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downthe-f4ndom-rabbith0le · 10 months

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The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader) - Prologue

The Way Back Home (Spencer Reid x Reader) - The Prologue Word Count: 4001 Reader Insert: she/her pronouns Warnings: major angst, major fluff, mentions of murder, crime scenes, near-death experiences, slow-burnish romance, death, canon violence, rape, swearing, guns, knives, prostitution, canon cuteness of the team. Spoilers: Maeve's death, mentions of previous cases or canon events from seasons 1-10.

Spencer and you have an unspoken connection with one another. Nothing has ever happened between you two, especially since everything went down with Maeve, but your love has grown and overcome and is now clear as day to everyone. However, just when Spencer builds up enough courage to ask you out officially, you're requested on an undercover mission that halts your budding relationship in its tracks.

Months go by without a word from you until bodies of prostitutes start showing up in New York and the BAU is brought in to help. Spencer and you finally reunite as both your cases collide, but your lives and your love are both on the line now.

Will you and Spencer be able to find the way back home this time?

~~~

You released a tired, relieved sigh as you and the rest of the team exited the elevator and walked back into the bullpen. You'd just landed back after a week in Utah chasing a serial killer who turned out to be a mormon. He killed in the name of burning out the false children of God from humanity - literally. The Unsub managed to burn six innocent people alive before they apprehended him.

'I cannot wait to go home for a hot bath and a good glass of scotch,' Rossi said, rubbing at the kink in his neck from the sleep home on the plane.

'Ditto,' Alex said. 'James is home for the weekend, and he has promised me some home made pie that I am very much looking forward to.'

You smiled as you reached your desk, the echo of the others adding to the conversation of what they were looking forward to when they got home warming the usually busy room as they passed you. A sense of comfort and relief washed over you as you placed your go-bag on your desk. Hearing all your friends' voices back in the office after a mission was never a guarantee, so you relished every time you heard them, regardless of the conversation.

You looked up when a figure entered your peripheral vision, and that comfort and warm feeling spread further through you when you saw who it was.

'What about you, Y/N?' Spencer said by way of greeting, a soft smile gracing his own tired features. 'What is waiting for you at home on this fine Friday evening?'

You paused to think about it for a second, a content smile tugging at your lips at the thought. 'Well, unless I've been robbed in the last few days, I will be enjoying a nice glass of moscato while I order pasta from the restaurant below my apartment, and snuggle in with my book that I've spent literally months trying to finish,' you said dreamily, the thought of good food and good wine and a good book sounding almost too good to be true. But Garcia had informed the team before landing that no new cases had been submitted and so you had the weekend to yourselves.

'That all?' he asked, amusement dancing on his lips.

You chuckled, shaking your head. 'I know. First Friday night home in DC in a while and I am choosing to stay at home instead. The utter shame of it all.'

You both laughed, and it pleased you to see his amber eyes light up after the long week you'd had.

'I didn't mean that as a bad thing,' Spencer said, brushing a stray curl from out of his eyes. Even though it was the shortest length it'd ever been, some rogue curls still managed to dangle out of confinement every once in a while. 'What book are you reading?'

'Don't laugh at me, but... The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.'

Spencer's brow furrowed curiously. 'Why would I laugh? I love Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's work.'

You shrugged, casually leaning against your desk as you crossed your arms. 'I know, it just seems a little silly that a federal agent is reading some old detective stories.'

'Actually, Doyle was one of the forefathers of detective fiction, as he brought in the concept that the science of deduction isn't just physical evidence but psychological observations. He created a space where all the sciences we know today can help in solving crime, and actually paved the way for more psychological avenues to be taken more seriously in academia and law enforcement. If you think about it, without Sherlock, you and I may not have our jobs as profilers right now.' Spencer paused when he realised he was rambling, and despite your soft, encouraging smile, he saw the tired blankness in your eyes.

Spencer licked his lips before speaking again. 'What I'm trying to say is... I don't think it's silly at all.'

You nodded your thanks although you knew you didn't need to. 'So what about you?', you asked in return. 'What will entertain Dr. Spencer Reid on this "fine Friday evening"?'

His words repeated back to him kept the smile on his face, more importantly the life in his eyes. But he began to fiddle with the strap of his satchel bag, and you couldn't help but notice he slightly swayed. Like he was nervous or something. It was cute.

He was cute.

You forced the rising heat in your cheeks to stay underneath the surface to not give away your embarrassment or your inner thoughts. Thoughts you'd been having since the day you'd met him six years ago. Thoughts that you'd suppressed so as to not interfere with your work, and then later so it wouldn't ruin your hard-built friendship.

When he told you about Maeve, you'd had mixed feelings. Of course, you'd been ecstatic for him that he'd found someone he could be himself with, and even more so when he disclosed to you that no one else knew about her - just you. But you couldn't deny the twinge of sadness that pulled at your heart knowing that that someone he could be himself with wasn't you.

But you hadn't hesitated, hadn't faltered when he'd needed a shoulder to cry on when Maeve was killed. Once he decided to open up and accept help, you were first in line to help keep the young doctor afloat in his sea of grief and loss.

It's been over a year since Maeve's death now, and while she would always remain important in his heart, he had, for the most part, moved on, slowly getting back to be his usual, quirky, logical self.

The past year and a bit has only brought you two closer together, and as much as you have tried to hide how amazing that makes you feel, you've had plenty of conversations with Penelope and others on the team about finally asking the boy wonder out. It's not like you didn't want to, but if Maeve was his type of girl, you just weren't sure you were what Spencer was looking for in a romantic partner. Besides, you were happy with your friendship.

It was by far the most precious relationship you had aside from your family - why ruin it?

You quickly realised you'd both been silent for a while, Spencer still not having answered your question yet. 'Spence?' you prompted gently.

The cute doctor managed to grasp his satchel strap fiercely and ground himself back in the present. 'R-Right. I too have a book at home. The one you got me for my birthday, actually.'

'Oh yes!' The Shining Girls by Lauren Beukes. You'd been hooked from the first line, and by the time you finished, all you could think about was how much you thought Spencer would enjoy it. So you instantly wrapped up your own personal copy and waited for Spencer's birthday to roll around. You never told him it was yours, you just hoped he didn't notice the slight bend in the spine or minuscule tears in some pages from you flipping them too quickly. 'I've been meaning to ask you if you enjoyed it or not. I just assumed you'd read it already.'

'We've just been so busy with cases lately. I haven't had time to even consider picking it up.'

You rolled your eyes. 'Come on, we both know you could've finished that book on one of our plane rides.'

He shrugged, eyes dipping for a moment before landing back on you. 'I know. I guess... I just wanted to give it the time and attention it deserved,' he settled on, and the honesty in both his words and his eyes threatened to steal your breath.

A silence that rested between comfortable and awkward settled upon you two. This had happened many times in recent weeks although you weren't quite sure why. Regardless of your hidden feelings and the tragedy of Maeve, neither of you lost your comfortability with one another.

'So... we've both got book dates tonight,' you said in an attempt to break the silence. The rest of the team was still chatting just a little away from them, but it felt like it was just the two of you sometimes when you talked.

'Well, actually, maybe...' Spencer started, and his fingers were twitching again. 'I was wondering if maybe you'd want t-to bring your book over and... join me, tonight.'

The request wasn't an unusual one. In fact, you'd conducted your own mini book club between the two of you on plenty of occasions. Mainly because you both found out you were the kind of people that liked your personal time and space, but didn't like the thought of being completely alone. This wasn't new, but it warmed your heart all the same at the gesture.

'That sounds great, Spence!' you said heartily. 'Give me half an hour and I'll be around at yours-'

'Actually,' Spencer interrupted, 'I was thinking we could grab some dinner together first. You know, like at a restaurant or some place you can sit in at.'

'...Like a date?' you asked softly, breathlessly. The words just kind of slipped from you before you even contemplated how they would affect Spencer. It just felt natural and right.

Your heart pounded like a jackhammer between your ribs, but you were more concerned at what expression Spencer would pull in the next five seconds.

To your relief, he smiled that small little smile of his that spoke volumes of his insecurity but also of his genuine intentions. 'Yeah. I guess it is like a date,' he finally replied.

Oh my goodness. He was nervous. His words were rushed and higher-pitched in tone. but you still managed to understand him, as well as what dinner implied.

A half-smile pulled at your lips. 'Dr. Spencer Reid,' you began softly, half-scared, half-excited to speak the words you'd been holding back for so long. 'Are you asking me out on a date right now?'

At your words, his anxiety seemed to disappear, as he stopped fidgeting with the satchel strap and took a daring step closer to you. 'I guess I am.'

You couldn't stop it now, the smile of pure joy you'd been holding back from splitting your face open. After years of suffering silently, of repressing the truth, it was all worth it for that one question.

'So what do you say, SSA Y/N L/N,' he quipped cheekily. 'Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

The answer was right there in the tip of your tongue, almost spewing from you, when your name was called out across the bullpen for all to hear.

The globe of silence and serenity that had built around Spencer and yourself suddenly shattered as you both, alongside the rest of the team, turned to Hotch standing in his office doorway. But while you all looked at him, his hard gaze was honed in on you.

'L/N,' he called again, having your attention now. 'Can I see you in my office, please?'

You looked between him and Spencer, unsure who to answer first. In the end, you were still technically on the clock so you nodded at your boss and said, 'Sure, I'll be in there shortly.'

'This can't wait, I'm sorry.'

It was the seriousness and discomfort in his voice that caused you to throw aside your personal agenda, giving Spencer an apologetic look before quickly making your way through the bullpen, up the stairs and into his office. You tried not to look at your team too much as you did, but you felt their gazes on the back of your head nevertheless.

They were just as confused as you were, then.

'Close the door,' Hotch instructed gently, to which you obliged. He pointed to the seat on the other side of his desk. 'Have a seat.'

'Everything okay, Hotch?' you asked, taking a seat in the chair. 'Oh no. Did I make an error in one of my reports again?'

'No, nothing like that,' he reassured you, which didn't help your already built up worry. For a moment, it was just you two sitting in his office in silence; you waited for him to explain his mysterious actions, while he seemed to struggle to find the right words.

He never struggled to find the right words.

You leaned forward in your seat, worry furrowing your brow. 'Hotch. What's wrong?'

'Nothing is wrong, so to say,' he insisted, but his frown remained. 'I've just been in contact with your old unit chief from Organised Crime. They believe there is an underground operation being conducted by gang leaders in Manhattan that involves the transporting, selling and purchasing of girls and women in the prostitute industry.'

'Okay,' you drawled out, more confused than ever. 'What has this got to do with us?'

'It doesn't,' Hotch answered immediately. 'Just you. Your old unit chief wants you back to go undercover in the case.'

'What?' You stood up from your seat instead of shouting, but goodness it took all your strength not to. 'Why do they need me? They have a whole squadron of agents to choose from.'

'They want a profiler to help them find out who these people are first, then go undercover and become part of the operation's inner circle and report back to them,' Hotch explained, although his tone displayed his displeasure in saying so. 'Y/N, you have more experience in undercover missions than anyone else on this team, even before you joined us as a profiler.'

You knew his words to be true, but the reality of it all was an ever-growing weight on your chest. 'What they are asking, Hotch, could take weeks, months even. Those kind of people will not trust so easily,' you tried reasoning with him.

You couldn't help but look through the blinds to your team still standing and talking outside in the bullpen. To Spencer, who had joined the team since you had left, but just looked at the window as if he could find out what was going on behind the glass and blinds if he looked long enough. It broke your heart to think you wouldn't see him for months, maybe even years.

Because that was the thing with undercover missions. Once you assumed the life of someone else, your old life became non-existent. That meant no contact with anyone outside of the case as a safety precaution.

That meant no talking to Spencer, or anyone in the BAU, until the case ended. Or unless you were killed, in which case you wouldn't be able to do a lot of talking anyways.

You turned back around at the sound of Hotch standing from his seat and coming around the desk to speak directly in front of you, no walls to hide behind. 'You know I wouldn't be asking if I hadn't tried to change their mind first. But even I can't argue that you are the best agent for the job.'

You nodded your understanding even if you hated to admit he was right. 'I guess it's not one of those jobs that I can decline, is it?'

Hotch shook his head regrettably. 'Head Chief requested for you personally. You've already been taken off the roster here at the BAU so you're not disturbed by other cases.'

Hearing that was just rubbing salt in the wound, and you hated the burning feeling of tears rising at the back of your eyes. You were already gone from here, like a ghost that didn't realise she was one to begin with.

Hotch's hand rested heavy on your shoulder as he comforted you. 'We can discuss your return to work when your mission is over. You will always have a place with us, Y/N.'

You attempted a smile, but it was strained as you tried to force back tears. You wiped at the strays that dribbled down your cheeks, pulling yourself back together before speaking again. 'All right. How long do I have before I am expected in the Big Apple?'

'There's someone waiting for you at your apartment already. They'll take you to their headquarters when you're done packing tonight.'

You sucked in air as you felt your whole world tilt unstably. Tonight. You had to leave tonight. Again, you found yourself seeking out Spencer through the half-closed blinds.

'So what do you say, SSA Y/N L/N? Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?'

You bit your lip as you blinked your tears away, trying but failing to ignore the cry of your heart as its strings were pulled harshly. 'Tonight?' you asked in the hope you'd misheard.

But no such hope existed, unfortunately.

'Yes,' Hotch said, that one word the final nail in the coffin of your impending suffering. 'I'm sorry. This goes without saying, but don't mention any of this to the team as you leave. Only myself and Section Chief Cruz will know where you are and the details of your mission.'

You huffed out a joyless laugh. 'Hiding truths from a team of profilers is like playing poker with a mirror attached to your face,' you said, and you didn't bother to hide your displeasure and sadness when you did. 'They're going to ask questions, and they will find out the truth eventually.'

'Let me worry about that,' Hotch said gently, letting go of you and leaving a cold mark where his hand once was. 'You've got bags to pack.'

'Right.' You sucked in a few deep breaths before making your way to the door. tears burned at your eyes again but you couldn't let the team see you like this. You couldn't let Spencer see you like this.

Because you had a job to do. And you always finished a job.

Before you could open the door handle, however, Hotch stopped you once more. 'Y/N.'

You looked at him, forcing an expression of blankness and indifference. 'Yes, sir?'

He must've seen your inner struggle, as he offered one of those genuine smiles of his that were oh so rare. 'We'll see you when you get back,' he said.

It wasn't a promise or a done deal, but it was the most hope you could ask for right now. So you smiled your thanks, nodded your goodbye, and opened the door back into the bullpen.

Immediately, all eyes set upon you and the room grew quiet. Your first instinct was to cry, then to run, then to blurt everything out because you hated keeping secrets. But you remembered what had just been said, and you whipped a bright smile onto your face to hide your despair.

'Don't you guys have homes to go to?' you asked cheerily, walking down the stairs as casually as possibly. You would've bee-lined for your bag, but if you moved too quickly they would suspect something. 'I recall hot baths and scotch were awaiting most of us, are they not?'

Thankfully Rossi took the bait, and picked up his go-bag in a huge huff. 'The lady is right. I spend enough time with you people as is, I am not wasting anymore not drinking and soaking.'

'Soaking in what? The bath or scotch?' JJ asked, also picking up her go-bag to make her way back to the elevator.

The group devolved into laughs and other jests, and you breathed a sigh of relief as you picked up your go-bag and followed them. Before you could though, a gentle call of your name halted you in your tracks, out of both politeness and frozen fear.

'Hey,' Spencer started, looking between you and Hotch's office. 'What was all that about?'

'Oh, uh, nothing super important,' you said, scrambled as you words were. 'Just a paperwork issue. Again.'

He broke out in smile that set your heart aflutter despite your inner turmoil. 'You know, you really shouldn't do paperwork on the plane when you're tired if you're just going to make a mistake. You're better off leaving it to the morning when your brain and body has rested enough to comprehend what the paperwork is asking of you.'

'Well sorry if I don't want to do a mountain of paperwork when I come back into the office,' you countered, grateful for the playful distraction as you made it over to the elevator. The others were just piling in when Spencer halted you again.

'So...' he dragged out, eyes flickering between you and teh floor nervously, '...what do you say?'

'To what?' you asked.

'To dinner. You didn't have time to give me an answer before.'

Shit. Your voice failed you now as you grasped at words - any words - to tell him. Your heart screamed yes, but there was someone waiting for you back home. A home you wouldn't be visiting for who knows how long.

Capitalising on your gaping mouth, you forced out a yawn and feigned covering it up out of embarrassment. 'Oh my goodness, sorry about that. Um, actually, now that you mention it, I am pretty beat. I'm just... going to go home and sleep it off if that's all right.'

It pained you to see his smile drop at your words, to see the hope leave his beautiful eyes at your rejection. And you knew you shouldn't say anything or make promises you couldn't keep, but you couldn't just leave him with no hope.

'Maybe next week sometime,' you offered, hoping your smile could bring some of that light back. 'You know, you've never tried the Italian Restaurant under my apartment before. We could go there. On me.'

Instinctively, you reached for his hand, relishing in the warmth it held and brought into you. To your relief, he didn't pull away. Instead, you got your smile back, and a little light returned to his eyes. You were kind of glad you wouldn't be around when the light left him completely.

'Okay,' he said softly, surprising you with a gentle squeeze of your hand in his. 'It's a date.'

'Yeah,' you replied, trying and failing to push aside the fluttering sensation his words gave your heart. You were only prolonging not only your pain, but his.

Selfish. So selfish.

'Come on, you two,' Derek called out from the elevator. 'I can't hold these doors open forever. Savannah will kill me if I miss our dinner reservations.'

You both quickly made it in to the elevator before Derek let them close on you, and then you were caught up in the chaos that was your team. You weren't sure how you got onto the topic of what scotch goes best with what foods, but you didn't care. It made you happy to know they never let the weight of a dark case get in the way of living their own lives to them fullest.

You all reached the car park and before you could make a run for your car, Spencer called out to you. 'See you Monday, Y/N!'

You turned back around to face not only him, but Derek, JJ, Penelope, Alex, and David as they all slowly went for their cars too.

You caught yourself staring at them, taking their happy faces in one last time before you left them behind. Hotch said you'd always have a place with the BAU, but you weren't sure how long this mission would take. And if you'd be replaced by then.

You forced a smile onto your face and waved them farewell. 'Yeah, see you then.'

You hated the bitter taste the lie brought to your mouth, but you managed to keep it together long enough that you got in your car and drove out of the car park without any more issues. That's when the tears came.

You wouldn't be there next Monday, and were not getting that date with Spencer next week.

It hurt you more to think that you may not get that date at all.

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penig · 1 year

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Everyone in the tag is reacting to all of Watson's descriptions of fat people as negative, and I just don't read them that way. Yes, he makes a point of saying certain people are fat. He also makes a point of saying that this woman is beautiful, that man is small, whatever. He's painting word pictures of people. Yes, he compared Mycroft's hand to a flipper. It's a vivid image. What has flippers? Seals, which are cute; whales which are vast and intelligent, porpoises which are lively and friendly. The animal comparisons he makes that have demonstrable negative connotations are skinny - rats and ferrets (I think he's described Lestrade's face in terms of both animals, but I could be wrong.) He compares Holmes to a dog fairly often. He likes dogs.

The thing is, we are so steeped in fatphobia today that we think the adjective is a pejorative unless explicitly denied in the text, and that's...a fairly recent development. I'm in my 60s; I remember when the stereotype of fat people was "jolly." When "Tubby" was a friendly nickname neither intended nor taken as an insult. My reading of Victorian literature introduced me to dozens of positive, morally neutral, and genial associations with fatness, which represents prosperity, good humor, sometimes silliness but often kindness and generosity, particularly in men. Mr. Pickwick is fat. Santa Claus is fat. Mycroft Holmes is fat and his skinny little brother loves and admires him. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was no sylph and neither is Watson. "Fat Men's Clubs" existed in Holmes's day, celebrations of men who had abundance in their lives and enjoyed their meals.

I am not repulsed by the fatness of Mycroft or any of the fat clients; and I don't think Watson is, either. He is not responsible for the prejudices modern readers project onto him.

#letters from watson #the greek interpreter #fatness #literature #non sims

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aloysiavirgata · 3 months

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Title: Fern Hill

Rating: NC-17

Timeline: pre-series

Category: XF/The Fall crossover

Summary: For everyone who asked for a Stella/Mulder prequel from my little prompt ficlet

Author’s Note:

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,

Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

The blonde two stools down is eyeing him unashamedly. She’s got on tight jeans and a white cable knit sweater, summer-wheat hair straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Eyes like Lake Tashmoo before a storm.

“You’re Phoebe Green’s American,” she observes. It isn’t a question. Her voice is buttery, a burnt-velvet purr that makes the back of his neck tingle. She sips at a rock glass full of something tawny in the subfusc gloom of the pub.

Mulder, intrigued, moves next to her. “What the fuck?”

She blinks, the barest hint of a smirk tightening her lips. “I’m not wrong.”

“I’m not Phoebe’s anything,” he replies. “She stole my Pink Floyd sweatshirt and burned my Knicks hat. She fucked a vegetarian trumpet player.”

The blonde smiles fully now. “You’re marked forever, I’m afraid. You’ve some kind of animal name, haven’t you? Bear, was it?”

He knows she knows his name, this unsettling girl. Somehow, he knows she does. “Bear,” he agrees.

“Stella,” she says, holding out a slim, white hand. “You’re Fox.”

It’s a warm plum in her mouth. Delicious, desirable, something to be proud of. Belongs in the Ralph Lauren ad with her pre-Raphaelite face and flag of golden hair.

“Mulder,” he says, shaking the proffered hand.

“Mulder.” She squeezes his fingers, then withdraws.

Mulder sips his gin and tonic, pondering. “So you know Phoebe socially,” he says. “That must be a hell of a thing. As a woman.”

Stella considers him down the length of her nose. She has the androgynous beauty of a Greek youth. A Roman statue of Minerva.

“Where do you think she got the idea for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s grave,” Stella asks.

He almost chokes on an ice cube.

“If you’re coughing you’re breathing,” she observes, dispassionate, as he nearly hacks up a lung.

Mulder’s heart rate settles back to normal after a moment. He looks at Stella, the hard lines of her cheekbones, her incongruously cute freckles.

He thinks of Stella and Phoebe together. Wonders if he could make that happen, their peony mouths and fine-boned faces. He would be willing to temporarily make up with Phoebe for it. Phoebe would love the theater of a dramatic apology and a threesome.

“Was the grave a hot tip or a shared experience?”

Stella only smiles, sphinx-link. Taps her glass in the bartender’s direction.

“Does it matter,” she asks, watching as her drink is refilled.

Tremendously.

“No. Do people do a lot of Brando impressions?” He clutches his t-shirt with an anguished expression.

She chuckles a bit at that and Mulder feels like the cleverest man in England. In the Northern Hemisphere.

“Plenty,” she says. “Which I like, because it creates a self-selecting population of people to avoid.”

People, he notes. Not men. He thinks of Phoebe again, her dark hair against Stella’s blonde, imagines ringing her up and what he’d say and-

Stella’s hand on his thigh. “Where do you live?” she asks. Her voice is obscene, her high breasts soft against the sweater, slender neck and perfume rich with amber and honey and musk.

He gulps at his drink. “Uni flat. You?”

“Summertown,” she murmurs. “It’ll be nicer than your place.”

Mulder blinks, impressed. His parents give him money but not Summertown money.

“Are you inviting me home with you, Stella?” he asks, low.

She considers him, swirling her glass. “I’m inviting you to my bed. I don’t need you lingering in my home.”

He laughs aloud while wondering if he is capable of falling for a woman who doesn’t have substantial emotional damage. “So you don’t want me to show up with two dozen roses and a box from Charbonnet et Walker?”

Stella sniffs disdainfully. “I’m not interested in the girlfriend role as a concept. I plan to finish school and be a detective.”

He perks up. “I’m planning on the FBI when I wrap up the DPhil. Don’t know that I’m interested in the girlfriend thing as a concept either at his point,” he says, knowing it savors strongly of bitterness.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stella says. “I think you’d make someone a very nice girlfriend.”

Storm-goddess eyes wicked over her glass.

He pays both tabs and watches her finish the Scotch.

***

Her flat is full of solid wood furniture and good upholstery. Some of the framed artwork appears original, and there’s Cross Townsend pen on her walnut secretary. A stack of leather notebooks that look like Smythsons or Conway Stewarts.

He wishes he could stop this, the eternal analysis.

Her bedroom smells of lemon wood polish and clean cotton and expensive unguents. The queen bed is made, an ivory silk robe draped at the foot of it. There’s no girlish clutter on her shelves, no stuffed bear on the pillow.

There’s a copy of Where the Wild Things Are on the mantel. “Seems a little below your reading level,” Mulder observes.

“It was my favorite book when I was little.” She touches the cover. “Well, one of my favorites at least. I rather wanted to be King of All Wild Things.”

He grins at her. “You wouldn’t have even needed the wolf suit I bet. You’re a bit scary, Stella.”

She snaps her teeth.

Mulder sees the two of them in her gilt-framed mirror, Stella fierce and delicate as a faerie out of Perrault. Her pale throat, her bright eyes. In the moment he wants a cantrip that will bind her.

Her face is serious again. She unbuttons his shirt with focused dexterity, her brows furrowed, her lips pursed. Dior Poison, he sees on the vanity, and gives a name to her scent.

Stella planes her hands over his chest. “Very nice,” she says, peering up through dusky lashes. She pulls her sweater over her head, drops it to the floor. Wriggles out of her jeans and kicks them aside.

He is hard as a fifteen year old.

“I try.” He hasn’t kissed her yet, even though her mouth reminds him of a little Parisian pastry and he wants to nibble at it. Apropos of which, Mulder had expected plain cotton lingerie but it’s all frou-frou lace confectionery trimmed with rosettes and ribbons. Feminine. Delightful. Flawless.

“God, you’re so-“

“Shhh,” she says, pushing him down onto her bed with a single, imperious finger. “I know all that.”

Stella straddles his lap and he’s somehow surprised that such a large presence should weigh almost nothing.

She leans into his grasping fingers, rolls against his tensed thighs. Sighs when he thumbs the front of her panties.

“Stella….”

She leans forward to kiss him, her hard belly against his own. Her clever hands at his fly.

“Let’s see how badly Phoebe fucked up, hmmm?”

***

They had wine from a Thermos and went to bed. She’s lithe and breathless in his arms, spine like worry beads against his palms.

He’d spoken to his father who helpfully reminded him that Samantha had gone missing around this time and shouldn’t he come home to see his mother?

Stella’s fully nude, hair a long braid over her shoulder, and he tugs it experimentally.

Stella makes a liquid noise in her throat, tightens around him.

He unwinds the elastic band and works the plait loose with his fingers. Spools her hair around his hand and pulls down hard until their lips are brushing.

“Fuck,” she hisses into his mouth, and it’s what he needs somehow, the grinding pain of her little teeth and he comes and comes and comes.

***

He’s headed home in six weeks with a DPhil and an acceptance to the FBI Academy and vague praise from his parents.

“Fox,” she groans against his temple. “Fucking hell.”

Mulder nips at her throat, her hair spread behind her like the tail of a comet. “Why did you call me Fox?”

“Why did your mother call you Fox?” she asks.

“She is a very sick woman,” he says into Stella’s patrician ear.

She laughs and bites his lower lip. “Me too,” she mumbles, and her heels dig into his kidneys.

***

They never said goodbye, not really, and he meant to let her go like the tide.

His flight home is in thirty six hours.

“I thought I was ready but I- a pregnant woman,” she says flatly into the phone. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He lets her use him, her lean swimmer’s legs against his own and her skirt rucked up at her waist and her tailored Met jacket and blouse fallen open along her breasts, lacy cobweb of a bra fighting for its life.

He gazes up at her, pink and silken as rose petals.

White and distant as the moon.

“Hurt me,” she gasps. “Mulder, please, I want-”

He hurts them both.

***

He leads her into the hotel room shower, washes her princess hair while she stands still, staring at nothing.

***

He left bruises along the softest parts of her. The hidden parts, where she asked. The palimpsest of her skin will be flawless again in a few days, and he tries not to think about how else the dark things in her might like to play. He absorbed her pain like charcoal absorbs poison.

“I truly don’t know if I can do this,” she remarks to the ceiling, palms against her eyes.

He tastes her on his lips, oysters and Sauternes. He wants to nudge his face back between her thighs in the way we are called by water. She is primordial and essential and delicate and terrifying. He has an Ivy League degree in psychology, even if it’s only from Pennsylvania, and he still can’t figure her out.

“You can,” he promises, like a faithful acolyte.

“And what does it mean if I can,” she asks and he wonders the same thing about himself.

***

He fucks her against an alley wall, thick with refuse and ennui. She’s gorgeous the way that supernovas and jaguars are gorgeous.

“Stella,” he groans. “Jesus.”

“You’ll miss your flight,” she mumbles, then laughs at the idea that they care.

“You going to see me off?” he pants into her neck. “Kiss me goodbye at the gate?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I told you I have a meeting in 45 minutes.” She hitches a knee up higher. “Oh, god, like that.”

Mulder grinds into her until she cries out, nipping at his chin, his earlobes.

He follows her into the starburst haze of an orgasm, his back shuddering, and Stella hot and twitchy against his chest.

They breathe together for a moment, riding out the wave.

“We both have to go,” Stella reminds him. “A parting of the ways this time, I think.”

Mulder lowers her to the ground. He ties off the condom and shoves it into a garbage can.

He zips his jeans up, watches Stella smooth her uniform, her hair.

“Here’s lookin’ at you kid,” he says, rather lamely.

But Stella smiles one of her rare, full smiles. “One day when you’re a world famous profiler and I’m Commissioner we’ll team up,” she says.

He brushes brick dust from her shoulder. “Why are you running the Met and I’m a lowly Special Agent still?”

She looks confused. “Because I like to be in charge and you don’t. You didn’t want to be King of All Wild Things.”

He palms her jaw, thumbs her cheekbone. He smiles fondly down at her.

“Don’t,” Stella warns.

Mulder shakes his head. “No. Go, run the Met and remember the little people when you ascend the throne.”

She covers her hand with hers for a moment. “Phoebe fucked up badly,” she says. “Now go back to the colonies and teach them how to make a proper cup of tea.”

“We just throw it in the Harbor.”

Stella squeezes his hand before taking it from her face. She walks briskly out of the alley without ever looking back.

***

He makes the plane, though barely. He falls asleep over Dublin. He dreams of sailboats and lonely islands and even in dreaming he knows Stella is right. He wants to be where someone loves him best of all.

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #my fic #prompt #stella gibson #fox mulder #bbc the fall

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feliphilia · 11 months

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Why'd they name sigma as sigma. Why not some nice Japanese or russian name. Why sigma?

It sounds so embarrassing to say it in public.

How am I supposed to express my love for this baby boy without being misunderstood for the math sigma or the toxic sigma.

I hate the name but I love the character. Hes so pretty it makes me cry😭

Like this-

This baby? Is named sigma?

This awkward creature? This one? Really?

Are you sure? Look at him. Ain't no way he named sigma💀

Who even named him that. He shld have some cute lil name. 😔

They did a good job naming all characters after dead authors anol. Like chuuya and fyodor and dazai and everyone else but why him alone? I want to change his name😭

Name him after maybe sir doyle or something-

#sigma #sigma bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd #fyodor dostoevsky #nikolai gogol #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu

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thefisherqueen · 8 months

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All right, reading The Bruce-Partington Plans this evening! Two more stories after this and I've caught up with Letters from Watson :)

In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. It blows my mind how normal this kind of heavy, extremely unhealthy smog was in this time. Makes me wonder what in another 100 years people will have going like "You lived like that?!" (I hope it's parking lots and highways and office buildings)

But when, for the fourth time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endure this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction. Bored Sherlock Holmes, oddly cute

“Look out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim.” Oh my, Doyle was really in his tiger fangirl fase when writing these last few stories

Well, well! What next?” said he. “Brother Mycroft is coming round.” “Why not?” I asked. “Why not? It is as if you met a tram-car coming down a country lane. Mycroft has his rails and he runs on them. We'll get to meet Mycroft again! :) Also, quite a funny image, Mycroft running on rails

You told me that he had some small office under the British government.” Holmes chuckled. “I did not know you quite so well in those days. One has to be discreet when one talks of high matters of state. You are right in thinking that he under the British government. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British government.” And this was me thinking that the BBC series had sucked Mycroft being this whole goverment mastermind out of their thumb. So that's canon?:O

“Well, his position is unique. He has made it for himself. Nice parallel between the brothers here!

“There has been an inquest,” said I, “and a good many fresh facts have come out. Looked at more closely, I should certainly say that it was a curious case.” “Judging by its effect upon my brother, I should think it must be a most extraordinary one.” He snuggled down in his armchair. “Now, Watson, let us have the facts.” I just love this interaction. Holmes being all excited and trusting Watson to tell the important things to him :)

So the case is about a dead clerk that was found - murdered, in all likelihood - carrying some seriously important papers. Which he himself had stolen. And some of which were again stolen of him. Intriguing.

I'm hoping for some fun investigations in tunnels and along train tracks (I hope our men are careful)

If the papers were guarded with the same 'super secure' protective measures as the secret papers we've seen so far, they couldn't have been hard to steal

The actual official guardian of the papers is the famous government expert, Sir James Walter, whose decorations and sub-titles fill two lines of a book of reference. He has grown gray in the service, is a gentleman, a favoured guest in the most exalted houses, and, above all, a man whose patriotism is beyond suspicion. I already don't trust him. At least it's not a colonel?

“Has the fact been verified?” “Yes; his brother, Colonel Valentine Walter, has testified to his departure from Woolwich, and Admiral Sinclair to his arrival in London; so Sir James is no longer a direct factor in the problem.” But his brother is! Very suspicious

“Well, well!” said Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. “Come, Watson! And you, Lestrade, could you favour us with your company for an hour or two? Off they go!

It was one of my friend's most obvious weaknesses that he was impatient with less alert intelligences than his own. Savage, Watson

Watson, we have done all we can here. We need not trouble you any further, Mr. Lestrade. I think our investigations must now carry us to Woolwich.” No don't leave the creepy tunnels and train tracks yet :( I want more adventure

No theories yet. I can't figure out what Holmes means by points and curves and not wanting to investigate the train's carriages

“That should be helpful, Watson,” he remarked as we took our seats in the Woolwich train. “We certainly owe Brother Mycroft a debt for having introduced us to what promises to be a really very remarkable case.” It's 'we' and 'us'. They are so Together

“The end is dark to me also, but I have hold of one idea which may lead us far. The man met his death elsewhere, and his body was on the roof of a carriage.” That explains a lot: why there was a loud thud, why the clerk hadn't a ticket, and also why there was no blood on or near the tracks

The house of the famous official was a fine villa with green lawns stretching down to the Thames. As we reached it the fog was lifting, and a thin, watery sunshine was breaking through. A butler answered our ring. “Sir James, sir!” said he with solemn face. “Sir James died this morning.” Oh! There's a second murder victim?

“It was this horrible scandal,” said he. “My brother, Sir James, was a man of very sensitive honour, and he could not survive such an affair. It broke his heart." Ah, of course, no murder but the mysterious victorian Death by Sadness disease. If he really is dead. Btw, I don't trust the brother

I have a theory: mr. colonel learns of the top secret papers because likely his scientist brother can't keep his mouth shut, either convices his brother to take the papers home, or he steals his key and takes them himself. Anyway, Cadogan West catches them being all suspicious and impulsively (he was hot-headed) follows them to try to stop them. Which doesn't end well, he knows too much so he's murdered, and they place 7 of the papers upon his body so he can take the blame. Of course the brothers cover for each other

Arthur was the most single-minded, chivalrous, patriotic man upon earth. He would have cut his right hand off before he would sell a State secret confided to his keeping. It is absurd, impossible, preposterous to anyone who knew him.” Always trust the opinion of his fiancee. This young clerk was innocent

My friend's face grew graver still. “Anything else?” “He said that we were slack about such matters—that it would be easy for a traitor to get the plans.” Poor security. Why am I not surprised

“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly he darted away into the fog.” “Without a word?” “He gave an exclamation; that was all. Clearly no planned theft then.

“I'm afraid,” said Holmes, smiling, “that all the queen's horses and all the queen's men cannot avail in this matter.” He had spread out his big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. Holmes is a map nerd! Same, Holmes, same. Now the question: what clue did he find from the map?

All the long November evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last, shortly after nine o'clock, there arrived a messenger with a note: Am dining at Goldini's Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel, and a revolver. Danger date! Love it. No clue what a dark lantern is

Try one of the proprietor's cigars. They are less poisonous than one would expect. That is not reassuring at all, Holmes

When I found that the leading international agent, who had just left London, lived in a row of houses which abutted upon the Underground, I was so pleased that you were a little astonished at my sudden frivolity.” So the colonel was innocent this time? Or did he still steal the papers, and then sell them to this agent?

We must bear in mind that Oberstein has gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that is precisely what we are about to make.” “Could we not get a warrant and legalize it?” “Hardly on the evidence.” They are going to break in! Exciting!

He sprang up and shook me by the hand. “I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he, and for a moment I saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once more. Awww :) Be gay, do crime, boys!

“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the table. Finally he sprang to his feet. Colonel! I haven't given up on my theory yet

I think we might drive round to the offices of the Daily Telegraph, and so bring a good day's work to a conclusion.” I guess that Holmes wants to lure the other accomplice out by placing a new message

But some of these days you'll go too far, and you'll find yourself and your friend in trouble.” “For England, home and beauty—eh, Watson? Holmes you flirt

“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that we've got him!” “That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it convenient to come with us about eight o'clock to Caulfield Gardens we might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.” We're nearing the conclusion :)

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the whole of that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he had undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part I had none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence, appeared to be interminable. The great national importance of the issue, the suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we were trying—all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition. This is a wonderful bit of insight into their characters. Watson is anxiety-inclined. Holmes is able to switch that off to a perhaphs unsafe level - anxiety helps keeps you alive, after all, not good to not have it at all.

The man glared round him, staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped sown from his lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter. The colonel again. I fucking knew it. Careful, Watson, if you can find more words for his beauty you might faint yourself

I did not murder him! I'm innocent! I only did nothing to prevent it and then did not call for help and then helped get rid of the body!

Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that my friend spent a day at Windsor, whence be returned with a remarkably fine emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that it was a present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had once been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. Cadogan West's fiancee gave Holmes a present? That is so sweet

Another fun read. I couldn't care too much about the fate of those papers, but it was a good case. The yellow smog and trains and tunnels added a lot of atmosphere. And Holmes and Watson interacted very cute in this story

#letters from watson #sherlock holmes #the bruce-partington plans

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transsexualraskolnikov · 5 months

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im randomly thinking about the order of the clock tower and how agatha christie is the only comformed member (/leader). i’m thinki about the other possible members so here’s who i think will be in it!!!

lewis carroll – if they do put him in, which i think they will, his ability/personality may mirror that of lucy and or gogol. lucy with the whole special room kind of thing, i think it would suit the wonderland theme a lot and gogol because he acts as if he came straight out of the wonderland lmao

sir arthur conan doyle – okay this one is kind of tricky but I MEAN C’MON. a show about detectives NOT including one of the most famous detective writers of all time??? impossible. yet i still say tricky because i have no idea how he’d clash with agatha christie as the organization leader. but he’d definitely serve as ranpo and poe’s foil, that goes without saying

(also this is super self-indulgend but it would be SO cute if he also ended up joining ADA poe-style. like he just starts hanging around ranpo and helping him out. ranpo has a harem of stray foreign detectives. PLEASE.)

JANE AUSTEN – this one goes without saying. if they’re doing british writers, she MUST be included. i have no idea what her ability would do tho

charlotte brontë or the brontë sisters – from an anime perspective, having three sisters with vastly different personalities would be JUST SO COOL. if i was making bsd, i’d definitely go for doing all three – charlotte, emily, and anne, because there’s so much you could do with that sister dynamic + their abilities (which could be interconnected or reliant on one another?? aaah that’d be so cool)

mary shelley, oscar wilde, charles dickens, and thomas hardy are also all safe bets. mary shelley’s ability would probably be just straight-up the frankenstein’s monster but c’mon. that’d be so cool.

maybe they’ll put in john milton with his paradise lost to mirror dostoevsky’s and hawthorne’s faith? idk i think that could be very cool. maybe he’d be a completely different side of the same coin when it comes to that? instead of fyodor wanting to eradicate ability users, milton could be of the belief that ability users are the chosen ones?

anyways, whoever they put in the order of the clock tower, i’m way too excited anyway

#I ALSO 1000% BELIEVE THAT SIGMA IS IAN FLEMING #I MEAN C’MON.#THE GUN IN THE MEURSAULT ARC????? that’s the james bond aesthetic for you.#bsd #bsd theories

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spicywhumper · 2 months

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febuwhump 2024: day 22. "you weren't meant to be here" + @femslash-february bingo 2024 (dark edition): betrayal

series: untiles / rating: teen and up audiences

trigger/content warning: minor character death, implied past child abuse.

Suffice to say, I do not like being hundreds of kilometers away from solid ground. As safe as the station is, arguably safer than the ground, it’ll never be somewhere I want to be. But if Segal told to be here, I’ll be here, loosing my job is even more unpleasant than spending time on floating in a metal box in space.

At least, Fessender is here (she gets way too annoying if I date call her by her first name in any minimally professional setting). Which means that she’ll distract me by making me feel stupid with her endless rambling about whatever side project she’s working on.

“Davidson!” I hoped he wouldn’t be on her lab, Diana – I refuse to mentally refer to her as “Fessender” all the time – blinks at me like she didn’t expect me to be here. “Finally, took you long enough.”

“Well, sir, I can’t take a cab here,” he rolls his eyes, aware that I did take the first ship after he ordered me to come up here. “Why am I needed here?”

“Remember agent Doyle?” I nod. “She’s giving a presentation,” he points at Diana. “She’s going to need help with whatever they’re showing.”

“I mentioned a foot soldier,” she’s frowning at him, she sounds so soft and gentle that it’s almost easy to not notice that she’s upset.

“Pretty sure Davidson is more than capable to do whatever you need.”

She nods: “I understand.”

“Good!” He beans, I’m not sure how I got myself a ray of sunshine as my boss. He nods at her, that’s when he’d grab your shoulder and give you a nice and friendly squeeze. She froze the one time he did it, so he never tried again. “I’ll be going now, she can explain whatever’s going on.”

Even with how he doesn’t step too closer to her personal space, Diana only relaxes when he’s out of the room. We don’t talk about it, we don’t need to talk about it, I’ve met her parents.

“So…”

“You weren’t meant to be here.”

“And I thought you liked me,” I fall on the chair I always use, she’s still frowning, Cute. “What Doyle and You are doing?”

“Weapon’s presentation.”

“What am I supposed to do then?”

“Not be there. It’s a weapon for footsoldiers.”

“That doesn’t make much sense, babe.”

“Don’t- you’re not supposed to use pet names here.”

“And?” She gestures between us. “You know you’re supposed to stay quiet about it.”

“I know, I know, sorry. But really, can’t I help?”

“I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?” She sighs, defeated, and takes all my will power to not lean over the desk and kiss her all over her stupid cute face. “Go mingle around, I’ll check over the project with Doyle.”

“I know you, it’s already safe.”

“Yeah, I’d like to be double sure.”

That’s her way to all but kick me off her lab, she’s to nice to actually kick me out.

So I do go and mingle. As much as I might dislike staying up here, the regular agents are quite the pleasant people to be around. Half of them think Diana is the best person around, which makes them quite the approved people by me.

After a few hours of roaming the stupidly large space station, making small talk, one of the newer agents finds me and takes me to Diana’s lab.

Part of me really, really doesn’t like the way Doyle stands closer than every other person – except me. The rest of me isn’t pathetic and jealous and does like that she’s comfortable around someone else. Doyle’s sitting on the chair, reading something on the monitor in front of her, as Diana’s leaning over her shoulder and, I assume, commenting on what Doyle’s reading.

That’s her mentor, don’t be jealous. I clear my throat, Diana doesn’t jerk away like she probably would if there was something else going on in. Doyle looks up, acknowledges me and is back to what she has been reading.

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Diana’s the normal amount of nervous she gets before any event where she has to interact with more than two people at once. She looks like she needs a hug – ok, she always looks like she needs a hug.

“What do you need me to do?”

“You’ll destroy a couple of dummies,” she nudges Doyle. “We’ll be late.” The agent nods and gets up. “Follow me.”

We do.

The room is packed with agents, from foot soldiers to high ranking agent, including Segal. He likes to sit among the other officials despite being the director. It’s an arena, it feels almost suffocating to be in the middle of it, dummies around me and Diana fussing over me and the weapon. It doesn’t look any different from regular shotguns, it’s incredibly heavier, like the other laser and light-based ones she designed before. That’s why they’re for guards that stay on one spot, snipers and such. More fitting me than foot soldiers.

The clock turns three in the afternoon, the arena’s light turn off.

What the fu- I hold the gun tighter, even if I’m not sure of its destruction power. The lights come back, dim and weak. Then there’s smoke. So. Much. Smoke. Thick, a sickening shade of green, smells foul, almost like rotting corpses. It seems to come from the ventilation system.

“Put the gun down,” the cold barrel of one presses against the back of my neck, Doyle’s voice is muffled. I obey on instinct.

People are coughing, it sounds wet and sick. Most of the smoke hover on the seats, the panicked agents are just shapes amidst the poisonous fog.

“What have you- what are you doing?” It’s hard to ask before I’m coughing. “Agent-”

“My job,” she grabs my shoulder to make me turn, the pain fills my chest and down my torso like liquid fire. She’s wearing a mask, I’ve seen Diana with one of those. Diana-

“What?”

“My job. The oh so called terrorists you’ve been fighting against,” her eyes are bright, I can almost see the twisted smirk on her. “The people that take in the agents harmed by your righteous agency. We’re weapons without a handler, you can say.”

There’s blood on my mouth: “I-” my knees hurt when they hit the metal floor.

“You weren’t meant to be here,” that’s not Doyle, I’m distracted by the pain just enough to not feel a second person approaching until the mask’ s pressed against my face. I grab the arm holding it in a desperate attempt to make it not go away. “I asked for a foot soldier.”

“Don’t whine, you did have an extra mask.”

Doyle’s the least important person on the room when Diana’s pressing the mask against my face, one on hers and her eyes shines in a shade of blue that looks haunting. Her other hand’s adjusting it on the back of my head.

“Diana…”

“I’m sorry,” all I can do is stare at her.

She looks apologetic, genuine, but also.. wrong.

“What have you done?”

“My job.”

#febuwhump 2024 #femslash feb bingo #whump #whump blog #whump community #whumpblr #lady whump

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amugoffandoms · 3 months

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Hi, I wanted to ask what are your favorite books, songs, animals, and games

heyo!! thank you so much for asking!

- what are your favorite books?

man this question reminds me that i haven't read in a while... djaioajo I really enjoy mystery/detective novels! I haven't finished reading the full series yet, but I've read some of the Sherlock Holmes novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle! I also enjoyed One of Us is Lying and One of Us is Next! Those books were really nice to read when I had down time and man do I enjoy detective books lol A book that I really enjoyed thoroughly is one I read in class, Twelve Angry Men, which is essentially the "script" of the play version haha. Twelve Angry Men was really interesting though! It's essentially about one of the jurors being the only Not Guilty verdict choosing person and he wants the other jurors to understand some of his points. OH AND HOW COULD I FORGET!! The Ethan I Was Before!! Truly a banger novel about loss. It's supposed to be a book for a younger audience, but like .. . ETHAN. .. KACEY .. .. CORALEE oh pain

- what are your favorite songs?

oh jeez, i'll be honest, before MILGRAM, I didn't listen to music that much?? I used to have a playlist for this one fic I still need to work on, but it's not the best chill and do stuff playlist sometimes aiodjai Though, I think recently I've been listening to stuff like syudou, YOASOBI, Ayase, Chonny Jash, and MILGRAM of course :D

- what are your favorite animals?

man i really sound indecisive for not being sure, but there are so many cute little guys .. . . OKAY red pandas .. OR FOXES .. OR (EXPLODES)

- what are your favorite games?

OKAY HERE THIS ONE I'M PRETTY GOOD AT!!!! In no particular order... Doki Doki Literature Club! Limbus Company Ace Attorney Honkai Star Rail Roblox (specifically Arsenal, kills time :D) Super Danganronpa Another 2

Thank you for asking :D!!

#mug answers #the games one i am the most sure of JIODJAIOJDW

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dctrreids · 10 months

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------@medicbled said, " Gives forehead kisses and holds his hand "

------THE SUDDEN PRESS of lips was enough to tear his eyes away from the pages of leisure reading. eyes, bespectacled in the privacy of his own home, blinked a few times when the immediate follow-through was the pressure of a warm hand ... fingers tangling with his own. gloria made herself comfortable on the spot of the couch beside him while reid shifted enough to accommodate her without breaking the link of their digits.

her palm was warm without being sweaty or unpleasant and where reid might have been a bit nervous for someone in his personal space so intimately he felt himself sink into a feeling of safety once she'd settled. he even offered a squeeze while he balanced his book on his knee, turned the page with his free hand. he'd have asked her what it was for if he didn't already know the answer ---she'd claim it was because she wanted to, or maybe say he looked cute before losing herself in her own story.

" did you know that sir arthur conan doyle ended sherlock holmes' life in the final problem because he was tired of writing the character? there was no real ambiguity about the scuffle that happened between moriarty and holmes, and the book even ended with watson deducing that sherlock and moriarty had perished, lamenting that he was the best and wisest man he'd ever known. however there was such a substantial backlash over the death of such a beloved character that conan doyle actually wound up bringing sherlock holmes back in the return of sherlock holmes. "

#iv. interactions #verse. main #medicbled #medicbled 2 #dork

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whoviancumberbunny · 2 years

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The Awakening of The Old……Memories

Inspired By this prompt & This Writing prompt from @writing-challenges-and-prompts & this prompt From @givethispromptatry and this Prompt From @soprompt and Prompt Numbers 3, 22, & 24 from Teasing prompts by @creativepromptsforwriting

Authors Note: this is in the same time line ats my two previous stories

Love Takes A Toll Ace In the Hole

The Awakening of The Old……Memories

Story By Melissa C. Scraper

Based On Characters From American Horror Story and Characters Created By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Ana looked at him, they had arrived in the New Orleans the night before and Clay had barely slept. “Clay, you are not alone.”

“I know, but I hang my head low ‘cause it is a part of me.” He looked at her and took her hand before he goes to the front door of his child hood home and he knocked on the door. He and Ana covered their noses it was obvious that Alicia hardly left the house and gave up after her son left. He cringed away as she reached out for him “Don’t invite me in Alicia. No mother should treat her son like a replacement for the husband who left her. I am the person I am because of you for the longest time I didn’t think I was worthy of Love.”

As he and Ana walked away from the house “Kyle come back.”

Clay “Kyle no longer Exists. I Am Clay Austin Zabel. I buried Kyle Spencer at the funeral of my friends after that bus accident.” He takes Ana’s hand as they go back to the rental car. ”We all deserve a softer touch, than life deals us sometimes. If you love someone, you should never hurt them.” They drive for a while so he can clear his head. And they stop at park “Follow me.” He said as he walks around to her side of the car and opens the door for her “I love you.”

They arrive at secluded area in the park “I am glad you encouraged me to come back here. The ghosts of the past will always exist.”

Ana looked at him and caressed his cheek “I love you, Clay. You never told me about the accident tht killed your friends.”

“Survivor’s guilt I suppose.” He said kissing her hand “before I lose my nerve.” He takes out his phone and starts playing their favorite song “I really would like to hang out together for, like, a really long time. Like, the rest of our lives. I got us these cool rings we can wear if you agree.” He opens ring box containing silver ring set with Dark Brown Cat’s Eye stone.

“It is the stone I said reminded me of your eyes when we were helping sherlock with the case at the gem show a few months ago.” Ana said “What kind of proposal is that?” she laughed

“I decided I was going to ask you to marry me when we were at your stepfather’s family home, in Maine.” He had never understood what she meant by scent of a dream, when she described living in Collinwood.

“Cup of tea?” she asked as she poured tea from the thermos into his cup.

“Now I understand the story you wrote for creative writing.” He paused

“You Mean Winter’s Heart? That’s why we stayed at rose cottage even though I am not biologically a Collins, I still have legal ownership of Rose Cottage.”

“So the man who built it said it could only be owned and lived in by female member of the Collins family. And until the 1960s it was then the female heirs started disappearing?”

“Charles blames it on a family curse. I am more inclined to believe building mansion facing a cliff was probably a bad idea” he laughs

He smiled at her “I do pay attention to the things you do. I know we’ve only known each other for a little under two years. But You are my muse. Life is never Dull when your uncle convinces us to help him with a case.” He looked at her and ran his finger along her jaw “Not everyone can look as good as me… but you come close.”

She laughs “Being cute cannot save you from everything.” As he leans forward and kisses her “I am more myself in London than you are in Maine.”

“You know you love me.” He said “it comes in handy dating a woman who has two fathers who can call in favors. You didn’t seem like a person who would like to sit on the ground.”

A few weeks later back in London…At the Diogenese Club. Ana and Clay sign in on the guest book. They are Escorted to the Strangers’ Room “Hello Dad, why have you summoned us to the den of apathy, as Sherlock calls this place. But I understand everyone needs refuge from their everyday lives.”

“For some reason, I have yet to fathom. Your aunt Eurus wants to see you without kidnapping you this time and drugging you.” He points them to chairs “Please sit.” He rings a pel and someone brings them tea and finger sandwiches. “Mr. Zabel, I will admit at first I wasn’t sure what to think of you. But i realized we have common ground we both want Anastasia to be safe.”

He paused and carefully worded what he spoke next. “Even though I have only known you very short period of time, relatively speaking. No pun intended. You are still family, Ana, and I Worry about you. Constantly. As well as sherlock in his owl way. I have feeling you are too kind hearted to admit that you see the people around the way I do. Like goldfish.” He hands them a box containing keys to a house “You can keep the art studio but I just think it would make more sense for you to live in a house.”

“I am guessing this is the house we were looking at before we went to the states last month. We both know you have someone following us while we are out in public.” Ana said as she looks at the deed “Previous family has owned it since the 1920s and it is Art Deco and Nouveau style décor.”

Mycroft nods “Also a few of my clients have requested Mister Zabel do paintings for them. They have been to his solo exhibition and they quite enjoy his landscapes.” He hands him three addresses

“Thank you, Mycie…. Mister Holmes.” He said as he stuck the pieces of paper in his wallet “Do I need to be natural born citizen to be a member of this club?”

“Not really most of the members work for government.”

After they leave the club Ana texts Sherlock a photo of her hand. He paused in the middle of leaving his client’s home and looked at the photo, smiling to himself. The Holmes Family wasn’t into social media. So Sherlock hadn’t heard about the engagement until Ana had tea with Molly and Mary. “John, I suppose Mary already told you. Ana and Clay are getting married.”