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it-was-summer · 3 months ago

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The Very First... Second... Third Night

A/N: Hey guys, happy fall!!! Fun fact about me, I love Season one reid so much it's not even funny. That's pookie!!!!! Anyways, enjoy this little fluffy cute thing I wrote in a romance-infused haze (I saw that photo of MGG in that pumpkin sweater at knott's berry farms and I needed Spencer in a Halloween way). MAYBE some porn coming soon idk man. Love you all!!-Em <3

Link to the Ao3: The Very First... Second... Third Night ->Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Tags: Can't remember if I use any female pronouns for reader, but warning just incase. Season one reid, MENTION OF JEID, SPENCELLE, AND bisexual Reid, Spencer reid being critical of himself, Spencer's POV for the most part, jello mentioned guys, Overstimulated Spencer Reid at a football game, mention of a cemetery, mention of Nosferatu (1922). Kind of proofread, yippie!!!

Genre: Fluffy meet cutes. Pairing: Season One! Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader.

Plot: Spencer runs into you twice before but only manages to get your name (and number) the third time.

Word Count: 3,863

First Meeting

Spencer can’t remember the last time this bookstore was so crowded. Personally, he tried to go on early Sunday mornings to avoid the crowds– if any– that came into the shop. Maybe he was being overdramatic. There couldn’t have been more than twenty people in the store with him. But it was still twenty too many. He softly apologizes to the elderly woman as he squeezes past her in the narrow nonfiction aisle.

Most of the crowd seemed to be hovering around the fiction area, which was fine with him– the further away, the better. With his head turned to watch the small crowd bustle about the store, he didn’t notice the person standing just inches from him in the aisle.

You stared at him with a confused expression for a second, thinking surely this man would move eventually. But the moment never came. He was tall with brown hair and long eyelashes. He had the fashion sense of a teacher– correction, teacher’s assistant. You clear your throat softly, hardcover clutched in hand as you watch the man’s head snap over to you, his cheeks flushing red.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you. Not that you’re hard to miss– I mean in a good way, you’re–” He closes his mouth and swallows hard, looking into your gentle eyes. “I’m sorry.”

You would have felt a little agitated if he hadn’t seemed so earnest, but this man oozes social anxiety, and your heart takes pity on him. Your lips move to a slow smile, and you whisper a sweet, “That’s alright,”

Spencer’s sure he’s never seen kinder eyes, “It’s just so busy today. I was looking at the crowd,”

Your head turns at that, allowing Spencer to take in your features. A light sweater to accommodate the cool air this early-October morning, some Halloween earrings that make Spencer smile, and stunning eyes. “Book signing pop-up, it’ll be crazy until three. At least that's what the stock girl told me.” You’re soft-spoken, too. Spencer can appreciate that.

He nods slightly, looking down at the hardcover in your hand and then over at the crowd again, “Are you not here for the book signing?”

“Afraid not,” You sigh as you hold up a historical fiction novel, “Me and my historical fiction novel were going to take a gander at some biographies.”

He can’t help his peaked interest as he licks his lips, “Regarding?” He’s a fan of history himself and is always happy to interact with someone who also shares a love for it. He feels slightly less anxious talking about something he knows.

You twist your lips to the side like you’re silently debating whether or not you should tell him. You look away for a second, your eyes scanning the bookshelves on either side of you. “Salem Witch Trials.” You answer him bluntly.

Spencer nods like he understands precisely what you mean, “Ah, the more humane witch trials.” It's a funny joke… to him, at least.

But then your lips twitch upwards as you let out a quiet chuckle, “No burning for us, just rope and intense torture.”

He feels electric, which is stupid because he shouldn’t feel excited over something as simple as someone joking with him, but he does. He’s been working on it upon Derek’s sarcastic request, and he can’t help but wonder if it is finally paying off now.

Spencer feels the overwhelming urge to partake in what Garcia describes as ‘info-dumping ,’ but he bites his tongue as he settles on a simple question, “How come?”

You shrug slightly as you look up at him. The bookstore light keeps making his eyes a soft amber, and you’re having a hard time looking away now. “Halloween tradition.” You watch his eyebrow furrow, raising a hand to explain yourself quickly. “My best friend and I each pick a historical event that is relatively macabre, and then we base our costumes around it and throw a party with a related theme. It’s... It’s stupid.” You say with a smile and a wave of your hand dismissively.

Meanwhile, Spencer’s too busy thinking you’re the most extraordinary girl he’s ever interacted with. For the first time in his life, he’s desperate for an invite to a stranger’s party—a pretty stranger who has yet to tell him her name.

“That’s not-”

A woman’s voice cuts him off as she barrels down the aisle with a grin, “There you are, oh…” Her blue eyes look Spencer up and down carefully, studying him. “Hello, there.” She’s direct and forward and speaks in a tone that tells Spencer to leave you the hell alone.

He nods curtly, waving slightly at your friend. You sigh out with mock annoyance as you say, “He’s a friendly, put your gun away.”

“I don’t believe in guns.”

“They’re very real, trust me.” Is your sarcastic reply before looking at Spencer again. “Thanks for the company. I’ll see you around.” And just like that… you’re gone.

Second Meeting

Spencer is sure he’ll never see you again, but here he is a week later, still thinking about you on a case. Or rather, he’s thinking about every woman ever and that he’ll never have a chance with any of them… ever. He’s feeling rather lonely, or maybe his self-esteem is taking a certain nose-dive this fine San Diego day.

It’s not because it’s his birthday. He doesn’t hate his birthday like Elle hates hers– that’s what she told him once—the day started off great: the trick candles, the big birthday hat, his embarrassing crush on JJ. And now, they’re discussing the case, a routine he enjoys.

His mind, always full of helpful information, quickly recognized the ballad from the 17th century– betwixt death and a lady. After his comment regarding what people could find by typing the word ‘death’ in the search engine, Derek’s laughing, “Reid, no wonder you can’t get a date.”

It sticks on him; he would love to let it slide off his back, but he’s not familiar with that kind of territory– dating, that is– so it hits a nerve. A nerve that Spencer didn’t know was so exposed. The worst part is that Derek’s not wrong. Spencer can’t seem to get a date. Not with the pretty intellectual at the bookstore, JJ, or Elle– though that last one feels strange to admit to himself.

He’s too awkward, speaks too fast, and, according to Gideon, needs to relax more. He’s sure… he’s cute, actually, he doesn’t know if he is. All he knows is that his mind is brilliant, his skills involving women… not so much.

He’s silently mulling it over as he approaches one of the bulletin boards, muttering lines of the ballad softly when JJ walks up beside him, “Creepy, huh?” Her voice makes him look at her, hesitating as he replies.

“Actually, uh, conversations between death and his victims was a fairly popular literary and artistic theme throughout the Renaissance.” He’s staring at the bulletin for a second before glancing her away, and his cheeks feel hot when he sees the way JJ is looking at him– disinterest. “But, yeah, creepy.”

He feels like a teenager, and all those years spent in college and not high school are coming back to bite him. He liked girls and boys, too. He should be better at this, he has an IQ of 187 and five degrees to prove it. Spencer walks away from the conversation quickly, his feet carrying him away from the embarrassing moment as quickly as possible. He needs to focus on the case.

And focus he does. He’s happy to analyze the meaning of the ballads at the crime scenes, his anxiety calming as he settles into the sweet caress of facts. Feelings, beauty, and tastes were all subjective. The objective was his comfort zone.

So it stands to reason that he feels lighter after conversing with Gideon about why the UnSub would start to use the ballad if it wasn’t a part of his signature. However, after the team delivers the profile, his lightness returns to his ruminating thoughts surrounding his lack of social skills.

The more he thinks about it, the more he feels the icy breath of repressed memories breathing down his neck. A jammed locker, missing gym clothes, a dark bathroom bolted shut. As the team waits for the UnSub’s suspected phone call to the tip line, he reaches for his bag to pull out a Rubix cube.

His fingers quickly twist and turn it aimlessly until he feels like it’s mixed around enough for him to solve it again. Elle is sitting in a desk chair in front of him as he solves it. He wants to ask her if she’d ever consider dating him, if she thinks JJ would, or if she feels any self-respecting woman would. He doesn’t, though, the question sounding too desperate in his head to say it out loud.

Instead, he asks, “Do you think it’s weird that I knew that ballad?” His eyes don’t stray away from the cube for too long as he asks it, scared of what Elle’s gaze might tell him.

He’s pleasantly surprised when she chuckles and says, “I don’t know how it is that you know half the things you know, but I’m glad you do.”

Spencer feels insecure when he speaks again, but he has to know the answer, “Do you think it’s why I can’t get a date?” He looks up at her now, waiting for the brutal blow, which is her answer.

Elle looks slightly amused. “You ever ask anyone out?” She smiles a little, seeing the genius look genuinely dumbfounded for a second as he thinks about it.

He never had the confidence to walk up to someone he found attractive and say something interesting enough to warrant a ‘yes’ if he asked them on a date. “No,”

She gives him a slight shrug of her shoulders, “That’s why you can't get a date.” And Spencer seems to nod at that, and his lips tighten for a second as he nods before he looks away from her again. His focus is pulled back to the case when the UnSub calls, and for a little while, he feels better.

On the flight home, he’s almost completely forgotten about his spiral as he plays chess with Gideon. When he hands Spencer a small present, a little smile plays on his lips as he says, “But you don’t give birthday presents.” When he finally gets the present open, he feels a little confused as he thanks Gideon for the generous gift– two VIP box seat Redskin tickets.

He’s excited, nonetheless, to experience something new with Gideon, and Spencer believes him when he says that Spencer will love it.

“We are. You’re coming with me, right?” Spencer asks with a slight grin.

Gideon smiles, “No.” he doesn’t let Spencer’s confusion build for long as he quickly adds, “Someone else on the plane is a huge skins fan.”

“Who?”

“Only person in the world who calls you Spence.”

Speaking of the only person in the world that calls him Spence, the date was going terribly. She had invited Penelope; she thought it was a group thing. He begged Hotch and Gideon for some pointers, anything. They reminded him she was already his friend, but that wasn’t very helpful. He knew how to talk to her on a typical day. On a date? Not so much.

Then, she invited Penelope. Now he’s stuck on a date where only one person in the group knows it was supposed to be a date, and he feels nauseous. He’s trying to keep a conversation going, but every time it picks up for a second, he feels himself fumble the metaphorical ball, and it dies again.

Eventually, he excuses himself to get some air. He’s debating calling Gideon and updating him on how it’s going. His feet pace on the concrete stadium floor. He’s near the elevators, and he can barely hear himself– it’s auditory overload hell. He shuts his eyes tight, stuffing his phone back into his pocket as he covers his ears, leaning against the cool wall beside the elevators.

It’s all muffled, barely helping, but the feeling of the cool wall on his back through his clothes helps relax him slightly. His shoulders relax briefly before he feels two fingers lightly tapping his shoulders, and he’s rigid again.

Rigid until his eyes snap open to see that it’s you. You from the bookstore, with that same kind smile, same dazzling smile, it is you. You’re yelling over the shouting, but he can barely hear you. You laugh. He can only tell by your facial expression as all the sound falls deaf to his ears over the crowd's yelling.

Once it calms down, you repeat yourself, “Are you alright?”

He nods, then you’re giving him a skeptical look, and he slowly shakes his head.

“Is it the noise?”

A part of him wants to tell you that it’s everything he is experiencing today, but instead, he whispers a soft “Yes.”

You twist your lips to the side, looking upset for him. Your empathy is so sweet and pure for him that he feels the knot in his chest unraveling slowly. “Let me buy you a water?” You offer, motioning to a concession stand a few steps away.

He doesn’t remember saying yes, but you’re grinning as you walk with him to the stand and buy the two of you a bottle. After a sip or two, you say, “I’m not the biggest fan of football games either. My dad loves em’.”

He nods along silently, feeling so socially overwhelmed that he barely has the energy for more conversation. You seem happy to fill the gap: “I ran into you at that bookstore on 8th, right?”

Spencer’s beaming as he pulls the bottle away from his lips, nodding, speaking for the first time in a while. “Yes.”

You let out a happy hum, “Small world,” And Spencer agrees with you silently.

It's the most comfortable he’s felt all week, and he wonders if maybe this failed date of his was a strange blessing in disguise. He’s about to ask for your name when Penelope approaches the two of you, blinking starstruck at Spencer and you as she introduces herself when the crowd begins to cheer again. Any noise he can hear is drowned out, frowning as you shake Penelope’s hand and say your name– a name he cannot hear. Some more words follow, but it's all small talk until you excuse yourself to return to your father in the stands.

Then he’s the one being dragged away from you, convinced once more that he’ll never see his pretty stranger ever again.

Third Meeting

It’s the night before Halloween. Ask anyone who knows Spencer; they will tell you he genuinely loves Halloween. It’s a part of him, always has been. He likes that you can dress up as anyone you want to be without judgment. He loves the build-up, the history, and the scents that fill the air.

So, when he manages to get the night off, he’s quick to try and convince someone from the team to head over to a cemetery not too far from headquarters. Even when he explains how it is for a classic horror movie showing on the graveyard’s lands, everyone declines.

Now, he’s setting up an oversized quilt on the soft grass, smoothing out the edges of the oversized quilt with his hands before sitting down on it. His hands move to his bag, pulling out a few of his favorite snacks, drinks, and so on as he watches the cemetery slowly fill up with people.

He’s happy. He feels a little strange at the thought, but he’s happy– even if it is in the middle of a cemetery.

A gentle voice cuts through the soft quiet of the graveyard, “I knew I was going to run into you sooner or later,”

He turns his head to look at you, picnic basket and blanket in hand. You smile down at him. He trips over himself as he stands, his cheeks flushing as you laugh at the sight. He rubs his suddenly sweating hands on his button-up as he reluctantly offers you his hand to shake, only to realize that you don’t have a hand available.

“Can I—” he says softly, “Would it be alright if I—" he swallows hard, his voice cracking lightly. Do you need help with your things?”

You glance down at your hands, smiling slightly as you shake your head politely. “I’m sure I can find a good spot soon. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not, honest. I’m, uh, I’m here alone, and it doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes.” You silently debate his offer, and then Spencer feels a wave of confidence surge through him, “You can always sit with me if you’d like. I promise I’ll try to be quiet.”

You seem to think that’s funny as you nod, “Well, it is a silent film.”

“You don’t have to say yes. I just have a big blanket, and I’m in a good spot to see the screen and–”

“I’ll sit with you,” You cut him off softly, bending down to gently get the picnic basket on the edge of his quilt. Spencer moves out of your way, awkwardly shuffling for a second before he decides this might be a good time to introduce himself.

“I’m Spencer.”

You glance up at him as you move to sit on the blanket, smiling as you tell him your name. He licks his lips nervously, nodding as he sits beside you. His nervous eyes dance over your figure as you set your blanket, which he now sees has little cartoon ghosts all over it, to the side of your basket.

You’re frowning slightly as you reach into the basket, pulling out a small cup of jello and a spoon. “I’m sorry. If I had known I was sharing a blanket with someone, I would have brought another cup.”

Spencer finds it funny as he leans over to his satchel and pulls out his own cup of jello and spoon, “No need,”

You laugh lightly as you raise your jello cup to his. “Cheers, then. " Spencer smiles lightly as the two of you tap the edges together for a moment before falling into a comfortable silence while eating jello.

Spencer’s spoon digs into the jello, and he asks, “Is this your first time seeing Nosferatu ?”

You let out a soft hum as you pull your spoon out of your mouth and quickly nod, “Yes!” You say after swallowing, “What about you?”

“Third.”

“Didn’t remember it well enough the first two times?”

He lets out a shy laugh at that— it feels strange for someone to be unaware of his eidetic memory, and he wonders how long that’ll last. “Not exactly. I guess just like Halloween.”

“A man of good taste,” You quip back softly, taking a smiling bite of jello.

Spencer laughs as his eyes watch your lips close around your spoon before he pulls them away to look into your eye, hoping you don’t notice as he stutters lightly. “That’s debatable.”

You’re looking down at your half-eaten Jello cup. “I’m the judge here. I deem it a fact that you are a man of good taste. You’re wearing a cardigan. That’s how the judicial system works, don’t you know?” You look back at him with a smirk, and Spencer can’t help the chortle that escapes his throat.

“That is not how the United States judicial system works, but thank you.”

“Yeah, you look like someone who would know all the inner workings of the judicial system.”

Spencer can feel his cheeks getting red at how your voice sounds—teasing and a little flirty. Oh my god, were you flirting with him? He’s sure he’s all smiles and red cheeks as he looks at you, changing the topic. “None of your friends wanted to come with you tonight?”

“No, not their scene. It’s okay, though. I’m making a new friend right now.”

Spencer’s finishing off his Jello as he steals a glance at you again, stars in his eyes. “You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do. Your name is Spencer. You like jello, nonfiction, Halloween, and dressing like a teacher’s assistant.”

Spencer doesn’t want to say you’re wrong, even though he knows you’re just being nice, but he doesn’t want to spend another week without seeing you. He wants to be your friend— he’ll be anything you want him to be. “Could I–” He licks his lips, eyes searching yours nervously.

You watch him carefully, tilting your head to the side as you look into his brown eyes. The sun is gone now, but the rising moon is shining down on him. He seems so… gentle, like a deer in a quiet forest. A part of you just wants to scoop him up and bring him home with you, as inappropriate as that is.

“You wouldn’t have to– It’s alright if you say no. I was just thinking I could give you my number sometime, maybe.” He manages with a gentle huff of air.

You nod a little, “Sometime, maybe.” You repeat with a slight grin forming on your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the projector starting to play the movie, and a hush falls over the cemetery’s lawn.

Spencer’s voice is a little too loud as he rushes to say, “I mean, now. Would it be alright if I–” A shush cuts him off, and his back straightens quickly as he shuts his mouth. His eyes meet yours for a second before darting over to the projection.

You’re watching him again, how he’s staring at the screen like his life depends on it. You scoot closer to him, grabbing your folded-up blanket in the process. Once you reach his side, you drape the folded blanket around his shoulders carefully before doing the same to your own.

His fingers gingerly grab one of the blanket's edges, casting you an apologetic glance for a second as your pants graze against his. You seem unbothered as you lean toward him. “I would love your number after this, " you whisper, looking up into his doe-like eyes before turning your head to watch the film.

He’s beaming now as he stares at you, and his chest tightens slightly when you lean close to him again. You’re so close he can smell your perfume, the scent tangling with the sweet smell of crisp fall air. “You like costume parties?” Your voice is barely audible.

He signals that he does silently, his head moving up and down quickly. The sight makes you grin as you mouth a silent, ‘Perfect’ at him before your attention is fully pulled back to the movie.

Spencer feels warm all over for the rest of the night, and three months from now, he’ll start to believe three is a lucky number as he picks you up for your third date with him and just how perfect everything feels when he kisses you.

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dollya-robinprotector · 4 months ago

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Outside of your dol ocs do you have ocs for other fandoms?

I have many!

Warning: LOTS of old drawings

The first one with ears and a tail, and the two girls beside him are my first OCs. They're independent OCs and have many AUs together.

This big girl was a roleplay mascot for Hetalia fandom and later for other roleplay pj as well. She's based on Jeanne's reincarnated "Lisa"

The little cheeb she's holding is Amber, for Houseki no Kuni fandom

Their hair is ref from Kaine (NieR) and my old mascot hair style. Now you see that "Flower with two antennas" everywhere on my other OCs

These four are my Tarot spirits. I have two Tarot decks: Shadowscape and Ostara, both have twin spirits. Guess who is who!

This girl is an OC for a closed species my friend created - CIST. They only have 4 fingers, are born from and live at the cemetery, have a will-o'-the-wisp flame in their eye socket, and each one has a unique voice that fits in an orchestra. Mine is named Ilyia, a Mezzo/Soprano type girl.

I also have two Vietnamese mystical creatures - girls. One white snake and one white catfish. I intended to write a story for them, but hahaha....

And not to mention my mascot, my old sona, now an OC, joined many fandoms. Kimetsu no Yaiba:

Cookie run: Red Velvet cookie

Also I have other Cookie OCs: Lotus Cookie and Religieuse Cookie, based on how France invaded Vietnam in the history UwU

Genshin: Old -> Now

Also lots of Vietnamese cultural fandoms and gacha games fandom

Even Papa is originally Doctor from Arknights

Heh, hope u had fun scrolling to this far :D

#dollya ask #dollya art

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deadpresidents · 6 months ago

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On the cliffs of Normandy, in a small holding area, the President of the United States was looking out at the English Channel. It was only six weeks ago, on the 80th anniversary of the D-Day landings, and President Biden had just finished his remarks at the American cemetery atop Omaha Beach. Guests had been congratulating him on the speech, but he didn't want to talk about himself. The moment was not about him; it was about the men who had fought and died there. "Today feels so large," he told me. "This may sound strange -- and I don't mean it to -- but when I was out there, I felt the honor of it, the sanctity of it. To speak for the American people, to speak over those graves, it's a profound thing." He turned from the view over the beaches and gestured back toward the war dead. "You want to do right by them, by the country."

Mr. Biden has spent a lifetime trying to do right by the nation, and he did so in the most epic of ways when he chose to end his campaign for re-election. His decision is one of the most remarkable acts of leadership in our history, an act of self-sacrifice that places him in the company of George Washington who also stepped away from the presidency. To put something ahead of one's immediate desires -- to give, rather than to try to take -- is perhaps the most difficult thing for any human being to do. And Mr. Biden has done just that.

To be clear: Mr. Biden is my friend, and it has been a privilege to help him when I can. Not because I am a Democrat -- I belong to neither party and have voted for both Democrats and Republicans -- but because I believe him to be a defender of the Constitution and a public servant of honor and of grace at a time when extreme forces threaten the nation. I do not agree with everything he has done or wanted to do in terms of policy. But I know him to be a good man, a patriot and a president who has met challenges all too similar to those Abraham Lincoln faced. Here is the story I believe history will tell of Joe Biden. With American democracy in an hour of maximum danger in Donald Trump's presidency, Mr. Biden stepped in the breach. He staved off an authoritarian threat at home, rallied the world against autocrats abroad, laid the foundations for decades of prosperity, managed the end of a once-in-a-century pandemic, successfully legislated on vital issues of climate and infrastructure and has conducted a presidency worthy of the greatest of his predecessors. History and fate brought him to the pinnacle in a late season in his life, and in the end, he respected fate -- and he respected the American people.

It is, of course, an incredibly difficult moment. Highs and lows, victories and defeats, joy and pain: It has been ever thus for Mr. Biden. In the distant autumn of 1972, he experienced the most exhilarating of hours -- election to the United States Senate at the age of 29. He was no scion; he earned it. The darkness fell: His wife and daughter were killed in an automobile accident that seriously injured his two sons, Beau and Hunter. But he endured, found purpose in the pain, became deeper, wiser, more empathetic. Through the decades, two presidential campaigns imploded, and in 2015 his son Beau, a lawyer and wonderfully promising young political figure, died of brain cancer after serving in Iraq.

Such tragedy would have broken many lesser men. Mr. Biden, however, never gave up, never gave in, never surrendered the hope that a fallen, frail and fallible world could be made better, stronger and more whole if people could summon just enough goodness and enough courage to build rather than tear down. Character, as the Greeks first taught us, is destiny, and Mr. Biden's character is both a mirror and a maker of his nation's. Like Franklin Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, he is optimistic, resilient and kind, a steward of American greatness, a love of the great game of politics and, at heart, a hopeless romantic about the country that has given him so much.

Nothing bears out this point as well as his decision to let history happen in the 2024 election. Not matter how much people say that this was inevitable after the debate in Atlanta last month, there was nothing foreordained about an American President ending his political career for the sake of his country and his party. By surrendering the possibility of enduring in the seat of ultimate power, Mr. Biden has taught us a landmark lesson in patriotism, humility and wisdom.

Now the question comes to the rest of us. What will we the people do? We face the most significant of choices. Mr. Roosevelt framed the war whose dead Mr. Biden commemorated at Normandy in June as a battle between democracy and dictatorship. It is not too much to say that we, too, have what Mr. Roosevelt called a "rendezvous with destiny" at home and abroad. Mr. Biden has put country above self, the Constitution above personal ambition, the future of democracy above temporal gain. It is up to us to follow his lead.

-- "Joe Biden, My Friend and an American Hero" by Jon Meacham, New York Times, July 22, 2024.

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bullet-prooflove · 1 month ago

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Lilies: Leroy Jethro Gibbs x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @riley-kore @ilovemark1951 @love-affair-with-fandoms @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

Companion piece to:

The Ice Queen - Gibbs meets The Ice Queen for the first time.

Break The Ice - A act of decency helps Gibbs to break the ice.

Grave - You and Gibbs bump into each other in an unexpected place.

Safe - You and Gibbs work through your grief in different ways.

Check In - Gibbs checks in with you after the night before.

Wait It Out - You and Gibbs wait out a threat to your saftey.

All Dressed Up - You and Gibbs have a frank conversation about an office event.

Right Here - You come home to find Gibbs waiting for you on your doorstep.

Revelations - Gibbs is surprised to discover a connection between you and Mike Franks.

Haunted (ft: Mike Franks) - Mike reflects on your prior history.

You’re fine. That’s what you tell Gibbs when he catches up with you at the cemetery but you’re not fine, the evidence is littered around your sister’s grave in the form of white lily petals from the bouquet you’ve destroyed before he got here.

You’re sitting at the base of the grave, your elbows resting on your knees as you stare at the stone despondently. The sun is starting to set and the orange plays across the colours in your hair, highlighting the strands as he takes a seat alongside of you. The night’s coming in fast and he doesn’t like the thought of you sitting here alone in the dark.

“I’m fine.” You say again, your voice terse and he shakes his head in response to your statement.

“You’re not fine.” He tells you. “Noone would be after that.”

That being the fact you’ve just learned that your sister’s murderer is a man the two of you grew up with, the one who invites you to his home for Christmas Day because ‘Violet wouldn’t want you to spend the holidays alone’.

“OK.” You say, shrugging your shoulders. “I want to tear his fucking throat out and watch him choke on his own blood.”

It’s a raw, visceral image, one that Gibbs understands entirely. Every time he thinks about what happened to Shannon and Kelly, he envisions wrapping his hands around their killer’s throat and squeezing until his eyes bulge and crimson starts to leak out of his mouth.

That’s how he knows what you were planning to do tonight. The two of you may handle your grief in different ways but you’re both protective of the people you love, vengeful when someone hurts them.

“Maeve…” He says softly into the air between you. “I need you to give me the gun.”

You raise your eyes skyward as a deep exhale leaves your body. Gibbs had known the minute he’d opened the bottom drawer of his desk and found it missing that you had been the one who’d taken it.

“I gave too much of a shit about you to use it.” You tell him, removing it from your bag and thrusting it into his hand.

You’d sat outside that house for over an hour with that gun in your hand. You’d thought about Violet, the life she could have had with Mike, the places she would have gone, the things that she would have seen and you’d almost gotten out of that car and blown that motherfucker away. But then you’d thought of Gibbs, of bullet striations, how they could be traced back to his weapon. He was finally getting his life together and you realised you wouldn’t just be killing David in that moment, you’d be killing him too.

It's that thought that brought you here, to the place here your sister was laid to rest because the truth is you didn’t know what to do anymore.

“What happens now?” You ask him, tilting your head towards him and he meets your gaze squarely with his own. He should arrest you, take you in for possession of an illegal fire arm but he can’t do, not to you, not after everything you’ve been through.

“I take you home.” He tells you, raising to his feet and holding out his hand to help you up. “And then we wait by the phone for Franks to tell us they got that son of a bitch.”

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#leroy jethro gibbs #leroy jethro gibbs x reader #ncis origins #gibbs #gibbs x reader #austin stowell

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melkyt · 7 months ago

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CW: Major Character Death (of old age)

Luffy dies first Zoro dies last in their old age, history repeats itself, Zoro trains the next generation much like Rayleigh is a *chef kiss of a trope*

But the reverse I don't see much off and I would think would be delicious for the vibes and angst alone xd

Luffy never held back, never worried about dying young as long as the life he did live was full of joy and adventure. As long as he was with Zoro until the very end, and maybe they would go together to the next adventure.

Yet he died in Wano, then came back as a God, came back as something different yet the same with the power of his fruit. In his fights, everyone always said that by using that power he shortens his life span but they were wrong. He already lost his life, and that should be it, but his fruit gave him a new life.

Luffy reaches his forties, everyone is worried that is it. Nami and Zoro did the math a long time ago, they considered he would follow Roger's timeline and have maybe a decade left. They throw a huge party to celebrate life.

Luffy lives another decade, another party.

Sanji is the first to pass away, his genetics never counted for a long life, He is surrounded by everyone he loves, a peaceful calm death in his sleep.

Then it is Usopp around his 70s, it's sudden but he was with Kaya, nowhere else he wanted to be. They, the entire fleet comes to Syrup Village to throw a bigger banquet than this small island has ever seen.

Luffy does not stop using Nika, even if it is for fun over any actual fight.

Time goes on, Nami holds out, but she feels the end, so she goes home to be buried by her precious tangerine trees. It's a smaller event, the three of them started this journey together with nothing to their name, and it is only right they remember that time in the peaceful grove, talking well into the night until it is only Zoro and Luffy talking. They lay her to rest in the morning.

They depart a week later, after a wake where the entire village celebrated the girl that did so much for them since she was nothing but a child.

Zoro falters a month later. He tries to pretend it's nothing, they are almost eighty, and despite everything he is tired. Luffy notices. They visit Kuina's grave, Zoro's home.

They spend the time playing as children among the waves, eating all the food Zoro remembers from when he was an urchin running on the streets.

Paying respects to all the people who supported him and paved the way for him to become the greatest swordsmen.

Once he would have wanted to be buried with Kuina, in the small cemetery where she rests behind the old dojo.

Yet now, he does not want to leave his captain, leave the man he loves. There is a spot on the Sunny, a coffin to be sealed where his bones can be kept.

Luffy has seen people come and go, everyone from his generation, from the worst generation is gone. Yet they made new friends, took on students that hold their memories, that keep their legend alive. Still even as they celebrate the life Zoro lived, Luffy feels alone for the first time in a long time as he stands on the lionhead of the Sunny. With Franky gone, it will not be sail worthy for much longer. It was his ship and it should rest with him. So Luffy takes it back to Water 7 where it belongs, it can rest with the Mary. He takes a smaller ship that is a mix of both, a small thing that Franky built just for one last journey. He takes Zoro's bones with him. They will always be together even of only one of them is still alive.

Still, he lives, finding new adventures, but there is an emptiness. Luffy lasts a decade more. His joy sustains him, and it always will, but it is dampened. Luffy chooses a successor to his fruit on a whim. Maybe the fruit chose its next wielder by itself as it always does. This child with a bright smile will carry the future. Luffy has to smile as it is not an island that is different from his home, almost in the same place. Though his home is under the waves. This will be a good place as any for the adventure to end.

Perhaps in the next world, they can see each other again, and he will not be alone anymore. His ship will float through the oceans, a shrine to the greatest men that ever lived, protected by the power of something that lives within its walls.

-end-

#zolu #monkey d luffy #roronoa zoro #cat burglar nami #god usopp #straw hat pirates #sanji

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amica-aenigmata-naboo · 1 year ago

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Undead Heart

Astarion x Y/N - drabble - 1.4K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: necromancy, defensive reader, Astarion being a supportive little baby (he is so precious), doubt, reassurance, flufffff, kinda angst? idk

———————————-

Astarion laid his head on your chest, smushing his face in for good measure. You let out a breathy laugh. It was still early, the birds hadn’t graced the winds with their songs yet. The sun hadn’t peeked over the horizon to start the new day. You held Astarion close, one hand gently caressing his soft curls at the base of his neck - the other drawing circles on his bicep that was holding your waist. For a creature who didn’t sleep he appeared pretty dead to the world currently. You listened to the little breaths that left his mouth. You watched his eyes move beneath his closed lids. You loved looking at him, especially when he was like this. His face was calm and smoothed over with rest. Nothing could hurt him here, you wouldn’t let it.

“Staring is rude.” he mumbled into your chest, somewhere between sleep and wake.

“It’s not staring, it’s admiring.” you whispered into his ear, kissing the side of his face softly. You could feel a begrudging smile form on his face for a moment before his breathing evened out again.

You slowly slipped away from him. You were a necromancer, of unknown origin. Your past was muddled but you had found histories of yourself at the citadel from the far reaches of Faerun. You had lived a life. Full of good and bad but your future was yours alone to define. You were ancient, you never aged. The years, for the most part, had been kind to you. Your powers were unmatched and your beauty was unparalleled. Slipping out of the tent you walked out of camp through the fog of the early morning. You could feel the sweet dewdrops kissing your feet as you walked barefoot to the cemetery you had passed yesterday before setting up camp. The souls there called to you. They wished to be released, to visit one another after an eternity apart. As you walked to the center of the graveyard you felt your powers start to flow from your palms. Black smoke and glowing green light emanated from you, swirling and twisting about. Figures started to arise from the graves, transparent and ghostly. You kept your concentration as the ghosts mingled. Laughing and dancing with one another as if they were in the midst of a ball. Your power enveloped the graveyard in a shimmering light, as if millions of little sparkles had graced the small event you created. You walked through the endless rows of graves, quietly admiring everyone. Out of all the things you could do with your abilities, this was always your favorite. Reuniting old friends, families, lovers. Even some enemies who decided to call truces due to their undead circumstances. Everyone always looked so happy, so relieved. The ghosts could see you just as you could see them. One floated through you before another held your hand, spinning you about to the quiet tune that drifted through the air. An enthusiastic bard playing his instrument, as if he had never put it down all those centuries ago. You knew the sight was strange, and that people often found you strange yourself. Death did not scare you. You were its equal and enjoyed teetering that otherworldly line.

You had never shown this power to Astarion, concerned he would find it odd. You had been together for a few months. He knew you were ancient and powerful but beyond that you tried to be quite vague. You continued to smile and laugh amongst the ghosts, feeling relieved to use your powers. In battle you were skilled with necrotic and psychic attacks along with general melee fighting but this is truly what you enjoyed using your powers for. Bringing peace, unity. After a while though, the air shifted. You felt eyes watching you. You searched for the source, eyes finding a very much awake Astarion leaning against the graveyard gate.You jumped, sucking in a shocked gasp. You made the shimmer fade, the swirling slow, the smoke dissipate. The ghosts slowly drift back to their respective graves, solemn looks on their faces. No amount of time living or dead would be long enough with each other. And yet, you felt their appreciation radiate to you. You felt pale, almost sickly. Astarion was going to think you were some sort of freak, you just knew it. You slowly made your way to him, keeping your head low and arms tight across your chest to protect yourself from some unknown threat.

Astarion’s face wore a slight frown, his eyebrows drawn up in a furrow “Little love, whatever could be the matter?”

Your heart raced at the pet name. “How long have you been standing there?” you asked, walking past him, heading back to camp.

He trailed after you, “Long enough. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” he quipped. There was no malice in his tone, nor teasing but it made you cringe internally anyways.

“I wish you hadn’t.” you whispered, walking into your tent.

Astarion felt confused, he tried to follow you into your tent but was stopped by a similar shimmering force at the entrance of your tent. He stepped back, he could still see and hear you but he couldn’t get to you, couldn’t touch you.

“I would like to be alone.” you said picking up a book and sitting down, eyes never meeting him.

“Darling…” Astarion said quietly, noticing a few tears on your face. “Please let me in.”

“Why?” you spat, you wanted to fill your heart with anger in preparation for the negativity you were sure you were about to receive.

“I let you in.” he spoke softly, you knew he wasn’t just talking about his tent. He had shown you every facet of himself, the least you could do was let him into your damn tent.

He slowly pulled the book from your hands as he sat down, attempting to take them in his own. You pulled away quickly, crossing your arms over your chest. He felt a pang of hurt within him but pushed it aside. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Well, get on with it…” you huffed out shakily.

“I have to say… that was pretty powerful magic you were doing back there…” you snorted a bit at his comment. ‘If only you knew’ you thought.

“Freaky, right? Strange? Unnatural? Unholy?” you rambled off sounding angrier by the second. Your walls were building back up at breakneck speed, preparing for the worst.

“My sweet, why do you sound so upset? I thought what you were doing was quite… amazing. Honestly… everyone looked so elated, thanks to you.” your eyes flicked to his.

“I know it’s weird to be so… involved with the dead. I never wanted you to see me doing anything like that… but they sounded so sad, so lonely…” you tried to explain yourself.

Astarion chuckled, causing you to snap your head up. “My precious, you do realize I am undead? I think I might understand better than anyone why you wanted to give those souls a reprieve. It was… sweet of you.” he smiled at you tentatively, hesitantly going for your hand. He smoothed his thumb over the back of it.

You wanted to trust him, to believe him. Yet a voice still tugged at your mind. “You think so?” you whispered.

“Darling you gave them a few minutes of life, do you know how sacred that must be for them? And you did it out of the kindness of your heart. Now that, is truly meaningful. That shows the soul you possess.” Astarion moved his other hand to cup your cheek, tilting your face to be level with his.

Your eyes were glossy, “I just don’t want to be too different. Too strange.”

“You are quite strange… it’s quite possibly my favorite thing about you.” he smiled, his fangs peaking out a bit. “Do you know why I rest on your chest so much?”

You shook your head ‘no’ at him.

“I do it so I can listen to your heart. I feel almost as if mine beats with yours for the first time in centuries when I hear it. Strong. Compassionate. Wonderful.” you tilted your head into his hand, kissing his palm.

“I love you.” you said quietly.

Astarion smiled, you had only said those words to each other once before when your emotions became too much to hold inside.

“And I you, endlessly my strange little love.” he kissed you deeply yet gently before laying you both down. He settled in his usual spot, listening to your heart. Strong, even, calm.

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Naboo's Note:

Hello! I hope everyone likes this piece, it came to me suddenly as I am in fact writing and posting it at damn near 2 AM #worthit. I think I might try to write another this weekend but I work tomorrow and have been pretty exhausted (mentally and physically) as of late so idk, no promises. Anyways - thanks for all the likes comments, reblogs, and requests! Ilysm xoxoxoxo, talk soon.

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blurredcolour · 7 months ago

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In My Blood | Epilogue

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

The war has been over for months. It has been even longer since you bade Curt a tearful farewell on the tarmac at St. Mawgan. So why are you standing in his neighbourhood, on his street?

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Cold, Angst, Death, Grief, Displacement, Fluff, Holidays, Family, Tearful Reunion, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes- 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 2815

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December 21, 1945

Snowflakes were idly wending their way to the ground on the treelined streets of the Woodlawn Heights neighbourhood of The Bronx, their path as slow and aimless as yours. Children who had been playing outside in the first flurries of the year, school dismissed early for the holidays, were gradually called inside for dinner, taking their laughter and seasonal excitement with them.

You were honestly not quite sure what you were doing here in this remarkably tranquil slice of New York, bordered by a park, and perhaps more ominously a cemetery. Why you had strayed so far afield from your rented flat on the Upper East Side, from your office at Lloyd’s America. Yet as your glove-clad fingers traced over the tattered edges of the worn envelope in the pocket of your fashionable winter coat, you knew exactly what had brought you here. To this tiny corner of the world that had birthed and shaped perhaps the only good thing that had come to you in the last six years. That you had so painfully set free.

It had been a long seventeen months of imparting your wisdom to the next generation of SOE agents at the schools that had once shaped your talents. Frustrated to have been relegated behind the lines and yet it had been rewarding all the same to remain involved courtesy of Smythe’s assistance. Focused as you were on the ultimate defeat of Hitler and his pathetic Reich, it still would have been false to claim that Curt had not taken up permanent residence in the back of your mind – a source of worry, of concern, but of hope.

And so when the office closed at three for the holidays, everyone rushing home to their families, you surrendered at last that gnawing curiosity about the street address scrawled on the envelope you had carried with you since that rainy day on the tarmac in late November 1943.

“You look pretty lost there, gorgeous.” That unforgettable voice cut through the gathering twilight as the streetlights began to flicker on, and you could not help your short laugh of surprise as your heart lurched, looking down sheepishly at being so easily spotted.

Clearly you had spent too long in the classroom, in civilian life. Had lost your edge as a field agent. Or perhaps a part of you had been so convinced you would never get a chance to see him again that you had failed to even consider the possibility of running into him by coming here.

“Pretty sure Belgium is…” there was a pause as he angled his body before pointing to what must be the northeast “…that way.”

Risking a small glance up at him, your eyes sank again quickly as your throat spasmed at just a glimpse of him. Dragging the toe of your boot through the accumulated dusting of snow on the sidewalk, you cleared your throat painfully to force out “turns out the home I fought for isn’t there anymore…”

Certainly, you had not expected things to snap back to normal with the Nazi surrender – you had seen firsthand a great deal of the damage of the invasion and occupation. Yet you had been utterly unprepared for what greeted you upon your return to Brussels that August. The scars of liberation were even deeper than those left by the occupiers. Yes, Europe had been freed, but the cost had been steep. The house you had grown up in flattened, the factories you were supposed to have inherited seized by the government, and the second house in Wallonia taken over by another family. People you had known for years treated you as a coward, as someone who had fled in fear with the King and his court, living in comfort abroad while they had suffered under the heel of the Nazi jackboot. And it would have been against the Official Secrets Act to correct them. Thanking your father for his foresight to move the majority of his fortune to Swiss banks, you had ensured a fitting burial for your parents and had hired a lawyer to sort through the property battles that would surely drag on for years to come.

Returning to England in September, you had learned the Dowager Marchioness had died in your brief absence and left the majority of her estate to you – to your bewilderment and the Marquess’s ire. Ensuring that your cousin Philomena had received the tiara she had always coveted, you had packed up the rest of your newly inherited items and had turned your eyes to the ‘new world.’ To an entirely new life in a new place that had nothing to do with war or societal expectation. Lloyd’s of London had a branch in New York and had been eager to hire you with your multiple languages and exemplary war service with the ATS. You had been on a boat by the first week of November.

Exhaling heavily at the weight of all that had transpired, you watched the tips of Curt’s shoes came into view as he stepped closer.

His finger hooked beneath your chin and gently lifted your eyes up to meet his, softened to a sky blue by empathy. “I’m sorry.” He spoke gently, his breath visible in the crisp air.

You blinked rapidly as his face threatened to blur behind tears “Me too.”

Whether your regret stemmed from the way you had parted or the fact that your life was forever changed, you did not elaborate. Most likely, it was both. His fingers unfurled beneath your chin to cup your cheek fully as he frowned, a shiver trembling through you at the warmth in his palm.

“You’re cold.” He muttered, shuffling closer.

You sniffed softly. “Not as cold as the mountains.” You finished with a rueful laugh, a crooked smile unfurled on his features.

“Don’t think I’ll ever be that cold again.”

As you laughed more freely, you realized he was not even wearing a proper coat, clad only in a sweater, really, a bottle of milk clutched in his free hand. “You need to get inside, you’re not even in a jacket.” You chided.

“Come with me, have some dinner. The family would love to meet you.” His offer was spoken casually but his eyes betrayed a fragile hopefulness.

A riot of butterflies fluttered to life in your abdomen, but you inhaled quickly, needing to make something clear before you accepted his invitation.

“I can’t…” his face fell, and you rushed to finish the statement, quickly cupping his cheeks, slightly annoyed at the barrier of your gloves, “tell them who I am, what I did…it would be treason.”

He exhaled slowly, gaze ricocheting across your face rapidly. “So that’s not a ‘no.’”

Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you shook your head firmly. “It’s a ‘yes, I’d love to,’ but we just need to think of an explanation of how we know one another. How we met.”

As you spoke, you were acutely aware of the way his eyes came to settle on your mouth, his own lips parting slightly, making your pulse increase markedly.

“First, just let me…” His eyes flicked up to yours before sliding back down to your lips and you leaned in unconsciously, meeting him halfway for a firm kiss, sliding your arms around him tightly to help warm him.

Curt’s arms encircled you tightly, pulling you close in turn, the milk bottle digging into your shoulder blade slightly as he entrapped you. You would have verbally assured him you had no intent of going anywhere this time, yet he was also doing a very thorough job of keeping your mouth occupied, rendering you silent save for soft exhales of delight. Pulling back only to satiate the need for oxygen, visible puffs of air accumulated in the minimal space between you.

“Cannot think when you do that.” You complained teasingly and he smirked broadly with a dangerous glint to his eyes.

“Shame.” He replied without an ounce of remorse, followed by a kiss that tasted of fierce possessiveness, his tongue sliding along yours, making your fingers curl into the knit of his sweater as you grew dizzy.

There was something achingly familiar, comforting, and yet refreshing to be in his arms again. It did not feel like you were trying to seek out some obliterated past, but rather picking up an extraordinary novel in progress, set down a while ago, with new and incredible pages yet to discover. Lungs burning, you reluctantly broke the seal of your lips, biting the inside of your cheek to tame the absurd grin that wanted to crack your face wide open as he buried his chilled cheeks in the warmth of your collar. Quickly unbuttoning your jacket, you coaxed him closer to share more body heat as the sun had since fully set.

“What brought you to New York, anyway?” He murmured, lips brushing against your neck as he spoke, making swallow tightly before you could reply.

“This man I met told me it was a pretty great place to live, so I got a job here.”

You could feel the huff of his laugh, the curl of his grin. “Sounds like a smart fella.”

“Mmmm humble, too.” You chuckled.

The sound of a window scraping up in its frame from the red brick apartment building above you reverberated through the otherwise silent street, the exasperated voice of a woman echoing down.

“Curtis Rundle, I sent you for milk twenty minutes ago what is…oh!” Her annoyance at Curt turned to an exclamation of surprise as the pair of you turned to look up at her where she leaned out the second story window.

“Can you set another place, ma? My Belgian princess finally found her way home.” Curt grinned and gave you a tight squeeze at your sharp inhale as he continued to deliberately mistitle you.

It took all your strength not to laugh brightly when two more feminine faces bearing his same charmingly blunt features popped out the window as well.

“I would hate to impose…” You called up, suddenly recalling your manners.

“Nonsense! There’s plenty of food, please come in. Curtis bring the lady inside before she freezes to death.” The last was delivered a lot more sharply and much more like an order from a general, making you chuckle under your breath even as Curt seized your hand to drag you inside.

Following him up the concrete stairs, Curt burst into the warm apartment with you in tow, a flurry of activity within as the three women were adding another chair and place setting to the simple but obviously loved wooden dining table. Curt handed off the bottle of milk to one of his sisters, whether it was Ann or Charlotte, they did not stop long enough to make an introduction, before he took your coat to hang it up once you had slid the gloves into the pocket. You wished you had changed after work, dressed in a chic black office dress with a brooch to impress, utterly out of place amongst their handmade and mended, cheery fabrics.

But then Delphia emerged from the kitchen and smiled at you warmly.

“Aren’t you just the prettiest thing, what a lovely couple you two make.”

Shaking her hand warmly, you introduced yourself quickly. “Thank you so very much for the last-minute invitation, I do apologize I have arrived empty-handed. Please allow me to return the favour one day?”

“Only if you insist, now come sit, lets get some warm food into you.” She guided you to the table, introducing her daughters who sat opposite you, putting faces to names whispered back in the mountain village of Esterri D’Aneu.

“So what did you do during the war?” Charlotte launched right into it, earning a look of admonishment from her elder sister but only reminding you of her brother.

“Well, I was living in England at the time, so I volunteered with the Auxiliary Territorial Service.” You provided your standard answer. Your sanitized, cover answer.

“Like Princess Elizabeth.” Ann nodded eagerly and you nodded in confirmation.

“Yes, actually we had similar roles, both of us worked as drivers. Though I am not, despite your brother’s insistence, a princess.”

“She is nobility though, don’t let her fool you.” Curt chided as he began to fill the table with dishes of food under his mother’s watchful eye.

Shooting him a look, the damage was already done, and you were forced to launch into the convoluted explanation of your lineage, neither of his sister’s any clearer on where you stood by the time his mother sat down to say grace. Insisting on serving you first, your mouth was full of food when the dreaded question, the one that Curt and his insistent kisses had left you utterly unprepared to answer, arose.

“How did you two meet?”

It was Charlotte again, scooping a heap of potatoes onto her plate as her eyes flicked between the pair of you, seated side-by-side, eagerly.

You were in the midst of wracking your brain for something to say when Curt started speaking.

“This gorgeous woman here helped me get back,” his hand landed gently on your knee under the table, squeezing reassuringly as your grip on your fork grew painfully tight, “to base one night in July after I got a little lost after some fun at the pub. One look at her behind the wheel and I was lost.”

Ducking your head slightly under such praise, and to hide your exhale of relief, you stealthily slid your hand over his where it still lay on your thigh, squeezing in gratitude as Charlotte was exclaiming how utterly romantic it was before somehow relating it to the story of how she met her Randolph. More than happy to take the bait, you leaned forward, asking just the right questions to send her into the whole tale of their love affair, taking the heat off you and Curt.

Sitting back, eating a homecooked meal, laughing quietly as Ann and Curt teased Charlotte mercilessly with Delphia watching on fondly, you were suddenly struck by how utterly warm you felt inside and out. Ann’s soft repetition of your voice jarred you back to the present and you thanked her softly as she took your empty plate to the kitchen, Delphia and Charlotte already in there fixing dessert, Curt’s fingers lacing through yours.

“What’s going through that scarily gorgeous head of yours?” He leaned in to utter just for you to hear and you swallowed thickly, glancing around before looking to him softly.

“You…this place…your family…” you began hesitantly, “feels an awful lot like home.” You finished in a soft whisper.

A slow grin stretched across his face, growing to an utterly blinding intensity that had your teeth sinking into your lower lip.

“Careful gorgeous, you’re gonna get yourself kissed in front of my whole family and then neither of us will hear the end of it.” There was a dangerously raspy edge to his voice that had you pressing your lips together tightly, trying your best to behave as bowls of sticky toffee pudding were set out in front of you.

“Where are you spending the holidays?” Delphia asked warmly as she and the girls settled back into their chairs, everyone digging into the delicious dessert.

“Oh I don’t have any plans, honestly, just another weekend for me really.”

“You must spend it with us then!” Charlotte cried out, looking appalled at the idea of you spending the next few days alone.

“Yes, please, we would love to have you.” Delphia smiled warmly.

“This year and every year after that if you’d like.” Curt’s easy statement could have been mistaken for warm hospitality and yet…

Turning sharply to him to face him, a collective gasp sounding from his sisters across the table, he nodded earnestly.

“If we feel like home, better make it official and marry me already.” As usual, his words were brash and playful, but there was something tender and fragile in his gaze as he lay himself out there completely.

Setting your spoon down, you swallowed incredulously. “That is certainly one way to propose. Now you’re the one getting yourself kissed in front of your whole family.”

Grasping his face, you pulled him close to kiss him firmly, earning hoots of triumph from Charlotte and more lady-like exclamations of delight from Ann and Delphia. You did not linger too long, more than aware of your audience, desperately trying not to giggle at the rather disorientated way he stared back at you.

“Wait…” He breathed eventually. “…that a yes?”

“Yes!” You declared with a peal of laughter, grinning against his lips as he pulled you close for a triumphant kiss of his own.

“Not letting you go ever again.” Curt muttered against your lips.

“Not going anywhere.” You assured him firmly.

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In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

#curt biddick x reader #curtis biddick x reader #curt biddick #curtis biddick #mota fanfic #mota fic #masters of the air fanfiction #mota #mastersoftheair #masters of the air

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th3-0bjectivist · 6 months ago

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My visit to the NASCAR Hall of Fame (Charlotte, NC - JUN 29 2024)

Every year for a few years now, I try to do an Independence Day post where I walk around a few cemeteries and snap some cool photos. But this is an election year, and I'm concerned that I'm going to have to soft-block some political zealot high on their own farts that will leave intellectual gems in the comments like 'Drumpf IZ Hitler!' or 'down with left-cucks in 24!'. So instead, I'm going to share some pictures that I took at the NASCAR Hall of Fame in Charlotte, and you can leave all the unrelated jabbering political frivolity that you'd like in the comments section.

For the record, I'm not into NASCAR at all. I haven't watched a full single race in my lifetime, and I tend to associate it with rednecks driving in circles. Which, to my chagrin, I was dead wrong in my interpretation on. Well, except for the redneck part. There's a hell of a lot more to these beautiful cars than I thought. My visit to this specialized museum was a delicate mix of history, art and science lessons!

The first thing I learned is that although these cars look fully assembled from the outside, they have nearly all the standard parts taken out (the radio, the average driver wheel, the headlights, etc.) and the bodies are composed of a flat sheet of durable metal. These days the car panels, which are composite materials like plastic coated with fibreglass, are then painted over to make a colorful, and often very corporate piece of art that is ready to drive at breakneck speeds. This all makes the modified car as light and agile as possible on the speedway.

In the U.S. south, where I reside these days, stock car racing's roots took hold from prohibition. Stock car racing wasn't just about competition; it was about taking your very fast car and running moonshine and illegally imported booze to different regions around Appalachia. Getting away from highway patrol meant stripping your car of excessive weight and parts, allowing for maximum maneuverability around hairpin turns and extreme acceleration up and down steep hills… all while a 1000-pound barrel of booze was strapped down in the back seat.

This is a picture I snapped inside the Hall of Honor, and that man is Richard 'the King' Petty. As a non-NASCAR fan, his face is the face I most associate with NASCAR, as his signature moustache, glasses and hat stand out to me as a truly memorable and iconic driver. But it’s not just the driver that participates. In NASCAR, your team is composed of a chief, who spots opportunities from television monitors and signals the driver through radio to execute specific moves to win the race, all while managing the rest of the team.

The pit crew consists of mechanics, a jackman (runs around the car with a heavy jack to raise the automobile during a maintenance pit stop), a cut-off valve attendant for refuelling, and a driver attendant who helps the driver get in and out of the car. It doesn't just take an individual driver, but a full team to assist the driver in winning the race. Drivers have suffered concussions, bone fractures, severe burns, whiplash, traumatic bodily injuries and death. Talk about bleeding for your craft!

And now for some art! Pictured above is a full-scale clay model of a Next Gen Ford Mustang. These days, clay models of racing cars are developed from digital designs and used to capture approvals from companies to lay down a final design for a race-worthy automobile. Once you pack a V-8 engine into one of these babies and recreate it out of a steel tube frame, you've got a vehicle that can reach speeds above 200 miles per hour.

Here's my pops, Dave, who I took to this museum as a birthday present. He's a NASCAR freak, and this little excursion to the Hall of Fame actually made him cry for a beat as he recalled decades worth of memories of racers, historic moments, and images of historic back-to-back victories for drivers and their teams.

Every car has the potential to be a race car. It just takes some weight-loss surgery or a good initial design, some driver safety features, and a colorful skin to make the whole thing faster, more agile, and more appealing to the eye. I have to say I never expected to absorb so much from the NASCAR HoF. I was grateful for my visit and wanted to share a portion of what I learned to Tumblr as a fun little sidebar.

I hope you enjoyed this post. And rest assured, you will never see another NASCAR post on my page ever again… y'know, unless it’s a meme or something!

Happy 4th,

th3-0bjectivist (Luke)

[ADDENDUM (07/05/2024): Tumblr ryanthedemiboy pointed out to me in the comments that the third paragraph in this post probably needed some modifications regarding the actual description of the panels, which I originally and ignorantly described as an ‘outer metal hull’. While this might have been the case with older NASCAR vehicles, in modern times the panels are at best ‘metal-skinned’, if that, and manufactured from carbon fibre. Also, older NASCAR vehicles were painted and repainted, but ever since the early 2000’s these vehicles are simply wrapped in a vinyl skin. Thank you for your insight ryanthedemiboy, I will ‘stay in my lane’ so to speak in the future and give these topics, that are alien to me, the research they deserve before I post!]

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