#Take Control Replay Theater
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Gregory and his mom are homeless. For the past year they’ve been sneaking in and out of the pizzaplex for a chance of full bellies, some “returned” items from Lost & Found, maybe a quick wash in the employee showers when the workers happen to not notice. The day Freddy crashed on stage is the first and likely last time they’re in the building overnight.
This prompt came from Hydrangea_Cherry9 on ao3! This is several hundred words over my self-imposed tumblr ficlet word count, but I knew I’d want to expand it wildly if I even considered posting it as a full ao3 one-shot, lol. So here we are! Warning for character death via non-graphic stabbing.
My Knife’s Bigger than Your Knife
Gregory darted across the hall behind Roxy’s back, slipping silently into the security office. He wiped his damp eyes again before turning to the computer screens. From his pocket, he pulled out the list of instructions that Freddy had written out for him.
Even as he did his very best to stay focused and alert, he trembled with worry. His brain wouldn’t stop replaying the moment Vanny sank her knife into his mom’s stomach. Vanny’s laughter. The blood. Mom’s scream.
Gregory blew out a shaky breath as he clicked through half a dozen programs and password screens. And when he reached the end of them, he deactivated a program connected to the building’s power.
Finished with his task, he hastily returned to the doorway and peeked out. The hall was empty, and he wasted no time in sprinting for the stairs that would take him back to Freddy.
“I got it,” he said breathlessly, climbing into Freddy’s chest cavity. “Is my mom okay?”
Stupid Fazwatches. Why couldn’t they connect to each other?
“Your mother has remained conscious and coherent since you last asked me, Gregory,” Freddy said. From anyone else, it probably would’ve sounded condescending or annoyed. But Freddy only sounded gentle and reassuring. “She has reminded me to tell you that you are very brave and she loves you very much.”
Gregory leaned his head against the inside of Freddy as he set off for their next destination. “Can we go see her after I shut down the next program?”
He could practically hear Freddy thinking. “Yes,” he decided. “This will be the fourth out of six locations, and my green room is not too far out of the way between the fourth and fifth.”
“Thanks, Freddy,” Gregory said. “Sorry. I’m just—I’m really worried about her.”
“I know you are, and I am sorry that you cannot be with her right now, superstar. You should not have been put in this position. Your mother is correct; you are very brave.”
He shrugged. He was just doing what needed to be done. They needed to get his mom medical help, and they weren’t going to find that in the pizzaplex. Waiting until six was just… they couldn’t afford to wait that long.
His mom had been stabbed.
Six locations with the program that controlled the pizzaplex’s security systems. Just six, and he was already halfway done with shutting them down. Then Freddy could lift the barricade manually, and he and his mom could make a run for it. Or, y’know. The closest thing to a run someone stabbed in the stomach could manage.
• • •
Gregory ran back to Freddy, nearly giddy with success. “I did it, I did it,” he cried quietly, too jittery to accept a ride.
“The security system is down,” Freddy confirmed happily, setting off at a brisk pace that Gregory had to jog to keep up with. “We will collect your mother and get both of you out soon, superstar.”
Nodding frantically, Gregory sped up, eager to get back to his mom. They’d had to move her out of Freddy’s green room. Vanny had been getting too close. The backstage storage area connected to the theater was a decent hiding place. It wasn’t deep enough in the basement for the endos to cause her problems, but none of the roaming animatronics or Mom-stabbers seemed to really go back there.
Unfortunately, Monty was patrolling around the party rooms and the daycare lobby, which was too close for comfort. His mom couldn’t afford to be spotted.
“Can you lead him away?” Gregory asked, peeking around Freddy’s hip. “I’ll get Mom and you can meet up with us in the theater.”
Freddy hesitated. “All right,” he agreed. He didn’t sound happy about it. “I have alerted your mother that you are on your way to her. There should not be another member of the band in the area, but be careful.”
“I will, I will, now let’s go,” he urged. They split up, and Gregory waited impatiently until it was clear for him to sprint all the way to the theater.
The door to his mom was in sight when Vanny stepped out from around the last corner between him and it, knife in hand. His mom’s blood stained the shiny blade.
Trying to both stop running and start moving backward was a recipe for disaster, and Gregory tripped over his own feet in his alarm. He landed hard on his butt with a little yelp, and then he didn’t dare move with the way Vanny stood over him.
She laughed—the same laugh as when she stabbed his mom—and waved her knife at him. “Hello, Gregory,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you. Don’t you want to play?”
He couldn’t find the strength to respond, utterly paralyzed with fear. Had she found his mom? Is that how she knew to be here, waiting for him? Was his mom—had Vanny…
He couldn’t even think think the words.
Vanny didn’t seem to mind his silence because she continued, “I’ve already had fun with your mama, and I always play fair. So now it’s your turn—!” She reached out with her free hand, but her gloved fingers didn’t even get the chance to touch him before she jerked to a stop with a sharp gasp.
Gregory stared at the middle of her torso. At the sword sticking out of it.
Vanny wobbled, silent, then collapsed heavily to her knees. Gregory jerked into motion and scrambled backwards before she could fall on him with a gurgle, and then he was staring at the other end of the sword. Past the roaring in his ears, he distantly noted that it looked like a pirate’s sort of sword, with the curved blade and the golden handle and guard.
His wide eyes trailed up from the grip to his mom, who had one hand pressed to her own stomach. Her expression was a terrifying mask of protective fury, and she spit at Vanny’s still form, “Nobody hurts my son on my watch.” She wrenched the sword out.
Gregory had a sudden vision of her tearing one of the animatronics limb from limb. And in that moment, seeing her stand so strong and sure, he believed she could have.
“Mom,” he whispered.
The wrath vanished into soft concern, and she stepped around Vanny without a second glance. The sword clattered to the floor, bloody. He scrambled to his feet and was so, so careful when he hugged her. A quiet groan of pain escaped her anyway.
He pulled back, frantic with worry. “We—we’ve gotta get you outta here, we, we need to go now.”
She nodded along, brushing his bangs back. “Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart, we will. I am more than ready to leave this place. Are you hurt? Did that—” She swallowed back some pretty nasty names, by the look in her eyes. “Did she hurt you?”
“Didn’t even touch me,” Gregory promised, leaning his head into her warmth when she cupped his cheek. “Please, you—you’re hurt.”
“I barely even feel it,” she claimed, like a liar, and when he pulled at her hand to get her to start walking, she followed almost without wincing.
Freddy, who came into view as she said so, chuckled tightly, in a perfect imitation of that way adults had. “Even so, I must insist I carry you down to the lobby. The stairs will not do you any favors, Hazel.”
“You aren’t allowed to be on a first name basis with my mom,” Gregory told him.
“Too late, sweetheart,” his mom said, ruffling his hair before allowing Freddy to carefully scoop her up. She tensed up and tried to relax with a strained sigh. “All right, boys. I think it’s time for an ambulance.”
“It’s past time!” Gregory cried, taking off. And Freddy, to his credit, stayed on his heels the whole way down to the entrance without ever once jostling his mom bad enough to make her groan.
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something I would love to see as a Mario game is like, kind of... making a sequel to Super Mario Bros 2 (US) while also diving directly into the “stage play” conceit of Super Mario Bros. 3 like, the premise I’ve been imagining is this:
In the game’s menus, you’re running a theater and the Mario gang are your actors. Your job is to direct a play featuring them, by like, controlling one of them during “stunt” scenes.
The main mode is where instead of Lives/Tries, there is theater revenue. When you take damage or die/retry during a level, your theater loses money (the idea being that audience members in-universe are leaving & asking for refunds) and if you do particularly high-style maneuvers and complete levels, the money goes up! (from attracting new audience members via positive word-of-mouth). Game Over happens when you hit 0 money, and you have to start the play over from the beginning.
Another mode in the menu would be “Rehearsal” where you can replay previously unlocked levels to practice doing them better and better to make your next “Performance” run all the more spectacular!
So like in my envisioning of this game, between Levels you’d also have (skippable) cutscenes that can change depending on how you did in the preceding level. This story would be like, kid-friendly fantasy story-level.
Also... because it’s my dream idea for a Mario game, can we get Birdo playable? Maybe like, unlocked after “Act 1-2″ or something like in the story scenes, and after that you get like the Red & Green Birdos who maybe could be her brothers, in-story, whenever a Level needs a Birdo boss fight? Anyway that’s just because she is my favorite Mario character and it’s bullshit she’s not playable in Mario Kart 8
anyway, if you’e read this far, thank you for reading!! ^_^ hope your day is well!
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MELATONIN GAME
If you're a fan of rhythm games and cute, pastel aesthetics, then Melatonin is the game you've been dreaming of. One of the standout features of Melatonin is its beautiful art style, which is filled with pastel colors and adorable characters. The game's levels are vibrant and imaginative, with a variety of different environments to explore. From a beach party to a futuristic city, Melatonin is a feast for the eyes. Melatonin is a must-play. With its catchy tunes, intuitive gameplay, and adorable art style, it's the perfect game to while away the hours. Plus, with its low price point and a variety of different levels to play through, there's plenty of content to keep you coming back for more.GAME PLAY: In Melatonin, players must tap to the beat as they progress through a series of levels that feature a variety of catchy tunes and cute characters. The game's controls are simple and intuitive, making it easy for players of all skill levels to pick up and play. Its adorable art style and catchy tunes, Melatonin also offers a variety of different gameplay modes to keep players engaged. The game's main mode is called "Dream Journey," which takes players through a series of levels as they progress through the game. Each level presents a new challenge and introduces new mechanics to keep players on their toes.Melatonin also offers additional gameplay modes, such as "Dream Theater," which allows players to replay their favorite levels and try to improve their scores, and "Dream Workshop," which allows players to create and share their own levels with other players. These additional modes give Melatonin even more replay value and keep the game fresh and exciting for players.Another thing that sets Melatonin apart from other rhythm games is its storytelling. While many rhythm games don't have much in the way of narrative, Melatonin tells a charming and heartwarming story about a group of friends who go on a journey together. The game's story is told through beautifully animated cutscenes and serves as a nice break between levels.In my opinion, Melatonin is a fantastic rhythm game that is sure to delight fans of the genre. Its catchy tunes, intuitive gameplay, and adorable art style make it an absolute joy to play, and its variety of gameplay modes and charming story add even more depth to the experience.One of the things I love most about Melatonin is its art style. The game's pastel colors and cute characters are simply delightful, and the levels are imaginative and full of personality. The game's cutscenes are also beautifully animated and add an extra layer of charm to the story. I also appreciate the variety of gameplay modes offered in Melatonin. The main "Dream Journey" mode is a lot of fun, but the ability to replay levels in "Dream Theater" and create and share my own levels in "Dream Workshop" adds a lot of replay value to the game. It's great to have these additional options available, and they really help to keep the game fresh and exciting.Overall, Melatonin is a fantastic rhythm game that is sure to please fans of the genre. Its catchy tunes, intuitive gameplay, adorable art style, and variety of gameplay modes make it a delightful and addictive experience. If you're looking for a new rhythm game to sink your teeth into, then Melatonin is definitely worth checking out.
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Super Meat Boy Forever Review (Android)
For our Super Meat Boy Forever Review on Android we play the sequel to Super Meat Boy is here! Meat Boy and Bandage Girl must run, slide, tackle, jump, punch, and kick their way through over 7,000 levels to save their daughter Nugget from Dr. Fetus. Look at the graphics, listen to sound and music, and be at one with the touchscreen controls in this genuine certified video game.
Super Meat Boy Forever Review Pros:
- Awesome cartoon graphics.
- 0.97GB Download size.
- Google Play Achievements.
- Full touchscreen controls.
- Left-hand mode support.
- Controls are tap the left side of the screen to slide/dive and jump/punch.
- Stats screen.
- Framerate can be set to - 60 or 30.
- Splatformer-style gameplay.
- Theater-re watch cutscenes.
- 3 save slots.
- Cutesy cartoon cutscenes.
- 18 characters to unlock.
- World map level select.
- Two worlds-light and dark. You can freely jump between them on the level-select map.
- Runner mechanic in that you are always going forward.
- Instant restarts upon death.
- Checkpoints within a level.
- A clear level progress bar that fills in.
- Character select screen. Two were initially unlocked.
- Brief tutorial pop-ups.
- Simple controls one-button controls.
- Level complete shows time taken and deaths.
- A replay can be watched and saved from your run.
- Difficult.
- Big boss battles.
- Very difficult.
- Will have you punching the air and pulling out your hair at the same time!
- World generator that allows you to edit the seed.
Super Meat Boy Forever Cons:
- Basic tutorial.
- Takes a bit of time to get used to the controls.
- Difficult.
- No way to ease players in.
- No clear leaderboards support.
- Doesn't feel as new as you would hope.
Related Post: Oxenfree II: Lost Signals launches on 12 July
Super Meat Boy Forever:
Official website.
Developer: Team Meat
Publisher: Thunderful Games
Store Links -
Google Play Store
Read the full article
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Screenit bonita
#Screenit bonita movie#
#Screenit bonita full#
While a touring production will inevitably, eventually visit Denver, he said, chances are unlikely its Broadway stars, like Montego Glover, will be along. “I’ve been there a little over a month and I’m still not sick of it. “The show is pretty astounding,” Gillette said. I can’t wait to actually see it.”Įven Gene Gillette, an award-winning actor best known for frightening dramatic portrayals like the torturer with a fondness for cats in Curious Theatre’s “The Lieutenant of Inishmore,” is all aboard for “Memphis.” He bartends at its Broadway home, the Shubert Theatre. It’s definitely not a replacement, but it is unique, and I think it has value if executed with care. “This one seems to have the close-up detail necessary for a kind of intimacy that is rare when presenting a big-budget musical on Broadway. “I think more than anything else, this sort of thing makes Broadway musicals more accessible to the public, which is always good for local theater,” he said. Its catchphrase: “Everybody wants to be black on a Saturday night.”īarret Harper, a dancer in Town Hall Arts Center’s “Chicago,” has already bought his tickets. It’s notable for its interracial love story, high-energy choreography and an original power-pop, R&B and gospel score written by, of all people, David Bryan of Bon Jovi. It’s the story of the first white DJ (loosely based on Dewey Phillips) to put so-called “race” music on mainstream radio in 1950s Memphis - to both his great wealth and peril.
#Screenit bonita movie#
“Memphis,” which will be screened at the same four times at all 530 participating cinemas nationwide, marks the first time any Tony-winning best musical is being presented in movie theaters while still running on Broadway. I also like that we can keep our space active between productions while generating a bit of extra revenue.” The work of the National is just so exceptional, and nearly always worth seeing, and the filming is always so expertly produced, that I have found the experience always worthwhile. “I defend the program, though in a qualified way. “You have to decide for yourself about the experience of watching theater on screen,” Martorella said. National Theatre screenings can vary widely depending on the host theater company and its equipment. It’s one thing to see “Memphis” in controlled cinema environs. The answer, quite simply, is that no one seems interested in presenting it in Denver.” “We are asked all the time by folks who drive from Denver why it isn’t offered up there. “Any local theater company could show any of these programs,” said Martorella. It’s up to each participating theater whether to stream live performances or replay recorded ones.
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TheatreWorks subscribes to “NT Live” - a full season of National Theatre productions that has already included “Phedre,” “Fela” and “King Lear,” and culminates June 30 with “The Cherry Orchard.” Its deal with a company called By Experience requires only minimal technical criteria in terms of projector and sound, said TheatreWorks executive director Drew Martorella. Last month, in its own Bon Vivant Theatre, Colorado Springs’ TheatreWorks screened recorded performances of Danny Boyle’s “Frankenstein” for the National Theatre of Great Britain, a one-of-a-kind opportunity for American audiences to see movie star Jonny Lee Miller (“Trainspotting”) alternating in the roles of the creature and the creator. The company’s goal is to change the way we experience the cinema.īut not all offerings available to viewers are taking place in cinemas. “Memphis” is presented by NCM Fathom Events, which is best-known for its screenings of live Metropolitan Opera performances, most recently “Iphigenie en Tauride.” But the company has been expanding its programming to include live concerts and sporting events such as boxing matches and the Tour de France. “If I had a choice between live touring or a taped original, I’d choose live,” said actor David Cates, who recently appeared in Paragon Theatre’s “Reasons to Be Pretty.” “But since it’s the only option right now, why not?” All for $20, or about one-fifth the price of a Broadway ticket. It is professionally edited with remastered sound and offers backstage interviews. The movie-theater production is directed by Emmy-winning Don Roy King (“Survivor”) in multicamera format with close-ups that allow audiences to see the actors sweat. If this data is unavailable or inaccurate and you own or represent this business, click here for more information on how you may be able to correct it.Digital Replica Edition Home Page Close Menu VIEW ADDITIONAL DATA Select from over 115 networks below to view available data about this business.
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Hey there! I've played a good deal of fighting games before and used to love Xrd. I only ever played Faust seriously because I thought he was cool and funny. Strive came along and I'm absolutely addicted and started uploading combo videos for him to the dustloop wiki. I've always loved combos and remember getting frustrated as hell with trying to learn them with no videos or specific advice. I want to provide people with something to alleviate this. Do you have any advice on the best ways to build and preserve this type of knowledge? I also started getting very interested in the lore, especially with Faust since he seems so different in Strive. I've heard so many hear-say theories as to why, but no real solid information. I feel like the personality of his character helped me through one of my greatest hardships in life recently, and I want to know more about him and the world around him to truly understand. Thank you very much in advance, and I wish you well! :)
While I'm no expert at maintaining Wikis, I do know that Dustloop Wiki itself has been a rather major authority on Guilty Gear combos.
But above all else they have listed what is known as "combo theory".
Usually it's a footnote that describes how each individual character's combos work, usually listing every single normal you could start a combo with, the practicality of such, the situations you can get with counter-hits and regular confirms, guard-string theory, and overall methods of how to build your own combos and offense.
In fact I'll give Sol's Combo Theory page here, as an example.
Sol Badguy Combo Theory (Click the Link)
BUT... that's just ONE WAY of sharing and preserving the information.
As it just so happens ARC System Works has been planning a "Combo Sharing" mechanic in Training Mode that lets players share and upload their unique combo recipes to Guilty Gear Strive's Servers for people to Download and practice with!
Combo Recipes in GGStrive have gotten especially technical since they even list commands that act as "negative edge" (buttons that activate on release, not press, but also moves that don't make contact during a combo).
Here's an example of some older GGXrd Combo Recipes!
youtube
Compare that with more modern GGStrive Combos (Jack-O' as an example!)
Suffice to say that eventually GGStrive itself will one day support a wide variety of services: combo recipes to share online, replays with input history, and even a "take control" feature for Replay Theater (it basically lets you pause a replay and take control of a situation to see if you can overcome the situation or make a better decision for future). It really is like Axl Low's Time Travelling ability!
The PC version of Guilty Gear XX Accent Core already has the "Take Control" function implemented in its Replay system, so later games (and updates) are expected to follow suit!
As for Faust's story itself... I've had character tags for him for a while now, but you can always use the Tumblr search function and chrono function for all the other times I've mentioned him as well!
https://gear-project.tumblr.com/tagged/Faust
https://gear-project.tumblr.com/tagged/Dr.+Baldhead
https://gear-project.tumblr.com/search/Faust
https://gear-project.tumblr.com/tagged/Faust/chrono
https://gear-project.tumblr.com/tagged/Dr.+Baldhead/chrono
#Combos#GG Guides#Combo Recipes#Combo Theory#GG Mechanics#Replay Theater#Take Control Replay Theater
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Almost
Author's Note: This kinda just came together as I was waiting for the melatonin to kick in. I finished just as my eyes started getting drowsy, so I didn't actually reread or edit it yet. I'll do that in the morning, but I wanted to at least put it out there for yall! As usual, this is an unspecified story, so take your pick of Urban or Jack.
He grabbed a fist full of the back of your top, yanking you backwards into his body, the wind getting knocked right out of you in the process. It all happened so fast you couldn't register what was happening as you tried to whip around, your body held to a solid body with an arm wound around your waist tightly. You tilt your head to look back to the culprit, a sigh of relief that it was just your boyfriend that had just man-handled you.
"Are you fucking crazy? You could have gotten hit!" His voice is slightly louder than his usual tone, the alarm in his voice and the genuine fear in his eyes has you forgetting that he just cursed at you. You turn around in his arms, your own going around his neck tightly as you lift up to your tiptoes.
"I'm okay, I promise."
"No, you're not okay!"
"Yes, I am. I'm alright, nothing happened, baby." You pull back from his neck, to look in his eyes, the fear and worry in them breaking your heart, but you held contact so he could really understand what you were saying to him. "Look at me." You instruct.
"I saw the car, I swear to you that I did. I wasn't about to get hit, I promise. Nothing was going to happen, I was not about to step out into the street." You cup his rosey cheeks gently in your hands as you force him to look at you, his eyes blinking away the stinging tears that threatened to shed.
"You just- I saw you- fuck, baby," his exhales a deep breath, his large hand aggressively runs through his hair as he pulls away from you.
As much as you wanted to hold him close to you, your small hands were no match for his strength as he takes a few steps away. He paces for a few seconds, his hands shaking as he tries to wring out the stress he was feeling.
You don't know what to do, torn between wanting to hold him but also wanting to give him a bit of space to cool down. You take a moment to replay the last few minutes.
____
"You keep our spot in line, I'm going to go across and get us some tickets." You suggest, your hand coming to your face to shield yourself from the Louisville sun as you looked up at your boyfriend. It was a nice day on your trip to his home town, deciding to just spend the day out and about enjoying each other's company. Currently the two of you were in a long line at a local ice cream parlor when you noticed a small indie theater across the street playing films you hadn't heard of. You wanted to pick a movie to watch, but also still wanted to get ice cream.
"Or, I can go across the street and get us tickets while you wait in line for the ice cream." He smirks down at you. You knew it was because he wanted to make sure you didn't pay for a thing, which was definitely a pet peeve of yours.
"I don't think so." You press a quick kiss to his lips as you pull away from him quickly, hurriedly stepping off of the sidewalk and taking just a few steps into the street.
____
You cautiously step towards him, his hands aggressively wiping at his reddened face, as you put a hand on his bicep, careful not to startle his fragile state.
"Baby," you coo.
"Just- just give me a second." He says, trying to will his tears to stop falling. You don't listen, rounding his body to his front as you pull him in for a hug, his face immediately burrowing into your neck.
"I'm sorry for scaring you, love. I promise the situation was under control, I saw the car. I took a few steps into the street where the parked cars were, that way I could see more clearly where traffic was. I swear I wasn't in any danger." You reassure him, your hand lovingly caressing the hair at the nape of his neck, your other one rubbing his upper back. You feel him squeeze your waist every now and again, just to make sure that you were indeed okay and still with him.
You let him take his time to recoup, not caring that you had lost your place in line or that by the time you finally get around to buying the tickets the movie will have already began. All you cared about was making sure he knew that everything was okay. You held him tightly to you, trying to squeeze out the fear that had him feeling trapped at the moment. You wanted to shield him from the dread he was experiencing; you didn't need to be a genius to know that he was currently recovering from thinking that you were about to be hit by a car.
His mind was racing, plagued by images that could only be described as his worst nightmare. The two of you were so entwined with one another that when he thought you were about to be hit by that car, his whole life flashed before his eyes—you were his whole life. He couldn't shake the feeling of dread and mourning that had overtaken him, no matter how tightly you held him or how many times you told him you were okay. In his mind, you were nowhere near okay because he was nowhere near okay.
"Why don't we go back to the Airbnb, hm? Why don't we go back and get some rest, I think that'll do us both some good." You suggest to him softly, your head turning slight as you tried to nudge his face from your shoulder but he wouldn't budge. You settle for placing kisses on the side of his face, covering his temple, cheek, and jaw in light, reassuring kisses.
With a more forceful nudge, he finally pulls away, his eyes and face red and puffy as he finally looks at you and sees that you're okay. You pull his face close to yours as you press light kisses to his lips, whispering that you're alright inbetween. Pulling away from him, you grab his hand and walk back down the block to the car that he had parked there earlier. He doesn't say much, just following behind you plainly, his mind and body completely drained of energy as you guide him to the passenger side door.
After you guide him into his seat, buckling his seatbelt, and rounding the car to the drivers seat, you adjust your seat and mirrors to your liking before pulling out of the parking spot. You reach over for his hand, but he pulls it away, mumbling something like "please just focus on the road." You try not to take it to heart, his anxiety probably still running high as you make sure to abide by every traffic law to the highest extent—not even doing 30 in a 25.
Once at the Airbnb, you guide him out of the car and into the house; once again his body just going through the motions as he lets you lead the way. You bringing him straight to the bedroom, the two of you both deserving a good nap to recover from the day's events. You sit him on the bed, kneeling to take his shoes off his feet, slowly undoing each set of knots. It was now that you noticed your own hands shaking, but you ignore your own anxiety. You look up at him from between his legs, his sad eyes looking at you in a way that you never want him to look at you again.
You lean up on your knees, your face coming to rest against his abdomen and he folds over just a bit to engulf you in a protective hug. Your embrace is short lived as you pull away from him, tugging at the end of his shirt to take off of him. You remove your own clothes, throwing on the shirt that he just had on. You sadly note his lack of sly comments, usually making you blush with his teasing words whenever he sees you taking your clothes off. This was truly how you knew what happened today really had an affect on him.
You pull the covers away from the bed slipping in and beckoning him to join you in the warm confines of the bedding. You lie against the pillows, your arms open to him as he lays his weight against you, his head coming to rest in the crook of your neck with the rest of his body sprawled out on top of you between your legs. You bring your arms around him, your legs wrapping around him as well, as you hold him close to you.
"I love you." You whisper to him, words you know he desperately wants to hear.
"I love you too, baby. I- I really don't know what I would have done if you had gotte—"
"And you won't have to know. I'm right here with you, baby, I'm right here." You cut him off, not wanting him to finish the sentence. The two of you leave the conversation at that, your hand coming to rub his back and the other scratching at his scalp until the both of you fall asleep.
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hii, it's again me and I wanted to ask if you can write 40 and 34 for agatha from the angst/fluff prompt list?
For You | a.h angst fic
Summary: Y/N does her best to stop Agatha before she brings chaos to Westview.
Authors Note: Thank you for requesting!
Request to be on a Taglist (or multiple) here! (Taglists are at the end of the fic)
MCU Masterlist #1 | MCU Masterlist #2 | Main Masterlist
PSA: Do NOT copy, steal, translate, plagiarize, republish, etc any of my works on Tumblr or any other platform. Also, do NOT claim any of my works as your own. All of these works are either requests I’ve gotten that people have wanted me to write or original ideas I’ve had for works. If you happen to take inspiration from anything I’ve written and want to write something inspired by that, please a) ask me first and b) IF I say yes, credit me as inspo in your post by tagging me and link whatever work of mine that inspired you. Thanks.
header c @/marvelocks
"I know you’re hiding something.”
“This, again?”
“Yes! You’ve been sneaking around, always checking draws, haven’t been paying attention to me lately . . .What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Agatha, don’t do this, please. Whatever it is it’ll be fine-”
“No, it won’t. It’s nothing. The less you know the better.”
“How is that even-”
“I’m not telling you to protect you, Y/N! How many times do I have to say this?”
“You don’t get to decide what protects me and what doesn’t!”
“PLEASE just trust me! I . . . I have MAGIC okay? And I didn’t want you to be endangered by that—”
“Agatha . . . I love you!””
If a memory could get stuck in your head like a song would, that would perfectly describe what was happening. Anytime Y/N wasn’t eating or sleeping the memory was replaying over and over again, creating a little movie theater in her brain; and every time her girlfriend’s voice would have a hint more of anger, her glare would be a little sharper, would yell a little louder. But each time the memory ended the same:
Y/N would demand to know that she even meant by “magic” and Agatha would stand there in shock, rooted to the ground.
“Magic?”
“You love me? W-why did you tell me you love me?”
“It-it just came out! But . . . What do you mean by magic?”
And so Agatha explained. Told her all about her spells and the Salem Witch Trials and what was going on with Westview. She didn’t give Y/N a break, not a moment to process it, and the woman put her hands over her head as if it’s act like a block any further, ground-breaking knowledge from entering her ears.
Her vision was getting blurry. She felt lightheaded. This was too much. Too much to take in at one time. Agatha didn’t seem to notice and continued explaining through her tears, at the end even displaying her purple magic just to prove it to Y/N, and that’s when she knew she couldn’t stay here too longer.
Her mind screamed at her to say something to Agatha, that she couldn’t just leave her girlfriend, but at the same time she couldn’t bring herself to do that. “I’m sorry,” she whispered shakily, before fleeing the room and leaving Agatha there, speechless and sobbing.
It had been days since she had left the house since then, meaning it had been days since she her fight . . . Was that the right word? with Agatha. The first day Y/N slept, body and mind exhausted, and when she woke up, still in a sleepy haze, she chalked up the previous day’s events to a weird nightmare.
Then, reality hit.
This time it was a little easier to process and at first, she yearned to return to Agatha and to hug her and kiss her . . . but then she remembered what she had done the night before; had wanted to talk to Agatha but ultimately couldn’t because of everything she had learned and instead left. Y/N realized that she had to do that now. Process everything before she saw her girlfriend, no matter how much it hurt her and how hard it was to do . . . Anything other than that, she figured, wouldn’t end well since Agatha probably needed some time, too.
Now, it was the third day. Y/N had rested. She had thought. And she had come to a new realization . . . Wanda’s influence over her, it did control her but it did not hurt like how Agatha said the other Westview citizens felt . . . Did she have her girlfriend to thank? That thought made the pit in her stomach deepen, for maybe Agatha had truly been protecting her by not telling her that she had magic and of what was going on . . .
That posed another question, was Agatha working to stop Wanda?
Which was answered when Y/N heard yells outside and, after a couple moments, hopped up from her bed and crossed over to her window, only to see Wanda and Agatha fighting, blasting their powers at each other.
The sight made her gasp, partly of worry for Agatha and partly in awe of her hair, her dress, everything about her was gorgeous. Y/N knew it wouldn’t do any good to go outside with no powers so she stayed inside, internally rooting for her girlfriend. She couldn’t deny the tug st her protective nature when she saw Wanda throw Agatha to the ground, and slapped her hand against the wall.
After some agonizing seconds, Agatha rose unsteady and shaking. She looked powerless. Pale. Haunted eyes. Weak. Wanda, however, looked all the more powerful. Red was shining in her eyes, heat emitting from her lips which were pulled tight together in concentration, as she readied another red blast to hurl at Agatha.
With the only thought in her head being Agatha, Y/N ran as fast her legs could carry her, bursting outside and onto the street.
Agatha was stumbling back and when she saw her girlfriend her eyes went wide with a choked gasp. “Y/N — please don’t do this!”
Y/N didn’t listen and smiled at the brunette through her tears as she ran in front of Agatha, Wanda’s power hitting her full force instead.
“NO!” The utter scream of anguish and horror was ripped from Agatha, a loud sob following soon after. She was helpless, watching her girlfriend get thrown into the air with her own screams as redness surrounded every inch of her.
Seeing her girlfriend in such pain slowly motivated Agatha to want to heal her, to get her magic back for her, and purple began to sparkle and glow, travelling from her hands to her arms to her face and all throughout her body.
Y/N landed on the ground with a sickening thud and Agatha wasted no time in throwing all the magic she could Wanda’s way, knocking the redhead into unconsciousness.
After making sure they were safe from Wanda’s wrath, Agatha ran and collapsed beside Y/N, hesitant to touch her at first in fear of hurting her; until she finally carefully moved Y/N’s head to rest on her lap.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I loved you,” Y/N croaked out in a whisper, eyes half-closed, gripping onto Agatha’s hands.
“I love you, too,” Agatha said, some honey in her otherwise distraught voice. “Keep your eyes open, okay? You’re gonna be fine.”
Y/N gave a half nod and Agatha lifted her up into her arms, carrying her back to her house. It was there that after days and days of spelling and healing, Y/N was finally okay, and the two would then move on to be together forever.
Permanent Taglist: @natasharomanoffismywife @hehehehannahthings @paulawand @blackbat2020 @cerberus-spectre @marrymemcgrath @celestialbarnes
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#agatha harkness x reader#agatha harkness x you#agatha harkness imagine#agatha harkness fanfic#agatha harkness#agatha harkness x y/n#wandavision x reader#wandavision x you#wandavision imagine#wandavision agnes#agnes wandavision#wandavision fanfic#wandavision#wandavision x y/n#marvel x reader#marvel x female reader#marvel x you#agatha harkness x female reader#marvel imagine#marvel angst#marvel fanfiction#marvel fics#marvel fic#marvel#marvel x y/n#marvel cinematic universe#mcu x reader#mcu x you#mcu imagine
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BAD BUDDY EPISODE 8 – AN ANALYSIS OF WHAT WE KNOW SO FAR
Credit to Director Backaof and the screenwriters… Not much screentime available before they had to launch P+P into the swirling maelstrom of hate emanating from their respective factions and families, but we still get to see real growth between Pat and Pran, especially in this episode.
The starting scene of Episode 8, with Pran waking up in a panic and mistaking the smell of Pat’s cooking for a fire, is almost a direct replay of the start of Episode 5, right down to the same joke they tell about fire spreading from one residence to the other – except that the roles and lines are neatly reversed.
I didn’t notice it before, but this was basically the director and screenwriters signalling to us to expect more of PatPran switching things up later in Episode 8…
Previously Pat was always the manly pursuer and Pran the feisty object of affection, fighting off the attention and inwardly fighting his own feelings. It would have been all too easy to paint these two characters with the usual broad BL brushstrokes, with Pat the taller, athletic, masculine princeling and Pran all frosty and distant, rendered in delicate shades of ice princess. We’re fortunate the team subverts this stereotype of masculine top dog and his tropey wife (sorry, couldn't resist 😂) whenever they get the chance. So we have rugby-playing Pat matched by rugby-playing Pran (Ep.4 [4/4]) – but Pat plays because it’s what is expected of him (Ep.7 [1l4] 12.16), while he's really still just a big kid at heart who needs to cuddle his Nong Nao to fall asleep (Ep.4 [4/4] 11.30).
He’s also skipping rugby for MUSICAL THEATER, haha. Then, in scenes of them rough-housing, Pran usually ends up on top, often with the upper (tickling) hand (and Pat always has to yield first – see Ep.2 [4/4] 11.25 and Ep.7 [2/4] 9.41 – Pat actually goes “Okay. I surrender!”). The Ketchup Kiss (Ep.8 [1I4] 3.52) is also an example of Pran taking control. 😊
It’s also not insignificant that Ep.8 [1/4] starts with a moment of chaos in Pran’s room, with the burning sausage (let’s not get too Freudian here 😂) and the previously-bare headboard of the bed now messy with random sticky notes and photos of the two of them, all askew. Pran’s usually ordered world is beginning to loosen up a little, and Pran himself does too.
While he’s still communicating his feelings for Pat with doodles and sticky notes at Ep.8 [2/4] 5.09 to 6.26, by the end of Ep.8 [4/4] he’s grown in confidence enough to match his actions (and signs and symbols) with words spoken.
At first I thought it was Pat who took the initial steps at next-level communication, in terms that would be more familiar to Pran. He began to communicate at a more heartfelt level, in a way that Pran would understand best (possibly learning from all the smiley faces and YES the toilet paper at Ep.8 [2/4] 5.54) when he got a new earphone case for Pran at Ep.8 [3I4] 7.59.
The case has a double P on it (not obvious at first sight, standing for Pat + Pran) that Pran sees immediately (and delightedly), but that Pat denies being aware of (unconvincingly – his smile at Ep.8 [3I4] 8.36 shows he’s only pretending, and Pran knows this). Of course the bag that Pran’s always carrying has a double P on it that reads like a single P at first glance, and it’s been in every episode so far (Ep.1 [3I4] 7.00, Ep.2 [1I4] 3.01, Ep.3 [1I4] 10.03, Ep.4 [1I4] 11.02, Ep.5 [1I4] 3.26, Ep.6 [2/4] 1.44, Ep.7 [3I4] 2.48), and Ep.8 [1I4] 4.36).
The bag, with its smaller P nestled within a larger P, is Pran silently telling the world about his feelings for Pat, and the earphone case is Pat echoing the messaging Pran sends out with his bag – here Pat is trying to communicate his love to Pran (acknowledging their relationship) using visual metaphors only, a language that Pran understands well. But just before that, it was Pran stepping up, reaching out with a phone call, initiating a conversation across their balconies (instead of Pat), suggesting a virtual hug, and cheering Pat up with his mimed elevator and escalator antics.
The virtual hug and the miming were just the sort of physical goofballery Pat is known for (see Ep.3 [2/4] 3.25 and Ep.3 [3I4] 8.40 for just a couple of examples), so this shows it was Pran who came out of his shell first -- growth goals! -- instead of Pat, to try communicating in the language of the other.
And Pat always sleeveless or shirtless – yes, it’s an opportunity to attract more eyeballs with Ohm’s physique, and they do capitalize on it (not that I’m complaining). But it’s also a signal that Pat is usually the one who’s always open to the world with nothing to hide, not all buttoned-up the way Pran is (or was) with his long sleeves, tightly-scheduled morning routine (Ep.2 [1I4] beginning at 1.18) and his meticulously-arranged coloring kit (Ep.1 [1I4] 2.06).
After their fight backstage we get to see (at Ep.8 [4/4] 3:00) Pat bare, elemental, alone and naked on stage (well, as close to naked as TV honchos and the storyline will allow), then hammering out his naked emotions, vulnerable and raw, on the Thai ranat ek at Ep.8 [4/4] 3:54 – this time it’s Pat who’s wordlessly sounding out to the world how he feels, instead of Pran.
Whether he knows it or not, he’s speaking Pran’s language, and Pran gets the message IMMEDIATELY (remember in Ep.8 [2/4] 10.03 Pran as Kwan says “Only music is genuine and never deceives me”) – and after the performance Pran shows his growth and approaches Pat to apologize backstage.
We then see each shifting even MORE across the line previously drawn so hard on the ground between them... Pat who’s always been an open (Instagram Story) book agrees with Pran’s “Just because I’m not telling people doesn’t mean I don’t like you” (at Ep.8 [4/4] 7:20) and then says he won’t post any more signs of their relationship online. But Pran then tells him to continue posting, even though it makes him uncomfortable – before FINALLY admitting “I’m your boyfriend” at Ep.8 [4/4] 7:50. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged it out loud, properly in the affirmative, which is a big step for him – so no wonder Pat is visibly moved at Ep.8 [4/4] 8:02.
TLDR… ;)
By the end of Episode 8, both Pat and Pran were trying to speak in each other’s love language (Pran declaring “I’m your boyfriend” for the first time ever at Ep.8 [4/4] 7:50, and Pat allowing his emotions to be felt first by Pran, rather than just blurting them out at Ep.8 [4/4] 3:54). There’s something in this for followers of both camps (whether you speak your love out loud or let it simmer unseen). Both Pat and Pran have grown in the short time since they got together as a couple. It’s beautifully handled, and OhmNanon do the scenes and script justice in taking PatPran to a deeper, more meaningful level in their relationship. 💖💖💖
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Tinsel and Tourists - Chapter Ten
Word Count: 1,811 (another long chapter, I’m sorry)
Dean’s POV
Link to ao3 / Link to masterpost
“For God’s sake, Dean. Snap out of it, lover boy. We’ve got a real case here that’s far more complicated than a salt-n-burn. Could you quit staring at your phone with heart-eyes for five freaking seconds so we can actually do our jobs,” Sam said, crossing his arms and snapping his computer open with a poignant look thrown Dean’s way.
“You’re the one who set me up with him in the first place,” Dean shot back. “You’ve been deliberately pushing us together, and just when I’m about to kiss him, you had to interrupt.”
“Dead body showed up and we needed to check it out. Pretty damn important if you ask me,” Sam said.
“You couldn’t have waited one extra minute? You clearly saw I was milliseconds away from finally kissing him-”
Sam loudly slammed a book down onto the table, effectively cutting Dean off. “Five times, Dean. Five times tonight so far you’ve given me crap for interrupting. I’m sick of hearing about it. Go out there and find Cas and kiss him right now or shut the hell up and get to work, unless you want whatever this is to take Cas and kill him, too.”
Damn. That was a sobering thought. If any monster even so much as looked at Cas, Dean swore he was going to lose it. He couldn’t stop his mind from screaming mine; a protective streak burning inside his gut and wrapping up into his chest.
Placing his phone back down on the table, Dean opened his own laptop and sighed. “How do we even begin to start narrowing down what this thing is? Is there any connection between Callie and Oliver?”
Sam pushed both of the files across the table towards Dean. “Other than the fact they were roughly around the same age, 28 and 29, that’s all I’ve got. Callie worked at the local theater. Oliver was a second grade teacher. They live in different neighborhoods and run in completely different social circles. Oliver is well known in town and is one of the most popular teachers at the elementary school. Callie was quieter. Both of them have helped out with work around the town in different ways- Oliver volunteers at the local animal shelter and Callie helped out at the elderly home. As far as I can tell, both of them are pictures of model citizens, just in different ways.”
Flipping open the files, Dean scanned the contents as he listened to Sam rattle off the big details. “So either they’re both hiding something and that’s why they were targeted, or they both really were squeaky clean and that’s why they were taken.”
“This whole town is filled with good people, Dean. That doesn’t exactly narrow it down for who could potentially be taken next. And we can’t exactly protect an entire town,” Sam said. “Something about it still feels sacrificial.”
Dean sighed, dropping his head down to the table before muttering, “We’ve talked about this, though. No signs of a God in town. No happy success stories or flourishing town.”
They lapsed into silence for a few minutes, and all Dean could hear was the clacking of Sam’s keys as he typed. He let his eyes close, mind wandering back to Cas and their date tomorrow night. God, he was so freaking whipped it was unbelievable. How was he even supposed to tell Cas he’d never been ice skating in his entire life? He was going to look like a complete idiot falling on his ass on the ice tomorrow. And yet, despite the impending humiliation, Dean’s heart was hammering against his chest just at the mere thought of seeing Cas again.
He replayed the almost-kiss over again for probably the hundredth time that night, and he felt himself flush. Cas’ lips… God, even just the briefest brush had been enough to have Dean breathless. He’d been half tempted to walk out of the motel and find Cas when Sam suggested it, merely because he could barely get his brain to focus on anything except kissing Cas and how damn good those chapped lips would feel sliding against his own.
When his phone buzzed on the table, breaking his wandering thoughts, Dean all but hurled himself to pick it up, hoping it was another text from Cas. When he saw Bobby’s name, he scoffed and dropped the phone back down again; trying desperately to tamper down the disappointment that it wasn’t Cas.
“You’re like a lovesick teenager,” Sam muttered from the other side of the table.
“Shut up, no I’m not,” Dean snapped back instantly.
“Sure you’re not. That wasn’t a predictable reaction to thinking your crush has texted you only to find out it wasn’t him,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow.
“Go screw yourself. I don’t have a crush. I’m not twelve.”
Sam chuckled, rolling his eyes. “You’re so transparent you might as well be translucent, Dean.”
Pushing his chair back, Dean stood up. “I’m done having this conversation.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get a beer from the fridge because I’m way too sober to be dealing with your crap right now,” Dean muttered, storming off to the small fridge in the room.
Just as Dean got the cap off the beer, a thought flittered into his head. “You keep saying it feels sacrificial, right?”
Sam looked up from his laptop as Dean approached, taking the beer that Dean held out to him as a peace offering. “Yeah, but as you keep pointing out, there’s no signs of a God.”
“Right, but what if the sacrifices aren’t being done by a God, but being done to appease a God? Something that was protecting and serving the Gods. Almost a middle man between the Gods and the people.”
Sam thought about it for a second before nodding. “We are days away from the winter solstice. And all the patterning shows the sacrifices leading right up to that time frame. And you said it when we left the scene, the way her body was cut up, it was precise; extremely ritualistic.”
“No blood left in her, either. And no obvious signs of vamps draining people around here. A blood offering?”
Sam hummed, before he started typing with renewed interest. “You might be onto something. I’ve got a couple theories. Why don’t you put a call out to Bobby to see if he knows anything, and I’ll hit the lore.”
“Got it,” Dean said, grabbing his phone and taking his beer with him as he stepped outside to call Bobby. After explaining everything that was happening with the case and the details they’d picked up so far, Bobby promised he’d do some research of his own and call if he found anything useful.
By the time he’d finished his call with Bobby, Dean had finished his beer and he was pleasantly warm inside despite the cold wind.
In the morning, he’d blame it on the alcohol, which was a weak excuse when he’d only had the one beer. And yet, after he hung up with Bobby, his finger moved to hover over Cas’ contact. And before he could talk himself out of it, he pressed call.
The second the dialing tone rang in his ear, Dean panicked and went to hang up, but Cas answered on the second ring.
“Dean?”
Dean’s heart instantly kicked up in his chest, and he felt the air in his lungs stutter at just hearing Cas’ voice through the phone.
“Hey Cas,” Dean said.
“Did something happen? Is there- has there been another death?”
Dean shook his head, kicking a small bank of snow as he began to walk around the motel. “No. No, I just- I uh, I missed you.”
Shit. As soon as the words came out, Dean winced. What was wrong with him? He really was a lovesick teenager. One date and a botched first kiss and Dean was so smitten he could barely go five seconds without thinking about Cas. Just hearing Cas’ voice made Dean yearn, and the words had slipped out without his control. And yet, he meant them. Even the case was barely keeping his attention right now. He’d already began an internal countdown to their date tomorrow night, which was pathetic and desperate and yet he couldn’t stop himself.
“I’ve kept my phone with me all night since you texted me,” Cas said quietly, before he laughed softly.
Oh God. Was Cas waiting by the phone for him? Jesus. Why was that so cute that it made Dean’s chest ache?
“My witty humor just so good that you were waiting for more?” Dean said, automatically switching to teasing.
“Something like that,” Cas replied, and Dean could almost feel his smile through the phone.
“I um- I have absolutely no idea how to ice skate, by the way,” Dean admitted, reaching up to snap an icicle off the roof just to keep his hands busy.
“You’ve never ice skated before?” Cas asked, shock bouncing down the phone.
“Nope, never.”
“I’ll teach you,” Cas said earnestly.
“Only if you promise not to let me fall on my ass,” Dean said with a laugh.
“I promise I won’t take my hands off of you,” Cas replied instantly, before the weight of his words seemed to settle in the air. Dean swallowed thickly, his stomach twisting on itself at the thought of Cas’ hands lingering on him.
“And what if I can’t keep my hands to myself?” Dean said, words raw and yet filled with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.
“Is that a promise, Dean?” Cas asked, voice slipping an octave lower; sending a thrill down Dean’s spine.
“God, yes,” Dean found himself saying, words ripped from his throat as he was overcome with the urge to grab Cas right now and kiss him. “Swear to God, if you don’t bring mistletoe-”
Cas laughed and the sound made Dean’s chest feel tight. “As long as you don’t leave me standing underneath it alone again.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Dean said. Just as he was about to say something else, his phone buzzed in his hand and a text from Sam flickered across the screen. Time to get back to work. “Listen, Cas, I gotta get back to work. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“7 o’clock, Dean. Don’t you dare be late,” Cas said.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean replied, before handing up; heart racing from the call and his hands sweaty just from flirting with Cas again.
As he made his way back to the room, his eyes flickered to an oak tree near the motel; a clump of mistletoe hanging from one of the branches. Reaching up, Dean snagged a few pieces, smiling to himself as he slipped them into his pocket. Just a little bit of extra insurance to make sure he got that kiss with Cas tomorrow.
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so i’m replaying re8 because it’s been a while and i needed a refresher for an oc i’m working on. long story short, she can control life forces. transfer the life force of one being into another, giving life to something while having to kill something else in order to do something. great dramatics! and i loved the idea of her working with heisenberg and wanting to take down miranda just as badly and her being the final touch heisenberg needed to bring his army and creations to life.
anyway, me being the huge theater nerd i am, i was minding my business playing and the parallels between heisenberg and lyhra (my oc), and hades and persephone from hadestown hit me like an absolute freight train.
both heisenberg and hades pouring their entire souls and lives into their work, uncaring to how it negatively affects everyone. god they both run factories for fucks sake! gruff men in coats with one plan in mind are all the same.
meanwhile lyhra and persephone and free spirited, unable to be bound to the underground. they deal in life and fertility. if one thing dies, lyhra makes sure to hand that dwindling life force to complete a half life, drain the life force of a dying villager so they may go in peace while making sure to give it to the tallest old oak tree in the forest so it may stand proud for decades to come.
i- i think i might make this whole relationship a very complicated romance… because i am LIVING for this parallel and i will ride it until the end of time
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Fifteen (pt 14)
A/N: Sorry for the delay! I’m back at college but the next, and final 2 (!!) parts will be up within two weeks! AH! Thank you all so much for reading xoxo
Word count: 6.7k
Tw: angst, cursing, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy and miscarriage
Masterlist
Series Masterlist
“When I got home from Florida the house was even emptier. During the four days I was stuck in a hotel room drowning in my own tears and the minibar, you packed up the rest of your stuff and left. At that point, most of your things were in your apartment, all you had to get was some clothes and books. I wonder how long it took you to pack it all up, pack your life with me up. Did you stare at the walls and cry? The same way I did when I packed today? Did you take your time, go through each room and remember everything we did? Did you take it all in? Admire what we could have been? Were you even a little bit sad about leaving the life we tried and failed to build together? Or were you in and out in ten minutes? Did you shove your clothes in a suitcase, the same way you did in Florida, and walk out like it was nothing? Was it easy? Was it a relief? Were you happy to leave the key, lock the door, and never have to come back?
I know I was devastated when I found it.
It was in the dish we used to put our car keys and ID tags in. It was right by the front door. It was the first thing I saw when I got home. I walked in and dropped my own keys in the dish, and to my surprise I heard them clink as they hit into yours. At first I thought that meant you were there, waiting for me. I thought you were going to emerge from the kitchen with a wide smile and I’d run into your arms. So, I called out for you, yelling like an idiot in the front doorway, but I was only met with silence. The silence that signified the absence of you. The silence I had grown comfortable floating in.
I stared at the key for a while, trying and failing to remember when I gave it to you. I feel like I gave you it pretty early on; you definitely had one before Jacksonville. But I cannot for the life of me pinpoint what day I handed you the key, with the hope that you’d always have it. The hope that my home would always be your home because we only felt at home when we were together.
That damn key, sitting in a dish from Target was your way of saying that your home was no longer my home. It was your way of saying that you were done too, and the storm I had tried to control became a full on hurricane. I was sobbing, sitting against the front door and holding onto your key like it was the life raft that could stop me from drowning.
I’d give you this key as your momento, but I had to give it back to my landlord this morning. And now I have a new set of keys waiting for me in Seattle. Keys to a home that isn’t yours; only mine.”
Spencer sat on the couch now, appreciating the softness of it in comparison to the harshness of the dishwasher and kitchen floor. The boarding pass was burning into the kitchen table, his hands sweaty and trembling as he read and remembered.
He remembered every moment after the breakup more vividly than he normally did. Usually his memories were like film strips that he had stored on a shelf in the corner of his mind. He could pick the one he needed out, kick his feet up in the theater of his mind and watch them back, popcorn in hand. But these memories were different. Memories of you were burned in. His brain was branded with them. It wasn’t a movie he could choose to play or not, it was constant, like a sad song stuck in his head, driving him insane. He never stopped thinking about it, replaying every word, regretting every moment, every yell, every item shoved in a suitcase, every raindrop, every tear stained sleeve.
He hated himself for walking out. He hated that he could leave so easily, after his whole life was plagued with people leaving him too easily. He never wanted to be that man, especially to you. He surprised himself when he grabbed the suitcase, held you tightly one last time, and got in the elevator. He was ashamed to admit that the second those steel doors closed and he could no longer see you crying in the hallway, the first thing he felt was relief. He was finally alone again.
But then he realized he was actually alone. All alone. You weren’t there waiting for him to come back anymore. You were gone, and he was alone.
The whole flight home didn’t feel real, it was like an out of body experience. He felt like a shell of a person, a hollow body merely going through the motions as the events of the last three years played in his mind. How did those people who danced in the kitchen in the daybreak’s sunlight end up here? One of you on a plane to escape the other, who was no doubt drowning themselves in mini tequila bottles and crappy room service food. How did the people who swore to love each other through everything, end up as two lonely hearts wondering why promises and hearts are so damn easy to break.
The numbness first started up there in the sky, with nothing but gray stratus clouds to keep him company. The realization hit him up there. He was wrong. He couldn’t do this alone. He couldn’t be alone. He needed you; you needed each other. He thought about asking the pilot to turn around, take him back to that island so he could save this. He could pull the blue velvet ring box out of his bag and fix everything with just a few words.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he ate airplane peanuts and tried not to cry. When they landed and took the subway out as far as it would go and walked to your house. He hadn’t even intended to go there, it just happened. He started walking and his feet brought him there without his brain having any say. He stared at the front of the house, remembering the countless times he carried you over the threshold because you couldn’t stand. He remembered how he’d decorate for Halloween in September and how the day after Thanksgiving, you’d beg him to take out the boxes of Christmas decorations. He remembered how you insisted on listening to ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas,’ as he strung lights around the front porch and you made him hot chocolate.
The house he saw now was bare. There were no Christmas lights strung on the front step, like they usually would have been by December fourth. There were no statues of snowmen and no wreath. It was just a house that was so clearly devoid of any and all love.
He hadn’t thought about how the weather would be different there than in Florida, but the cold was comforting in a way. He didn’t bother changing. He stood in front of the house he no longer had any right to call his own, in flip flops, shorts, and a dress shirt. He allowed the cold air to bite at his skin until he was as numb on the outside as he was on the inside.
He unlocked the door with his key, and took his time moving around. He started at the front door, where he saw the picture of the two of you at Rossi’s and his hatred for the four walls he used to call home came back. You hadn’t changed much of the place. The ultrasound was still pinned to the fridge with a smiley face magnet. Old flowers were hanging from the wall, case files littered the table. It looked like home, it just didn’t feel like home.
He went through everything slowly, over several days. He started in the living room, where he saw the cave of blankets you’d no doubt been living in and the crack in his heart became a canyon. He should’ve been laying in those blankets with you, staring at the TV and listening to you drone on and on about how much you love Nick Miller. He hated that he wasn’t there with you. He climbed inside, in an attempt to make up for all the times he missed, and allowed the smell of you to envelope him. He dreamt of you.
When he woke up the next morning, he smelled you again and instinctively reached out to pull you close to him, but when he did his hands were met by a mass of blankets rather than your warm skin. He sighed, and went into the kitchen. There he grabbed his favorite mug from the cabinet, filled it up, and sat at the table as he read the newspaper. He imagined you next to him, bringing him the sugar bowl and laughing at the name of the obscure town on the top of the page.
“Where is Biwabik?” You’d say, pushing the sugar bowl over to him as he took two more spoonfuls.
“Minnesota,” he’d say plainly, reading about their local fireman’s bazaar.
“Oh, yeah, Biwabik, Minnesota,” You’d laugh and kiss his forehead before going upstairs to take a shower.
He finished his coffee while staring at the gray sky. He hoped it would snow, so when you came home you’d be greeted by your favorite weather.
He took a blisteringly hot shower and opened up your body wash just so he could memorize what it smelled like, just in case he never got to smell it again. The hot water defrosted his inner and outer numbness, allowing all his feelings to come to the top. The water mixed with his tears, the same way yours had with the rain. He was waiting for the day dream to end, all he wanted was to hear the sound of you opening the shower curtain, poking your head and asking, “Can I join?”
But that soothing sound never came.
He stood under the hot water until it went cold, and moved into the bedroom. He stared at the bed he used to curl up next to you in. He found it hard to even look at, considering the last time he slept in it he woke up to the sheets being stained in blood. He moved to sit on the bed, trying not to disturb the specific way you made it. He looked at the sticky note you had placed next to you. It was from him, saying ‘I went in a little early today, didn’t want to disturb you on your day off. I can’t wait to see you at 6. I love you, Love.’ He smiled, knowing you placed it there so it was the first thing that you saw when you woke up each morning. But then he remembered that you put it there because each morning you weren’t waking up next to him. This note was as close as you could get.
He looked through your drawers, smiling at the CalTech hoodie folded neatly on top. He decided to leave that one in the drawer. That way you’d always have a physical piece of him, even though you’d always have his heart.
He moved from there into the nursery. It was empty. A regular person would just think it was a green spare bedroom, but he knew. He knew which wall the crib was going to go on. He knew that the hook from the ceiling was meant for the mobile Penelope had made. He knew what should’ve been there.
Spencer spent three entire days in the house. He ate there, slept there, cried there. He felt all the feelings he’d been running from, and regretted that he hadn’t stayed with you to feel them together.
Rossi was right, the only way through this was to lean on each other. Spencer hadn’t. He leaned as far away from you as he could. He realized just how lonely that two-bedroom could feel, and he understood how you’d nearly gone crazy in there. He was there for three entire days, and felt like he aged fifty years. Somehow, he felt closer to you than he had in months, even though you were 1,074.6 miles away in a hotel room he should’ve been in too.
He talked to the moon each night, begging it to answer him. He didn’t know what to do. Should he let you go? Isn’t that the saying? ‘If you love something, let it go. If it doesn’t come back it was never yours in the first place’? Would you ever come back? Were you ever his? Was he ever really yours? Should he honor your wishes to break up? Should he pack this life up and leave without any closure? Without a proper goodbye? Or should he wait for you there? Kiss you the second you walked in the door and tell you that he was a fool, an idiot, that no one ever meant as much to him as you do? Should he fight for you?
But then he heard your voice ringing in his ears, “Don’t bother.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Don’t bother.”
And he didn’t. He packed his few things up, took one long, final look around with tears in his eyes, dropped his spare key in a dish, and walked home alone.
“You forgot a few things, of course. You forgot the watch. You forgot the CalTech hoodie. You forgot your favorite mug. You can tell it’s well used and well loved because there’s a permanent coffee stain in the porcelain around the top where you always let it sit because it was too hot to drink.
I gave you the mug my first day back to work. I couldn’t stand looking at it every time I opened the cupboard. I decided to be nice, give it to you as a peace offering before we started onto the uphill battle that was working together. I’d also like to consider this whole box a peace offering. I’m not mad at you. I don’t hate you. It’s the complete opposite, Spence. I love you too much to just watch you and not be with you.
Three weeks after Florida, Hotch called me in for another mandatory evaluation. And I passed. I passed because I went to the counselor. I talked to Dr. Stevens for an hour and a half every Thursday and Sunday morning. I’d go in and he’d give me a glass of water and we’d chat. Sometimes it was about work, turns out I have a lot of pent up grief from all the things I’ve seen, but usually it was about us. I think I spent at least an hour and fifteen minutes each week talking about us. I told Dr. Stevens about every memory I’ve included in these letters. I told him about all of it, from the day I realized I love you, to the day I realized that I couldn’t anymore.
It was hard, probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I had to pour my heart out to someone who didn’t know me. I had to pour my heart out to someone who wasn’t you. I had to grieve the loss of a child and of a lover at once. But to my surprise, he helped. In a weird way, he seemed to understand. I know that’s just because it’s his job, he is literally trained to understand and help people with their grief, but I feel like he knew me. Not nearly the way that you did, but he knew me.”
A dark green monster formed in Spencer’s chest. The thought of another man learning about you in the way he had was enough to make his mouth taste sour. You let this other man into the most intimate parts of your brain, places only Spencer had ever gotten to go before. Did Dr. Stevens know you better than him? He couldn’t help the envy blooming in his chest at the idea. He wanted to be the person you poured yourself out to, and he had been. He wanted that back.
“I’m doing better. That’s how I passed the eval. A male grief counselor helped me through my grief, which you said wouldn’t work. And you were wrong. I must admit it gives me a little bit of joy to tell you that. For once, Spencer Reid, you were wrong. And maybe if you had just agreed to go with me, you would feel better too. If you had just agreed, we never would have had that fight. You never would have packed a suitcase and gone down an elevator alone.
I was right. For once in our lives, I was right, and you were wrong. I just wish it was about something more trivial than this.
My first day back was a Wednesday, about a month and a half ago. I was terrified. I hadn’t seen you since Florida and everyone knew what had happened. Hell, my first day back in DC after the breakup, Derek sat me down with a bottle of tequila and let me cry until the couch was underwater. I just knew it would be awkward and painful and sad. I knew that our friends would stare at us and ‘pick sides’ as if we had suddenly become enemies. I was scared to sit at my desk across from yours and have to look at you. I was scared of the feelings. I was scared of all the progress I’d made in counseling going down the toilet the second I laid eyes on you, and I was right.
I showed up that morning in my best pencil skirt and blouse and pretty red heels. I did my hair. I put on makeup. I tried to make myself look good, so then I’d feel good. I had to fake it, so you wouldn’t be able to see the real me. I caked on makeup to cover up the bags under my eyes from crying over you for weeks. I brushed my hair and strands kept falling out because my hormones changed and I couldn’t eat most nights. I wore black tights so you wouldn’t be able to see the bruises on my knees from the nights I drank and cried and ended up with my head in a toilet, knees bumping the cold tile floor; desperately wishing it was morning sickness, so you’d be close behind me, rubbing my back and taking care of me.
When I exited the elevator, everyone greeted me as usual. I got hugs from the whole team, but you didn’t budge from your desk. You were staring at a book that I know you weren’t reading because you weren’t turning the pages. You were listening to me say hi to Rossi, tell him I missed him, and I could swear eyes flicked towards me a few times when I hugged Derek. That’s probably just wishful thinking, because I wanted you to look at me. I wanted you to see me, see that I was “fine.” I wanted you to look at me because I couldn’t stop looking at you. You, who I fell in love with over these same BAU desk partitions. I saw the ghosts of me and you three years ago, young and happy, your hair curling over your eyebrow, your pursed lips, the way your tie was just slightly crooked. I saw the you I wanted. I saw the man I stared at with lovesick stars in my eyes as we filled out Hotch’s paperwork. I saw me and you and Jacksonville and Meridian Hill Park and everything that we could have been.
And I cracked.
You didn’t even have to speak to me, Spencer, and I cracked.
I dropped my bag on the floor next to my desk and ran to the bathroom to cry off the makeup. Seeing you felt like I was drowning but on fire at the same time. I swear time stopped for a moment when I exited Garcia’s hug and saw you across the BAU. And suddenly I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t remember a single coping mechanism Dr. Stevens showed me. I just stood there. Frozen. Trepidation. Regret.
I stared at myself in the shitty flourescent lights of the bathroom, tears washing away my concealer and exposing the dark bags that matched my blood shot eyes. I stared at the way my cheek bones hollowed out since I’d lost over twenty pounds. I stared at a person I didn’t recognize, and that’s when I realized that I wasn’t the same person you fell in love with over the BAU partition either. I wasn’t the chirpy girl helping you jump start your car anymore. I wasn’t the same girl who bought your mother’s favorite book just to try and impress her. I wasn’t me. You weren’t you. So how could we possibly be us?”
Hotch had called Spencer into his office that morning to tell him you would be coming back.
“Is this going to be an issue?” He said, Spencer fiddling with his thumbs in an attempt to hide from Hotch’s stare.
“No, no problem.”
Hotch knew he was lying, and Spencer knew Hotch knew he was lying, but he was nice enough to let it go.
He sat at his desk and opened that book on epicureanism with the full intention of reading it. He was going to immerse himself in that in an attempt to avoid you. But when he opened the cover, the letters all jumbled together like alphabet soup on the page. Then he heard the familiar clack of your heels, and he looked up, just for a second. He noticed how beautiful you looked, but he recognized the sadness in your body. It was the same sadness he saw in his own every morning as he struggled to find the will to move from his position in bed.
He hadn’t gone to a counselor and learned coping mechanisms, the only one he knew was avoidance, but how could he avoid you? How could he avoid the way your smell lingered even after you dropped your bag and bolted to the bathroom? How could he avoid staring at the way Derek wrapped his arms around you, wishing they were his instead? How could he avoid the persistent, twisted, aching heart in his chest? How had he managed to avoid you for so long? He saw you up close, in the place you fell in love, for just a moment and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to kiss you.
“When I got back from the bathroom, I knew you could see me. You could see the real me, the me you didn’t want.
I decided I wasn’t going to make this as painful for everyone else as it was for us, so I grabbed my bag, took the mug out and handed it to you.
“I, uh, I found this in the cabinet,” I said weakly, and you grabbed it, our fingertips just brushing each other, an action that usually sent lightning down my spine, “I know it’s your favorite one so I wanted you to have it back.”
“T-Thanks,” You cleared your throat, “I’ll go fill it up with coffee. Want one?”
I smiled through the pain, proud of myself that our first interaction went well, “Yeah, I’d like that.”
You brought me a coffee, made correctly. Cream and one sugar. I took it from you with a fake smile, trying to force back the pain in my chest.
Derek watched that entire painfully awkward interaction, and he pulled me into his office after.
”You good? That was a lot back there.”
I whined, “No. I’m not good. I’m actually very bad.”
He sighed and pulled me in for a hug, “You’ve got this. You and Reid can handle it. We all know you still love each other.”
I started to cry into his chest, just softly. I didn’t need anyone else seeing how broken I was.
“Why did I think I could do it? I should just transfer.”
That was the first time I considered it out loud. The thought had been rattling around in my head for a bit, but saying it made it real.
Derek argued, “No, you don’t need to transfer.”
“Yes I do! Hotch said as much three years ago.”
“Just focus on getting through today, okay?”
I nodded, taking three deep breaths with Derek’s arms on my shoulders, keeping me grounded.
That’s when Penelope opened the door, poking her head in and telling us it was wheels up in twenty.
“You can stay here with me,” She said, coming over to hug me.
I shook my head, wiping away my last few stray tears, “No, I’ve been gone for far too long. I’m coming back.”
She smiled, “I’m so glad you are.”
We all went on the jet, Hotch insisting he’d brief us in the air. I sat at a window seat, next to Derek and across from Hotch and Rossi. You, Alex, and JJ sat opposite from us. I could feel the tension, the passing glances, the sides being chosen, the hushed voice you spoke in so I wouldn’t hear you or even look at you. I felt like an outcast in a plane full of my favorite people.
The case was in Las Vegas. Of course my first case back had to be in your hometown. Of course it had to be in a place that felt like a second home for me.
“Morgan, Y/N, take the latest crime scene,” Hotch ordered me, and I let out a nervous sigh that was much louder than I intended. You all turned to look at me, expressions varied from pity from Hotch to annoyance from you.
Hotch looked me up and down, “Actually, Y/N come with me to the precinct.”
“I-uh-okay?” I said, feeling embarrassed and small and useless and worthless. Because while you got to look at the bodies, I got to look at sweaty Vegas cops.
He didn’t think I could handle it. No one did. None of you thought I could, and guess what? You were right.
I fell apart. That entire case I was a wreck. My brain didn’t work right. I couldn’t profile, crime scene photos made me want to cry, I could barely even look at the family members.
I was actually useless there. I was useless because of you. Because the way the files smelled reminded me of you and I had to watch you talk to Alex and JJ and not talk to me and I had to watch the way you scrunch up your nose and the way your hair falls in your eyes and you brush it away. Because you had all the answers and I had none. Because you were always everything, and I merely accompanied you. Because you’re more of an asset to them than five of me would be.
And that’s why I left.
I left because after that case you stayed back for a day and saw your mom, and usually I would’ve been there with you. I left because that flight home was empty without you, even though you weren’t even looking at me. I left because I don’t know what’d I’d do if you ever got hurt and I wasn't the one sleeping in your hospital bed with you. I left because I cannot live in a life that I shared with you anymore. I left because I love you too much to stay.
When we landed in Quantico that day, I went to the bathroom again to cry. Derek followed me but I shoved him off. I locked myself in a stall and screamed one of those silent screams when you’re too angry and frustrated to even make a noise.
I stared at myself in the mirror again. I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t accepted that part yet. I’d accepted everything else except for the fact that I was broken, and no amount of hugs from Penelope or stolen glances at you were going to fix it. The only thing that would fix it was going as far away from you as possible.
I got my transfer papers from Hotch the next day.
He argued, told me to rethink, told me to take more days off, told me that it would all get better with time.
“Reid’s reasonable,” He said, “And if it’s time–”
“No, I know that I want to transfer. You said so yourself. If it got too hard, I’d have to go. Well it’s too hard, Aaron. I have to go.”
He sighed, “What unit? I can get you a place almost anywhere. Sex crimes? Back in organized?”
I twiddled my thumbs and sighed, “LA?”
“LA?,” He shook his head and gestured for me to sit down, “Sit Y/N. We need to talk about this.”
He went on a very convincing lecture then. He almost got me to stay, but the only person who actually could’ve gotten me to stay was you. At the end he reluctantly gave me the paperwork and told me, “I hope you don’t regret this.”
I really, really, hope I don’t.
The papers sat in a file folder on my desk for three weeks, taunting me. I hadn’t gotten up the nerve to fill them out yet. I’m not sure what I was waiting for. I think maybe I was waiting for you, or maybe I was waiting for it to get better. Waiting for it to not hurt every time I looked over at you or heard you laugh with JJ. But after three weeks, I realized that was never going to happen. It was never going to stop hurting me or stop hurting you, so I filled out the papers last Thursday, and five days later Hotch told me about Seattle. I immediately accepted, and packed up my desk.
Except for this, your item for this letter, my name plate. “Y/N Y/L/N Supervisory Special Agent- Behavioral Analysis Unit” doesn’t really belong on my new desk. The nameplate reminds me of pining over you across the round table and Emily poking my shoulder and telling me ‘just go for it!’ It reminds me of sneaking into your hotel room on cases and double-cheek kisses from Rossi. It reminds me of filling out paperwork to declare our relationship, and filling out paperwork to get away from it. It reminds me of us, all of us. It reminds me of my old life. The life I’d like to leave behind, so it’s yours.”
Spencer’s fingers traced the engraved letters of your name, one by one, his mind far away recalling that case and the few days when he stayed back in Las Vegas. He saw his mom for the first time since everything happened.
The first day he visited and the nurses told him it was a good day, one of her best days in recent history. He smiled sadly, knowing that what he was about to share would make it one of the worst.
He walked into her room, every muscle tensed. Diana smiled, wrapped her arms around him warmly and the first thing she did was ask for you.
“When I heard I was getting a visit I was thrilled! Where’s Y/N? Gosh she must be big by now.”
He avoided her gaze, as if he was a child avoiding being scolded, “Y/N isn’t coming.”
“She’s not?” She asked, and Spencer immediately regretted not telling her about the last two months sooner. He kept putting it off, not quite knowing how to break his mother's heart while dealing with his own.
“No, mom, and I think you should sit down.”
“Sit? Spencer, sweetheart, what is it? You’re worrying me.”
He sat down, knee bouncing and hands fidgeting just to release some of the pent up energy inside of him, “Y/N and I, we–we broke up.”
Her eyebrows furrowed, just as his always did, lips pressed into a line, “Spencer Reid you left a pregnant girl? I raised you better than that!”
He bit his lips, not knowing exactly how to say the words that came next, “Mom, Y/N, she–“ He stopped himself, correcting himself for once, “We lost her.”
Diana’s mouth fell open slightly, “Lost the baby?”
Spencer couldn’t do much but nod, the tears he had been forcing back for weeks flooding his eyes and running over like a waterfall. His eyes were shut, the shame of it all overcoming him.
The next thing he felt were her arms around him, pulling him close as he fell apart.
“Th-there was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do,” he choked out between ragged breaths, “I-I should’ve been able to do something! I should’ve been able to protect her and I didn’t and now—”
She cut him off, her cold hands rubbing the tears off his hot cheeks, “Sometimes things just, well they just happen.”
He nodded, “And then Y/N…”
“Spencer, how’d you let her go?”
He shrugged, wiping at his nose, “I-I don’t know. I can’t believe I left. I just—“
His voice was getting rushed and his breath was getting quick, like he was drowning in tears and regret.
“Shh, stop,” She said, hands running through his hair the same way they did when he was a boy, “You’ve already lost so much, don’t lose her too.”
When he left his mother that day he took her words to heart. He wasn’t going to lose you too, he was going to make up for those two months. When he arrived back in DC, his first stop was your house. He knocked on the door, go-bag on his shoulder. There was no answer. He knocked again. And again. And again.
You never opened up.
He was expecting you to open the door and smile at him and invite him inside, but the door stayed locked, his key to it being inside. That night he stayed on the step until one in the morning, when he begrudgingly got in his car and drove away. The next night he came back, and the next, and the next, and the next, the door always staying shut. He left each time feeling more and more defeated.
He knew you were in there, he could see your shadow appear and disappear, and every night he’d stay until the January air became too much to bear. He swore he could hear you slide down the door a few times, sitting as close back to back with him as possible.
He went every night until one day, when he was laying against the cold door, half asleep and frostbitten, Derek appeared in front of him.
“Reid,” He whispered, voice sympathetic but also stern, “You gotta stop doing this. This isn’t healthy.”
Spencer stood up, his breath visible as he spoke, “I know.”
“She isn’t going to let you in.”
“I know,” he mumbled, fixing his wool coat and starting to walk away. Derek watched him as he made his way across the snow-covered yard. He turned around and called to him.
“Morgan! Just, just tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I miss her.”
Derek nodded, opening your front door and entering the place Spencer wished he could be: with you.
“I don’t know what happened to you in Vegas, but when you came back, you were different. At work you still avoided me like I was a rat with the plague, but then every night I’d hear you knocking on my door, begging to be let in.
“I love you,” you’d say, “I take it all back.” As if you ever could.
I’d sit on the stairs that face the door, head in my hands, trying to find the willpower to keep the door closed. Then I’d see your key, sitting in the dish you put it in, and it was easy to keep the door closed, because you’re the one who shut it.
You came almost nightly for a week. I’d always look through the peephole. I’d sit with my back to the door the same way yours was. I’d wrap myself in a blanket and sleep there, as close to you as I could, but I kept the door shut.
I know it’s terrible, but part of me wishes that we never met. That instead I stayed making espresso shots in Connecticut and never went back to this life. In this wish, Dave never called me. I never saw your dopey smile and immediately fell in love. Maybe then you wouldn’t be all I think about. Maybe then you’d get out of my head, because as long as I know you, I’ll never love anyone else.
But that way of thinking is behind me. Now, I see you as a lesson I had to be taught. I learned how to love, and how I deserve to be loved. I learned how to smile and laugh and really care about someone other than myself. I learned how to grieve and appreciate my life and I learned what real, true love is. I learned about soulmates and science and how to smile so hard my cheeks hurt. I learned how to let go.
But I learned hard lessons too; like that the Beatles were wrong, love isn’t all you need. You need passion and commitment and happiness and compromise. I learned that sadness can be a greater emotion than love. I learned that heartbreak is real and sometimes the people you love more than anything in this world can hurt you. And I’m grateful to you, for every lesson you ever taught me. I’m grateful for every single second I spent with you. I’m grateful for you, Spencer Reid.
Thank you.”
“Thank you”
He could practically hear you whisper it to him.
He found it funny that you were thanking him for breaking your heart, time and time again, because all he felt was regret.
He glanced up at the clock, realizing that he needed to leave now if he had any chance of making the flight to you. He haphazardly collected the letters and all the objects you gave him from where he placed them around the apartment. He grabbed a duffle bag, stuffing it with clothes and whatever things he thought he may need. He grabbed the ring box, debating for a moment whether or not it was too much, too soon. He decided to throw caution to the wind.
What is it Morgan says? Go big or go home?
Spencer was going big, and you were coming home.
He kicked the front door closed as he left, box overflowing with papers and the ring box burning in his back pocket.
Letter fifteen would have to wait.
Part 15!
—————————
Taglist
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#criminal minds#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid angst#spencer reid fic#matthew gray gubler#reid#mgg#cm#fifteen
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even if you have no wings
[legosi x doe!reader]
author’s note: changed up the style w this one just to try it out. also played around w pov again. it’s still second person but... well you’ll see. i don’t want to spoil it. please forgive me if this seems rusty, it’s been a minute since i wrote anything T_T
word count: 1,628
you’re pulled from sleep at 7 AM by a grating alarm and begin your morning routine. you’re not sure what day it is because you stopped keeping track. you don’t see the point in doing that anymore when they’re all the same—wake up, go to class, attend to your duties with the drama club. eating is thrown in there somewhere. you’re a slave to the growling of your stomach and the bottomless hunger an egg salad sandwich or a soy burger will never be enough to satisfy.
there’s a crick in your neck and it bothers you all day. it makes it difficult to pay attention properly in lecture and when jack asks if you’ve studied for that exam on friday (friday…is that two days from now?) you only offer a half-hearted shrug and a vague grunt. evidently it’s an answer enough for him as he laughs and says me too. maybe you both will score poorly. jack takes a bite of his veggie burger and he hums like it’s the best thing in the world but you wonder if deep down he feels the way that you do.
the actors are discussing stage positions and you occupy yourself with setting up the lighting rigs. you yawn and your neck still hurts and it dawns on you in this moment how ironic it is, that you should be above the heads of everybody else, yet you’re obscured in shadow. you suppose there’s something symbolic to be said about it, but louis is calling to you from below and you need to pay attention now.
move the light center. keep it focused. tighten the edges. what remains is one lone spotlight, bold and dramatic and louis stands in it with broad shoulders and a confidence in his gaze because that is where he’s meant to be and he knows it. and this is where you’re meant to be too. behind the scenes, in the dark, where no one has to see you and you’re comfortable that way. yes, this is perfect, louis declares with a nod. you can’t tell if he’s saying that to himself or if he’s read your mind.
late at night, after most students have returned to their dorms, you traipse through the courtyard alone. but you’re not in any danger. not when you are who you are. and this is the time you truly feel free.
the iron bench is cold and the lamppost is dim. you sit in its meager light and listen to the gurgle of the fountain. your head tilts back, eyes on the sky. it’s mostly black. but you can see the moon, and it is unusually bright tonight. since when has it been like that?
since when have the days bled together? since when have the stars disappeared?
where are the stars?
the rustling of grass pulls your attention back down to the ground and you can’t help the hunter instincts which kick in as you pick up the scent of prey. no, stop. stop talking like that. stop thinking like that.
another student, a doe, is walking past on the concrete walkway. surely she can see you in her periphery because you are sitting by the lamppost, not trying to hide, and your heart jumps into your throat when your eyes meet. you expect to see uneasiness in her own and you get it. you wouldn't blame her for it. you won’t be mad if she turns the other way, clearly avoiding crossing paths. in fact, maybe you should just leave, to alleviate her worries. she’s coming in this direction, and you’d hate to be the reason she has to reroute herself.
but she smiles instead. a small one, a friendly one. despite the nighttime chill, it feels like a summer morning. it catches you by surprise, and despite it being the total opposite of your assumption that she would be frightened, you stand anyway and rush back to your dorm. your heart’s still beating rapidly and you don’t know if it’s predator instincts you’re trying desperately to ignore or shock that she had smiled at you like that. like what?
so kind, so sweet, so bright like the stars you couldn’t find.
friday comes and goes with a sigh and at lunchtime when jack asks what you got on question three, you’re being honest when you say you can’t remember the letter you circled. you think it was D. he groans and says he chose A. you smile sympathetically but your mind’s a mile away, stuck on thoughts of a doe you have hoped to see again but haven’t. your eyes scan the cafeteria but she is nowhere in sight and maybe you imagined her. maybe that night you’d been dreaming and you should just stop looking. stop trying.
maybe you’re still dreaming because the sun is unusually dark, faint like that lamppost, and it doesn’t make sense. you want to ask jack if the sun looks different to him too, but you know he’ll just say you’re imagining things (such as that doe?) and maybe he’s right. when the days all pass the same, who’s to say what was day and what was night? certainly not you.
you’ve felt tired lately. the neck pain you get from sleeping in odd positions doesn’t help either.
it means you’re a little more irritable as well, and this is magnified when you can’t locate the novel you’d been reading. you could’ve sworn it was in your bag, but after dumping the contents on your bed and there’s no book to be found, you speculate that you’d actually left it somewhere in the mess of your belongings. but the thorough search through your closet is a fruitless endeavor.
you drop down onto your bed, your butt landing gracelessly on the pens and pencils scattered on the mattress, and you groan as you lift yourself up enough to swat them away.
you’re back in the courtyard that night. they say what you’re looking for will pop up the moment you’re not looking for it, so you decide to stop thinking about that book. you allow your eyes to slide closed because they are heavy from sleep that has escaped you. the drama club has been rehearsing the same few scenes the past week, intent to polish them before moving on to the next set of scenes. you’ve adjusted the lighting in the same way so many times that you can see it even now, behind your eyelids.
a dimming of all the stage lights, until all that was left was a lone spotlight. focused, with tight edges. it shines down on louis, and follows him from one end to the other. it is his to stand beneath, to control, and he controls it well.
the compliments he receives are always the same. echoes of one another.
he was born for the stage!
he’s a star!
you can’t be sure which voice is yours, or if any of them even are.
you replay the order of the lighting (do it enough times and you might fall asleep right here on this bench), but louis isn’t standing in the center anymore. it’s that doe with the kind gaze and she is not staring out at the darkened theater chairs made of cushy red velvet. she is staring upwards, squinting against the intensity of what might as well be the sun. to other observers on the same level as she, it would appear as if she is staring into it. but you know better and you know she is looking past it.
she is watching you, even though she can’t be certain she has met your eyes properly because you’re in the dark. and you smile, wondering if she can see it. she looks like she was born for the stage too. she smiles back. she says she’s a star. you agree, and your voice is loud and clear.
your eyes open as your ears pick up the sound of someone walking. the footsteps are light, but he easily detects the grass rustling, then the clackclackclack of heels on concrete. you’re surprised to see her there, real as ever and closer than you thought. she is coming towards you. she is coming towards you. you’re prepared to run away again, but the sight of your book tucked under her arm stops you short.
still, you stand up because it’s awkward to remain sitting while she’s walking this way. briefly you debate whether you should meet her in the middle or stay where you are. standing in the same spot was no better than sitting, but your paranoia that you could scare her away prevents you from moving. it’s clear she’s not scared (why?) but you can’t help wanting to be cautious.
before you can decide what to do, she is standing in front of you.
though she is tall, you’re still taller, and you have to tilt your head down. it’s not unusual for you, given you tower over most. this certainly won’t help your stiff neck. but then she grins, and suddenly you don’t really mind anymore.
she holds up your book and asks if you’re looking for this. she’s still grinning; it’s amused and aware and you swallow nervously because being close like this, you notice her eyes are sparkling with a million little diamonds and you are dazzled.
there’s no room to breathe as you tumble down down down into the depths of her star-studded gaze and she is beautiful. when had she scooped them all from the sky? when had the bright moon and the dark sun become so magnificent?
where are the stars?
where are the stars?
where—
“actually,” you say, “i was looking for you.”
#legosi x reader#legosi imagine#beastars x reader#beastars imagine#legoshi x reader#legoshi imagine#beastars#legosi#legoshi#bubble-tea-bunny#queue
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When I was young we lived in a two bedroom house half a block from my elementary school. A small brown house with a tiny green lawn and a one-car garage. There was a plum cherry tree by the fence on the far side of the little back yard and I could see it from the window of my bedroom. I can still feel the sensation of reaching up to pick a cherry and tugging down the whole branch, feathered with maroon leaves, only to let go and see it fly back up and right itself.
When I was eight years old, my parents sold the house. We piled boxes in the car and drove across town, where Mom and I moved into the back bedroom of her sister’s family’s house. Having displaced my cousin into a room with his brother, we had little twin beds like the ones in old 50s sitcoms, though usually I’d fall asleep alone since Mom worked nights. A long three months passed, until Dad finally found work in Seattle and we packed up the car again to go north to join him.
For reasons I've never understood, those months, plus the few we lived in Seattle, formed a kind of swirling vortex into which all my childhood memories spin. If I'm telling a story about being a kid, it's practically a given that it's set in 1982.
Sometimes, during those first three months, when I was feeling homesick, I’d go out to the garage, where there was a stack of boxes from our house and I’d dig around until I found something from my room. A stuffed animal, sometimes, but usually a Star Wars action figure. My cousins had every Star Wars toy imaginable and we played with them all often. But I had my own little collection of figures too. My prized possessions.
I didn't know then why my heart beat so fast whenever Princess Leia was onscreen. But wow. There's a moment when she's resting on her side, propped up on her right arm, and she moves her left to rest against the hill of her hip. Queer 80s kids—you know what I'm talking about. That moment replayed in my mind like a skipping record, wearing a groove into my eight-year-old heart. I felt a longing that I thought meant I wanted to be Leia. This unreadable childish lust vined and twisted around the real impossible longing: escape. I wanted so deeply to be rescued. So playtime was Star Wars and I was Leia. Always.
We moved back from Seattle after just a couple of months. Everyone was angry that year. We lived with my aunt for just-one-more month—-like a warped, prescient Groundhog's Day--before finding a little apartment a few blocks over. Escape. But at some point along the escape route, a lot of what was in those boxes from the garage went missing. It was as if our lives that year were carried forward in a big leaky bucket, sloshing, dripping. My Star Wars toys were gone. A lot of things were gone.
But I grew up anyway. Sixteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-Two, settled into my own rental house, swimming through busy days of school and work alongside a Beloved I cherished. Things that were gone followed me everywhere, and I worked and worked to stay hidden from them. I didn't know then that it wasn't about the Star Wars toys and so I became a collector.
In those days I headed to work at 5pm in black pants and a white button-up, with a neon green plastic bowtie. I had been shoveling popcorn and selling tickets through a little hole in the bottom of a plexiglass cell for three years when Star Wars roared back into theaters and the job was suddenly fun. Everyone on staff was a big fan. We'd drive through Taco Bell on breaks to score kids meals with Star Wars toys. Figures rushed back into stores like they were making a Kessel run. Big chunks of paychecks fell off into the sea of salve for my broken hearted inner eight-year-old. I bought everything. I pinned action figure boxes to the walls of my office until I was surrounded by them. The bookshelves that had dominated the room found themselves clothed in the green, yellow, and black boxes of vehicles and accessories and stationery and lunchboxes.
A photo of me survives from those days, clutching my newest purchase, eyes wild and joyous. I am absolutely surrounded by Star Wars Stuff (as I called it then and now) as if posing from a crowded museum gallery. I am thin in the photo, practically buried in the stuff, only half there at all.
The next time we moved, it was my idea. We moved so that I could pursue a brand-new dream. Not so different than my dad, I think to myself now, though my failure took longer and cost more than his. I lovingly packed up my treasures. They slept. Then another move. And another. Then a cross-country move. Then a cross-town one. The treasures rested in their boxes in my office closet until it became the nursery closet, then, when the twins separated into two rooms, just my son's closet. Resting. I didn't need them anymore. They were memories, translucent.
Something has tipped, gone over. I open the box. It's filled with another life, a crowded need I barely recognize. I take item after item out of the box and cannot help but laugh at myself. Who was this person? Oh, I remember now. The wounds. The narrow escape. The secrets. The missing persons. The crumbling foundation. The band-aids and the longing. I want to hug that small person. I want to lay her down in a nest of my daughter's blankets, pull up the cover to her small chin and turn on the machine that makes stars circle on the ceiling. I want to bring that young woman a cup of tea and sit with her at the kitchen table, gesture out the back window to the trees. Look.
Once upon a time I thought I needed to replace things, to take control, to buy and to stuff myself up, to assuage the longing. Maybe I did. But I also needed to box it all up. To build a stronger structure around it, to allow a skin to form that can look like the real me, the whole me.
And now, with the box open, packages all over the bed, one more stop. I post a photo to facebook. Anyone out there still love Star Wars? An acquaintance from high school messages me. I tell him what I have. One thing prompts three exclamation points in his response. "That's the one figure that was lost during our move!" He sends me a video of his sons opening the box. Joy. Tears. Repair.
A circle closing.
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Decisions
Destiel December Challenge 2020
Day 11: Holiday Movies
This is an ongoing Christmas story, check out the master post here and AO3 here!
I have “flavored” Dean’s dialogue with more cursing, nothing unusual to canon though.
***
Dean woke up reluctantly in the morning. He’d had such a goddamn amazing dream last night and he was doing his best to cement it into his mind. It had been so vivid though, so real. He wanted to believe that it had really happened, but it seemed so impossible. Dean snorted at his own stray thought, as if something being impossible should make it any less likely in his world. Either way, Dean kept his eyes scrunched shut to replay the moment in his head. Real or not he wanted to remember the feeling of Cas’ lips on his for the rest of his existence. Unfortunately, his dear sister had other ideas.
“DDDEEEAAAAANNNNN!!!” Dean shot up with his eyes wide open only to be hit in the chest by a small but fierce red head, who then proceeded to grab his shoulders and beam at him excitedly. “Wake up, it snowed!”
“Are you kidding, Charlie?” Dean growled. “Obviously, it fucking snowed, we were awake for that part last night!” Charlie continued to look at him expectantly and eventually he caved and hauled himself to the bathroom since, apparently, he didn’t have a choice but to wake up. He was originally just going to splash some water on his face but decided that a shower sounded like a much better way of not being an asshole to everyone for the rest of the day. That and caffeine. As he showered, he allowed himself to fall back into the memory of Castiel’s lips, the surreal feeling of only him and the angel existing as the falling snow muffled all the sound.
The more the warm water woke him up the more he started to panic. Holy shit, that hadn’t been a dream. Could he just play it off as a Christmas tradition? Cas hadn’t said anything, although he was fairly certain he had fallen asleep on the window seat which means that the angel must have moved him to the bed at some point. What if Cas knew that Dean had wanted to kiss him in spite of the mistletoe, that the plant had just been an excuse to do what he had already wanted to do? What if Cas just kissed him because of the mistletoe and it wasn’t anything more to him? What if it was more? What the hell was Dean supposed to do about any of it?
Dean toweled himself dry and realized that his clothes were still out in the living room.
“Sam? Can you grab my clothes and hand ‘em to me?” Dean heard a muffled acknowledgement of his shouted request and a few moments later there was a knock on the door. Dean thanked his brother and got dressed quickly, all the while trying to calm himself down. He heard the outside door open and shut and thought that maybe everyone else had already headed down to breakfast. He was starving at this point and figured he should follow.
“Hurry up already Dean, I need food!” Dean realized that Charlie was sitting on one of the chairs not so patiently waiting on him.
“Sorry, I kinda thought you guys had already headed down. I heard the door. We meeting Sam and Cas downstairs?” Charlie rolled her eyes at Dean.
“No Dean. Sam woke up at some ungodly hour and already ate. Cas said he only wanted coffee so they decided it was a good time to go retrieve your car. The worst of the storm didn’t end up hitting us and Cas said the parking lot here was safer or something. That you’d be worried with ‘Baby’ in a public lot for too long.” Dean choked up a little at the idea of Cas dragging Sam out first thing in the morning to take care of Baby. He was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t seen Cas yet this morning, but maybe this was an opportunity, Dean thought he should talk to someone before he lost his mind. Maybe.
Dean and Charlie headed down to the breakfast area where Dean immediately downed half a cup of really fantastic coffee. After beginning to infuse himself with the blessed substance Dean noticed Charlie staring at him.
“What?”
“Nothing really. It’s just really great to see you so happy.” Dean had the feeling that Charlie was holding back on what she actually wanted to say. He thought rapidly and decided hell with it, he did need to talk to somebody and it was absolutely not going to be Sam. Sam was always way too happy if Dean even mentioned feelings.
“Uhh, well, there’s kinda a reason but – I’m, um – I…” Dean didn’t really know what he was trying to say here, he just knew he felt all twisted in knots over the kiss last night and what it meant, or didn’t mean. Charlie took pity on him.
“Spit it out, handmaiden. I know something is going on with you and Cas, so you might as well spill.” Dean wasn’t even surprised, he figured he’d been pretty obvious of late and his socially awkward angel was probably the only one who didn’t know there was something going on.
“I’m really messed up over Cas. Like, um, hung up on him. Can’t stop looking at him. Also, I kissed him last night.” Charlie didn’t look surprised until that last bit of information. “Er – it was because of the mistletoe. The one over the window seat, and yeah, Cas wants to learn about holiday traditions and he looked kind of sad when he assumed I wouldn’t kiss him, but I wanted to, but maybe it was just the mistletoe? Now I don’t know what to -”, luckily Charlie cut Dean off.
“Whoa, slow down Dean. It’s okay, Cas is definitely interested in you as more than friends!” Charlie was grinning like crazy and had moved to the seat next to Dean to pat his back reassuringly.
“He’s… he’s interested? Really?” Dean felt like maybe he was going into shock. He could hear Charlie talking about the way Cas always looked at him, and how the two of them had practically kissed the other night anyway except Sam had to go and be noisy, and how she was really happy for him – but all Dean could focus on was the idea that last night had possibly been a dream after all, a dream come true. Goddamn but that was cliché.
“Dean? Mission control to Spaceship Dean, come in!” Dean came back to the present to see Charlie’s hand waving in his face.
“Sorry, sorry, this is all,” Dean moved his hands to try and encompass the enormity of the feelings building inside of him. “A lot.” Charlie just nodded and slid back to the other side of the table as one of the staff members brought over plates of blueberry French toast goodness. Food, something Dean could focus on. Dean smiled gratefully as the same staff member filled up his coffee mug. For a little while they ate in silence enjoying the rich and syrupy food in peace. Finally, Dean felt like he had a handle on things and decided asking for help wasn’t the worst idea.
“What should I do about it, Charlie?”
“Well, what do you want? From Cas, I mean.” Dean took a moment to think about that. What did he want? Putting aside the idea that the guy he loved was an actual angel, and Dean was just some run of the mill human; putting aside the idea that Dean was an absolute mess of a human who in no way knew how to even be in a relationship… well pushing all of that away, Dean wanted to be with Castiel. Like, all the time. He wanted to hold hands, to kiss him, to wake up and have those amazing blue eyes be the first thing he sees, to, as much as he cringed to think it, basically live out some sort of chick-flick fantasy with the gorgeous angel. Not that he was going to say any of that.
“Um, maybe to go out on a date?” Charlie huffed out a small laugh.
“It’s okay to say you want him to be your boyfriend, Dean.”
“Sure, yeah. I do. It just, feels strange to say it? I dunno, Charlie. I feel like I’ve barely come to terms with saying I’m bisexual, much less saying I want a boyfriend.” Charlie’s smile expanded.
“You actually haven’t Dean. Said it, I mean. Until right now.”
“Oh. Yeah, you’re right. Okay then, I’m bisexual and I want Cas to be my boyfriend.” Dean felt a kind of high from saying all of that out loud, as if he’d been carrying something heavy for years and he finally had the chance to put it down.
“I’m proud of you Dean.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Now what?”
“Well, if you’re really sure of what you want, you should go and make it happen. I’ll be even more awesome and help you out.” Charlie took out her phone and spent a few moments messing around with it. Then she passed it over to Dean. He smiled as he read over the screen advertising an all day viewing of Christmas movies at the building that was originally a theatre back in the 19th century. Apparently, the current owners had kept one of the viewing rooms maintained for special occasions.
“You are a genius, thanks!”
Now all Dean had to do was to get up the nerve to actually talk to Cas, but he figured taking him out to see Christmas movies in a historic theater was as good a starting point as any.
***
@galaxycastiel, @jellydeans, @nguyenxtrang, @my-favourite-hellatus
#destiel december 2020#destiel december#destiel fic#destiel#dean winchester#castiel#sam winchester#charlie supernatural#supernatural#supernatural fic#spn#spnfamily#arcticfox007writes
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Phantom Hellcat - Gamescom 2022 - Official Reveal Trailer
Coming soon to PC, Xbox One, Xbox Series X|S, PS4 & PS5
Add to wishlist on Steam:
https://store.steampowered.com/app/2106730/Phantom_Hellcat/
ABOUT GAME:- Phantom Hellcat is a dynamic slasher-platformer with showy combos in a theatrical setting. When demons kidnap Jolene’s mother, the young woman must take the stage and save her—but in the world of plays and props, things are not always what they appear to be.
Engage in visceral combat with laser-sharp controls—ensemble powerful combos to take down enemies in epic boss fights, and use your surroundings as a weapon.
Disguise yourself with upgradeable masks—their power will give you new abilities.
Experience platforming from different angles—3D and 2D perspectives mix on every level.
Traverse various stages inspired by pop culture—visit a dark Transylvanian castle and more.
Discover the secrets of the theater—replay levels to find collectibles and hidden treasures
Grow in power—use a skill tree and choose your strategy.
#PhantomHellcat#Gamescom2022#RevealTrailer#Action#Adventure#Combat#Platformer#IndieGame#GamingInfoAndNews#Gaming#IronbirdCreations#ALLinGames#Lazyajju
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