinette Oneshot 2.8K words 

Summary:

“Nightwing was desperate to figure out Kit Noire. For reasons beyond professional.” 

without further ado:

Some days, you're the only thing I know

Only thing that's burning when the nights grow cold

Can't look away, can't look away

Beg you to stay, beg you to stay, yeah

It had been two weeks since Nightwing had last seen Kit Noire. While the lack of thefts and reported break-ins was doing wonders for his day job, he found his nightlife severely lacking its usual luster. He had done some research into her powers, cross-referencing with some of his more magically inclined coworkers. Aquaman had an interesting story about some god of destruction but it was Atlantean lore that led nowhere. He was drawing blanks on what his next move was going to be. Conflicted on whether to bring her to justice or to help her get justice. 

His team was of no help either. Batman was adamant on chasing her out of Gotham, her destructive powers too dangerous in the city, while his siblings were more engrossed in teasing him about his affections for the cat thief. Jabs about ‘learned behaviour’ and ‘truly being the next Batman’ went ignored for his own piece of mind. He loathed to admit it but his intrigue in her, his adamance to be involved with her case, stemmed from less professional intentions. He was compromised in this investigation but he was unwilling to relent to anyone else.

Kit Noire was his to solve. 

Sometimes, you're a stranger in my bed

Don't know if you love me or you want me dead

Push me away, push me away

Then beg me to stay, beg me to stay, yeah

He finally found her one night by the Gotham Harbour. She was in the middle of an altercation with the same guy who had stolen some grimoire from her. ‘Guardian’ he had called her. 

Rather than intervene immediately, Nightwing hung back in the shadows, observing the two of them. The man was obviously much older than her and was particularly equipped to combat her style of fighting. He used what appeared to be a wooden staff and was dressed in Buddhist-inspired robes. Another piece to add into his investigation. 

Their fight was approaching a stalemate, neither willing to yield to the other. Nightwing decided to make his presence known. A couple smoke bombs were tossed into the fray, halting the fight. Taking the opening, he jumped in between and threw two bolas at the old man. He was wrapped securely in the wires and collapsed gracelessly on the planks. Not giving him anymore attention, he moved to intercept Kit Noire; choosing the evil he knew over the one he didn’t.

“Sorry, songbird.” She spoke with more bite than usual, her frustration with the older man still clinging to her. “But I already have plans tonight. None that involves you sadly.”

“What?” His casual drawl, partnered with his carefully crafted smirk did nothing to placate the hissing cat in his arms. “I can’t let the kitty have all the fun.”

“Please,” she scoffs; she slackens in his hold only fractionally. “As if I need a little birdy like you to give me permission to do anything.”

She slipped under his grasp and shot a leg up directly into his chin. He was taken completely by surprise and before he could react, one of his own smoke bombs was thrown at his feet. He was disoriented and by the time he switched his mask to infrared, she was already gone with the older man. His discarded bolas were the only thing that remained between the clearing haze of smoke.

Call me in the morning to apologize

Every little lie gives me butterflies

Something in the way you're looking through my eyes

Don't know if I'm gonna make it out alive

He was pulling into the precinct parking lot for his morning shift with a poorly concealed bruise on his jaw and excuses already on his tongue for how it got there. His ego wasn’t fairing much better but that was concerns for his punching bag back at his home gym. Now, he was Dick Grayson, rookie cop at the GCPD. Now, his nighttime problems can’t reach him.

Or so he thought.  

He didn’t make it ten feet into the building before detective Montoya was slamming a file into his chest. He quickly glanced into the file, partially listening to her debriefing of the case, then immediately wished he hadn’t. In the file there were pictures taken from the most recent crime scene and sitting on top of the pile was a picture of a wall from the local aviary. The words ‘Sorry about last night, Songbird -KN’ were spray painted in steel blue. 

He felt his irritation flare as heat crept up his neck while a weight settled in the base of his spine. His warring feelings drowned out everything around him as he fixated on her very obvious declaration. Kitty Noire had been gaining infamy for never being caught by both the cops and the bats. Some in the precinct hadn’t believed she was actually real, just some urban legend the streets were stirring up to cause trouble. To let herself be caught like this, and to admit to contact with one of the bats— it didn’t take a genius to guess which side of the law she was calling out with ‘songbird’— was damning to say the least. 

Fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth

Late night devil, put your hands on me

And never, never, never ever let go

Fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth

Late night devil, put your hands on me

And never, never, never ever let go

It was another week before he was crashing into her midleap, throwing both of them down onto the nearest roof. They rolled a couple of times before he stopped them by pinning her down. Both of her arms were held above her head; his grips were tight around her wrists, avoiding her palms in fear of what her destructive powers could do. They were on top of the platform that had the doorway to the building’s stairs. Her distracting smirk curled up further as she was about to speak. Probably a suggestive comment but he wasn’t in the mood for their usual back and forth.

“Enough games, Noire.” He shifted his knees to brace on her shins, in case she had any ideas. “You need to tell me what’s going on. You’re bringing suspicious people into the city, dangerous people, and it’s my job to drive them out.”

“I’m not bringing anyone into the city,” she all but spat at him, the fury in her eyes burned bright at the accusation. “He tracked me here.”

“And he is…?” He was getting tired of being out of the loop, meta-abilities and magic are safety hazards if left unchecked in Gotham. He needs to put a lid on this before it spirals any further.

“He is my business and soon to be not a problem for the both of us.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You have no other choice, songbird. Above your paygrade, remember?” She mumbles something he doesn’t hear but from the shape of her lips it looked like Cataclysm. He didn’t have time to react before the roof was caving in under them. 

The freefall was disorienting but he could see from his periphery that Kit Noire was prepared. She had extended her staff out to fit between two walls and was hanging on, dangling over what was probably twenty flights of steps. Nightwing wasn’t so lucky and he had to angle his fall to crash into steps a couple flights below her.  

“It was nice crashing into you, songbird, but I have things to steal and people to rob.” Retracting her staff, she let herself freefall to the bottom floor of the building. Nightwing dove after her, shooting out his grappling line to one of the higher railings. She had reextended her staff, this time aiming for the height of the building, and was sliding down it like a pole. Banishing the improper thoughts of ‘Noire’ and ‘pole,’ he questioned how the staff was even able to extend that far. 

Right, magic.

Once they were more comfortable feet above the bottom floor, she paused in her descent and let him over take her. He wasn’t given a chance to question her actions as she immediately swiped at his grappling line, snapping it with her rather sharp claws. This time he was prepared enough to brace himself for the fall. He landed on his feet and crouched to roll out of the harsh impact.

“I thought it was cats that landed on their feet, not birds,” her jeer echoed against the walls. He looked back up to see her rapidly climbing her staff. She was gaining distance fast and he was running out of options just as quickly. He didn’t trust climbing her staff so he took to climbing the steps from the railings, jumping and swinging himself around to gain altitude.

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.” She had made it to the door that led back to the roof and her staff retracted in an instant. He was still a couple flights away but he knew he wasn’t going to catch her. He resigned himself to knowing that tonight was another failed night. He had let her go again.

Some days, you're the best thing in my life

Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife

Then you turn into somebody I don't know

And you push me away, push me away, yeah

Something Kit Noire had said was bothering him. She said she was a hero once. That she had given it up because of accusations that ruined her reputation. He had half a mind to not believe her. Write it off as one of her tricks to try and get under his skin. But the other half, the louder, more desperate half, implored him to keep searching. To uncover the cat themed enigma he had grown frustratingly fond of. 

He expanded his search, looking for anything or anyone cat themed with destructive powers. A deep web search had him discovering an old video. It was labeled ‘Reflectdoll’ and nothing else. It was a part of some long forgotten blog that had an entire catalogue of videos labeled in similarly vague ways. Desperate for answers, he rationalised that if anything else, he would cross this source and narrow the search further.

The video was quite the fanfare, looking something out of a movie with impressive CGI. He was about to label this video as another bust but something paused him in his tracks. Her. Kit Noire, or at least a younger version of her, lept into the action. Her and some ladybug patterned partner dealt with the fiasco and Nightwing watched, enthralled and hopeful, as the two worked to take down the foe. He was both impressed and even more confused because he recognised that infamous tower but had no memories of there ever being attacks of that caliber in the city of love. He had done several missions there over the years, and there was never any call for help or an attack to get his or the League’s attention.   

Just what was going on? 

Call me in the morning to apologize

Every little lie gives me butterflies

Something in the way you're looking through my eyes

Don't know if I'm gonna make it out alive

Fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth

Late night devil, put your hands on me

And never, never, never ever let go

He had her pinned again, one of his hands holding both of hers above her head, the other was fisting her braid in a tight pin. They were staring at each other, neither wanting to tip the scales in their own favor. The air was charged and each breath felt like one step closer to a dangerous precipice. Nightwing was struggling with what to do. He had a responsibility to this city. This was his home. And he was letting some magical ex-hero trample all over it because he let his infatuation get to his head. He was too involved but he didn’t care. She was his case to solve. 

“Something you would like to share, songbird?” Her smirk was enticing and infuriating. He couldn’t look away. 

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“What? Is keeping me here not entertaining enough for you?”

“I’m not keeping you here for entertainment.”

“That could be rearranged.” She had surged up to kiss him, her lips soft and inviting. He would be a fool to pass up the opportunity.

Blood on my shirt, rose in my hand

You're looking at me like you don't know who I am

Blood on my shirt, heart in my hand

Still beating

She was hurt. The old man found her again and left her with a painful reminder of who she was up against. Nightwing wished he could track him down and beat him to bloody pulp but right now he was more concerned with patching her up. She was lucky he found her when he did. The gash on her side would be easy to stitch but he first needed to get her to somewhere safe. His options were limited. No clinic would take them in, she was still a notorious criminal after all. Batman would have his head if he brought her to any of their safe houses. The cave was completely out of the question. 

But she was still losing blood. 

“Why the long face, songbird?” Her voice which was usually jovial was tinted with strain. 

“Oh, you know, just getting blood on my suit while a cat bleeds out in my lap.” He tried to lighten the mood and her chuckles were relieving. 

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just need to find somewhere to put you.”

“Oh, is the birdy worried about his kitty cat?” She was teasing him, he knew, so he decided playing along would do more for his own peace of mind than trying to refute.

“And if he is?” He mirrored her own joking tone but he couldn’t help the taxes of sincerity that slipped in. She caught on if the slight widening of her eyes were an indicator.

“Oh.” The stunned look she had on her face would be adorable if it weren’t for their situation. “I have a place, not far from here you can drop me off there.”

“Lead the way,” he said, picking her up bridal style. If he pulled her closer as she wrapped her arms around his neck then no one had to know.  

Fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth

Late night devil, put your hands on me

And never, never, never ever let go

Fight so dirty, but your love's so sweet

Talk so pretty, but your heart got teeth

Late night devil, put your hands on me

And never, never, never ever let go

Nightwing never noticed this before but Kit Noire was small. Her waist fit in the palms of his hands so well and her legs were slender and lean as they tied themselves around his hips. He looked like he could overwhelm her but he knew better. He knew how strong and dangerous she was but the mental image of just holding her down as she submits beneath him spurred him on further. Her lips were cherry sweet and intoxicating. And her weight on his thighs left him reeling, silently begging for more.

“Someone’s eager,” she had pulled away from his mouth to speak but rather than entertain any conversation he just moved to suck bruises into her jaw. The hand she had in his hair tightened and pulled at the short strands. Her breathing became laboured as she pants into the night sky. He wanted to coax out more reactions from her, wanted to see if she can really mewl like a cat. 

A wayward hand had her grinding down harder in his lap. They were in their own bubble on this abandoned rooftop; it sat between two skyscrapers, both casting the roof in an almost impenetrable shadow, one would really have to be looking to see them. The sound of traffic below was nothing more than white noise, a background soundtrack for their current encounter. Using her grip in his hair, Noire dragged him up from her jaw and crashed their lips together again. Her kittenish licks asked for entrance and he eagerly granted it, savouring the taste of her as she mapped out his mouth with her tongue. 

He gripped her tighter, not wanting to let go, blind in the pleasure of her lips and tongue and teeth.

Teeth

Teeth

Teeth

Never, never, never ever let go