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spaceycat · 1 month ago

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Hi babes! OBSESSED WITH YOUR WRITING! Like OBSESSED! when will part 2 of evans x fem!lab tech!reader be out?? Your writing is like crack to me 🫠

this is so sweet omg, thank you so much anon!! @sammygidd and i worked on this fic alot!! it wasnt just me who wrote this <3

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☆˚₊‧ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ... ╰┈➤ 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎. 𝚙𝚝.𝟸/𝟺 𐙚₊˚

⋆★⋆ i'll pretend, just for one night. ⋆★⋆ Part 1 & Part 3.

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: pushing it down and praying by lizzie mcalpine (3:54) // ༉‧₊˚ " he gives what he can, but now i don't know what he's giving for. " ᝰ.ᐟ

✰ pairing: calvin evans x fem!lab tech!reader

✰ cw: hurt/comfort, swearing, they're still not together guys sorry, vomitting, crying, calvin isnt as much of a dick anymore, angst, back talking, realising feelings, calvin refers to reader as secretary, not beta read, no use of y/n.

✰ word count: 1.5k+

✰ summary: you enter the little ms hastings pageant, but on the night you here the other contestants talking bad about you. leading you to leave the bar and find calvin throwing up outside from his allergies, you decide to take him home.

(IMPORTANT: collaborated with @sammygidd with writing process + planning)

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༺colour chart༻ reader ❀ calvin ⚛︎ fran ✿

The Little Miss Hastings Pageant is upcoming, Fran and the men in your lab managed to convince you to sign up, much to your hesitancy. Going into this pageant meant buying a dress that objectified you more than you already have been in this lab, and dolling yourself up for the sake of $25 and bragging rights. You didn’t see the point in all of this, but you’d be an outcast if you didn’t at least try - but you heard the way people giggled when you told Fran to take your picture.

A few hours before the pageant, you caught wind of the girls planning on asking Calvin to vote for them, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. You found it nauseating that they wanted to try so hard for a vote from a man who probably didn’t even acknowledge their existence, or care at all to try. Let alone care about some stupid pageant hosted annually that he’s probably grown tired of. Funny enough – he attended anyway, every time it was hosted, and yet no one knew who he voted for, not a single time. Or if he even cared enough to do so. As the hours ticked by, leaving for work to get ready for this stupid thing. The realisation that you were actually contributing to this bullshit willingly, settled in your chest.

As you arrived at the bar it was being held at, you sat in your car, mulling everything over. Knowing that it wasn't too late to just start your car back up and drive off, pretending like you never signed up. But no, you had to bite the bullet that you shot.

Walking into the bar, a familiar face walked up to you, Fran.

“Hey, you actually came and pulled yourself together..! Wow, you look..” She looked you up and down. “...Half decent, thank you for doing your makeup. Much appreciated, get yourself a drink from a bar to loosen up and then get backstage.”

A drink from the bar would’ve been appreciated, but you went against it - for your judgement to be clearer and for no men to take you home. You moved backstage, pausing as you heard the other pageant girls backstage in hushed whispers.

“Did you see her talking to Dr. Evans?” “I know, she’s trying to sleep with him.” “I’ve never seen a female lab tech before.” “She’s an uptight prude is what she is, thinking she’s better than all of us.” “She was being all cute for Dr. Donatti.”

Your name was called from the stage, indicating for you to walk up there and act like some typical housewife. But your eyes stung, hearing those words said about you - the way they talked about their disdain towards you so freely. You didn’t walk up onto the stage, no you wouldn’t dare give them the satisfaction. You wouldn’t dare place on a hoax of a smile and pretend that all is well, because you were tired of living like that.

You cleared your throat, the girls looking over to you - their hushed whispers soon disappearing. “You’re supposed to go up now, sweetie.” Fran gestured to the steps that lead to the stage, but you didn’t even mutter a word. Simply turning away, and walking out of the bar.

You struggled to search for your keys as you stood by your car, checking every pocket, every crevice of your purse. The tears in your eyes, blinding your vision partially, didn’t help. Then you heard the sound of retching and gagging behind you, you ignored it. Assuming it to be a scientist who was a little too trigger-happy when it came to liquor.

“Secretary?” You perked up, looking over your shoulder to find Calvin doubled over on the edge of the pavement.

“Had a bit too much to drink, Dr. Evans?” “No– no, it’s my allergies. They’re-” He then threw up into the bushes. “Oh Jesus.” You looked around for a moment, “Okay, I’ll take you home. But, please for the love of god, don’t throw up in my car.”

The drive to Calvin’s house was quiet for the most part, the occasional gag from Calvin - his head sticking out of the window, but the fresh air combated against his allergies, soon becoming better, still a bit sick. You occasionally looked in the rear-view mirror, noticing the mascara that had run down your face from your crying a few minutes before. You quickly wiped it with your fingers, hoping that Calvin didn’t notice.

Calvin noticed your movement. After a while, he spoke up. “Why were you crying before?” “Hm?” “You were crying, outside.” “No I wasn’t.” “You were, I heard you."

Your gaze shifted back to the road. “It’s fine. It’s nothing.” “It’s clearly not nothing if you were crying over it.”

“It was just Fran and her friends.” “Did they make fun of your dress or something?” He chuckled to himself. “They called me an uptight prude who was trying to sleep with you.” That made Calvin falter a bit, “Oh– I’m..” He paused for a moment, sitting up a bit. "Sorry.”

The car fell silent for a moment before Calvin chimed up again,

“That’s– kinda contradicting, y'know? You can’t call someone a prude and then say they’re trying to..” His words drifted off as he saw the unamused look on your face, he cleared his throat - looking out of the window.

Your car eventually pulled up outside Calvin’s house. You helped him out of the car seat, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he stumbled a bit. The two of you made it to the front door. “This is where I leave you, Dr. Evans.” “Please, just call me Calvin.” “Right, well.. Goodnight Calvin.” You turned on your heels. “Wait– just.. Come inside. I owe it to you.” “You don’t owe me anything.”

He looked at you for a moment, thinking of the correct words to say, letting out a soft breath before finally speaking again, “Just come inside, I promise it won't hurt y–” before hunching over and clutching his stomach, letting out a groan. “Okay, okay– fine.” Opening his door and heading inside with him.

You look around the house as you walk in alongside Calvin. The house was big, empty. The place lacked decoration and furniture, the only place that was somewhat homely was the living room. It was quiet, You expected Calvin to have a girlfriend, a wife, maybe. He was famous and successful, so it made sense.

“Is your wife out of the house?” “Oh, I’m not married.” Calvin settled onto the couch, leaning back - taking a breath, still feeling queasy. “Really?” You placed down your bag on the coffee table, walking into the kitchen to grab him a glass of water. “Mhm.” He watched you closely as you returned, passing him the full glass.

“No girlfriend either then?” Looking almost skeptical, you would think he would have… someone. Right? Before you could ask why, he was already speaking.

“I tend to focus on my work, adding in another unknown variable like that can change – everything, I can’t get distracted.” The words coming out of his mouth made sense, a lot of sense. You just weren’t used to someone who had the same mindset as you did, especially a man.

You watched as he sipped his water, soon grabbing your bag back. “I’ve overstayed my welcome, you seem better and.. It’s getting late.” You immediately started to head towards his front door, “Goodnight, Dr. Evans.. Calvin.” Starting to twist the door knob, hearing a small mumble behind you before you could officially leave, turning your head over your shoulder – a small “hm?” leaving your lips as your eyes scanned over Calvin. “I said– I said that I would’ve voted for you.” Clearing his throat with a small cough, you searched his eyes for any dishonesty, but you found none. He was telling the truth. The corners of your mouth formed into a small smile, it happened before you even noticed the now grin on your face. “Thank you – goodnight.” You give a quick nod, heading outside and softly closing the door behind you, walking to your car, and driving home for the night.

Meanwhile, Calvin sat on his couch in silence, the feeling of you still in his home. He looked around the now empty room, unfamiliar thoughts started to seep into his head – ones he had never had before, he liked having you in his space – you were intelligent, that’s for sure, and you weren’t trying to actively sleep with him… So it made him almost curious, he wanted to know more about you, your hobbies, what you like, dislike– his thoughts came to a pause, why was he thinking like this? A soft sigh now left his lips as he finished his glass of water, gently setting the cup on his coffee table.

“She is very...” he took a brief moment to pause, “Stubborn.” Despite the words that left his lips, he couldn’t help but smile at the corners of his mouth, betraying him as he spoke. Shaking his head, he headed upstairs for the night – and headed to bed.

taglist: @the-lynnie-the-pooh, @loversrocktvgirl2 & @emma8895eb

#lessons in chemistry #calvin lessons in chemistry #lessons in chemistry calvin #lessons in chemistry calvin evans #calvin evans lessons in chemistry #calvin evans #calvin evans x reader #lessons in chemistry imagine #calvin evans imagine #calvin evans angst #calvin evans fanfic #x reader #spaceycat #sammygidd #lewis pullman #lewis pullman calvin evans #lewis pullman fanfic

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reiding-writing · 1 year ago

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hiii, i hope you're well! i saw that you are taking requests for spencer and i really like your angst fics so i was wondering if you could write one with unrequited love?

preferably bau!reader who has feelings for him but he doesn't and she watches him get with someone else and everybody knows how she feels about him but he is oblivious, ending is up to you but i love me a sad ending heheh 😸

transgression [ s.r ]

You’re in love with Spencer Reid. He’s in love with somebody else.

WARNINGS: SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE MAEVE ARC, LOTS of misunderstanding, Spencer is kind of a bad friend, lots of arguing, major character death

spencer reid x gn!reader || ANGST || 8.2k || masterlist!!

a/n: sorry for the delay, but i did warn you it was gonna be long so- also i listened to ceilings on repeat whilst writing this so take that as you will 🫶

did i bend the maeve arc to my will for this fic? yes. yes i did.

taglist (slashed blogs couldn’t be tagged): @babyspiderling @marsxoxo2 @vytvyvy @hpstuff244444 @frostooo @ohmysw33 @radioactiveinvisible @devilsadvcte @the-local-pendeja @kakashis-formal-simp @robinswrld

You suppose you did it to yourself.

Spencer’s migraines had gotten increasingly worse over the last few months, and after a few consecutive days of hounding him, he’d finally decided to go and see a medical professional about it.

You’d expected him to come back with news about how his brain stem was too active from how hard he was working himself, or that he’d managed to raise his blood pressure to an unhealthy high from all the stress he was under.

Instead he’d told you that they couldn’t find anything physically wrong with him and that he’d been referred to a geneticist to check if the cause of his sudden mind-numbing aching was due to an underlying condition that might have been passed down from his mother.

He’d come back and forth to you for weeks about his phone calls with the doctor.

How she was helping him with his sleep deprivation.

How she was helping to manage his diet.

How she loved classic literature.

How she and him had spent four consecutive hours on the phone debating over the logistics of a novel they both enjoyed.

You could see the change happening before your eyes, and you weren’t the only one either.

“Pretty boy’s chipper this morning,” Morgan joins you at the kitchenette, his eyes following Spencer as he takes a seat at his desk with all of the enthusiasm of a golden retriever puppy who’d been let off his leash for the first time.

You hum with a nod, focusing your attention on the two cups of coffee you were making, heaping tablespoons of sugar into Spencer’s Doctor Who mug to satisfy his insatiable need for sweetness. “They’re reading a book together,”

“Really?” You respond to Morgan’s raised eyebrow with a short nod and another hum.

“Thoughts in Solitude by Thomas Merton, apparently she finds the religious analysis ‘fascinating’,” You can’t help the small contemptment that seeps into your tone as you reiterate what Spencer had told you to Morgan, and you can practically feel his pitiful gaze as he watches you make your coffee.

“I’ve heard of that book before from somewhere,”

“I tried to get him to read it a few months ago,” You take a sip of your coffee at the end of your sentence, barely able to taste it over the scolding water but not finding the mind to care.

You leave your conversation with Morgan at that, taking the two mugs in your hands and walking back into the bullpen, placing Spencer’s mug in front of him and walking around the cluster of desks to reach your own.

He’s sure he doesn’t need to verbalise it, but Morgan feels increasingly sorry for your situation, noting how you skirt past Spencer’s “thank you” without a response as you bury your head in your files.

he can’t imagine how much the fact that Spencer had seemingly formed a crush on his geneticist ripped you apart.

And the worst part? He’d never met her in person.

All scientific laws of attraction be damned, Spencer Reid had fallen in love with someone he’d never met in the span of three months, and you we’re resigning yourself to sit on the sidelines and watch as the man you had been in love with for six years find the happiness that you longed for with somebody else.

How you managed to keep up your facade you didn’t know.

You’d offered him change for the pay phone he’d call her from when he was running short. You’d let him rant to you about her opinions on a novel that you had failed to get him to read. You made excuses for him to leave the office early so that he could spend his time on the phone with her.

You were the one that sent him to the hospital and caused him to meet her in the first place.

He never hesitated to remind you of that fact, thanking you vicariously every time he relayed his conversations with the doctor back to you.

As the weeks progressed he stopped calling her that. She wasn’t ‘the doctor’ anymore. She was Maeve.

He didn’t call you by your first name and you’d known him for ten times longer that he’d known her. He didn’t even call Morgan by his first name and those two were practically brothers.

And that part was probably what hurt the most.

Maeve.

A name of Irish origin meaning ‘intoxicating’. How fitting.

Apparently the Irish goddess of love and desire was named Maeve. You could see the glimmer in Spencer’s eye that told you his Maeve was just as important as the mythological goddess he was describing.

His Maeve.

“So why haven’t you two actually gone on a date or anything?” You take a sip from the mug in your hands, swivelling your chair back and forth with your foot as a pivot. “You’ve been talking for what, four months now? Surely it’s about time you actually met her in person,”

“It’s complicated,” Spencer sighs as he collects the loose papers he was working on in a pile. He didn’t want to divulge Maeve’s issues without her permission.

“You’ve been saying that for the last six weeks Spencer,” You roll your eyes as you discard your half-empty mug on the table. “If I didn’t know any better i’d say you’re putting it off,”

Spencer shook his head adamantly at your suggestion. You couldn’t have been more wrong. He did want to meet her. Desperately. He’d wanted to meet her since the end of their first phone call. But he also wanted to keep her safe.

How do you meet up with somebody who’s hiding from a stalker without endangering them?

“I do want to meet her. It’s just- she’s dealing with something personal and it’s put a rift our plans, that’s all,”

“So it’s her not wanting to meet up with you then?” You raise an eyebrow at him over your desks.

“Look it’s- You don’t get it okay? It was a mutual understanding from both of us.” You can hear Spencer’s tone become more defensive as you spoke, and you raised both of your hands in surrender.

“Okay, i’m sorry for prying-” You ended your apology with a laugh, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted despite feeling your heart deflate in your chest at the way the friendliness his his eyes fizzled out the longer you looked at him.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Spencer’s late to work this morning.

It’s 8:06 when he finally walks through the glass doors, the coffee you made him stone cold after sitting lamely on his desk for the better part of twenty minutes. He doesn’t so much as offer an apology as he picks up the mug and makes his way over to the kitchenette to pour the coffee down the sink.

You follow behind him in a mix of intrigue and a want to refill your own mug, swilling it out with some water as you watch Spencer load a coffee pod into the machine. “Phone call last longer than you expected?”

“Hm? Oh- yeah, we were discussing the literary analysis of Annabelle Lee,” Spencer’s demeanour seems to brighten immediately once he’s given an opportunity to discuss the details of his phone call with Maeve, although the beginning of his ramble is quickly cut off by the beeping of the coffee machine.

You wait patiently for his coffee to finish before you begin making yours, raising an eyebrow as Spencer pulls out a regular teaspoon instead of the usual tablespoon he’d incorrectly use to load his coffee with sugar.

Your intrigue only heightened when he pulled a carton of milk from the mini-fridge. Not even normal milk. Soy milk.

“Since when do you drink coffee like a normal person?”

His eyes flickered from his mug to your face as he tipped a single teaspoon of sugar into his drink before replacing the bag back where it came from. “It’s a part of my managed diet, Maeve thinks that my increased sugar intake might be one of the risk factors for my headaches,”

“Did she tell you to put soy milk in it too?” You don’t know why you have the urge to be petty, Spencer had long since needed to change his coffee drinking habits for the sake of decreasing his sugar intake and Maeve’s suggestions were beneficial for his health.

It was just the fact that it was her that ticked you off.

“She did actually, it provides the same amount of riboflavin as cow’s milk, which acts as a soothing agent whilst also helping constrict inflamed blood vessels, but without all of the excess fats in regular milk that might make my migraines more frequent, it’s genius really,”

He thought that her ideas were genius. Him. Mr ‘I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187’, thought someone else’s ideas were genius.

You’re sure that he already knew the benefits of milk alternatives, and yet he attributed the ‘revelation’ of what they could do to Maeve. Of course he did.

“When was the last time you made a decision for yourself?” The question comes out much harsher than you intend it to, and you can tell by the way Spencer furrows his eyebrows that he’s taken offence to it.

“Sorry, that came out wrong,” No it didn’t. “I’m just a little surprised that someone as independent as you is so… willing to follow blind instructions,” Your attempt at saving yourself half-works, that wrinkle between his eyebrows disappears and you can see that the glimmer in his eyes is returning slowly.

“She’s a doctor, of course i’m going to follow her suggestions,”

You give him a soft nod as you pick up your mug from under the coffee machine. “Yeah, no, that makes sense, it’s just a little surprising is all,”

You don’t give him a chance to respond to you before you’re walking away from the kitchenette to retake a seat at your desk, fearing you might say something out of pocket if you continue the conversation any longer.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You were really pissed off now.

You’d arrived back in Quantico three days ago, and you were still piled up to your neck in paperwork.

Maybe you would’ve had it finished by now if Spencer would stop talking about the fact that he was “-finally going to meet Maeve in person,”.

You had half the mind to snap and tell him to just shut up, although by the saving grace of Morgan you thankfully didn’t have to.

“Reid, give their poor ears a break man,” Your thankful for Morgan in times like this. He knew you were knee-deep in your feelings for Spencer, and he knew that every time Spencer so much as spoke Maeve’s name it carved another hairline fracture in your heart.

You were close to shattering, and Morgan could tell.

“Oh- right, sorry,” Spencer offered you an awkward smile which you mirrored back at him.

“It’s alright, don’t worry about it,” You shake your head in a polite dismissal of his apology before turning your head back down towards your files.

“I take it you’re nervous then?” Alex’s voice cut through the beginning of an awkward tension between the two of you as she entered to bullpen with a cup of coffee in hand.

“Well- I mean- you know…” Upon being unable to find a sufficient response, Spencer resorts to shrugging into his chair. “I just don’t want to ruin anything,”

“But aren’t you curious what she looks like?” Alex raises an eyebrow with concern like Spencer was he son going on his first ever date.

“it doesn’t matter what she looks like I mean- she’s already the most beautiful girl in the world to me it’s just-”

You don’t stick around to hear the rest of the conversation.

You sudden upheaval from your desk stops Spencer’s sentence as his eyes follow you across the bullpen and out of the glass doors, followed shortly by Morgan as he jogs after you.

“Hey- Wait up a minute-” Morgan catches your arm before you have a chance to get in the elevator, and as you turn your eyes towards him he can see the beginnings of tears forming in your eyes.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this..”

Morgan can do nothing more than pull your head into his shoulder and wrap his arms tightly around your back with a soft mutter of your name. “I know kid, I know…”

“He thinks she’s the most beautiful girl in the world,” You turn your head up from Morgan’s shoulder to meet his eyes, a single stray tear cascading down your cheek, illuminated under the florescent lights. “How am I supposed to compete with that..?”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Incidentally, Spencer’s date with Maeve didn’t end up happening. Conflicting work schedules or something, you weren’t really listening.

Maybe all of your subconscious thoughts had leaked into reality and finally gave you momentary release from the crushing defeat of having Spencer go on a date with someone else.

Maybe it was them punishing you further by forcing you to sit through him rant about the book she’d left him at the front of the restaurant.

It didn’t help that you already had a headache that made it feel like your eye sockets were being kicked by an annoying kid sat behind you on an aeroplane, leaving a dull ache in it’s wake and making you just want to bury yourself in a hole and hibernate.

“And right at the back she wrote ’Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone; we find it with another’ it’s a quote from-”

“Thomas Merton. Yeah, I know.” You dig the knuckle of your left thumb into cavity of your eye socket over your closed eyelid, hoping to relieve some of the tension that’s lingering there and disrupting your thoughts.

“Thomas Merton’s ‘Love and Living’ specifically,” If Spencer noticed your discomfort he didn’t acknowledge it. “It’s a collection of his essays on the importance of love to live, so for her to have written it specifically knowing that I would read it means-”

“Reid.”

Your tone stops him from continuing any further, and he blinks at you with that sweet puppy-dog expression that would usually have you weak at the knees.

“No offence, but I don’t care about your over-the-phone girlfriend or the quote that she wrote in your book.” Your tone carried a harshness to it that Spencer wasn’t used to hearing from you. It was cold and detached and not like you at all.

“Are- you okay?”

“No, Reid, I’m not, and if you’d bothered to ask about my life every once in a while instead of using me like a human diary maybe you would’ve realised that already.”

You practically slam your file closed as you speak, pushing your chair out from your desk and leaving him sat in shock at your sudden change in attitude.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

After a bit of introspection, Spencer did realise that he hadn’t been treating you very fairly. He hadn’t asked you how your life had been in 3 months and 26 days. Four of those days he’d spent in damn near radio silence. He wasn’t sure he could take it much longer.

He missed you.

It was a bit ironic considering you sat directly opposite him for almost eight hours a day five days a week, but after you’d snapped at him last week, he truly realised just how much of his day he spent socialising with you, and just how much he missed talking to you.

So he decided that he was going to apologise.

And what better form of an apology for being dismissive of your feelings than putting a personal effort into something for you.

He walked into the office that morning with a leather bound copy of The Parasite by Arthur Conan Doyle stored cautiously in his messenger bag, pages scrawled with annotations from Spencer’s own reading of the novel that he hoped would be insightful to you as you read it yourself.

He’d remembered you saying how much you wanted to read the novel a few months ago, so he figured giving it to you as a personalised apology would show that he really did care about you and had listened to what you’d told him.

“Are you busy?” Spencer asks, though he already knows the answer to the question.

He’d been watching you from the other side of the room all morning, hoping for a moment or two of eye contact to see if there was a possibility of a conversation. A look from one to the other; even a smile would’ve been enough to make him feel validated and content. And he would have been willing to settle for that.

But you never looked up. Not even once.

"Mhm," You continue to not spare Spencer so much as glance as he speaks, turning over the page of the file you were working through.

“Can I take a minute of your time?” He tried to catch your gaze again, only to be met by your continued focus on your work. The last thing he wanted to do was disrupt your work routine, but he also knew that he needed to talk to you sooner rather than later.

“Please,” he said softly. “It’s important.”

You exhale heavily through your nose, exasperation written clearly in your expression as you leave your pen as a page marker to close the manilla folder on your desk. You turn your head upwards, raising an eyebrow and opening your hands to agitatedly indicate for him to continue.

You wouldn’t lie and say that it didn’t hurt being so openly cold towards Spencer, but you’d reached a breaking point, and you couldn’t bare sitting idly on the sidelines and letting him tear your heart to pieces anymore.

Spencer was relieved that you’d granted him your attention, but the look you directed towards him was enough to make him wince. You weren’t looking at him through a lens of indifference but rather cold, hard disappointment.

He took a deep breath, trying to gather the right words for what he had to say.

“I’m sorry,”

He seemed almost breathless as he spoke, like he’d just finished a tangent about something without taking the time to breathe. “I know that I’ve been spending too much time talking about Maeve and not enough paying attention to you.”

"You don’t say," You mutter the words under your breath to yourself, but your sure that Spencer heard you based on the way his eyebrows knit and the small gleam of hope in his eyes dwindles to barely a flicker.

He was trying not to react to your snide comment. Spencer knew that your tone didn’t leave any room to deny your meaning. He’d been selfish in talking exclusively about his relationship and hadn’t realised how it was affecting you.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer repeated. “You mean so much to me and I haven’t been showing that.”

"Thank you," Your thanks are polite but dismissive, like you were acknowledging his apology but choosing to not actually consider it as one, and it left Spencer with an expression of clear frustration.

He was used to being able to read your facial expressions and emotions in the past, but now you were just an unreadable wall of disappointment. He had hoped the apology would've been enough, but it was clear that you weren’t going to let him off that easily.

Time to pull out the last resort.

He bent over and fumbled with his bag for a few moments before pulling out the novel he’d brought with him face up.

“I uh… got you this,” He holds out the book towards you. “You said you wanted to read it right? So I uh.. annotated it for you to make it more enjoyable,”

You take the novel from him with a raised eyebrow as your eyes scan the cover, a clear flicker of confusion in your expression.

Spencer noticed your expression and furrowed his own brow in confusion. You didn't seem to recognise the book. In fact, the look on your face made him wonder whether you even knew this book existed at all before this moment.

“I hope you… like it,” he said nervously. “I was going off what you'd talked about before. You mentioned the book was a classic?”

"I… have never seen this book in my life,”

“B-But…” Spencer knew this was going to be awkward at some point, but he'd hoped not this early into the conversation. He could feel his cheeks burning from embarrassment, and it was only getting worse as he searched your face for an answer to this awkward situation.

“I… swear I heard you mention it once.”

You give him a short shake of your head and a pursed smile of awkward thanks as you put the book down on your desk.

Spencer looked away, embarrassed beyond belief. He hadn't even been able to deliver an apology properly, let alone make you feel special like he'd originally intended to.

How had he gotten it wrong? He had an eidetic memory for god’s sake.

When you put the book down on your desk, his eyes flicked back to the book. He'd spent almost 4 hours annotating and researching it and now it felt like all that effort had been wasted.

If you hadn’t mentioned it then who had? Someone must’ve. Someone he obviously equated with you to the point where he’d somehow managed to override his eidetic memory to mix the two of you up.

It takes him a few moments before you hear him whisper out a name under his breath, the palm of his hand dragging down the front of his face at the realisation.

"Maeve…"

The mention of her name had your eyes flickering away from the leather cover and right back to Spencer’s face, awkwardness completely rid of your features and replaced with a mix of negativity that Spencer wasn’t sure he wanted to dig into.

"Are you serious?" Your words come out less questioningly and more accusatory, and you hold the book up so that he can see it once more, the gold embossing on the cover glinting under the overhead light as if to only taunt Spencer further for his mistake.

“You apologise for continuously disregarding me for your girlfriend by giving me a book that she showed interest in?”

You could see Spencer's face fall as your words sink in.

He hadn't even taken the time to think over what he was apologising with. It was almost as if his brain automatically just reverted back to his girlfriend's interests as an escape from dealing with his own guilt and sadness.

"Damn it," he whispered to himself. And in that moment he realised he'd just committed the biggest crime someone could make when trying to apologise.

“Like you constantly flaunting your relationship in my face verbally wasn’t bad enough.”

"I'm sorry I-" he says again, voice teeming with sincerity and guilt.

"You are truly and utterly unbelievable Spencer Reid." Your words didn’t carry anger as much as they did disappointment, and he could see the astoundment in your eyes as you pushed your chair backwards to stand, dropping the book straight in the trash bin by your desk before walking off.

It’s where it belongs; Right alongside the small sliver of respect you still had for him.

Spencer could've said so much more: he could've admitted how ashamed he felt for his careless actions and he could've apologised again and again a million times if it meant you'd stick around and give him a chance to make it up to you.

But you had already made it clear that you weren't in the right state of mind to discuss this matter further.

The best thing he could do now was give you space as he watched you walk away, a deep pain in his heart that slowly ate him alive from the inside.

He’d well and truly fucked up.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Oh sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You were bordering tears by the time you reached Garcia’s office, unintentionally interrupting her lunch break with Alex in the process, though the two seemed to care less about the interruption and more about the fact that you liked like you were about to cry your eyes out.

You take in a sharp breath through your nose as you try to tape together the cracks in your composure, although with every one you seal three more seem to appear in it’s place.

“I-” You can barely get the first word out before the tears start rolling down your face, and Alex immediately stands from her seat to guide you to sit in her place.

“Hey, you’re alright, slowly,” Alex’s hands find your shoulders and rub reassuring circles against your shirt. The slow breath you take in doesn’t stop the flood of tears that’s blurring your vision, and you only manage to get out a single word, but it’s all the two need to understand what’s got you so overwhelmed.

“Spencer-”

“I swear I am two seconds away from smacking that boy over the back of the head,” You can hear the clear frustration in Garcia’s tone. “Surely he’s got to realise how much he’s hurting you by now,”

“He does… I lashed out at him and then left to come here…” You rub your eyes with the back of your hand alongside a small sniffle, trying to rid your vision of it’s blurriness from your tears.

“Good, the boy deserves to have some sense knocked into him,” You appreciate Garcia taking your side, but you can’t help that small lingering feeling of guilt that invades the back of your mind.

“He’s just in love, it’s not his fault…” The words almost physically pain you to say. The verbal acceptance that Spencer Reid was indeed in love with somebody. Somebody who wasn’t you.

“That doesn’t mean that he should be disregarding you though sweetheart,” Alex’s tone is soft and almost maternal, and your sure that it doesn’t help how emotional you are.

Garcia’s right hand reaches forward to straighten out the collar of your shirt, unintentionally crumpled as you try to wipe your face of your emotions. “You’re his friend, and you have been his friend for longer than he’s known this girl he’s talking to, it’s not fair for him to completely push you to the side,”

Garcia was right. It’s not fair. Nothing about how Spencer had been treating you since he’d started speaking to Maeve had been fair. And you were done making excuses for the boy just because you knees deep in your feelings for him.

You didn’t deserve to feel guilty. You didn’t deserve to feel bad for lashing out at Spencer for apologising for not showing interest in your life by further proving just how little he’d actually payed attention to you. You didn’t deserve to cry because he was the most stupid genius to ever live and couldn’t see that you were hopelessly in love with him. You didn’t deserve to suffer by his hand.

It wasn’t fair.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

“Maeve’s been kidnapped.”

You have to consciously suppress the small voice in the back of your head that celebrates the possibility that she might not be a part of Spencer’s life for much longer. It’s a horrible thought. You should never wish ill upon anyone, no matter how much you internally despised them.

Still, that part of you that was still petty, that was still infuriated with Spencer and Maeve, wanted you to tell Spencer straight to his face that you weren’t going to help him find her and that it was karma for how he’d treated you.

But you weren’t a bad person.

As much as you might hate her, she was still important to Spencer.

“I have a wealth of knowledge i should be applying to this case, but- i can’t focus on anything for more than four seconds at a time… which makes me the dumbest person in the room-” Spencer’s eyes are full of desperation as they scan across your teammates.

“So please help me… Please help me find her…” The desperation in his voice is heartbreaking, the remnants of tears staining his face as he explains the context of the situation through broken sentences.

“We don’t have an official case, so we’ll be working on personal time,” Hotch’s voice is much quieter than you’re used to. Softer, more considerate. “Does anybody want to leave?”

You can feel his eyes linger on you as he asks the question, and you subconsciously purse your mouth into a tight line to stop yourself from impulsively pulling out of the investigation.

You might be detrimentally frustrated with him, but you did want to help. Even if it ultimately resulted in your downfall.

Hotch gave you a short nod before turning to the rest of the team. “Good, let’s get to work,”

It didn’t take Garcia very long to track Maeve down, mostly attributed to her unique name and specialised job.

Dr. Maeve Donovan, a professor at Mendel University who took a sabbatical leave 10 months ago.

The group split into different groups once they’d found her, JJ and Morgan heading off to a loft her parents owned, Alex and Rossi heading to the lab she used to work at, and you and Hotch, accompanied by Spencer, going to speak to Maeve’s parents.

“Reid,” Garcia’s tone is soft as she looks over her laptop screen towards him as he begins to stand from the conference table. “I have a picture of her, do you want to know what she looks like?”

“No,”

Spencer’s answer is immediate, joined by a shake of his head.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You and Spencer watched from behind the one way mirror as the interview progressed.

They’d last spoken to Maeve five days ago. Her mother had cancer. She was also a geneticist. They were suspicious of her ex fiancé Bobby.

Her fiancé?

You can see Spencer’s face drop at the words despite the low lighting in the room, and you can’t help but furrow your eyebrows yourself.

She had a fiancé?

Spencer practically storms out of the office after the questioning is over, and Hotch has to remind him to calm down as they reach the apartment of Robert Putnam with Morgan and Rossi in tow.

When the door opens the five of you aren’t greeted by Robert, but rather a girl, a girl who looked very confused.

You invite yourselves inside at the girl’s recognition that Robert was inside the apartment.

“And who are you?”

“I’m Diane, his girlfriend,” She raised an eyebrow as the five of you looked around, confusion cut short as Robert rounds the corner questioning the sudden voices coming from his living room.

“Hey babe what’s-“

“Robert Putnam, FBI we’d like to-” Spencer’s voice cuts him off harshly as he rushes to speak, although he stops his sentence halfway as a flicker of recognition falls across his features and his anger turns to dread.

“Hey, I know you,” Robert doesn’t have the time to say anything else to Spencer before Hotch forces him out of the room, shutting the door behind him to speak to Spencer privately whilst you Morgan and Rossi remained inside.

Hotch returned a few minutes later. Spencer didn’t.

You end up taking Hotch’s place as you push yourself out of the apartment with a small “excuse me,” to follow after Spencer as he walks out of the apartment building.

“Spencer- wait up a minute-”

He doesn’t stop at your call, and you’re practically running down the stairs by the time you get to him, already out of the front doors of the apartment building.

“Hey-” You take a second to catch your breath before turning your eyes back towards him again. “Are you alright?”

You could see the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he met your gaze.

The last time you spoke to him you threw away any remnant of your friendship with him in the bin alongside the book he’d given you, and now here you were, chasing after him to make sure that he was okay.

“Why did you agree to help?”

Your face falls from concern to surprise at his question, and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“I know that you don’t like her, so why are you here?” You could see the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes, clearly overwhelmed with how the investigation was going.

“She’s important to you Spencer. Like her or not I care about you. So therefore I care about her,” You don’t think as you speak, words spilling out of your mouth with no conscious filter.

“I’m sorry.” Spencer’s apology elicits a sigh from your mouth, and you shake your head softly at him.

“Forget it, let’s focus on getting Maeve home safe alright?” He obliges to your request with a purse of his lips and a small nod, turning his eyes towards the ground.

“What’re you thinking about?” His eyes fall on yours once more at your question, round with confusion and glistening with the starts of tears. “I can see it in your face, you’re calculating something in your head,”

He exhales through his mouth in a small laugh. You’d always been able to figure him out, and not just because you were a profiler.

“2,412 hours,” His tone is uncertain, mixed between gratefulness for you observance and something far more upsetting. “That’s how long Maeve and I have contacted each other counting letters and phone calls…”

“That’s what-” You take a second to do the calculation in your head. “100 days?”

“100.5…” He runs his hand backwards through his hair, pressing his eyes closed like he’s afraid tears will spill from them if he doesn’t. “What if that’s all I get?”

“It won’t be Spencer…”

“You don’t know that-“

“Yes Spencer, I do,” You have to consciously suppress the sigh that threatens to leave your mouth, pushing your lingering distaste for Maeve down with it. “She is going to be fine, I promise,”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Turns out Maeve’s ex fiancé wasn’t the stalker. In fact, he was being stalked himself, and whilst JJ and Garcia were looking over the images posted to Robert whilst him and Maeve were still together they discovered something that changed the entire direction of the investigation.

Maeve’s face had scribbled out in eyeliner.

You and the team spent the next thirty minutes rebuilding the profile from the bottom up.

“Celebrity stalkers are usually non violent,”

“You want to tell that to John Lennon Rossi?” Spencer looked up from his lap towards the group at the table, having separated himself from the group to sit on a sofa lining one of the walls so he couldn’t bias the profile.

It wasn’t going too well.

“What was it that Mark David Chapman said after he shot him?” Spencer stood from his seat, anger flaring in his nostrils. “‘It was like all of my nobody-ness and all of his somebody-ness collided’,”

You could hear the rise in his tone as he worked himself up the more he spoke.

“Spencer-“

“Maeve is somebody. And this- bitch is a nobody.”

“Spencer.”

Spencer caught your gaze, and immediately fizzling out of his eyes and replaced with guilt. “I’m sorry- I can’t be very helpful right now I should leave-“

“Yes you can Reid, you have 100.5 days of communication with this girl and a recall everything verbatim,” Morgan’s gaze is entirely concerned with Spencer’s outburst.

“There’s too much of it, and I can’t sort through any of it clearly-“ Spencer is clearly on the edge of breaking, and you can tell he’s not going to be able to keep his composure for much longer.

“Then pick one of us and we’ll go through it with you,” Hotch leaned his elbows against the table, his voice again portraying that soft, parental tone that said he knew how overwhelmed Spencer was getting.

Spencer didn’t even say anything, his eyes just silently flickered over to you and you knew you couldn’t refuse him.

You return his silence as you get up from your seat and pat your hand on his shoulder for the two of you to exit the room together.

Time to torture yourself for the sake of Spencer’s wellbeing.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Diane Turner, a research assistant working for her PhD in the same lab as Maeve. A student who had her thesis rejected because it contained a heavy sample bias that included both of her parents.

It took a while, but Garcia eventually managed to track down a loft that was owned under Diane’s parents’ names, less than 10 minutes away from Maeve’s apartment.

“Take your gun and vest off,” Diane’s voice is harsh through the receiver attached to the front of the building, and Spencer’s eyes flickered up from the silk blindfold in his hands to the metal box.

He doesn’t question the orders as he immediately begins stripping the vest from his torso, dropping it and his gun on the floor.

“Now come in alone.”

“Spencer.” You call out to him as he reaches for the door handle, and he gives you that look that makes your stomach do flips in your torso. Except this time it’s not that pleasant fluttery feeling, but instead an existential dread at the fact that he might not walk out of the building alive.

“I’ll be okay,” He gives you a nod of reassurance as he pushes the door open, and you find yourself clenching your hands around your gun to stop yourself from following after him.

The six of you wait outside for what feels like hours, and you lean back and forth on the balls of your feet as you become increasingly restless with the situation.

Then, a gunshot.

And a second.

And your heart drops in your chest.

You’re not entirely present as you rush into the building with the team following behind you, gun raised at your eyes.

Spencer had to be okay. He had to. He was going to be fine. You were going to walk into that room and he was going to be perfectly fine.

You hoped Maeve was alright too. As much as she was unintentionally causing you literal hell, you knew that she meant everything to Spencer.

You knew that he’d choose her over anything. He’d choose her over you.

And right now you don’t care. You just want him to be okay.

You force the door open to the loft with your foot, gun pointed straight ahead at the first person you see.

“Stay back-“ Spencer practically shouts from where he’s half lying on the floor, right hand clutching tightly at his left bicep, trails of blood cascading down his fingers and onto the floor.

“Stay back stay back don’t shoot-“

You let out an audible sigh at the fact that Spencer wasn’t critically harmed, although upon a whimper of his name from further across the room you turn your eyes up to the noise.

And you finally meet the girl that’s caused you ten months of hell. Held at gunpoint.

That small voice in the back of your head tells you that this might be your chance to finally rid her from your life, to let her succumb to whatever Diane had planned and leave Spencer to you.

But you take one look at the desperation in her eyes and any loathing that remained in your mind immediately fizzled out.

It wasn’t her fault. Of course it wasn’t. She was just a girl that happened to be in love.

“Diane,” Spencer pushes himself to stand, and you can see the pain in his face as he does. “There’s still a way out of this,”

“You never wanted me. Never!” Diane pushes the gun she’s holding hard against Maeve’s neck, and you can see her eyes squeeze closed as she attempts to keep herself from crying. “You lied!”

“I didn’t.”

Spencer shakes his head adamantly, and you glance over at Hotch as you spread across the back of the room, guns raised in Diane’s direction. “Diane, I offered you a deal, and you can still take it,”

“Me for her. Let me take her place,”

You only have a view of the back of Spencer’s head now, but you can tell by the tone of his voice that his expression is a pure display of desperation, one that you’re happy you can’t see because you’d lose your composure in an instant.

“You would do that?” Diane’s question is angry and accusatory, tears rolling down her face as she presses the gun against Maeve’s neck once more.

Spencer nods with no threat in his tone. “Yes,”

“You would kill yourself for her?”

“Yes.”

You practically feel your heart stop.

“Thomas Merton,” Maeve’s voice is almost exactly as you imagined it to be. Soft, smooth and, as Spencer had called it all those months ago, ‘dipped in honey’.

“Who’s Thomas Merton?” Diane’s tone contrasts Maeve’s tenfold, pitchy, uneven and overrun with manic anger.

“He knows,” You can see Maeve’s eyes flicker, and you assume that they meet Spencer’s as his shoulders drop. “He knows.”

“Who’s Thomas Merton?” Diane shakes Maeve in her grasp as if to intensify the urgence of her question, and you tighten your grip on your gun in instinctual response. “Who is he?”

“He’s the one thing you can never take from us,” Maeve’s voice is confident and defiant despite the clear tears in her eyes.

Thomas Merton could’ve been something between Spencer and you.

“No.”

You can see a clear change in Diane’s expression at Maeve’s words, and she lowers the gun from Maeve’s head only to hold it up against her own, staring directly into Spencer’s eyes.

“Wait-”

Spencer barely has time to shout the word before the gun fires, and you flinch at the sound as you watch Maeve and Diane both drop to the floor, dark red blood pooling around the two.

You can feel the tension in the room as everyone computes what just happened, guns lowering slowly as their eyes lock onto the two women on the floor.

You’re not focused on that. You’re focused on the tightness of Spencer’s shoulders as he takes sharp breaths in and out of his nose.

The way he seems to forget about the bullet wound in his arm as his legs give out underneath him.

The way a sob that leaves his mouth despite the fact that he tries to muffle it with his hand.

The way that Spencer broke.

He's crying. Big, heaving, heart-wrenching sobs.

His shoulders are trembling.

His hands are shaking.

His head is hanging downwards so that his hair is covering his face.

You approach him slowly, kneeling down at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

His eyes slowly shift from Maeve, his sobs only seeming to amplify as he meets your gaze. His eyes are red and closely with tears, his cheeks running hot and his lips trembling.

You don’t speak, knowing that you’ll break if you do. Instead, you guide his head into your shoulder and let him crumble in your arms, grieving the loss of the love of his life.

You’re sure you’re going to cry yourself to sleep when you get home, but right now, you needed to be strong. For him.

“I’m so sorry-“ Spencer speaks through broken sobs as you hold him, the rest of the team moving to secure the scene.

“Shh,” You shake your head against his softly, rubbing the palm of your hand up and down his back as you let him cry until he physically couldn’t anymore.

“I treated you so horribly-“ He pulls away from your shoulder to look into your eyes once more. “I’m so sorry- Please don’t leave me…”

You purse your lips into a line, your expression full of so many emotions Spencer can’t distinguish any of them.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You pull his head back into your shoulder, leaning your head against his. “I promise…”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #mgg #asks 🫶

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ma1dita · 1 year ago

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when the curtains close

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader prev -> love me dry | next -> asking for trouble words: 5.3k summary: (post-tlt) The one where you lose two people in the Labyrinth that day. All strings are cut. (Pollux, Annabeth, Percy, and Mr. D find out the biggest difference between you and Luke.) (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: yeah to me this fic sounds and feels like that tiktok of the girl humming to her microwave. depictions of the titular battle of the labyrinth at CHB, some blood/gore, death & grief. the usual. you forced me to by lizzy mcalpine. references to cat on a hot tin roof by tennessee williams if you squint (posted 5/14/24)

—

The first time Pollux has a panic attack, time seems to stop and the world keeps moving on without him.

He’s reminded of a time when you rambled on about how anxiety takes possession of the senses like a moment frozen in a snapshot meant for you to identify. In the memory, you had your feet kicked up on the dash flipping through a DSM-5 while he and Castor took turns speeding up and down Farm Road (totally normal older sister behavior from you, and when a cop pulled you over, the three of you narrowly escaped a ticket by talking in riddles and godly smoke that smelled like grapes). Pollux still remembers the sound of laughter in the car blending like three different chords to an archaic melody (or squawking crows in the strawberry fields)— the bond between you three laid out before time knew limits and was always meant to be.

It’s still his favorite song. You’re their favorite (and only) sister, they love to joke. These are facts that will never change.

“You two have each other, and well, I’ve got this,” you had said, the Zippo flicking open and closed against your thumb in the blossoming darkness of the car. Pink and purple rays of waning light blanketed the old hatchback as it steadily made its way back towards Half-Blood Hill, comfortable silence shared in the way only siblings can stand to be quiet—when there are no words needed to get a point across. But you’ve always set yourself apart from the pack, not needing anyone like how they need each other.

Not since Luke left, at least. The growing distance between you three since your untimely resignation from camp was proof enough. Pollux’s eyes met Castor’s in the rearview mirror as they both noticed your sad smile. His brother’s voice broke through the silence then, having always been the one blunt enough to say what was on his mind, “You’ve got us too if you let us see you more often.” Your fidgeting stops.

“It’s not you two, it’s just hard to be back here sometimes. I see things for what they used to be instead of how they really are now. Now it’s just… it has to be all business.”

Pollux cracked a smile, “S’what you get for growing up. Soon we’ll just be annoying voices in your head like you are to us.” Shutting your textbook, you turned to look at them from the passenger seat, eyes that match theirs darting between their blond heads, “All of us have to grow up eventually. Except maybe you two— I prefer you in my nightmares like the kids from The Shining. Whenever you get sick of Dad, come see me. Gods know that camp deserves a break from the two of you too.” Your knuckles knocked against both of their heads affectionately as he put the car in park, “My built-in bodyguards, huh? Always looking out for me.”

All words and meaning escape Pollux now as he stands in the greenery of the North Woods with battle gear ill-fitted to his large frame. It’s the first siege he’s ever taken part in, the first time he’s had to use battle strategies outside of Capture the Flag and the first time he’s slashed his way through monsters and demigods with the intent to try and kill or be killed. Sword and Shield could have never prepared any of them for this—as his eyes meet Castor’s and then yours with all of you thinking the same thing, the three of you join the sea of iridescent orange through mind-numbing black moving like a sharp three-pronged sword.

This type of stuff isn’t typical for him, he thinks. He and Castor are used to being comedic relief— being the source of laughs and juice boxes for pesky little campers instead of facing the real world outside the boundaries of the Mist. Perhaps your father babied them to make up for the time he lost with you, but there’s a moment where he wonders how being kept soft will keep him alive in a world as harsh as this one.

Childlike innocence is ripped away from them in the bubble they’ve inhabited until this moment. Home is now a warzone and like lambs set up for slaughter, the twins both turn to look at you as a shuddering gasp leaves your mouth at the carnage in your surroundings, monster blood and fallen friends and enemies at your feet. Breaking away from formation to take a deep breath, he looks at the sky and wonders where your father is, but smoke and soot fill his lungs and he coughs desperately for a breath of fresh air.

Pollux thinks he must have stopped breathing before Castor took his last breath. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but sometimes life was just funny like that.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Just like you told him.

Castor was always the more manic one while Pollux knew how to endure. Children of Dionysus are forced to befriend insanity before it makes an enemy out of them—twisting the ugly into what’s real and creating something beautiful out of the deranged. You’ve shown the boys how you detach from emotion by recognizing the details—separating fact and fiction, a methodical process only describable by the blood that runs through your veins. Pollux doesn’t know where to start—everything happens so fast but it plays out in front of him like someone put the pieces together to a stop-motion animation.

He sees Castor’s sword fall to the ground when he gets slashed on the forearm and sees him get clubbed over the head with a metal weapon he’s only seen bad renditions forged for theater practices and hanging on the walls of the armory. Castor falls first to his knees, and then into the dirt with a thud. He never knew there could be that much blood coming out of a person, much less a mirror image of himself. Pollux sees your face come into his line of vision, deep maroon splatters on your face glittering with hints of ichor and then you’re moving because he can’t. The enemy is coming back for him now, and for a moment he wonders if Castor will be mad if he lets him. He sees you turn in an instant, swinging your sword down on the neck of the aggressor, a teenager not much older than he and his brother are—were. It’s funny how his brain immediately makes the switch to past tense, and how he can’t stop thinking about how he’ll now and forever be older than his twin. Pollux then sees you catch the body of the boy you just killed as life seeps out of him slower than it did for Castor.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

His knees hit the ground next to his twin, touching the sludge of dirt soft like quicksand and moist with what he hopes is not blood, but Pollux is not quite sure of what else there is to hope for. His fist is wrapped around Castor’s shirtsleeve, touching faded orange and sweat as he holds on for dear life. Maybe if he tries hard enough his soul will still be intertwined with his. Your hand touches his shoulder, five fingers reaching out to brush the back of his neck and the feeling of your skin helps him refocus a bit, even if you’re saying something he can’t make out. Then the metal of your Zippo lighter feels cool to the touch within his palm and he knows what he needs to do.

The battle isn’t over, but for the three of you, everything stops here. There is no going forward without your brother. You were never meant to be children of war.

Pollux hears the sound of his heartbeat thundering through his ears, blood rushing through his veins and can’t help but notice the silence amid the chaos. There are no words fit for this—and even if there were, Castor and you were always the more talkative ones. He hears the spark of the purple flame between his fingers, blowing the smoke over him and his brother’s body, and their father’s powers blanket them like how you used to tuck them into bed, warm and safe. This is what your family is—unconventional and unending even in different realms of existence. And then Grover’s scream of panic echoes through the air and everyone hears that. Hysteria ensues as monsters and demigods alike run amok, and Pollux realizes he’s stopped shaking.

In his father’s domain, he will always find comfort.

You stand above him now directing campers calmly with a free hand—a brewing storm crackling underneath your skin that he now understands. Hidden by the illusion of smoke, Pollux’s tired bones rest alongside his brother’s dead ones— together as they always were meant to be.

The three of you together, his little family—that is a fact he hoped would never change.

The smell of grapes envelops him as he leans his forehead against your muddy leg… when did the battle end? It almost masks the scent of death that rips through the air as your hand brushes through his sandy hair. Pollux stinks of sweat and you stifle a laugh as you see him smell his armpit. You three were always the same type of fucked up. He doesn’t look down at Castor laid across his lap but knows he would’ve found it funny too. Ignorance of reality even for a moment serves as a comfort. Purple meets purple as he looks up at you with a smile that doesn’t fit his face anymore and he croaks, “Wonder what dad would say about our first battle…”

Glory was never meant to be this bittersweet—it tastes like blood in his mouth until he wipes it away from his cheek and realizes it’s Castor’s. In a way, it’s his too, everything about him and within him is exactly the same down to the star stuff the fates wove them from.

“I’ll be the one to tell him. You take care of Castor,” you answer, as if there’s anything else he would want to do and then he realizes you’re crying— and he’s seeing all of the pieces put together in front of him in this photograph in his mind.

Pollux blinks slowly.

Suddenly the image he has of you is more defined— there is new meaning to the sadness you could never shake off all these years, and he is too young to lose his greatest love, which makes him realize then that so were you.

How long does this have to go on? he wonders, grabbing onto your hand with an eagerness only comparable to the feeling he got when you and Luke whisked him and Castor away from Florida all those years ago. This punishment of living while half of his soul does not—what is he supposed to do next? This was supposed to be the safe place. There is nowhere left to run. His thumb rubs circles into the back of your shaking blood-soaked hand, a secret within the smoke.

Pollux thinks there will always be a part of him frozen in time now, a memory of this day hung up in his mind like a portrait as he holds Castor’s cold hand in his warm one.

—

Annabeth finds you in the middle of the strawberry fields before the sun sets. She knows you won’t be sleeping tonight, not if you can fight it— not when there’s so much to do. You’ve long grown out of your ripped-up and tie-dyed camp shirts, and the one slung on your frame is newly pressed and starchy from the storage room of the Big House, still stiff against your freshly washed skin. When she’s close enough to touch you, you’ve been scrubbed clean of today.

She doesn’t have to be a daughter of Athena to know that you know that she’s there even if you can’t see her, but for once she feels like she has to hide. For once, Annabeth Chase doesn’t know what to say. How can she explain the feeling of guilt that coils around her brain like barbed wire—how can she even begin to apologize for the thing wearing her brother’s skin, knowing that it killed yours? For once, her hubris is crushed by the sinking feeling of humiliation.

“Was your first quest all you thought it would be, Annie?”

As she takes her navy cap off, silver braided strands around her face wave in the wind as a reminder of what Luke put her through. Though as she looks at you now with your berry-stained fingers plucking at stems one by one instead of using your powers, she thinks that your mind is elsewhere—anywhere but here, where everything is a painful reminder of your five years as a camper.

Five years with Luke.

Mourning him isn’t a new feeling for either of you, even though he comes in and out of your lives like a poltergeist you want to bash across the head, just always out of reach. But he’s a constant, even when he’s not here and he’s what binds you two together as you huddle hidden away from the rest of camp.

“He did this for you.”

It’s not a question, more so a fact out of Annie’s mouth when you finally meet her eyes and sigh, “Luke’s always had a way going about things. The most stubborn man to ever live.” You toss another strawberry into the crate at your feet. No one’s working right now, trying to tend to the injured and the dead. Everyone’s doing their best to chase away the nightmares that are bound to come, and she knows you’ll be making rounds with her on the night shift to ease everyone’s anxieties. But there’s a thought so strong it makes her head hurt, bursting at the seams until she can’t stop with her last-ditch effort to fix her found family.

“Maybe if we find him, we can save—”

“He’s been out of time for a while now, Annabeth. We both knew that,” you say, voice firm and unwavering. You’ve never sounded so monotone before, and it hits her as her mouth falls agape, “You’re giving up on him? Why… why would you give up on him?” Anger courses through her veins like fire and she’s mad that she’s at the center of this prophecy, of Hermes’s anger for his doomed son who will love you until the ends of the earth.

And what of her?

What of the hope she has in happy endings, how is it that you’re so damn calm? Annabeth kicks at the crate, strawberries rolling out in different directions and your jaw tightens as you let her be petulant, let her scream and yell until her inner child can catch up with the reality of the world around you.

“How could you?”

Your name echoes as she repeats it, grabbing at your shoulders and she’s as desperate as the truth that shakes her when you cup her face in your hands and wipe her tears.

“You’ve carried the weight of the world Annabeth– you know what it feels like to let it go. It’s time to let him go. There’s nothing I can do or say to fix this.”

Then it hits her that you knew of his fate and yet this was still the outcome. There was nothing else to do but watch him be puppeteered by a Titan and have to fight evil while it wears his face.

“He came to you after he saw me, didn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you love him anymore?”

Because it wouldn’t have changed a thing, your eyes say. Instead, you grimace as you say, “Wouldn’t that be funny if it were true?” You lean down and pick up the fallen berries, some bruised and covered in dirt, and then you look at her again with teary eyes.

“Some prophecy huh? To lose a love to worse than death. What could we have done besides love him until the end?”

“He’s still in there. I know you know that too. Don’t talk about him like he’s not,” Annabeth insists, and a sad smile settles upon your face. It’s as gentle as the kiss of the breeze on your cheeks.

“I lost a brother today, Annie.”

“Me too.”

—

The funny thing about planning funerals is that with all the fuss it takes to organize one, you still find extra time on your hands. Barely getting any sleep and dragging yourself out of your dad’s bed, Pollux snores loudly next to you after hours of working on Castor’s shroud. Sleep wasn’t expected for either of you, but being unconscious was the only way of giving your brains a reprieve. The both of you have been busy doubling down on the preparations, even if it means Mr. D won’t be back in time while he’s out rallying gods for war.

The faster Castor’s earthly body is reconnected with his soul, the easier his trip will be into the Underworld, Nico says, and it’s funny how comforting the little emo pipsqueak can be when it comes to matters of death.

Perhaps this is the solace you bring to others with things you’re able to control—keeping camp afloat is something you were always good at, and helping every traumatized child that comes up to you for a juice box or a lullaby eases the guilt that follows you. Walking around Camp Half-Blood for more than a weekend made you feel like a judge, jury, and executioner. Though most of the campers from almost five years ago have either aged out, defected, or died—the ones that remain still look at you like you’re trouble.

Perhaps you always will be.

You even found yourself with the time to pray to Hermes last night for your brother’s safe passage into the afterlife, though if he’s angry at Annabeth, he must hate you for letting Luke go. Dinner didn’t seem appetizing enough anyway, so your whole plate was tossed into the hearth. You hope he likes chicken and rice.

But if a god can’t fight fate, what did he expect you to do?

The Iris Message to your dad last night was difficult, to say the least. Pollux’s hands shook as he continued to paint grape vines onto the silk cloth and the both of you didn’t say anything when your father started to cry. He out of all of the gods knows what it’s like to be tested to the limits—to endure pain and it’s a gift you and your brother are grateful for in times like these. Watching the god display the human emotion that either of you couldn’t as freely made it more real though.

There was also the interesting predicament of Chris Rodriguez being locked up in the basement of the Big House. Replacing screaming fits with serenity was almost second nature, and your gentle hands were what got Clarisse to truly respect you again for the first time in years. You could hear her sneak downstairs and talk to him while he slept (and the look in her eyes when you’d greet her with a cup of coffee made it known to you that she finally understands what it means to love someone who’s lost—two demigod daughters filled with a lot of rage and hurt were more alike than they think).

So the morning of your little brother’s funeral, you found yourself on the shoreline of Canoe Lake, setting your Redbull against the post of the dock and looking out onto the water.

You needed to do something with your hands. In the past few days, if your fingers were not occupied by pen and paper, a guitar, supply crates, or anything else that was helpful to others and all the more distracting for you, it’s been so easy to pick at any little thing. Perhaps it was your subconscious trying to reflect the damage on the inside, but today, your nail polish was chipped beyond belief. A small price to pay to not lose it without a signature boyish smile to ease your worries and amber eyes that could help you escape from the routine.

Running camp was always easier back then with your runaway boy and his scarred cheek.

How pathetic.

Crouched over in the sand, you plucked stones and filled your pockets with them. They knocked against each other — weighing your pockets down as you walked closer to the dock. Swinging your feet off the side and chucking them into the water, you could barely achieve a ripple.

It’s so quiet that you end up wondering if the rocks in your pockets would weigh you down to the bottom of the lake. It must be nice down there, to exist away from everything.

Bubbles surface slowly in front of you, then Percy’s head bobs in the water as he squints at you through sunlight.

“You chucked a rock at my head!”

A smile tugs at your lips, almost indiscernible but definitely there, “I was trying to skip them. Didn’t know you were doing water tricks in there, kid.” His grin gleams like freshwater pearls, pulling himself up onto the dock as his hand clasps yours. Shaking his sopping hair, Percy’s gangly frame sits next to yours like a wet bag of sand—all wrinkly and misshapen and sprinkling you with lakewater.

“Maybe next time don’t pick rocks the size of your fist. How many have you got in there? Your aim is scarily accurate,” he laughs and you huff and shake your head when his hand sticks into your pocket and takes out a few smooth ones to roll around in his hand. You mirror him, watching him skip a few stones into the water that reach a good distance before sinking into the depths of the lake.

There’s something sad about feeling comfortable to trauma dump on the teenage son of Poseidon, but with the way he grabs your arm at your third unsuccessful toss of a rock, you can’t do anything else but sigh.

“Why didn’t any of you call me, Percy?”

He was waiting for this question—it’s been banging around in his head since the beginning of Annabeth’s quest, and perhaps her talk with you yesterday didn’t go as expected so once again he’s left with the difficult part.

Things happen to turn out pretty difficult for him a lot, he's noticed.

Many things could have been made easier in the past few weeks: Ariadne being your stepmother and her blessing to you would’ve made the Labyrinth easier to navigate, and having another demigod to fight alongside him instead of a mortal girl would’ve been a plus too. But he looks at you with ocean eyes and a smaller smile that reminds you of how he looked at you when you dropped him off in Montauk the summer you met him and quit your head counselor job.

“You’ve already made a lot of difficult decisions. We weren’t sure if…”

The rotten wood beneath you creaks under your shifting weight as you turn to him, tucking your legs underneath your bottom.

“Didn’t think I could handle it?”

He shakes his head, “The opposite, actually. Annabeth has this notion that you’re the only one that can save him. You know, back on my first quest I met Luke’s dad and he told me something…”

You swallow instead of answering. There’s no way Percy is giving you Hermes’s advice right now. Somehow this feels like karmic retribution after years of spiting that asshole, and what he tells you next is more of a sign that it must be true.

“He said, ‘Do you know what that feels like? To be so close to someone you love knowing neither of you has any choice but to keep hurting each other?’ I didn’t get it then, but I do now.”

“With Luke and his mom?” you ask, picking at the remaining slivers of varnish on your thumbnail.

“With you and Luke. I didn’t call you, because… why would I want to see you hurt after everything?” Percy says this like it’s something he would do for everyone.

Perhaps it is, but the knot that forms in your throat feels as heavy as the boulder you almost sunk into his skull. He’s tall enough to lean your head against now, and you don’t mind the water spots that will form along the side of your funeral outfit. The shape of him it leaves will remind you of the little brother you gained through so much loss.

“Plus he has a new girlfriend. Absolute horse of a girl,” he jokes. It slips over your head but you still giggle, “I could’ve taken her.”

“I know, that was Grover’s worry. You’re prettier anyway…” Percy pauses, and then clears his throat, “You’ve always taken care of this place, y’know? Even after….I just think someone ought to take care of you.”

Your shoulder bumps against his as you finally skip a rock. It only bounces across the water twice and you think Percy might have had something to do with it, but you’re not bothered by the help this time around.

—

You wake up in the dark of night to see your dad looming in the doorway to his office. With drool and a post-it stuck to your cheek, he comes over to ruffle your hair in amicable silence.

“Hard at work or hardly working?” he chuckles, leaning over your shoulder to scan over the paperwork sorted into piles for him to sign from his absence.

“Hm. You wish,” you scoff, leaning against your arm as you look at him. He’s not in his usual eyesore of attire, wearing a clean-pressed suit with his hair slightly slicked back.

“You look good. The meeting went okay?”

“Grover will be fine. The Council of Cloven Elders? Not so much. Neither are the gods ready to take sides. Putting out little fires everywhere as we speak.”

The wheels of the office chair roll as you swing your feet, and if you both listen closely enough you can hear Pollux snoring upstairs. Chiron loved the earplugs you gave him.

Your father’s face smooths out a bit at the sight of you and the sound of his son’s breathing upstairs and he asks, “Are you? Good?”

A shrug slides off your shoulders, “How does one be good in a world like this one?”

A startling scream echoes off the walls of the Big House, rattling the floorboards from below as your father grimaces.

The work is never done for you two.

“Don’t look at me like that. It was worse when he first came here.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he mumbles, brushing lint off your shirt before he notices you’re donning neon orange. “Didn’t do laundry, princess?”

“Pollux and I haven’t gone back to our cabin since... I can wake him up if you—”

Mr. D shakes his head and goes to toss his body onto the couch against the window, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Dad? Do you think Chris is a bad person?”

A beat passes and you think he may have fallen asleep, but then his voice sounds like gravel scraping up his throat.

“I don’t think anyone can be bad, kid. I think it is more often that people get lost. What Rodriguez needs is someone to take hold of him gently, and hand his life back to him—you…Clarisse… that’s what we’re giving him.”

Now you’re silent, staring at the dust on his name placard at the edge of the desk.

“Do you think otherwise?”

He calls your name again, and you look up like you’re about to lie to him but don’t have the energy to.

“Princess, do you think you’re a bad person?”

He stands up and walks around to your side of the desk, sitting on the edge so you have to look at him.

“I killed someone. During the battle. Didn’t even think twice about it, slashed his neck as soon as Castor went down and…” you sniff. “I kill monsters, Dad, not children. How does that make me any different?”

The last time blood was on your hands like this it was Luke’s in the Garden of Hesperides. All these years later you ended up being right— the only person you vowed to get bloody for is Luke Castellan, and now in a twisted turn of fate, you’ve bloodied your hands because of him.

“Because you did it for your brother. There are no other explanations needed.”

He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the drop in your shoulders, but your dad also sees the strength in your bones that spans generations and he knows you and Pollux are strong because you are both his.

“Humans believe in life everlasting—glory, as some call it, but they’re too focused on achieving it on earth instead of enjoying what life has to offer,” he scoffs, “Everyone has the guts to die, but no one has the guts to truly live. How sad.”

“His name was Rowan. Son of Hecate. I taught him how to whistle the summer I left. This is all my fault, Dad,” you say shakily as he comes near and pulls you into his side. He shushes you but you relent.

“Luke’s killing all these people to fulfill a promise he made for me. I’m just fucking disgusted with myself for being the cause of it all. What good life can I deserve when wherever I go I leave a trail of blood?”

Love and addiction must be so alike; to know that to be sober you can’t indulge in the vice ever again—not only does it hurt you, but others around you. But through the years you’ve always kept the taste of his name in your mouth, the feeling of his skin under your fingertips, and the knowledge of why he’s destroying the world so he can make you a better one. Insanity stems from fighting for so long that you embrace the pain; feeling something so intensely that when it consumes you you’re able to walk out the other side and wear it as armor.

Not everyone is hardwired to persevere.

There are moments like a night like these where it would be easy to give up. Instead, you pour two glasses of whiskey you’ve conjured and hand one to your dad. You both sip on your drinks slowly, embracing the crawling feeling of the burn.

“Liquor is one way out and death is another,” your dad sighs blissfully. He almost looks rejuvenated by the alcohol he knows he’ll hear about from Zeus later, but perhaps the death of his son is a good enough pardon.

“For some of us, we don’t have to think about the answer.”

Mr. D grabs a pen off the desk and starts signing papers to do something with his hands, and then you speak again, “I think I’d rather die for people I love,” and your dad’s attention whips to your blank face staring at the moon outside the window. “Instead of killing for them. I’ve never been a good soldier, Dad.”

Mr. D looks at you thoughtfully and wonders where all the time has gone that you sit there in front of him with more knowledge than him at your mortal age before saying, “You’re my daughter. You’re a fighter. Death is for chumps anyway.”

He lifts you by the arm to try to usher you up the stairs but you stay in his office chair swatting his hands away.

“Got work to do, you and I. Not getting rid of me until it’s done.”

“When are you going home?” he asks, pulling up a chair next to yours.

“I am home.”

You don’t look up from the papers you were filing, stubbornness leaking through your voice.

“If there is a war coming, I want to be home as much as I can. I’m finishing my last semester and I’ll be here before and after classes. You can’t stop me, dad.”

And he knows that too.

There is no such thing as leaving Camp Half-Blood for you.

Never for too long. Your love for it is scattered everywhere campers can see.

—

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness. - Tennessee Williams

#luke castellan x reader #trouble!verse #made by ma1dita ♥︎#pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan angst

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hnslchw · 1 month ago

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one of these days - Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You were young when you promised to love him. You meant it. You still do. But something unspoken has rooted itself between you—something cold, something cruel. And the deeper you fall into the life you've built, the more you wonder if love is enough to survive what comes next.

Warnings/Themes: MDNI, targycest, marital strain, emotional conflict, greif/loss, references to war, infidelity, child death, trauma, implied sexualcontent (non-explicit), references to violence, complicated family dynamics, psychological distress, HOTD canon violence (pls tell me if Ive forgotten anything)

Word Count: 4.5k

Author's Note: I may or may not have been working on this for 5 months... It wouldn't be a hnslchw fic if it wasn't inspired by a song this one was written with "Method Acting" by Lizzy McAlpine in mind. I didn't want to do it in parts but it was getting too long. The whole thing is done though so I'll upload everything quickly, I promise. Again English isn't my first language so please tell me if anything is off. Hope you guys love it!!

part 2, part 3

The blade is light, but your arms ache.

You’re standing over him in the quiet of your shared bedchamber, moonlight brushing pale over the curve of his throat, the long slope of his body. He sleeps like he always does turned slightly toward your side of the bed, mouth parted in something almost boyish, peaceful. You used to love that. The softness of him when the rest of the world wasn’t watching.

But tonight, you’re not reaching for him.

You’re holding a knife above his heart.

The steel doesn’t waver, but your breath does. Shallow. Quiet. You don't want to wake him. Not yet. Not until you decide if this is how the story ends.

You want to believe there's still time to rewrite it.

Your fingers curl tighter around the hilt. Your bare feet press into cold stone. It shouldn't have come to this. You were just children when it began young and soft, too tender for the things that would follow.

There had been a time you thought he would be your salvation. And maybe, in some selfish part of you, he had been. You remember the heat of his hand on your back during your wedding feast. The way he’d whispered in Valyrian into your ear when he was tipsy. The way he’d held your first son like he’d never known love before.

So much has been lost since then. But not everything.

Not yet.

You look at him — really look — and for a moment, he doesn’t look like a prince, or a soldier, or a dragon-rider, or a betrayer.

He just looks like the boy who asked you if love could survive the war.

You lower the knife. Just slightly.

And place your other hand gently over your stomach.

Then

You remember the first time you saw Aemond not as a prince, not as the Queen’s second son or the boy with the sapphire eye — but simply as a boy.

He was standing alone on the training grounds, fresh from sparring. His hair was damp and plastered to his neck, lips bloodied from a cut that was already beginning to heal. When he looked at you, you expected the coldness the rest of his family wore like armor.

But he blinked once, slowly, and asked, “Are you here to watch or to judge?”

You had laughed then quiet, unexpected and he’d tilted his head at the sound.

“I’m here because your mother summoned mine,” you said. “They’re arguing about marriage.”

He had scoffed. “Whose?”

“Ours.”

A pause. And then he smiled, faint and sharp-edged. “Gods help you, then.”

You hadn’t known it yet — not really — but something had already begun to bloom in your chest. Not fear. Not resignation. Just curiosity. Just him.

Your families hated one another, the kind of hatred that bred in corridors and history books. And still, the court whispered that this was the only path to peace. A strategic pairing. A necessary one.

But what no one expected, what not even your mother believed , was that you wanted it. Wanted him.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you like he saw through all the posturing. Maybe it was how he didn’t flinch from your family name, didn’t call your brothers bastards under his breath at least, not when you were in the room. He’d once told you in secret, hand deeply woven in your silver hair “Your brothers are fools, but you were made from fire. That makes you mine.”

You knew better than to fall for pretty words from princes. But he didn’t speak them like promises. He spoke them like facts.

You remember the day of the wedding. Your fingers laced in his, your thumb tracing the scar along his knuckle. His hands didn’t shake. Neither did yours. You were both far too young to be this certain — and yet, you were.

When he kissed you before the realm, the court fell into its sharp, tight silence. Greens on one side. Blacks on the other. You in the middle, dressed in Targaryen red.

“I was never meant to love anyone,” he whispered to you, lips brushing your temple. “But I think I could learn with you.”

And foolish, glowing, naive — you believed him.

4 Years later

The palace was too quiet the day of the dinner.

There was music. There was laughter. There were servants bustling with plates and poured wine. But beneath it all, something in the stone felt still. Waiting.

Viserys looked like death wrapped in silk — thinner than you’d ever seen him, his mouth slack, his body slumped like his bones had turned to water. And yet he had called them all together. One last attempt to gather the pieces of a family already splintered.

You had nearly begged Aemond to stay in your chambers that evening.

“I don’t want to be watched like a coin passed between enemies,” you had said quietly as he brushed your hair away from your face. “Not like this. Not with the baby.”

His hand had lingered on the curve of your stomach, your child shifting restlessly inside you. “We show up,” Aemond said. “We smile. We leave. I won’t let them touch you.”

But it hadn’t been that simple. Not when your brothers sat across from you, barely looking your way. Not when your mother’s eyes searched yours, asking a silent question you couldn’t answer. Not when Aegon whispered something vile to the serving girl and Alicent said nothing.

And not when Aemond stood, glass raised, and said, “A final tribute.”

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the tone — sharp, surgical, knowing. The way it landed in the air like a knife.

You had flinched before the chaos even began.

Later that night, as you lay awake in the stillness of your chambers, you pressed a hand to your swollen belly and whispered, "I'm sorry."

You weren’t sure who it was for your unborn child, your husband asleep beside you, or the mother who had taught you how to carry a sword without ever holding one.

When the king died hours later, everything fell apart like a house built too close to the shore.

You woke up to the sound of shouting — not grief, not mourning, but movement. The Greens had acted swiftly, too swiftly. Alicent had taken your hand in the war council chamber and said, “Your place is with us.”

And you had nodded, lips trembling, heart split.

Because that was true — and it wasn’t.

You watched as ravens were sent, names written on parchment as if they weren’t bound in blood. You watched Aemond’s jaw harden as he was ordered to rally the houses. You watched the dream you’d fought for start to wither, rot beneath the weight of the crown.

And still, he kissed you goodbye with a hand on your belly and said, “I will make this right.”

You didn’t yet know what right would cost.

#aemond targaryen angst #aemond imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd imagines #hotd aemond #hotd angst #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #prince aemond #aemond fanfiction

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moonstruckme · 2 years ago

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hey :)) first off, i love the hozier caption in your bio. second, I’ve been reading so many of your fics recently and i think you’re sooo talented! i wanna be like you when I grow up (im 20 almost 21 lol)

anyways, I’ve never really requested anything but i wanna give it a try. I was wondering if you could do a poly!marauders x reader fic or a just remus x reader fic where’s she’s driving and accidentally hits an animal and is really upset about it but they’re there to help to her move it and comfort her.

i just hit a cat and im not taking it well. we think it was just a stray cause I left my number with it in case but no one has called. my family kinda, but not really, made fun of me for being so sad about it and i kinda just need something with the guys being so affectionate and loving with her after everything.

it’s totally okay if youre not up to it! I understand that it’s such a hard topic so I won’t be offended if you don’t feel comfortable writing in this.

thank you again and im sooo looking forward to youre future work!! you’re talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before (lady gaga)

Mwah mwah mwah <3<3

-aves

(sorry this is so long)

Hi sweetheart, thank you so much! (Is your username a Lizzy McAlpine reference? I love that) I'm really sorry you went through this, I've been fortunate enough to have never hit an animal but I've seen it happen and it's so horrible, I'm really sorry you've been dealing with this :(( I think you did the right thing by leaving your number with it, and I hope the weight of that trauma and grief is starting to lift off you my love. Thank you for requesting <3

cw: mention of killing an animal, reader feeling guilty

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.8k words

James hears the door and is up instantly, bounding down the hall to greet you and Sirius.

“Hello!” he calls ahead, eager for company after being left alone in your flat for over a half hour. “You guys took your time today, I thought even Remus might beat you home. Was traffic a riot, or…”

Sirius is looking at him with panic in his blue-gray eyes, clearly trying to convey one of those telepathic messages James has never been great at interpreting, and you…you’re looking at nothing. Your gaze is distant as you work off your shoe, the area around your eyes puffy and gray with smudged mascara.

“Hey,” James breathes, then feels stupid. It sounds like he’s accusing you of something. He tries again. “Is everything okay?”

Sirius gives him a look that says What do you think? and crouches beside you to help with a stubborn knot in your shoelace. Your hands are trembling, James notices. Dread settles like a stone in his stomach.

“I’ve got it,” Sirius murmurs to you, fingers gentle as they intercept your own, but the alarm doesn’t leave his expression as he watches your face. Ah. As much as it kills James to see you upset, Sirius will have no idea what to do with you in this state. Tears have always set him on edge.

James squats, joining the two of you on the floor. “Hi, sweetheart.” He does his best to keep his own anxiety out of his voice as his hand finds your ankle, fingers wrapping around the bit of skin between the hem of your jeans and your socks. “Has something happened?”

Your eyes meet his already full of tears, and James braces himself. Sirius does too, by the look of it, his shoulders tensing as he watches your face like you’re about to crumble away to nothing right here on their doormat.

“I—” That’s all you get out before you have to bite down on your lip to keep from crying. A tiny whimper escapes, and spider web cracks spread across James’ heart. A sluggish tear leaks from your right eye.

“It’s okay,” he swears, though he has no way of knowing it. You press the back of your hand to your mouth, trying to quell the sobs that shake your frame even with no air to feed them. “Oh, honey.” James leans forward, wrapping you in an awkward but very heartfelt hug, your knees between his chest and yours but your head crossing the distance to wet his shoulder with your tears.

A sympathetic pressure builds in James’ sinuses, but he does his best to breathe through it. Stability tends to help you more than sympathy in these situations, and since Remus isn’t home yet, it’s left to James to be the reasonable one (Sirius would have all sorts of jokes to make about that, but he doesn’t seem to be feeling up to them either).

He gives you a few moments of reprieve, a few passes of his palm up and down your spine, before trying again. “What’s going on?” he asks, gently as he can. “You guys are scaring me. Sirius?”

Sirius’ brow pinches like he almost doesn’t want to say it either, and the anticipation in James’ chest heavies. “We were driving home,” he says slowly, keeping a wary eye on you lest he worsen your upset, “and a rabbit ran in front of the car.”

Relief nearly chokes James at the same time as a sympathetic sorrow takes ahold of him. He pets the back of your head. You tremble with the force of your crying, leaning into his touch greedily.

“She was driving?” he asks quietly, though he’s nearly sure. If your reaction isn’t enough to go off of, he already knows that you usually pick Sirius up from work and drive the both of you home.

Sirius nods.

“It doesn’t sound like there was anything you could do,” he murmurs to you, cupping the back of your neck to encourage you to look up at him. You do, sniffling as your lip quivers, and James uses his thumb to brush a wet streak of mascara from your blotchy cheek.

“It must have been so scared.” Your voice breaks on the last word and James’ heart along with it, leaving a throbbing wound in the center of his chest.

“I doubt it had time to be scared, honey,” he tries to reassure you, but his own voice is fraught. He looks to Sirius. “Did you…do you know if it…passed?”

Sirius is half hiding behind his hair, a sure tell of his disquiet, and it brushes his shirt collar when he nods again. “We weren’t sure at first, so I got out to move it off the road. It was dead.” He winces at his wording, and you bite down on your lip harshly. His tone softens as he addresses you. “I really don’t think it felt any pain.”

You look nowhere near ready to believe him, and James is preparing to offer to make you a cup of tea and let you sort out your grief at your own pace when the front door opens again, stopping when it hits Sirius’ side.

“Oh.” Remus pokes his head through. “Hello. Why are we all sitting on the floor?”

Sirius scoots the rest of the way out of the door’s path before deciding to stand instead. He speaks to Remus in a low voice while James runs a hand up and down your side in an attempt to soothe you. He locks eyes with Remus over your shoulder, watching as the taller boy’s gaze takes on the weight of understanding.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Remus wraps Sirius in a half-hug, kissing his surprised boyfriend on the temple before stooping beside you. “That must have been awful to have to see. Let’s get you up, yeah?” He wraps a spindly hand around your forearm, more encouragement than anything, and James grips your other hand as he stands to pull you up with him.

Neither of them seem quite willing to break contact with you, walking you over to the couch like a newborn fawn despite your murmured I’m okay. Sirius follows close behind. The both of you look like you’re perching rather than sitting, unable to completely relax even now that you’re home.

“It must have been quite a scare,” Remus sympathizes, sitting on the edge of his favored armchair.

“A bit,” Sirius mutters, and your throat bobs.

Remus cocks his head. “What’re you thinking, darling?”

James almost wants to look away at the rawness in your expression as you raise your eyes to meet Remus’. “I just…I can’t believe I killed it. I’ve never” —your voice pitches, and you swallow again— “I’ve never killed anything before.”

“It was an accident,” James tells you, beseeching.

“You couldn’t have stopped,” Sirius says. His voice has an odd, desperate quality to it, and James sees Remus notice it at the same time as he does, both boys leaning forward to see Sirius better. For the first time, James notices—had he missed it before, or has it only just started?—that Sirius is trembling slightly too. James’ free hand twitches instinctively toward him, but his dark-haired boyfriend is only touchy when he’s in a good mood. He’s not keen on physical comfort; no matter how many years James has worked on him, Sirius has always preferred to keep his struggles internal. “Or avoided it,” he goes on. “It happened too fast.”

Remus nods at you. “As awful as it is, these things happen sometimes. Hopefully,” he adds when another tear slips down your cheek, “never again to you, but selfish as it is, I’m glad you didn’t slam on the brakes or anything else that could have gotten you and Sirius hurt instead.”

You glance at Sirius, and he gives you a weak smile, taking your hand and squeezing gently.

“Nothing you could have done,” he whispers.

Your lips tremble again. James watches as panic flashes in Sirius’ eyes, but he keeps it together. “I’m really sorry,” you tell him, voice wavering. “I shouldn’t have made you take care of the bunny by yourself.”

James' chest aches as Sirius takes a steadying breath. “You were frazzled. Understandably upset,” he corrects himself, squeezing your hand again. This time you squeeze back. “It was a one-man job anyway.”

You make a soft sound, leaning your head on his shoulder, and James has the sense something has settled a bit in each of you. He raises your joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of yours as Remus’ eyebrows furrow.

“Have you had a chance to wash your hands, love?” he asks Sirius, who blinks.

“No. I forgot.”

Despite the heavy atmosphere, James actually feels the beginnings of a smile tempting his lips as he watches Remus forcibly quell his horror. “Right, then. Why don’t we go do that in the kitchen now, and I’ll make us all some tea.”

“Good idea,” James says heartily, swiping his thumb back and forth over his own kiss on your hand. “Hey, could we take out the good cookies as well?”

Remus hums what James chooses to interpret as assent, shepherding Sirius into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” you say to James once the other two are out of hearing.

He looks down at you. “What for, sweetheart?”

You shrug, your shoulders remaining just a tad too high after the motion. You’ve stopped crying, and James is grateful, but he doesn’t think this shameful look is a vast improvement. “I feel like I’m being dramatic. And Sirius is the one who had to see it. He had to drive home too, I was too upset.”

James’ battered, broken heart wells for the both of you. He forgoes his attentions to your hand, wrapping his arm around your shoulders instead to tuck you against his side. “You’re not being dramatic,” he promises, “okay? You and Sirius were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you both had to witness something awful.” Your head sinks onto his shoulder, and he rubs your upper arm. “I think it’s alright to be sad for a while. For yourselves, and for the bunny. Just, don’t torment yourself, alright?” He withdraws enough to see your face, and you tilt your gaze up to his. “Please. You don’t deserve the guilt.”

Your eyes cast down, contemplative and a bit shy, a moment before your head comes back to its spot on his shoulder. “Thanks,” you murmur.

“No thanks necessary, babe. You can cry all night if you need to, I’ll be right here. Just do me a favor,” he lowers his voice, glancing toward the kitchen, “let me sit between you and Sirius if you do. Many more tears and I think he’ll have a heart attack.”

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ssseashell · 2 months ago

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ˑ ִ ֗ ִ 𓋼𓍊 ۫ ⊹ masterlist of my newtmas fanfics !

from canon:

💽 In the Meantime | 1/1 | 2,7k

tags: canon divergence, set between TST and TDC, movie!verse, Pov Thomas, Friends to Lovers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, References to The Beatles

💉 Walking to the bright lights, in sorrow | 1/1 | 4,3k

tags: canon divergence, TDC movie!verse, Light Angst with Hurt/Comfort, Thomas loves Newt, love confessions, Newt has the Flare, Title from a Jeff Buckley song

🌲 Dragon Eyes | 1/1 | 2,1k

tags: canon divergence, set between TST and TDC, movie!verse, nights in the scorch, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Title from an Adrianne Lenker song

🌊 Velvet Mood | 1/1 | 2,9k

tags: Safe Haven AU, Newt lives, Post Canon Fix-It, Nightmares, Sick Newt, Thomas takes care of Newt, war flashbacks, Title and Inspired by an Alice Phoebe Lou

🩹 Scars, Freckles and Soft Lips | 1/1 | 3,5k

tags: Canon divergence, The Scorch Trials, movie!verse, Newt is injured, Thomas takes care of Newt

📻 How To Disappear | 1/1 | 3,5k

tags: Canon divergence, in between TST and TDC, movie!verse, Thomas has a crush on Newt, Drunk Newt, Surviving in the Scorch, Title from a Lana Del Rey song

🧭 Just Ashes In Your Tomorrow | 1/1 | 1,5k

tags: Set during The Death Cure, movie!verse, Unrequited Love, Newt loves Thomas, Newt has the Flare

alternate universes:

💌 Running back to you | 1/1 | 795

tags: College AU, short and sweet, inspired by “Spring Into Summer” by Lizzy McAlpine, Drabble

🥃 Do I Wanna Know? | 2/2 | 6k

tags: College AU, Bar AU, Friends to Lovers, Friends with Benefits, Newt loves Thomas, Thomas loves Newt, Title and Inspired by the Artic Monkeys song

🎾 Blind altercation, open invitation | 1/1 | 2,6k

tags: Challengers AU, Newt has a Crush on Thomas, Oblivious Thomas, Late Night Conversations, Title from an Adrianne Lenker song

🎙️ Your voice makes me want to kiss you | 1/1 | 5k

tags: Modern setting, College AU, Karaoke nights, Drinking & Talking, Teresa and Thomas are siblings

🎃 Love is like a star (Isn’t that worth holding on?) | 2/2 | 5,9k

tags: Halloween, Ghost AU, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Angst, Thomas Loves Newt, Title from a Mitski song

☕️ It’s kind of cold, so I want a cup of coffee (and your number) | 1/1 | 1,2k

tags: Coffee shop AU, Barista Newt, mutual pining, bad pick-up lines

🍃 About Italian Summers and an Italian boy | 1/1 | 2,9k

tags: Call me by your name AU, Newt is english, Thomas is italian, Fluff

📚 Good Luck, Babe! | 6/6 | 46k

tags: College AU, Newt loves Thomas, Unrequited Love, Oblivious Thomas, Newt and Teresa are bffs, Thomas, Brenda and Minho are bffs, background relationships, domestic fluff, love confessions, Title and Inspired by a Chapell Roan song

🛣️ Warmth | 1/1 | 576

tags: College AU, car rides, Ivy trio, Drabble

🪩 All I Ever Wanted (Is Here In My Arms) | 1/1 | 3,5k

tags: 2000’s Club AU, Drunk Newt, Jealous Newt, Drunk Kissing, Title from a Depeche Mode song

🌌 To Get Lost In The Stars (And Not In Your Eyes) | 1/1 | 1,2k

tags: Modern setting AU, Night at the beach, bonfires, stargazing, Fluff

🎄 Five Days Until Christmas | 1/1 | 9,1k

tags: High School AU, Christmas AU, Friends to Lovers, Oblivious idiots in Love, Christmas Eve, Christmas Songs

#4 my pinned post #newtmas #tmr

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lyxzeun · 11 months ago

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"IF YOU'D HAVE STUCK AROUND."

— a dainsleif x reader short fic.

contents . . . reader dies. like, a lot of times. five times at best, no implied timeline (can be read as modern or normal teyvat), angst, doomsday by lizzy mcalpine reference.

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

To be with Dainsleif was mundane. It wasn't pompous or eventful, but it was alright.

It was okay because you never really minded being stuck in a routine— a loop, if you will, because you were stuck in it with the man you loved the most in all of Teyvat.

Being with him for ten years– nearing eleven, felt like forever.

You've known him for that time being, and it's always been feeling so much longer than just a decade.

But in Dainsleif's head, the length of your time together was more than just ten years. You two were running strong together in 150 years.

It always had a year gap of 20 years, and he meets you when you're twenty. You fall in love, and ten years pass, you're now thirty.

Thirty years of your life, and you'd always die in the same way.

Of an expedition, you'd go and head to a Regisvine.

Dainsleif follows, retrieves your body, lays it on a bed of grass, his gloved hand caressing your cold skin, the other tangling in your hair, before he pulls away, closing your eyes and pressing a fleeting kiss to your forehead before burying you into the ground.

As the grass grows, he waits and he waits, placing a flower in the exact same spot where he placed you.

He can't even bother to shed tears or to stop the Regisvine. He's tried once, during the third time you've died.

But it all ended up the same.

Dainsleif doesn't think to stop you from your expedition, because you'd still continue— no matter how many warnings he would give you.

So he stops and lets that mundane loop go around and around.

Because he knows that it's for the better.

After all, he'll meet you again. In twenty years, whether if he'd meet you at the lake, in the streets, sitting on the curb, crying after a day of work, at a hotel, where he stumbles upon your drunken figure, sitting on the floor beside the stairs, leaning on the wall after you break up with an ex.

Till this day, he keeps the ring he was going to propose to you to the first loop of this mundane routine.

That was the funny thing, wasn't it? He would've married you—

If you'd have stuck around.

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jackiepackiee · 5 months ago

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Telemachus x Apollo Blessed! Reader Drabble

Hello all, this is a quick thing

I always write while listening to Lizzy McAlpine and the song reader is writing I imagine to be

THIS SONG

For reference, she’s been playing the same song since she’s been in the market during chapter one

#telemachus epic the musical #telemachus epic #telemachus x reader #telemachus #epic the musical x reader #epic x reader #epic #epic odysseus #epic the musical #epic the ithaca saga #epic the wisdom saga #Spotify

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nolita-fairytale · 2 years ago

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don't want to walk alone | carmen 'carmy' berzatto x fem!reader | chapter five: the honeymoon pt. 2

summary: you and carmy enjoy the last few days of your mini-moon.

warnings: light smut, husband!carmy who comes with a warning label of his own, swearing, lots of tooth rotting fluff, marriage, no use of y/n, second person pov, she/her pronouns

wc: 3.2k

listen to: the official don't want to walk alone playlist (mentioned song - lizzy mcalpine's 'dancing queen' cover)

a/n: hi cuties. here is part two of the honeymoon in chicago. i will be writing an epilogue to finish out this series, then my focus will be back on the world of 'burn your life down.' please enjoy all of this fluffy, lovey dovey content because these two deserve.

part four | masterlist | epilogue

This feels right, you think to yourself, stretching out in the abnormally large bath tub that overlooks the Chicago River. This being the bath, your honeymoon, the non-stop sex between you and your insatiable husband.

You’re up to your shoulders in bubbles, the temperature of the water just the right amount of hot, and you’ve got to admit that you need a recovery bath from the last night or so.

“You gonna join me in here or what?” you ask Carmy, a flirtatious smile on your face as you steal a glance his way.

He sits facing you, a few inches away on the floor of the bathroom, the sketchbook that you got him as a wedding gift laying in his lap as he continues to make furious strokes with one of the wildly-expensive-yet-worth-it pens that you purchased in addition to the sketchbook.

“Nah,” Carmy exhales, the corners of his lips curving up into a smile as he looks at you like you might disappear. “I just wanna look at you a little longer.”

“I know it’s kind of our thing now. But maybe tomorrow night?” he offers up, half apologetically. You shake your head, as if to let him know it’s no problem, and Carmy returns his attention over to what he’s sketching.

“Watcha workin’ on over there?” you ask, curiously, in reference to the broad strokes of pen on paper that you can hear.

“It’s a surprise,” he answers almost too quickly, his focus unbroken as he keeps his head down, buried in whatever it is he’s drawing.

You inhale deeply, letting out your breath on an even deeper exhale and it feels as if you’re melting into the warm bubbles that surround you.

“I’m just glad you’re drawing again. You always seem to light up when you do it,” you sigh, settling into the comfort of your bath, even though you now have to accept that Carmy won’t be joining you tonight.

You close your eyes, listening to the sound of your bubble bath playlist that plays over the speakers of your phone – the easily recognizable voice of Leon Bridges filling your ears as your shoulders relax.

“Why don’t you draw something? For our next tattoo,” you suggest, your eyes beginning to close.

“God, I love you so much,” is Carmy’s reply, without missing a beat.

Opening one eye, you sit up slightly to get a good look at Carmy, shooting a quizzical look his way.

“Well, yeah. But are you referencing anything in particular this time?” you giggle, peering over the edge of the tub in hopes of getting a look at what he’s sketching. Carmy tuts, clutching the sketchbook close to his chest so that he’s sure you can’t see.

The two of you exchange a look, then a laugh, before you resign yourself, sinking back into the tub. Carmy can’t take his eyes off of you, watching you close yours. He looks down at his sketchbook, the image of you in the bathtub, your hair tied up in a messy bun on top of your head beginning to take shape on the page. With deep blue eyes full of love, he finally answers your previous question with:

“You encourage me to dream, baby.”

A beat.

“It’s one of the many reasons I love you.”

You inhale again, peeking one eye open just for a moment as you grin.

“I love you too, Bear. So, so much.”

You take another breath, and a beat, before reiterating, “And I meant what I said. You should draw something for our next tattoo.”

“You really want my scribbles on your body forever?” he asks, skeptically, completely discrediting the talent that you know he knows he has.

“I married you, didn’t I?” you shoot back with a shrug.

He snorts out a laugh, shaking his head incredulously.

“Don’t know if that’s the same.”

“Seriously, Bear. I know we talked about maybe adding some ink to mark this chapter of our relationship… but I really want you to draw it. You don’t have to make up your mind now but, just think about it, okay?” you continue, this time opening both of your eyes to look at him – just so he knows that you mean it.

“Sure,” he nods hesitantly. “Uh… yeah. I’ll think about it.”

You hum along to your playlist as the song changes, and Carmy returns his attention to his sketchbook, stealing glances your way as he continues to work on his drawing of you. You swear you’ve slipped into the kind of relaxed state that yogis traveling to an ashram for the first time can only dream of, as both you and Carmy settle into a comfortable and quiet rhythm.

Carmy hasn’t felt this inspired in a long time – noting that he hasn’t felt this relaxed in a long time either – and he’s more than willing to admit that it’s all the love (and all the sex, because it’s certainly not hurting) that’s sparked this creative kick. He was nervous before, before checking into the hotel earlier today, that maybe he wouldn’t be able to relax – the idea of going to the spa with you tomorrow is still absolutely terrifying – but it’s moments like these that remind him that he may not be so bad at this whole relaxing thing after all.

It could be minutes, hours, days when you decide to get out of the tub – having lost track of time entirely since you checked in at the Langham hotel. Without saying anything, you pull the plug on the bathtub, allowing it to drain as you stand up, grabbing for the fluffy, plush white hotel towel.

And you know that you could put on a robe, just like Carmy, but you have a better idea.

You’ve been saving the little white slip dress that Natalie bought you for just the right moment, and you think this might be it. You can feel Carmy’s eyes on you as you disappear from the bathroom, leaving him where he sits on the floor, and back into the bedroom in search of where you hung the slip dress earlier this evening.

You wonder how long it will take – if he’ll follow you back into the bedroom – but he doesn’t, so you take your time drying off. The white slip dress slides off of its hanger easily. You pull it over your head, allowing it to settle gently over your frame, noticing just how softly it drapes over your figure.

Nat really nailed it with this one, you think to yourself, the pads of your feet hitting the ground as you head back into the bathroom to hang up your robe.

Carmy’s gotten up off the floor, having carefully set his sketchbook down on the long counter, confident in the way he stands, waiting for you. He watches you like a hawk as you begin hanging your robe on the back of the door, a smirk beginning to form on his face.

“What?” you ask, because you know exactly what he’s thinking without even having to look at him.

“Nothin,” he answers, cheekily.

As you turn around, Carmy’s taking a step towards you. You busy yourself with taking your hair back down, watching your reflection in the mirror as Carmy approaches, coming up behind you. You can feel his hands slide along your hips, pulling you towards him as he begins to leave soft kisses on the tops of your shoulders.

“Jus’ wanted to let you know how beautiful you are,” he mumbles in between kisses, pressing his hips against your ass. “That’s all.”

“That’s all? You’re insatiable, Carm. You know that?” you ask him with a giggle, watching him in the mirror this time.

“Oh come on,” he counters you. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” You moan as soon as you feel one of his hands bunching up the material of your dress, his lips curving into a smile against your skin as he hears you. “Putting this on for me.”

“Baby,” you sigh happily, beginning to understand just how fun a honeymoon is supposed to be.

“This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he begins to tease you, moving your hair to one side of your neck.

“Remember when we snuck into a dressing room…” he continues you, his piercing blue eyes bearing into your soul through the mirror image – just like that night. “... during the James Beard Awards…”

“How could I forget?” you gasp, his teeth nipping at the soft skin of your neck. “It was Syd’s first win and neither of us could wait till we got home.”

You remember it well, especially now, as Carmy begins to grind his hips into your ass, his eyes pleading with you in the reflection, begging you to let him fuck you.

“Friday night and the lights are low…”

You smile, as soon as you recognize the lyrics to one of your favorite songs. Only this time, it’s nothing like the version you and your best friends sang at karaoke night, this version done as an intimate, acoustic singer-songwriter cover. Carmy’s hands are patient, slowly exploring your body as you turn around to face him, surprising him as you wrap your arms around his neck.

He sends you a questioning look and you smile back as you lean in, placing your mouth over his in a messy kiss.

“I love this song,” you whisper against his lips, pulling him in for another kiss as you press your body closer to his. “Dance with me, Carm.”

“Yeah?” he asks, with a single, amused raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you answer with a smirk. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Instead of answering (or protesting, considering he had his sights set on fucking you up against the bathroom counter), he just embraces you, holding you close to him as the two of you sway back and forth to the song, exchanging heated kisses. It’s here, in the midst of a push and pull of desire, dressed in a fluffy white bathrobe and the slip dress his sister bought you, that you and Carmy have your first dance as man and wife.

It’s exchanged kisses, teasing remarks, and eager hands till the very end of the song, both of your feet coming to a halt, too consumed with the passionate makeout that Carmy’s engaged you in this time. Your hands travel to where his robe is tied closed, beginning to open it as your breathing picks up.

“Think we can count that as a first dance?” Carmy asks, in between kisses, his lips moving at a feverish, more desperate pace this time.

“Definitely,” you reply, the softness in his eyes matched so well with the softness of the music. It’s then that you kiss him again, your mouth beginning to trial south every time you return to him.

“Baby,” he moans, as he watches you kiss lower and lower, anticipating what comes next.

“Said I’d make it worth your while. And right now, I want to go down on my husband,” you rasp, your voice low and sultry as you drop to your knees.

Carmy moans as soon as he feels your mouth on him, your tongue coming out just to taste the tip of him. His right hand tangles in your hair, beginning to grasp at the back of your head as he lets out a:

“Fuck.”

———————————

Your vintage lace slip dress, plucked from the ground where it was carelessly thrown the night before, and Carmy’s denim jacket draped over your shoulders.

That’s what he wakes up to, Carmy, your husband, as you climb back onto the bed, having left your brown paper bag filled with all kinds of goodies on the nightstand next to him.

It may seem silly, bringing his denim jacket considering you barely planned on leaving the room, but he brought it for moments like this, when he knew you’d inevitably want to wear something of his while heading down to explore the rest of the hotel.

“Think you’ll even need that?” you’d asked as you watched him pack his bag for this weekend.

“Gotta be prepared, babe. You’ve been stealing my clothes since day one,” he had pointed out, making it clear that he was only packing options at this point. You’d giggled, making a comment about how considerate your then-husband-to-be was and a declaration that you were nothing if not consistent.

“Good morning, my love,” you say as you climb onto the bed, settling at the foot.

Carmy just smiles dreamily, his curls a wild, beautiful mess, as he sits up, reaching for your hands so that he can pull you over him. You smile, leaving a quick good morning kiss on his lips as you mutter something about morning breath.

“Fuck off. You love me,” he teases in response, laying back down.

“Fuck off. I do,” you parrot him, nodding happily, as you settle over him, straddling his hips.

With your hands still in his, Carmy brings your conjoined hands up to his lips, leaving a kiss to each knuckle, his eyes fixed to yours, his focus unbroken. He smirks, seeing you in his denim jacket, just like he predicted. It looks damn good on you and there’s something so primal about the way he feels when you wear his clothes – the fact that you’d showcase to the world that you’re his stirs something inside of him that feels intoxicating.

“I went downstairs to the hotel cafe. Got a few pastries and coffee for us,” you say, as you run your hands up and down his chest.

“Thanks, baby. But I’m not hungry yet,” Carmy replies, something in his voice that tells you he’s got something else in mind. You quirk an eyebrow in his direction, letting out a loud laugh as he flips you over, rolling you onto your back.

“Think we should work up an appetite first.”

“Again?” you giggle, heat pooling between your legs as you think of how he fucked you up against the bathroom counter last night – after you went down on him.

Instead of answering, he captures your mouth with his, groaning into the kiss as he lays his body over yours. You could care less about the morning breath as Carmy winds you up with the way he kisses you, the way he touches you, and you’re sighing out in pleasure as his hand slips between your legs.

“Jesus fucking Christ, baby,” he spits through gritted teeth, as soon as he realizes that you’re not wearing any underwear.

“You go down to the cafe like this?”

You smirk, letting out a devious chuckle at his discovery.

Before you can properly answer, Carmy’s fingers are dancing over your wet heat, earning well deserved gasps from you as you buck your hips into his hand, a sudden possessiveness taking over.

“Fuck, Carm,” you groan, knowing exactly how to wind him up. “Yeah. Might have to punish me for it.”

“Think so, sweet girl,” Carmy mutters, before his mouth is on yours again.

———————————

It’s your last night at the Langham hotel and you and Carmy have barely left your room – save for the trip to the pool downstairs. You find yourself curled up with your husband, your head buried in the book you're halfway through in a cozy silk PJ set as Carmy works on something else, a few pages deep into his new sketchbook.

“How’s your book?” he asks, his focus still on the page before him.

“Good,” you answer quietly, looking for a good place to pause. You look over at him, smiling as you notice the very cute face he makes when he’s concentrating.

“Watcha workin’ on?”

A light blush runs across Carmy’s cheeks as he prepares to show you.

“Uh… just been sketchin’ up some ideas… you know. Ever since you asked about, you know… the tattoo,” Carmy answers, suddenly feeling shy about showing you his work.

“Yeah?” you ask, only to be met with a nod as Carmy hands you the sketchbook.

You take it, your eyes eagerly scanning the page, considering it’s the first time since you gave him the gift that he’s let you see anything he’s been working on. You smile, a look of awe in your eyes as you take in all of the little food-related tattoos that he’s drawn up.

“I like this one,” you say, pointing to the nest of spaghetti he’s drawn, clearly meant to be a single portion of carbonara. “I mean, I like all of them… but I like this one.”

“Yeah?” he asks, only a little surprised that you like any of them really.

“Yeah,” you nod in response. You look down at his work, then back up to Carmy before gesturing towards the page. “May I?”

“Uh… sure,” he answers anxiously, the sound of the page turning only magnifying his nerves.

He’s so incredibly talented that it hurts, and it’s not till you get back to the very first page, the one where he's drawn you in the bathtub that your heart stops.

“Carmy,” you gasp, looking down at the sketch.

“You hate it,” he’s quick to say, offering up a way out, almost too eager to beat you to the punch if that is how you feel.

“Baby, of course I don’t hate it. I-,” you shake your head, marveling at the drawings below as you trace your fingers over the broader strokes of the pen. “It’s just… no one’s ever drawn me before so. I’m kind of… in awe right now.”

Carmy inhales, then lets out the breath on a deep exhale, because he’s drawn you before – considering he’s barely made time for his art in the last five years anyways – and that they just aren’t things he’s shown you yet.

“What do you think?” is all he asks, his eyes searching your face for a reaction.

“I think,” you say, returning his gaze with yours. You can tell that he’s nervous, that this feels extremely vulnerable, and you know exactly how to pivot. “... that you’re incredibly talented… and it’s really, really not fair.”

He laughs.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he replies, brushing off the compliment.

“No, I mean it, Bear,” you harp, making sure he hears you.

“Okay,” he nods, and you know it’s the best you’re going to get when it comes to him accepting your compliment on the spot.

You take a beat, before handing him his sketchbook back, returning your attention to your book as the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm of spending time with each other. This is exactly how you pictured this weekend going – spending time together, doing absolutely nothing, and fucking all day long. You’re not quite ready to go back to real life yet, but you also miss Aioli, and you know you and Carmy have another shot at this when you go on your real honeymoon in a few months.

“Maybe I should bring this with me… you know… on our honeymoon part two,” Carmy says, gesturing towards his sketchbook. It warms your heart to see him so excited, so inspired and relaxed.

“Definitely,” you reply with a smile. “Let’s do it all over again in a few months. When we go to Japan.”

“You wanna take a bath?” you ask, an implied, ‘you said you would join me’ in your voice as you ask the question.

Carmy licks his lips, a small smile threatening the corners of his mouth as he answers,

“Deal.”