#it truly is about him finding his way back to life through lisbon (and the team). we love to see it

[lovelydrusilla]

found a wild @lisbonsteresa tweet while scrolling through pinterest lmao

#this made me laugh #so true chelsea #it truly is about him finding his way back to life through lisbon (and the team). we love to see it #and revenge ofc #can't forget the revenge #but yeah #the journey (quest for revenge) was truly about the friends we made along the way (being in love with your coworker and best friend) #the mentalist #jisbon #teresa lisbon #patrick jane #jane x lisbon #tmsource #tmedit #tm posting #live blogging #simon baker #robin tunney #meme

[supernaturalgirl20]

Taking a Chance

Part 10

Pairings: Marcus Pike x F!reader

Warnings: Angst, cursing, mentions of stalking, mentions of mental illness/break, hospitalisation, reader in a coma, mentions of gun use, kidnapping. It’s just pure ANGST and I’m sorry 😞

Summary: After an amazing night with Marcus you discover you’re pregnant. What happens when you go to tell him and another women opens his door?!

A/N: we’re nearing the end now! Few more parts to go because I like to keep chapters short for effect!This part and the next one are pretty intense so brace yourselves. Just want to say thank you for the response on this it truly means the world 😍

Comments and reblog really appreciated 🥰

Marcus was a mix of emotions, his head spinning as the room you were in was swarmed with hospital staff. This was it, he could feel it. He finally had everything he ever wanted and it was going to be taken away from him. His mind was running a mile a minute that he didn’t hear Maria calling his name.

“Marcus!”

“Maria! What are you doing here? Did you see Theresa on your way here?”

“Marcus I need to tell you…”

“I can’t right now I need to find her.”

Marcus began to walk away from her when she quickly grabbed his arm and shout at him.

“Marcus! You are going to listen to me and listen good. That bitch pushed Y/N down those stairs, it’s was no accident.”

“What?”

“I have proof too. The cctv camera caught her in action. I knew something wasn’t right that day and now I’m here to get her and make her pay.”

The alarms could be heard again from your room and both heads turn towards it quickly.

“What’s going on?”

“Theresa pulled the plug on Y/N’s breathing machine. Maria…..”

Marcus crumbles to the floor, his body shaking as he sobs violently.

“Shh, Marcus it’s going to be ok, Y/N is so strong and she loves you so so much, she’s going to pull through.”

“But what….sniff…..if she….dies….oh god…..sniff….I can’t…”

“No! You’re not doing this. You need to get up and go be with her. Leave Theresa to me.” Marcus nodded his head at her knowing she was right, you were his priority now. Suddenly loads of security guards rush past them shouting “code red”.

“What’s that about?”

“Like I said you go be with Y/N, I’ll sort out Theresa.”

Maria had a sinking feeling when security rushed past them but she didn’t want to worry Marcus further. Once he was back by your side she made her way towards one of the nurses.

“Sorry but what was that all about?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information.” Maria has an angry scowl on her face and practically shoves her FBI badge into her face.

“I think you’ll find you can. Now spill.”

“Oh it’s dreadful, the hospital is on lockdown someone has stolen a baby.”

“What? What baby?”

“Oh I’m not sure dear if you ask John he’s head of security.”

Maria rushes towards the nearest security guy she can find.

“I heard a baby’s been stolen what baby?” She has her FBI badge ready this time.

“Uh a baby Pike.”

“Fuck! That’s my friends baby. Who took her? Are they still in the hospital?”

“We’ve the place on lockdown and we’re 99% sure she’s still in the building.”

“She?”

“Yeah one of the other mothers saw a women looking suspicious, described her as roughly 5:4 long brown hair, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt.”

“Ok well I need one of your radios and I’m calling in for back up. This woman’s name is Theresa Lisbon and she’s dangerous. She’s tried to kill a women twice this month so we need to proceed with caution.”

“Jesus ok yeah, here take this and do you need a gun?”

“No I’m ok. Oh and if you don’t mind don’t tell the Pikes they have enough going on, I’ll sort this out once and for all.”

“You got it boss.”

Marcus was shaking as he entered your room, he thought the doctor was going to tell him you were dead. He couldn’t imagine a life without you now, but he was stunned when he looked up and there you were sitting up in bed, the doctor doing a few checks on you.

“You’re ….you’re awake..I thought..” you smile at him as the doctor hands you a glass of water.

“I’m…..ok..”

The doctor turns to Marcus, “your wife will make a full recovery, when the plug was pulled she was already waking up luckily. She will need loads of rest and she may find it difficult to speak for long periods of time from the dryness in her throat. All in all if things continue we can discharge her in two days. I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Thank you doc, for everything.”

“Just doing my job.”

Marcus hadn’t taken his eyes off you the whole time and now that you were alone he rushes to your side and places his lips gently on yours.

“Oh god I thought I’d lose you. I love you so much baby. Thank you for coming back to me.”

You place your hand gently on his cheek, “I’m not leaving you that easy.”

Your hand goes to your stomach and your eyes are full of panic. “The baby?!”

“She’s just fine. Healthy baby girl.”

You start sobbing and Marcus wraps his arms around you. “What wrong baby?”

“I thought our baby died, it must of been a dream. Where is she?”

“She’s in the neonatal unit, I haven’t gone to see her….I…..I couldn’t not without you. It wasn’t right.”

“Oh Marcus I wouldn’t have minded, how about we ho see her together.”

“Maybe we should wait, you just woke up baby.”

“I’ve rested enough trust me, I want to see her.”

“Ok baby, let me get a wheelchair.”

Marcus helps you into it and wraps a blanket around your legs before wheeling you down to the ward.

“I’m sorry but this ward is on lockdown, no one in or out.”

“What? Why?”

“A baby’s been taken.”

You and Marcus look at each other, a silent communication passing between you. Deep down you know it’s your baby.

Maria had organised the small team that arrived into groups of two and each took a floor of the hospital. They were turning up empty handed and she was starting to get extremely frustrated, when an idea hits her.

“Tim I’m heading to the roof, I want you to get half the team on the ground and tell the others to follow me up there but remain hidden.”

“On it.”

Making her way up the stairs her heart is in her mouth, what if she’s too late? What if she’s completely wrong?

Walking into the roof Maria let’s out a sigh of relief when she sees Theresa standing there, baby in her arms. She approaches slowly not wanting to startle her, when Theresa suddenly shouts at her.

“Stay back Maria, don’t come any closer.”

“Theresa you need to calm down, please give me the baby, you don’t want to yet her do you. You wouldn’t want to hurt Marcus?”

“No never! I’m doing this because I love him, we can finally be together.”

She looks down at the baby wrapped in her arms and all she can see is you, even though she has a head of brown hair and Marcus’s beautiful brown eyes, she still sees you.

“Now that Y/N is dead we can raise her together.”

“Theresa, Marcus is worried about you about his baby girl, just hand her over to me and we can sort this out.”

Theresa moves backwards getting closer to the edge each time and Maria is frantic trying to think of anything to get the baby safely into her arms.

“I want Marcus up here.”

“I can get him but I need you to hand over the baby first ok.”

She’s looking between Maria and the baby trying to decide what to do, when her feet start to move slowly towards Maria. The little baby girl is starting to cry and wriggle in her arms and she hands her out gently to Maria before the door to the roof bursts open and is swarmed with agents.

“You lied to me.” Theresa is furious now as she pulls out a gun and aims it at Maria. “I’m going to kill you for this. I killed Y/N and now I’m going to do the same to you.”

The gun is fired and her body hits the ground, all that can be heard are the baby’s cries, loud and piercing as the team swarms her.

Part 11

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#pedro pascal #marcus pike x female reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x female reader #marcus pike #pedro pascal fanfiction #the mentalist fanfiction #marcus pike x reader

[pascalslittlebrat]

What Hurts the Most

Rating: M 

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Word Count: 4450

Warnings: Some language , brief mentions of sex(just really memory, nothing detailed truly just mention), mention of anxiety, honestly this is pure angst and I’m really sorry, grab a snack, some tea, and maybe some tissues.

Summary: Marcus Pike was the last person you thought would ever break your heart, that would hurt you. You can only hope one day you’ll understand.

A/N: I wrote this as I tried to process something and decided to share it. This brought out an emotion in me, that had me crying through so much of it, and I’m really sorry to our baby Marcus for taking this out on him. May you guys enjoy and I’m sorry it you end up needing tissues. I recommend “What Hurts the Most” by Rascal Flats to listen to when reading this if you want to get more in your feels or any sad love song that you might listen to when heartbroken, that song really encompassed this whole thing for me. I apologize for the emotions this may bring, enjoy xoxo

Series Masterlist

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Epilogue

Masterlist Taglist

“I…I promise you y/n, I didn’t know…I didn’t know,” your best friend of 8 years sobs out, his arms are around your waist, tears are streaming down his handsome face, his brown eyes are dull and missing the light they always carried. You wanted to hug him again, you wanted to wake up from this, to find out this is all just a nightmare, but this wasn’t a nightmare, this was real life.

Your own arms are still around his own waist, from the embrace you both had just shared. The last embrace you’ll ever share again, you can’t help but remind yourself. You know what’s going to happen after this. You look at him, tears falling out of your own eyes, God why did it have to come to this?

You want to yell at him, call him a liar, tell him to stop digging the knife in your heart further. He’s a fucking FBI agent for christ’s sake, you both would always have conversations about how well he could read people. How could you believe him when he’s telling you that he didn’t know you’ve been in love with him?

“I.. I can’t- I can’t do this Marcus.. I can’t be what you want me to be, I don’t even know exactly what that is,” you choke out, your knees are shaking, your chest hurts from the pain, this pain knowing it was over, 8 years of friendship was gone, that the man you had trusted with everything in your being, had broken you in a way that you never expected.

Marcus looks away from you to look up at the sky, you could tell he was trying to compose himself. In 8 years of knowing this man, you had never seen him like this, so fragile and broken, clearly hurt and sorry for the pain he’s caused you. You know a part of you should feel good about this, knowing he’s as broken up about this as you are. But you can’t, you can’t because it hurts, it fucking hurts so much. It doesn’t change what has happened. It doesn’t take back all the secret moments you both shared, all the ways you gave yourself to him.

“I know you might not believe me, but I’m sorry-I’m so sorry, you’re my best friend, I-I never wanted to hurt you,” he breathes out, his face is red under the porch light, he looks even more boyish, younger than he ever has before, yet so worn out at the same time. You realize in this moment that this is the most open you’ve seen him: none of the walls he built since Lisbon were up, he wasn’t trying to act like he was numb to emotions, this was all raw pure emotion he was showing, he was letting you truly see him. This was him, one hundred percent all Marcus Pike, and it only made you cry further knowing it had to take this for him to show you this side of him again.

You shake your head at him, biting your lip as you look away from those soft brown eyes that had made you feel like you were important, that you had mattered to him. It’s a little more complicated than me, the reason why I’ve been distant from you...is because I’ve started recently and unexpectedly seeing someone, the words replayed in your mind and you can’t help the sob that escapes your lips or the way your hands clenched onto his t-shirt, the pain of the words twisting the knife deeper into your heart as you remember the reason you were here outside of his house.

You had trusted Marcus, you trusted him more than anyone in this world. You had brought down all your own walls for him, given him every part of you: the good, the bad, the ugly. You had told him things about yourself that no one knew, all your secrets were his, as much as his had been yours. He had always been there for you, every good day, every bad day, with just the right words of encouragement. He had become your rock over the past 4 years, after you both were able to reconnect when you and your ex boyfriend broke up and you weren’t made to keep your distance from him anymore.

Marcus had helped fix up your heart, he held you as you cried the night after you had found Greg in bed with another woman. He had picked you up from Greg’s house, holding your hand the whole drive as you sobbed. He had taken you to his backyard because he said he found it to be the most calming place when everything in the world felt like it was too much. You had sat on the bench in his garden, head on his shoulder, his chin on top of your head, his arm wrapped around you and holding you close. You had you cried your eyes out and he kept letting you know that it was okay, to let it all out.

And now here you were, crying even more heart broken than that night, feeling like every part of you had been ripped into pieces. “I-I don’t believe you…you…this hurts, this hurts more than anything, more than Greg…I-I trusted you, I gave you everything…you told me you weren’t ready for anything…to see anyone,” you sob out as you remember every conversation, every time he said he wasn’t emotionally ready for anyone since Lisbon, the pain he still seemed to carry.

That’s why you both had started your little friend’s with benefits thing and you knew it was stupid, especially when you knew before it started that you were already feeling things for him, but you had decided to just accept what you could get and there was that part of you that always thought he felt the same. A part that thought he felt the same way about you, especially when things proved to be more than sex.

It wasn’t like you two would just talk every now and then, just meet a handful of times to have sex, no you both talked to each other constantly throughout the day, sending each other cute animal pictures or memes, or just complaining to each other about your days. You both would have late night deep conversations, asking each other about hopes and dreams, sharing stories, secrets, talking about everything and anything. Marcus would randomly show up to your job with cookies or lunch just because he was around and had wanted to see you. He would take you out almost every weekend he had off or during the week to restaurants, the aquarium, the zoo, the movies, weekend trips to his cabin just so you could both unwind from everything. You both would share gifts for Christmas, birthdays, even if Marcus hated that you spent any money on him and you had to argue that he always spent money on you and it was the least you could do. He would take you to places you had always wanted to go to but were never able to experience, nice restaurants even though you both loved just spending time at his house and ordering pizza, Disney World because you had always dreamed of seeing Cinderella’s castle, different places all over the city so you could explore it together. Everyone said he looked at you with so much love, constantly asking if you were together when they would see you both around, and maybe that’s why you fell so hard, because you believed them, because you saw all these little things and thought the same.

You had fallen for him and it had always been more than just the mind blowing sex with him, it was more than the way he had learned your body in ways that no one had ever tried before, the way you both could indulge in your kinks, the way you would both weren’t afraid to try new things, or send each other something the other had saw that looked fun. It was always so much more than the sex, if not this would be so much easier.

It was the laughter you both had shared, the times he had held you on bad days, the tears he had wiped, the times he was able to make you grin with his terrible jokes even if you wanted to cry, the nights you would text him to tell you about a painter, any painter because you were having a bad night and hearing him talk about all the art history in that pretty head of his made you feel comforted and helped you relax. It was about the tickle fights you both would have or the way he would slowly open up himself and let himself be read on occasions when he was completely at ease with you. It was the boop competitions you both would have-you always had the upper hand and it annoyed him but he never could not smile brightly when you would boop his nose the first chance you got. It was the way you felt safe in his arms, like no one could hurt you, the way he always felt more like home than your own home did.

That’s why you waited around, why you let this friends with benefit thing or whatever it had truly become, continue on. Because you had fallen for this beautiful man with warm eyes and stupidly great smile more than you had intended and you thought that he had fallen too and just needed the time to heal. But you were wrong, so wrong and it hurt, hurt knowing he had found someone and immediately was able to fall into them, to give this woman everything you had been waiting and praying for in the past 4 years, in less than a month of knowing him.

The rules had been simple when you both had decided to take your friendship to that level: you both would always be honest with each other, you wouldn’t sleep with anyone else, your friendship would always come first. And he had broken those rules, he had hid it from you, distanced himself, had actually started slightly lashing out at you when you would ask if he was okay from his guilt. He had been sleeping with her. He kept this from you, kept you close yet not close enough in case it didn’t work out, and it wrecked you. It had wrecked you hearing these words come out of his mouth, even if he sounded completely broken admitting it. That’s what hurt the most, knowing you both were so close and instead of being honest, he had lied to you.

Even now as you stared at him, you could see the way the guilt was eating him alive. He had bags under his eyes and you knew he must have not been sleeping well. You had only come because his mother had called you telling you to check on him, told you that she had never seen her son so broken. She didn’t even know what to say. His mother completely adored you and she had told you how much it had hurt her when he came clean to her about what had happened. She even didn’t know where this came from, telling you that he always just spoke about you and no one else. He seemed to have had everyone thinking differently.

You wished you could continue to be his best friend, to be supportive in the way a best friend should be. You couldn’t though, you couldn’t stand beside him and watch him be with someone else. Marcus Pike deserved all the happiness in the world, to be loved and cared for, but you couldn’t be around pretending that it didn’t kill you inside as someone else got to enjoy the man you loved in the ways you dreamed of, that it wasn’t you giving him the love and happiness. You wished him the best, but you couldn’t be at his side, pretending nothing ever happened between you both. So that’s why you knew, that everything between Marcus Pike and you would now be nothing but a beautiful memory.

Marcus looks at you and he wants to take it all back, he wants to go back in time, to stop himself from doing all this shit that he’s done. He never wanted to hurt you, he’s seen you cry before, he’s seen you be crushed before, but none of those moments compared to how broken and hurt you looked in front of him right now. It felt like someone had punched him in the gut, like something is gripping his heart, and he wants the world to swallow him whole, to punish him for causing you, the only person that’s ever held such importance him-that he’s ever been so close to-this amount of hurt.

He reaches out for you and watches the way you almost flinch at his touch and it makes his heart shatter, when had you reacted to him like that? Gone were the bright, shining eyes that used to look up at him in admiration. God, how did he not know those were eyes of love? How did he let himself think you never could have felt that way for him because he had felt so undeserving of even your friendship? How could he ruin someone as kind as you?

He takes a deep breath, he could taste the salt of his tears on his lips, “I know you’ll probably never believe me, but it’s been killing me inside… knowing I needed to tell you. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, and I hate myself. This hasn’t left my thoughts a minute of the days s-since I told y-you..” He pauses unable to stop from choking up, the look in your eyes, the distrust, the pain. “I know… I know this hurts you, that’s something I never wanted to do, I swear to you I never…I never wanted to hurt you.”

You hide your face in his chest, he feels you shaking in his arms, soft sobs being let out, and he doesn’t know what to do other than to just hold you, feeling his shirt becoming soaked with your tears, tears he had caused. He deserved this, he deserved the guilt that was drowning him, the pain deep in his heart seeing you like this, that part of his brain calling him an idiot.

“I love you, I love you so fucking much Marcus, I have loved you for so long. I’ve loved you on your good days, on your bad days, your busy days, the days you felt like you weren’t enough, I love you and all I wanted… I just wanted you to…to give me a chance,” you bawl out and Marcus feels that tightening in his chest. You can’t meet his eyes, your head is against his chest facing away from him, not daring to look up at him and it’s killing him because he wants to kiss the top of your head, to tell you it’s going to be okay.

But how he can he say that? How can he think to do that? He’s the idiot that caused all this, he’s the one that fucking let himself fall into Victoria so easily. Things had been getting more and more cozy between you both and he couldn’t deny it had started scaring him a bit how at peace he felt with you. He wanted to see you so much and it had felt both exhilarating and frightening because was he ready to cross a line with you? You meant so much to him and then it scared him, what if it ruined your friendship?

Then you had started having a hard time, closing yourself up some and he was stressed out from work, the case he had been working on had been draining all the energy in him and he was not getting anywhere with it.  He had gone out with his colleagues because you were having a rough night and didn’t want to meet up. He’d usually go cheer you up, but he was so frustrated with everything that he couldn’t find it in him to. He met Victoria who was a secretary, he let himself fall for her big smile and giddy energy in his inebriated state. He’d had a few drinks and it was like she had told him everything he wanted to hear, made him feel the way you had when you both had first met. Next thing he knew, she was visiting his desk at work, complimenting him, and then there was flirty smiles being thrown around, light touches. God how he wanted to resist but you were still going through things, not really able to be around as you tried to take care of things, and he’s an asshole who chose attention and to think with his dick.

Then next he knows he’s going to her house and she’s coming to his and he’s angry and guilty with himself but taking it out on you, not answering your texts but a couple of times, getting annoyed any time you asked if something was wrong, if only you had known. And you didn’t deserve it but it was like he got hooked onto Victoria and he couldn’t stop just because it was a distraction. He doesn’t even remember them becoming an item, just Victoria saying she wanted to be exclusive and he agreed because she looked so excited and it made him think maybe this was what he needed. Because that’s how he always felt with girls like this, girls he knew would eventually leave him because they never work out, and he was human and falling back into the old habits from before you. But as he holds you, as you cling onto him even though he was the monster that was causing your pain, the hard truth was hitting him, was she really what he needed, or just what he had thought to comfort his ego during a bullshit time?

Because seeing you embracing him like it was the last time, was crushing him in a way he couldn’t describe, seeing your swollen eyes streaming with tears he caused, feeling your body shake and barely able to hold itself up from the grief. It felt like he was getting run over by a train over and over again.  Why couldn’t he have just given you the chance?

“I want to tell you I hate you,” you tell him bitterly, you sniffle before looking up at him and he winces because your face is so blotchy, mascara staining your cheeks. He deserved your hate, prepared for you to tell him. He did this to you, he had to accept the consequences. “But I can’t, I don’t hate you Marcus, not even a little bit. No matter how much I try to.” You start sobbing again but you suck in a breath, he knew you were trying to calm down, could see it in the way you looked up trying to blink the tears away.

You meet his eyes again and he feels the breath get knocked out of him. How could you not hate him? He was a despicable excuse of a friend, of a man. Then you’re looking at him and he can see it, he can see your love, seeing how the adoration you have for him is breaking you, and fuck how could he have missed it.

The both of you stand there and he sees your eyes flicker to his lips and then his flickers to yours and he wants to lean in but what kind of selfish fuck was he? He didn’t deserve to hurt you more, a kiss is the last thing you both needed to share, it wasn’t fair to you. He didn’t deserve one last kiss, he didn’t even deserve one last embrace, even less the kindness you still seemed to keep showing him.

He thinks over what had happened and you hadn’t even raised your voice at him once. You could have told him to fuck off, to slap him, scream at him how much you hated his guts, but you had done nothing but treat him like he was still your best friend, talked to him calmly. And he didn’t deserve it, but he wanted to hold onto every bit of it at the same time, too. He wants to tell you this but it’s like he couldn’t find his voice.

You look up at him expectantly and he wills his body to say something, anything, but he can’t get his brain to work with his mouth. Marcus feels overwhelmed and like he still wants to spill so much out, if it gives him the tiniest chance of being heard out by you.  You shake your head and mutter what an idiot you are for thinking someone like him would ever care for you and he feels his heart drop into his stomach. He opened his mouth to tell you it wasn’t the truth, but you look at him with those big broken eyes, you reach up and Marcus can’t help but lean into your touch as you wipe the tears off his face with the pads of your thumbs.

The way you look at him makes the tears fall more freely, you were gently caressing his face, running your finger tips over his scruffy jaw line, looking over his face, he knew you were memorizing every inch of him and he knew before you said it what was coming next. You were getting ready to leave, to walk away to heal from him. He knew you needed space but he couldn’t help the way his lungs tightened, the way he suddenly felt sick to his stomach, the dread that was washing over him knowing you might not come back or even speak to him ever again. He knew he deserved it but his brain and heart were screaming at him to not let it happen.

“I-I…I think it’s time for me to leave…” you whisper out as you glance over his face once more and he gulps. He wants to pull you into him, to never let you go. You give him that small broken smile again taking a deep breath, “I love you, Marcus.” He sees the way your hands shake as you pull them away, he can see your knees shaking along with them, he knew your body had to be screaming at you as much as his was. Stay, don’t go.

Marcus can do nothing but just nod, ignoring that little voice in his head. All the memories of you together starts playing in his mind. All the times you would look up at him excitedly, the grateful look on your face any time that he surprised you with something, how beautiful you always looked underneath him in pure bliss from how he had learned your body, the way you’d fight grins at his terrible jokes, how bright you shined every time you were able to sneak in a boop to his nose. He felt his heart start racing, his breathing becoming difficult. He watched you turn away from him, walking down the pathway to your car.

“Y/N,” Marcus says, he didn’t even know how he had ended up following behind you but he was there, standing in front of your car, your hand on the door, ready to get in. You freeze at your name and he wishes he could be stopping you the way that you most likely wanted, the way he wanted to but instead other words flow out. “If it does come to a time…where you do need to..need to h-hate me,” he breathes out, “I will bear that hatred.”

You shake your head at him in disagreement, he sees the way your bottom lip quivers, tears pooling in your eyes again and wants to reach out, to stop you. Don’t leave… please.

“That time will never come, you’ll always be a beautiful part of my life Marcus Pike, that I will always …I will always be thankful for,” you whisper out, wiping your eyes as a stray tear makes its way down. You wait a second, pausing to look at him before you get in. “But you know what hurts the most? Us being so close, and you not seeing that loving you, was all that I was trying to do.”  His breath hitches and fresh tears stream down his face as he takes in your words. Please don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

He takes the step forward to stop you again, to beg you to not leave the way his mind was telling him to. It hits him then, the reason he was so scared-why he had let himself jump into someone else as easily as he did with all the other girls that broke his heart. The reason why stops him in his tracks as his mind tortures him with the exact reason why it scared him so much. The other girls were predictable, he always knew it wouldn’t last long even if he did give them his all, you…you weren’t them.

He remembers your happy dance when he brought you your favorite cookies or when you ate something delicious. He remembers you excitedly pulling him through Disney World like a kid in a candy store, so giddy he could barely keep up but he smiled the whole time. He remembers when you held him when he cried telling you about Lisbon and every other girl that had broken his heart. He remembers the times you both just laid in bed, feeling like the only two people in the world, the night he told you that you were his safe place. He remembers the way you both would high five as you both got dressed after sex and snuggling, when it was time to take you home because great sex deserved high fives you had always joked. He remembered the way the smallest little gestures made you light up, the kindness you showed to him and anyone else that crossed your path.

As he pulls himself out of the memories, he sees you had already backed out, wiping tears from your face, before you hurry down his road, out of his sight. But he still runs to the end of his driveway, even as he feels himself hunch over, palm flat on his mailbox, the anxiety attack he had been fight back hitting him, sobs burst out shaking his body, and all his mind can think as he stares through blurry vision, watching the backlights of your car disappear into the night:

Don’t go, I love you.

Those who might be interested: @221bshrlocked​ @mothandpidgeon​ @danniburgh​ @mouthymandalorian​ @metalarmsandmanbuns​ @purplepascal042​ @tripleissue​ @fangirl-316​​ @romanosgirl1978​ @emofairyprincessofarkansas​

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x y/n #marcus pike fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #the mentalist #pedro pascal #my writing #one shot

[waywardimpalawriter]

“I’m done. I’m done trying so hard only for you to never even look in my direction.”

With Marcus Pike? Maybe BFFs to lovers because I want it to end happy? Thank you 🙏

Love of his life

Pairing: Marcus Pike x best friend!Female Reader

Characters: Marcus Pike,

Setting: five years after the last episode Marcus was in.

Rating: PG:13

Warnings: 2,774

Summary: Conversation overheard leads to feelings of regret at the chance not taken. Will he take that risk and go for who he wants or let it slide away just like the past?

Word count:

Notes: Written for the lovely @hnt-escape asking for the prompt “I’m done. I’m done trying so hard only for you to never even look in my direction.” Will be in bold in the story. I hope you enjoy sweetie.

Tag List:

Forever tags: @chickensarentcheap @jedi-mando

Pedro Pascal tags: @evyiione

Staring into the caramel colored liquid ceramic mug warming your hands, thoughts clouded by a certain brown eyed man and how to handle the feelings you’ve harbored since grade school.

“Trying to divine this weeks lotta numbers from you coffee sweetie?” Soothing southern accented voice breaks through the fog smile in the sweet lilt.

Head snapping up to look towards the blonde, grin firmly in place over her ruby lips, “I wish, would donate at least half to research the antiquities we have that no one’s cataloged yet.”

“Wow devoted,” chuckling, walking over to the Keurig k-cup spinner to pluck the last Colombian dark roast pod. “What or should I say who’s on that gorgeous your mind that’s got your brow furrowed deeper than the Mariana Trench?”

Not wishing to discuss your thoughts right now, you deflect to ask, “Those things waste so much Donna and bad for the environment. Why don’t you just buy the bulk grounds?”

“Great way to keep from answering the true question,” baby blues lock, sincerity written deep and meaningful. Knowing she’s only trying to help having confided many times your dilemma those feelings you’ve held on to for so long brings about. “I don’t know why you haven’t told him sugar I mean you came to DC…”

“For this job Donna, Marcus turned up later… not much later,” last few words muttered into cooling coffee you try to hide behind while taking a sip. “I didn’t upheave my life for a man,” not sure who you’re trying to convince more yourself or Donna.

Established in your position at the museum a month before Marcus’s transfer and at the time he’s heavily invested with one Teresa Lisbon. Memories flood through like film reel before your eyes. Of that very night he comes to you heartbroken bags in hand with no one beside him and no real place to go. Promising yourself to shove your feelings aside and help him get back on steady legs. Even letting him stay till his place became ready to move in.

Loud snort greets your ears, breaking you from memory lane. “You keep telling yourself that and while you’re at it keeping him friend zoned when your clearly in love with him does neither one of you any good. He ain’t gonna wait around forever sugar trust me on that one,” hurt coloring her tone speaking volumes of her own pain. She looks away to watch the final drops of coffee land in her mug. You know exactly why she’s not looking at your right now, the hurt she tries to hide behind the bubbly personality. Fixing her coffee up just the way she likes to hide her own pain she’s shared a few times.

“How,” licking your lips slowly, mug placed beside you on the counter to clasp your hands in front of you. “I’m not even sure how or where to start Donna. He’s my best friend knows me inside and out I don’t…”

“Do you love him?” Simple question with no easy answer as grey blue eyes land on and pierce you with their intensity.

“I…” wringing those hands her question chases thoughts around your head. Finally giving the heart answer, “I love him, just unsure if he loves me in the same way. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to change the dynamics of our relationship and loose what we have for a what if.”

“Oh sweetheart I know it’s not easy to bank on what if’s but trust me when I say that man loves you in ways I’ve never seen and I’ve seen a lot.” Giving you a teasing wink then sobering, “Why do ya think I haven’t tried to snag him up myself?”

“Cause he’s not your type?” Joke sounding stupid to your own ears, glaze dropping to your shoes. “What if… what if I’m not his type? I mean you’ve seen the women he’s gone out with before. I’m hardly in the same league.”

“No your in a league of your own sugar.” Head nodding in understanding Donna comes over resting a hand on your bicep giving a gentle squeeze. “Compensating maybe even trying to replace the one he truly wants sweetheart. Don’t let a good man slip away especially since you love him.”

“I do, he’s,” head shaking at a loss for words to describe Marcus. “Amazing and sweet, the kind of man that’s so easy to love and care for. I’m lost truly without him.” Happy tears blur your vision for a moment thinking about him. How he’s always at your side just when you need him without notice at times. Sixth sense when you need those late night pancakes from the best diner in town. Watching old movies after a crappy break up, snuggled together with popcorn and beer, snacks of all kinds. Snap shot of his face filters across your vision, “I’m gonna tell him in fact,” glancing down at your watch finding end of day fast approaching. “Would you close down for me Donna I need to tell him now before loosing my nerve.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice sugar go get your man,” nodding towards the doorway you start for, coffee long forgotten in favor of someone more sweeter. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“There’s things you wouldn’t do?” Cheeky grin highlighting your features, the sound of crinkling plastic reaching your ears so you look down. Frown replacing the smile at finding a small bouquet of blue tipped carnations laying on the ground. Bending to scoop up the beautiful flowers knowing only one man would’ve brought these. “Shit,” curse flying from your mouth while your feet start to eat up the distance towards the back doors bouquet held firmly in your grasp.

Missing Donna yelling about your keys and belongings, to not forget about the storm rumbling in the background. Wide smile forming watching you go hoping you’ll catch Marcus just in time.

While you pray with each step taken you’ll catch him in time to explain. Thoughts running rampant wondering what he heard and didn’t. If the reason for the dropped flowers has to do with the fact he thinks you love someone else. That last thought spurs you on into a run, thankful for the flats you wore today instead of customary heels you normally wear. Eating up the distance you burst through the back doors into a curtain of rain meeting your eyes as more curses fly from your lips. You pause eyes narrowing through the gloom looking for Marcus’s car, his back, hair surely plastered to against his head. Something to point you in the right direction. At the right moment a flash of lighting illuminating the darken skies, makes you jump but press on determined to find him. While stepping out into the pouring rain, clothes soaked through low rumblings of thunder taking your calls out for Marcus away with the howling wind.

Tears form and slide down cool cheeks, still franticly looking around but coming up empty till you catch the flash of grey out of your periphery. Whipping around you head in the direction calling out his name praying there’s a break in the rain so your voice carries to his ears.

And for a moment that one split second he catches a sound other than the storm raging around him. Sweet desperate voice calling out his name, giving him pause in dragging footsteps. Looking around but seeing nothing but the driving rain, drops soaking his suit and blurring his vision. Before turning to resume his path the voice calls out again, nearer and stronger than the last time.

His doubts cloud the mind, accusing him of hearing things the wind brings from other parts of the parking lot. Till a vision dressed in black slacks, creamy silk blouse, hair and clothes plasters to your body appears in front of him. Hand raised in the vain attempt to keep the rain from your face as you search for him.

Eyes lock surprised deep chocolate orbs meet the relief in yours, “You’re gonna get sick sweetheart go back inside.”

“No,” single word yelled out as you near Marcus, gripping his bicep and moving closer to speak into his ear. Warm breath making him shiver despite the cold rain trying to drown the both of you. “Why’d you leave?”

“Saw you busy didn’t want…” shaking your head Marcus swallows catching sight of the flowers in your free hand.

“You dropped these why?” Hurt lacing the tone in your voice as you bring the small plastic wrapped bundle up between you. “Thank you.”

Eyes dart between the flowers and your eyes unsure how to answer your question as so many of his own chase around his mind. Wanting the truth Marcus gather’s his courage to ask, “Do you love him?”

Confusion coats your veins, drawing up your brows with the same emotion till it clicks. “Yes, very much in fact you just doesn’t know it.”

“I’m done,” pain etched into his voice heart aching behind its prison of bone and flesh. Misunderstanding the look in your eyes and the words your spoke. “I’m done trying so hard only for you to never even look in my direction. I just can’t do it anymore it’s so much worse than any of the other.” Taking two steps back from your touch that sears the skin under heavy suit jacket and starch white cotton dress shirt. Gaze dropping to concrete unable to look into your eyes a second longer knowing he’s lost the chance. Internally cursing himself for waiting so long, letting other’s in his heart when the one woman he’s wanted all along stood by him through all life’s ups and downs.

Frowning at the loss of touch, his words sinking in you step forward he matches with one back. “Marcus,” soft achingly tender voice reaches out towards him. Heard now the rain has slowed to light drizzle. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to tell you I love you? Not as a brother or best friend, but in love with you.”

“What?” Single word choked off on a gasp, eyes reaching your smiling orbs trying to find the jest. Only seeing genuine love backed by worry and fear that he doesn’t truly have the same feelings. “You never told me.”

“You didn’t tell me either Pike so we’re kinda in the same boat,” carefully reaching out for his nearest hand tugging him back towards you. “So many times I’d try to tell you, to explain, to see if there’s a chance for us. Every time someone else got my shot. I gave up almost for good this time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Moving closer, warm palm coming up to cup your cheek from apple to jawline. Thump brushing slowly over soft delicate skin drowning in your eyes as you rubbing your cheek into his large palm. “Never would’ve guess you felt the same way.”

Not sure how to answer the first question, so you joke instead. “Not only good at picking out a fake piece of art but putting on a good show.” Trying to infuse a little lightheartedness into the tense moment. “Gonna call Oscar see if they’ll give me one of those little golden guys for my performance. Not Ingrid Bergman worthy but I can hold my own,” nervous little laugh leaving your lips that Marcus brushes his thumb over the bottom lip. Stuck dumb by the action breath shallow before held while trying to depict the emotions running through those sweet brown eyes. “Say some Marcus.”

The tremor in your voice shakes the shocked cobwebs from his mind to focus his thoughts. Picking up that you haven’t answered his first question, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Which time?” Breathy sigh leaving your mouth as you try to gather the right words. “Not to mention your my best friend Marcus I didn’t want to fuck that up especially if you didn’t feel the same way,” taking a breath fresh rain mixes with the warm subtle cologne Marcus wears. “Couldn’t risk loosing you and changing our relationship for a what if.”

“And now?” Cupping the other side of your face, keeping your chin tilted upward, eyes searching the depths of yours. Finding the peace he’s missed out on with everyone who came before. Home written in your embrace, sweet light flora scent wrapping around his senses reminding him of just who he needs.

Swallowing, pink tongue coming out to wet your lips, a path he follows with rapt attention. “I recently became enlightened by a good friend reminding me sometimes you need to take those chances.” Both arms wrap around his neck, flowers still clutched tightly, free hand carding through rain soaked strands at the back of his head. Blunt nails scratching gently over Marcus’s neck receiving a shiver that vibrates through your body and has nothing to do with the cool air or wet clothing.

“And you want to take that leap with me?” Inching closer with barely a millimeter’s breath between your lips. Eyes still wide open assuring each other and finally showing the truth and need.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful love affair,” cheeky smile splitting your face at the crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. Knowing full well you’ve gotten the quote wrong on purpose.

“Here’s looking at you kid,” deepened voice sending tingles of excitement racing down your spine. Slightest brush of his chapped lips to yours bringing a sigh and parting your mouth that’s captured and devoured.

Angling your head just right as he licks into your sweet coffee tasting mouth mixing the minty freshness of his. Low groan whispers between your lips, which moves and changes. Nibbling his bottom lip, slipping your tongue over the bruised skin to sooth before sliding back into the warm cavern of his delectable mouth. Dreams having no merit on the real kiss that makes your toes curl a moan of your own existing to join with the groan he’s let loose. Air becoming much needed and you part to rest foreheads together.

“I love you to have for a long time,” admitting his feelings frees a part of him held back for so long. “I’m sorry for all the missed opportunities but if you’ll let me I’ll make them all up to you.”

“Start by taking me home to change then out for pancakes,” bright smile blooming over your lips that press into his. Unable to stop yourself from giving another tender kiss while wrapping your arms around his shoulders tighter. “And kisses lots more kisses,” mumbling the words into his mouth while initiating another kiss for emphasis.

Only breaking when someone clears their throat you both turn to see Donna standing there with your purse in hand. “No making out in the parking lot you two take it home,” grinning extending your purse towards you. “Just remember don’t do anything I would,” before turning to start back towards the museum. “Congratulations by the way took y’all long enough.”

“There’s things you’d do I wouldn’t Donna,” you call after her shaking your head before looking back up at Marcus. Catching the look burning in his eyes, “I’m guessing pancakes won’t happen tonight huh?”

Soft smirk slides over those kiss swollen lips, “Later but right now I have other plans.” Tugging you against his chest for one last deep drugging kiss that leaves you weak kneed and panting.

“Care to share those plans?” Snuggling into his arms as you both head the last short distance to his car.

Opening then crowding you into the corner of the door hands braced on either side to lean in placing a soft chase kiss to your cheek. “Making up for all the missed time and then later,” pausing to brush his lips over your ear. Whispering the last words with gentle puffs of air floating across your skin. “I’ll make you those pancakes and lick the syrup from your lips afterwards and any other place you’ll let me.”

“Only if you’ll let me return the flavor,” mischievous smile stretching across your lips, ducking under his arms to slide into the car. Finding him still standing there, you tug on his jacket gaining his attention.

Darken eyes meet yours, “I’ll even paint you like one of my French girls,” sending you a playful wink while closing the car door and running around to the drivers side. Marcus slides in, key slipping into ignition, simple flick of his wrist the car flares to life and he’s backing out heading for home and a new start filled with promise.

#Request #Marcus Pike x Female Reader #Marcus Pike x FemReader #Marcus Pike x F!Reader #Marcus Pike Fiction #Pedro Pascal Character fanfiction #The Mentalist Fiction

[mundane127]

nct127 as ideal summer holiday destinations and what it says about them.

taeil : jeju, south korea. taeil appreciates familiarity and finds comfort in travelling alone where he is able to move at his own pace. he doesn't need to plan out and follow a strict itinerary and need not worry about not being able to communicate. the kind to ditch conventional drives and impulsively ride a bike to enjoy the sea view. loves to self-indulge when he is alone - booking a beautiful suite near the beach and taste the freshest seafood. and yes, since music = taeil, watch him explore the hipster and rustic music stores where he has the luxury to spend as much time as he wish in his personal bubble away from the world.

taeyong : lisbon, portugal. a man of art - taeyong really enjoys that mix of rustic building and the rich culture. he is like a burst of colors, eccentric and expressive. might pop a dance move or two in the middle of the streets and loves to maybe just lay back and have a cup of coffee as he people watch. enjoys the preparation process of holidays, reads up and learns a few lines to communicate with locals. i can just see him with his tinted sunglasses, map in hand and a new friend he met a few minutes ago that finds him really friendly despite a language barrier behind the camera helping him snap pictures. taeyong lives in the moment.

johnny : mallorca, spain. music, beach and chill screams johnny. not getting drunk or going to clubs for five days straight kinda rave but more of enjoying the night scene to the fullest, basking in the local nightlife, unafraid to try interesting concoctions, vibe and free from the shackles of the world at the music festivals and meeting new people from around the world through wine-tasting and paddle surfing. won't hesitate to spend on trying local food and there's always a snack in one of his hand as he walk around. doesn't like plans too, very spontaneous and focuses on making memories even if he ends up at a dead end where he least expects it.

yuta : okinawa, japan. also enjoys domestic travels because he doesn't like the hassle or being bound to a tour guide in somewhere he isn't familiar with. besides, okinawa is a combination of so many other famous summer hotspots! slightly more on the adrenaline side, can dive and snorkle for many days if he enjoys it, researches on the top local food to eat and makes sure to structure a schedule to visit all of them. spends his final day on the beach sun-tanning, no thoughts and no worries at all and taking the opportunity to recharge fully to start afresh after the holiday. not exactly a big fan of shopping.

doyoung : amorgos, greece. apparently, the only way to get to this island in greece is by ferry and can take up to eight hours but the result at the end of it is exactly why doyoung started on this journey anyway. he is not only competitive, but very very tenacious and determined and believes that at the end of a long painful journey, he gets to savour the beautiful view. obsessed with being away from people, loves his alone time and probably carries a diary with him to document his holiday. may have chosen not to buy roaming so he can truly unwind. plans his finances well and stays in a hostel / guesthouse where he can find like-minded travelers.

jaehyun : istanbul, turkey. loves shopping and admiring the cultural elements of this modern yet rustic city. jaehyun gives off an energy where he likes trying everything but not exactly the kind that find importance in meeting new people. also another avid photographer, but rather than pictures of himself, he takes pictures of cats by the streets or locals going about their day. our boy may be a little shy and reserved contrary to what people often see and he is a 'feeler' so he remembers the moments in their scents, sounds and the energy it gives him. a quiet and peaceful traveller, don't want too much attention and emphasizes on blending in.

jungwoo : gold coast, australia. rubs off me as someone who really loves to spend his entire trip high on adrenaline and the capital of amusement parks is where jungwoo will be. has lots of fun even if he takes scary rollercoasters alone. an introvert with extrovert tendencies where he'll unknowingly crack jokes and naturally become the life of the party. his long day ends with him just taking nice long showers in his hotel bathtub with some good music to recharge from all the human interaction. not a detailed planner but likes having a rough idea of what to expect at the next amusement park he is about to conquer. always checks his documents.

mark : san diego, usa. we've seen how he blends in so well with the local asking whether they know that song. lonely travels are exciting because he gets to geek out without anyone else's opinion. honestly prefers nights over days because of human traffic, likes therapeutic activities like watching fireworks and star-gazing or cinemas under the stars. loves to just stand among many and enjoy music. may or may not take part in hot-dog eating competitions because of the sudden burst of energy. in a place where mark doesn't feel out of place and matches his energy, it is where his true self is unleashed.

haechan : bangkok, thailand. bold is the only word to describe haechan. crazy nightlife, food and shopping that he just cannot resist. wants to try everything and doesn't give two shit about anything else. so spontaneous and his only worry is about not having enough fun. haechan is youthful and i can only see him being so even in future. never plans and may lose his passport but doesn't sweat a single bit, he is street-savvy and he is definitely a master at thinking on his feet. probably someone who is actually very realistic and understands that everyone is living on borrowed time and why not make the best of it while he can.

#nct scenarios #nct scenario #nct reactions #taeil scenarios #taeyong scenarios #johnny scenarios #yuta scenarios #jaehyun scenarios #jungwoo scenarios #mark scenarios #haechan scenarios

[kikis-writing-world]

Broken Art

A/N: Told y’all I was struggling lately 🤣 I’ll admit, I tried to keep this neutral reader, but I was pretty in my feels when I wrote this so if I missed something please call me out - although I did force my love for Gene Kelly onto the reader lol

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader

Word Count: ~1700

Rating/Warnings: PG - Heartbroken Marcus, unrequited (?) pining, very vague mention of sexytimes. As usual, not proofed

Summary: Last night you’d gotten a call from Marcus - his girlfriend broke up with him. Today, you’re going over to look after the love of your life- your friend.

You let yourself into Marcus’ apartment with the spare key he’d given you for emergencies. You were unsurprised to find the blinds drawn and lights off, despite that it was already late in the morning. Marcus was usually an early riser, but you had expected this today. You sighed, having known this would be what you found as you entered - you kind of hated that you were right.

You set the shopping bags down in the kitchen on your way to his bedroom. Your eyes were still adjusting to the dimness inside the apartment, but as you pushed the door open you could see the outline of the lump under the blankets.

“Oh, honey,” you sighed softly to yourself, padding across the soft carpet. Marcus didn’t stir as you pulled the blanket up, sliding in behind him.

“What are you doing here?” He asked quietly, voice cracking. The sound made your heart break, you knew it wasn’t just sleep and disuse causing it.

“Came to see you, silly.” You answered obviously, curling around the man, spooning him. You felt him take a deep breath, your arm curled around his bicep and chest.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Silence took over the room as the two of you lay there. His hand found your arm, trailing down your skin until it wrapped around your own hand. Linking his fingers with yours, he gave it a thankful squeeze. You rested your head on your other arm, stretching it out so your free hand could play with his hair.

You let time tick by like that, being there for the sweet, broken-hearted man pressed against you. The phone call from the night before, hearing him choke back tears as he told you his girlfriend had left him for another man, played through your head. You had no idea how this kept happening to the most amazing man you’d ever met. You thought that Lisbon woman he’d told you about had been crazy, but somehow it had happened all over again with Brittany.

“Have you eaten yet today?” You whispered into the darkness.

“Not hungry.” He mumbled back, wiggling against you as he burrowed deeper into his pillow.

��You have to eat something, sweetheart.” You sighed. “How about I make you some pancakes? I brought blueberries, chocolate chips, bananas, strawberries. I can make any kind you want.”

He didn’t answer, but you didn’t let that discourage you. You knew this man could rarely decline the offer of pancakes. You gave him the time to consider it.

“Banana and chocolate chip?” He finally asked, voice soft and unsure. Like you could ever say no to him.

“Of course.” You grinned. You sat up, pressing a kiss to his cheek before climbing out of his bed. “I’ll be back soon with them, okay? Coffee?”

“I think I’m out.” He admitted.

“I’ve got you covered. Do you want some?”

“Yes, please.”

You closed the door behind you and fought the urge to collapse against it. You were trying to stay upbeat and supportive for Marcus, but seeing him like this was soul crushing. He deserved so, so much better than this.

You shook your head clear and moved to the kitchen to get started on making breakfast for the two of you. You tried to focus on the task at hand, not letting your mind wander.

It was dangerous to let your thoughts dip too deep into what you would do to Brittany if you ever saw her again. It was even more dangerous to let yourself wander into the realm of how you would have never done this to him.

It was almost too easy to imagine you were making breakfast for yourself and Marcus under different circumstances. Maybe you’d stayed the night after he took you on an amazing date - candlelit dinner followed by a walk through the park. The night breeze just a little chilled so he’d wrap his arm around you, or offer you his jacket as you strolled together. Or maybe a night in, watching old movies as you cuddled up on his giant, plush couch. Possibly you’d woken up first after truly tiring him out last night, and now you were making breakfast in bed, where you were sure to get into round two (or maybe at that point, three or four) once you’d eaten.

No. That was very dangerous to think about.

Of course you were in love with him. You weren’t sure how any warm-blooded woman wouldn’t be. He was the perfect gentleman, he was Disney-prince handsome, he was smart and funny. He wasn’t scared of commitment or talking about feelings, he worked hard both in his professional and personal life. Seriously, he was a cute animal sidekick away from being a movie character.

You’d never admit this to him. You couldn’t stand the thought of the pity on his face as he explained he didn’t feel the same. How the awkwardness would grow between the two of you until there was too much distance to recover from. How the texts and calls would slowly stop, you’d see him less until he wasn’t a friend but an ‘oh yeah, I used to know that guy.’ You’d take a friend like Marcus Pike in your life any day over losing him completely.

You banished those thoughts as you piled two plates with pancakes, adding some of the fruit you’d brought over on the sides. You dug out a serving tray from his cupboard, loading the plates, syrup, cutlery, and two coffees. No need to bring cream and sugar, you knew how Marcus liked his coffee - of course you did. It was a little pathetic how much you loved him.

You groaned at yourself, having a mental conversation to get it together as you picked up the tray. You could pine over him later. Now, he needed a friend.

You carefully balanced the tray on your hip, taking one hand off of it to open the door.

“Breakfast.” You sang, shuffling in carefully. “Lights.” You warned before flicking the switch.

The overhead light illuminated the room, Marcus whining as he tucked his head under his blanket. You could see his clothes from the night before tossed carelessly on the floor instead of neatly put in his hamper. That just told you how desperate he had been to crawl into bed once he got home from his date.

“C’mon Marcus. You gotta sit up and eat.” You told him, kindly but firmly, as you sat on the bed beside the lump in the blankets.

You heard him sigh before he moved, sitting up and letting the blanket fall to his waist. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair was a mess from hiding under the blankets - and probably not helped by you playing with it earlier. He had on a white undershirt, probably the one he’d been wearing last night and hadn’t bothered to change. Stubble was starting to grow in along his jawline and upper lip.

You didn’t mention his appearance, focussed on balancing the tray between the two of you, making sure the coffee didn’t spill or the blueberries roll off the plate as you settled it onto the bed.

“Thanks.” His voice was hoarse as he reached for the coffee. You organized the tray while he drank, passing a set of cutlery his way. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I did,” you disagreed. “That’s what friends are for.” The words tasted bitter, so you chased them with a sip of your own coffee.

You spent the day with Marcus, trying to take his mind off of his recently failed relationship. You made sure he ate and stayed hydrated, but otherwise did nothing of importance. The two of you lounged around, chatting and watching TV as you tried to just be there for him.

The fact that he hadn’t slept well the night before was obvious, even before he fell asleep on you midway through An American in Paris. The two of you had been nearly cuddled together under the throw blanket from the back of his couch - more so leaning against each other than cuddling - when his head started to droop onto your shoulder. You teased him for falling asleep, but he insisted he was wide awake. You didn’t call him on the lie as he slowly slumped lower, leading to you wrapping an arm around his shoulders to find a more comfortable position for the both of you. Soon enough, his head was pressed into your chest as slow, deep breaths escaped his barely parted lips.

The movie played on, forgotten in the background as you stared at his profile the best you could from this vantage point. Not just any man could steal your attention from Gene Kelly, but this wasn’t any man. This was your Marcus.

He looked younger in his sleep - the worry from the last two days, plus the usual stress of his job fading away. His lower lip jutted out farther than his top in an adorable pout.

You wished you could kiss those lips. Kiss all his worries away until he looked this relaxed while awake. Kiss him to show him just how much he was loved and cared for despite the string of girls that barged in and out of his life, each stealing a new piece of his heart. You wanted to wrap that heart in bubble wrap, pack it up with a giant “fragile” stamp on it, until it was safe like the beautiful pieces of art Marcus spent his time hunting - like the beautiful piece of art it was in it’s own right. Lock it up in a vault until only experts were allowed to touch it with reverent, gloved hands, restoring it from it’s past traumas.

But no, you couldn’t. What good was art when it was hidden away from the world? His heart wasn’t yours to claim and protect. You’d be there to restore it though, however many times he needed.

You sniffled, trying to stop the tears that were threatening to spill down your cheeks. Instead of continuing the melancholy train of thought, you smoothed his hair down, pressing a kiss to his temple. Closing your eyes, you leaned your head gently against his. His heart wasn’t yours - to have, to keep safe - but as you dozed off, you couldn’t help pretend just for this moment that it was.

Tagging: @wickedfrsgrl​

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x reader #Marcus Pike imagine #Pedro Pascal Character fanfiction #Marcus Pike fanfic #The Mentalist Fanfic #WookieTales

[ficsilike-reblogged]

What’s in a Name?

A/N: This is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever written in my entire life. But it’s soft. Because Marcus Pike is soft and deserves all the love. Granted, I’ve only watched The Mentalist all the way through once, so...do with that what you will. 

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no y/n)

Rating: PG for mention of guns??? I just want to be on the safe side. Idiots in love. Falling in love with someone and not knowing their name. Cliche use of a Quote from Romeo + Juliet.

Word Count: 3.3k 

Summary: The five times Marcus Pike tries to learn your name and the one time he actually does.

Pike was unlucky in love. He knew it. He had started to accept it when things fell apart with Lisbon. His friends and fellow agents, the assholes, actually took pity on him and said he’d find the right person eventually. He just didn’t anticipate having to meet her over and over again.

... that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet... (Romeo + Juliet)

Sometimes, every once in a while, he actually hated his job. Sure, he got to go undercover, stop criminals, right some wrongs, and be called ‘agent’ on top of it. But, right now, listening to some sycophant rant and rave about the “superiority of Cubism over Dadaism,” he wanted to switch careers. There was supposed to be a sale of a stolen Cézanne happening at this gallery in Los Angeles and Pike had suspected the guy with the too-tight three piece suit and bad transatlantic accent was the ring-leader of the whole theft and re-sale. He just needed to not spork his eyes out until he saw money pass hands from the agent he’d sent in to pose as the buyer and the thief-turned-art-asshole. He thought it would only take an hour or two, busts like this usually did—but this guy loved the sound of his own voice so much that he had been going on a tangent about 20th century art movements for nearly four hours now and had somehow gathered a bit of an audience, too, debating with others, and the like. It was exhausting just listening to him.

“If you give me ten dollars, I’ll spill some red wine on his shirt and he’ll be forced to leave.”

Marcus looked to the left at the sudden voice and found a woman pretending to look at the piece in front of him, just like he had been doing. She was pretty, dressed in a high-end dress and sky-high, red-bottom heels, and looked every bit the part of an old money socialite. “Ten dollars?”

“I’d do it for free, but I need to receive some sort of incentive so I’m not just doing it out of spite. I heard that’s bad karma.” She hid her smirk behind the lip of her champagne flute.

“I’ve heard spite is a fantastic motivator.”

She hummed and squinted at the painting as if she cared. Maybe she did. “This is an awful piece of work. Truly, one of the worst I’ve ever seen.”

The man behind them continued to talk just as a waiter passed by with a platter full of red wine and she skillfully plucked one from him without missing a beat. She finished her champagne and handed Pike her empty flute. His eyebrows raised as she smiled at him.

“I’m Marcus.” He held out a hand for her to take. She shook it with a smile but didn’t give her name in return. She winked and walked away—right toward the mark.

And yes, she dumped red wine all over him.

There was a collective gasp and he watched the scene with a muted sort of fascination as she then managed to make the art thief smile with some joke she must have said and then he walked away to clean up. The crowd dispersed. The other agent was able to snag the thief and make the exchange and handcuffs were placed on his wrists all within a couple of minutes.  

Maybe he should have actually paid her the ten dollars. She really did just speed everything up.

But, when he looked around to find her, she was gone. 

                                                            **

The second time he met her was at an art auction in D.C. There was no sting. No operation. The Art Squad had recently helped the auction’s sponsor recover a priceless Van Gogh piece and they had insisted the entire Squad come to the black tie dinner and auction, foregoing the 1000-dollar-charge-per-plate the ticket usually cost. The food was good. The wine and champagne was obviously expensive and Pike was sure he’d see some of the art that was being auctioned off in his case files in the next few years. That was just the way of the world. He looked around at the displays and glanced at the sheets where people had written down their bids. Some people were being generous—most others were being cheap. 

He slowed to a stop in front of a small Dalí and then down at the auction sheet. It was currently up to only a few hundred dollars. He wouldn’t win, he was sure, but he could pretend to participate in this ridiculous auction.

“I didn’t take you for a Dalí fan.” Her voice was still smooth and he knew, instinctively, that she was smiling before he even turned to look at her. She was draped in sky blue silk and pearls, reminding him of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

“I think he’s iconic, to be sure.”

She sidled up to him and looked at the small painting. “Thinking about bidding? It looks like everyone else is besotted with that original Warhol.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder to reference the crowd steadily growing on the other side of the ballroom.

But all he could focus on was the smell was her perfume. Expensive and floral, it seemed to fit her perfectly.

Manicured fingers handed him a Mont Blanc pen from the depths of her designer bag. “Best of luck, Agent Pike.”

As she walked away, he realized she knew his last name now—somehow—and he still didn’t know hers.

Pike tried to find her again in the mess of rich people, to ask her name and how she knew of his ‘agent’ status and last name. But all he managed to do was catch a glimpse of blue silk as she exited the venue.

“Do you know her?” A tired-looking man asked as he walked to Pike’s side. “She left a large donation and my boss will kill me if we don’t have a name to write in our next list of donors.”

“I…I don’t actually. Did she bid on anything? Maybe we could get her name that way.”

And for the next fifteen minutes or so, he filtered through the crowd, trying to ask inconspicuously about his Venus and if she had bid on anything. And, when he finally learned that she had bid on an Alphonse Mucha sketch. And he almost felt lucky. Almost!

Because, as he made his way over to where everyone was pointing, he saw only two scribbles on the sheet. Surely he could discern which one of the names was hers. 

One was Richard…

And the other one was just a scribble of blue ink, smudged beyond legibility.

                                                         **

(A few weeks later, he was delivered a package at his office. Inside was the Dalí he had bid on. On a slip of paper was a smudged smiley face and the word: Enjoy!)

                                                        **

The third time he met her was decidedly less glamorous. The Art Squad had been trailing a group of thieves across the East Coast when they finally caught up to them in Boston. Pike had hoped they’d be able to catch them in the act and be done with it.

Instead, what they found when they stormed into the art museum, was the thieves holding several hostages. And, of course with his luck, she was among them.

Her hands were behind her head and she was on her knees as one of the thieves pointed a gun to the back of her head. Boredom was, surprisingly, coloring her face but she smiled when she caught sight of Pike. “Hi, Marcus.”

“Hi,” he said in return, fighting a smile of his own.

The whole thing was over in just over an hour and the hostages were released and the thieves were carted off in the back of a police van.

And maybe now he’d finally learn her name.

He was the lead agent on the case so he had to answer a million and one questions from other agents, from outside law enforcement, from the press. And, belatedly, he watched his least favorite agent, Rhett Brown, approach his unnamed Venus. The agent was fine when given a gun and told to shoot—but how he’d managed to wind up on the Art Squad was a mystery. He’d lost or misfiled more paperwork than anyone else Pike had encountered put together.

Pike knew he needed to finish all of this nonsense—and really, he shouldn’t call it nonsense, this was important—if he wanted to even have a chance to get her name. But the local police asked a lot of questions (they were doing their job, he couldn’t blame them) and then the press conference dragged on (again, they were just doing their jobs). And by the time he finished, he jogged back to where the former hostages had been held as they were being questioned.

And, of course, she was gone.

Pike pulled Rhett aside and asked for his notes.

Rhett nodded and stuck his hand into his suit pocket and then froze. “Oh no.” He quickly patted down his other pockets and shouted at another agent, “have you seen my notepad, man?”

                                                            **

Pike was tired when he met her for the fourth time. 

The deposition had lasted longer than he anticipated, stretching long into the night. The case was a strange one, involving inheritances, forged wills, and a “disappeared” Jackson Pollock that “reappeared” across the country. The hotel was nice, however, and he slumped into a stool at the hotel’s upscale bar and ordered a pale ale.

It was set in front of him quickly and he drained half of it without much fanfare.

“I always thought you looked more like a whiskey kind of guy.” 

He nearly spat out his drink. 

She slid into the stool next to him and ordered a top shelf cognac. Her lips were painted a vibrant shade of red and left a mark against the glass as she took a sip of the amber liquid. “Long day?”

“You could say that. You?”

She nodded with a small smile. “What’re you doing in New York? More FBI business?”

“Something like that.” He took another drink of his beer and she watched him over the edge of her own glass. “How’d you know I was in the FBI?”

“We have friends in common. I know Charlie—you helped him get back his precious Van Gogh.”

“Ah, Charlie.” He nodded in understanding.

“Yes, he went on and on about the FBI agent who saved his marriage—imagine that, an entire marriage hanging on the edge of one painting.” Despite cognac being meant for sipping, she had already nearly drained her glass. “Imagine my surprise when it was you—the man from the gallery opening who basically gave me full permission to dump wine on a pompous asshole.” She watched him laugh as she took another sip of the dark amber liquid. “Charlie pointed you out when you came to the auction. The man can hardly remember his children’s names but he remembers yours.” She smiled and he could have sworn he’d never seen anyone so beautiful. “But I like the um…” she gestured at his chin and then placed her finger beneath her nose in a childish imitation of a mustache. “It’s a good look.”

He laughed—she was good at making him laugh. “I was undercover.”

“Oh?” It came out with another laugh. “Aren’t you mysterious?”

“I’m mysterious? You know my name and my job—and that I think Dalí is iconic. I know nothing about you.”

“What is there to know? I procure art for people who have too much money. I spend more time on planes or in hotels than I do in my little apartment in New Orleans. I like Humphrey Bogart movies and a good blanket.” She smiled before polishing off the last dredges of her drink. “See? Now you know more about me than I do about you. And it is all far less interesting.”

His heart had lodged itself higher and higher into his throat as each word passed her lips. “No…I-I think you’re really interesting and beautiful and I…I would love to know more.”

She was embarrassed, he could tell, but she still smiled. Her mouth opened to say something else and-

-a bellhop stepped to her side. “Your bags have been loaded into the car, ma’am.”

She turned and thanked him, pressing a few bills into his hand before she stood and grabbed her purse. She put a few more bills—far more than her drink could have possibly cost—onto the bar top and signaled to the bartender that she was paying for both their drinks before he could even think to stop her. “Thanks for the company.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He was in a bit of a daze as she leaned down to press a quick kiss to his cheek. The familiar scent of her expensive perfume touched his nose as she pulled back.

“I’ll see you around, Agent Pike. But really,” she once again mimed the mustache, “it’s a good look.”

He murmured his goodbye, head still pleasantly swimming, and watched her walk away.

It took him a full five minutes to realize he still didn’t know her name.

                                                     **

The fifth time he met her, he’d been stuck at O’Hare International Airport for five hours. Five hours in the worst airport known to mankind. His flight back to DC had been delayed and then delayed some more and then delayed some more. He’d only been in Chicago for a few days to help lead some training to the local arm of the Bureau. Nothing exciting. And now he was stuck waffling between two equally awful airport restaurants for dinner while he continued to wait.

“Hey stranger.”

He turned to see her walking toward him, a designer carryon being wheeled behind her scuffed sneakers. Her hair was up in a lop-sided bun and she had traded her dress for a pair of jeans and an oversized band t-shirt. And why was his mouth filling with saliva? She threw her arms around him in a hug that he quickly reciprocated, squeezing her around the middle as she laughed lightly in his ear. “It’s good to see you. I see you kept the facial hair.”

He laughed and scrubbed a hand over his patchy beard and mustache. “Yeah, I guess I did.” Pike cleared his throat, trying to not sound so smitten. “Where’re you heading now?”

“Home, thankfully. I’ve been go-go-go since I saw you last. It seems everyone wants to give works of art as presents this year. I’m kind of scared what Christmas is going to mean.”

He smiled, liking to know about her life, how she felt. “Been anywhere exciting?”

“Paris and Milan lose their charm after a while. But I finally got to go to Casablanca.” There was a near twinkle in her eye now. “I felt like I should’ve been running around in a trench and fedora, chain-smoking. God knows how many times I muttered ‘here’s lookin’ at you kid’ to myself like a loon.” She shook her head as she bit her lip. “Sorry. I ramble when I’m jetlagged.”

“It’s okay, really. I…I like it.”

She shoved at his shoulder with another laugh. “Careful. You’ll make me fall in love with you.”

“Would that be so bad?” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them—something he usually did when he let his stupid, romantic heart take the lead.

She tilted her head as she looked at him with an almost shy smile playing on her lips. “No. No, I don’t think that’d be bad at all.” They looked at each other, each fighting a smile and stupid fluttering of their hearts for the near-stranger in front of them. She broke the little daydream by clearing her throat and glancing away for a moment. “And you? Been anywhere exciting?”

“Just Chicago. Had to lead some training. My flight’s been delayed for a couple hours. Hopefully, I’ll be out of here before midnight.”

“Well, if you’re looking for a good place to eat in this hellscape, I’d recommend the restaurant near C26. I’ve yet to get food poisoning from them—and the food’s pretty good, too.”

“You want to join me?” He asked, something optimistic blooming in his chest.

But her smile fell. “I wish I could. But my flight starts boarding soon.”

As if on cue, there was an announcement over the intercom. “Hello passengers and welcome to Flight 306 to New Orleans. Right now, we will start boarding with our group one passengers and active duty military in uniform.” 

“That’s me,” she said with a sigh. “But it was good to see you, Marcus.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

He squeezed her hand for a moment, keeping her still. “You know, I still don’t know your name.”

She paused and then laughed, a full-belly laugh that quickly had him laughing, too. “It’s-”

A passenger cart beeped as it zoomed by, carrying a few elderly women.

“Group one, you’re free to board. Group one,” the announcement seemed to echo in the terminal, overly loud on the old speakers.

He swore he saw her lips move. He did!

But then she was squeezing his fingers again and walking away.

                                                     **

The cherry blossoms were in bloom. Aside from the terrible crowds they brought and the overall mugginess that came with the season, it was one of the things he liked about living in DC. He was sitting on a bench and watching the wind blow through the trees, rustling the pink and white petals gently. His lunchbreak was ending soon and he’d have to get back to the office. The other agents had caught on about his “mysterious lady friend” when he’d finally arrived back from Chicago and had been ribbing him about it ever since. (“How did you not get her name already, Pike?!” A question for the ages.) He crumpled the wrapper from his sandwich and tossed it in the nearest bin, preparing to leave the park.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

But when he opened them, she was standing in front of him like something out of his daydreams. She smiled at him before helping herself to the space beside him on the bench. “I was told you like this bench when the blossoms are in bloom.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Your fellow agents are very chatty, you know.”

“You came looking for me?”

“’Course. I was in town. The auction I need to attend isn’t until tonight and…yeah,” she trailed off, embarrassment coloring her tone as she looked away from him for a moment. “Yeah, I thought I’d see you.”

His smile was so big he was sure it was going to break his face. “I’m glad you did.” He reached out and curled his fingers around hers as they rested on the bench beside her legs.

Her smile was shy but she squeezed his fingers in return as she kept looking out over the cherry blossom trees. “It’s pretty here. I’d love to wake up and just see this.” She waved her free hand toward the blossoms.

“Well, it happens every year. You can come back.” Or you could stay, his traitorous, lovesick heart whispered. But no, he wouldn’t say that. No yet, at least. He could take this slow.

But then she kissed him, quick and soft—he nearly missed it. And she was quickly leaning back against the bench, trying to school her features into indifference.

“What is your name?” He asked, question bursting forward.

She guffawed and pulled her hand back with an exaggerated flourish, fighting another smile. “I told you at the airport!”

“There-there was a transport honking and-and an intercom and then you left-!”

She cupped his cheek in her hand and the words died in his throat. She smiled again, fighting a laugh, and whispered her name.

He whispered it back, rolling the letters across his tongue carefully, pressing it into his mind to keep and hold.

He liked her name.

Part Two

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #marcus pike imagine

[chuckaf]

this is me trying | a chuck/sarah fic

summary: Set not long post-series. After leaving to find herself, Sarah returns home, realizing that all the answers she sought were in a little apartment in Echo Park all along.

i know i've already posted a few anniversary things today lol, but since i just posted this fic over on ffn and it's short enough to post in full here which is rare for me lol, i figured i'd share it too. just a little post-series thought or two, inspired by taylor swift, ofc.

ffn link

I've been having a hard time adjusting I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting I didn't know if you'd care if I came back I have a lot of regrets about that Pulled the car off the road to the lookout Could've followed my fears all the way down And maybe I don't quite know what to say But I'm here in your doorway

I just wanted you to know That this is me trying I just wanted you to know That this is me trying

The courtyard is familiar to her, somehow. Safe. The only memories she has of it are from the brief, painful time she was here those months ago, but there's an inherent sense within her mind, a comfort, as she steps onto the stone. The fountain, the trellises, the flowers all around- they are known, to her.

Something being known is a sensation she's very unfamiliar with, after all this time.

Months ago, she'd kissed her husband on a cold January day, on a very important beach, the wind whipping around them with all their desperate hopes. She'd felt him pour everything into the embrace, try with all his might to pass his memories onto her through just his lips, all his softness and his heat and his love. And despite every logical rational thought within her, as Chuck had tried out his friend's silly, thoughtful idea, a tiny bit of hope had sparked in Sarah's chest that maybe, maybe the kiss would work.

It hadn't.

And, more hurt by that than she'd wanted to admit, she'd repeated to Chuck that she needed to go. To find herself, to readjust, work out who she is, was, what her place could be in this world. A world she barely knew. She'd had the perfect, complicated, real and loving life, and Sarah Walker, assassin, enforcer, couldn't figure out how she was meant to be in it anymore. The square peg did not fit.

Chuck didn't even ask her to stay. He didn't plea, didn't beg, didn't soothe her with platitudes they both knew would be false and left wanting. He just nodded, broken and understanding as ever, and he let her go, to maybe see her again, maybe never. At the time, she wasn't sure which of those it would be, either.

With recent memories torn from her, she'd followed the things she could recall, from before all this. She suppresses a snort as she rounds the courtyard fountain, thinking on her woefully unsuccessful travels.

First, she'd gone to Paris, for scattered thoughts about her Red Test as well as the knowledge Chuck had given her about the new memories there. The same street as that awful night she can at least recall, the gun in her hand, jewelry on the ground. The bridge by the cathedral where one Agent Shaw had fallen to what they'd thought was his death. Chuck had killed him: his first kill, first true shot with a real bullet. And it had been to save her. They'd fallen in love years before, Chuck had told her, but they'd fallen once more in that city.

Then to Saint-Tropez, with a call to an old friend always game for a party. They'd danced and drank and reminisced, but Sarah had seen throughout it all the sadness in her friend's eyes, the sympathy. She'd felt like she was some blatant, visible scar, something someone can't help but look on with sad acknowledgement, even from her lightest, eternally easy-going friend. She hadn't known Carina had been a bridesmaid at her wedding until the other woman had admitted it, in the middle of a club, and said she couldn't pretend things were fine any longer.

To Lisbon, next, and thoughts of Bryce. Bryce, the cause of all this, the lynchpin of the last five years. Or perhaps the fulcrum. The center of it, the key piece in both her and Chuck's lives that brought them together, those years ago. Bryce, who thought of others but always through himself, never consulting those he made choices for. He didn't trust her- she'd thought he'd gone rogue. Chuck had told her it had been an assignment, told her how Bryce truly died just a few years later. How his old friend had once more been the reason Chuck had downloaded the Intersect, a second time, because Bryce simply couldn't. He'd bled out on a white room floor.

To D.C., home of headquarters, secret offices and bland boardrooms, home of the apartment she'd once owned and tried to live in between missions, never able to settle, always waiting for a call from Graham to send her god knows where. Graham, who recruited her as a child. Graham, killed in another white room. The same kind of room she'd pulled a gun on her husband in, threatened Morgan in, almost killed them all in.

Sarah doesn't think she'll trust the color white again.

And then to her mother, her arms soft and comforting. To the baby, Molly, a whole person now, a bright, wonderful child with a wicked skill at Mario Kart. And to yet more sadness behind the eyes, the sympathy at all Sarah has lost. Her mother sent her best regards for Chuck, muttered an off-hand thought that she must visit him soon, that Molly misses him.

In every place, every stop, every desperate attempt to find who she is, what her life is, was, could be, all Sarah thought about was Chuck. And as her mother offered her thoughts to her son-in-law, the spy, the enforcer, the wife, had realized something; after all the travelling, all the searching, it had hit her.

She was wrong.

Finding herself, trying to work out who she is, that was simply running from the problem, the real issue at hand. The real hurt. Which is her husband, still in LA, in the same old apartment, with the same old courtyard and the same old fountain, holding all those missing memories.

After leaving her Mom, Sarah had gotten a car, driven straight to Echo Park. While she felt the pull to lose herself in all this, drown herself in sorrow, in questions, in self-doubt and self-flagellation for her actions, she'd known one thing above all. She needs to see Chuck.

And so here she is.

Swallowing, she finishes the walk up to the door. Once more, it's familiar, somehow. Known. Just a regular old door, behind which waits her whole world.

She raises a hand. Knocks. Thinks absentmindedly that she should've called.

But then the door is opening and there he stands. In jeans, a t-shirt, a striped hoodie over it, Converse on his feet. His hair's a little longer than she last saw it, curling at the edges at the front. That sort of sight is known, too, a distant hazy recollection. Maybe she once brushed a curl from his forehead in this very courtyard.

"Sarah..." he breathes, and she meets his eyes, sees the disbelief there, the grief, the shock. "I... Your mom called and said you might come here, I- I didn't know..."

"I should've called." she says, repeating the thought, that she shouldn't have let her mother be an early-warning for them both, but Chuck shakes his head quickly, roughly, taking a step closer.

"No, no, it's okay."

She swallows, nods a little, and he lifts the corners of his lips in what she can tell is a desperate try at a smile. The sight simply makes her fold her arms over her chest, tug on the cuffs of the sleeves of her shirt.

"I..." Although she's here, although she's started, she suddenly realizes she has no idea what to say. "I... was wrong."

It's a start. Chuck raises an eyebrow, says nothing, and his still-listening silence encourages her more than she thinks he knows.

"I didn't... I thought that leaving would let me find myself, but... Being out there, it felt just as foreign to me as being here did. I can't- I don't know who I am, anywhere, anymore."

He frowns, brow furrowing, but she sees his eyes glisten more, his lip tremble a little. It tugs on something innate within her, a need to comfort him. She holds back, for now.

"Okay." he says, accepting her admission. She keeps going.

"I traveled, a lot. Went to some places you'd told me about, some others I remembered. I'd hoped something would feel like home. But nothing..." Shaking her head, she takes a deep breath. Forces herself to look at him, really look at him, take him in. Her husband. "I realized that I wouldn't find home out there. Because I know now that, no matter where I go, if it's not with you it's never going to be home. It took me months to figure it out, but you're my home, Chuck."

He blinks. And then his face crumbles, stray tears falling from his eyes; she feels the tug again. Watching, she sees him pull himself together, bark out a wet laugh and brush the tears away swiftly with the backs of his hands.

"You've, uh, you've said that before," he murmurs, and she frowns. That he'd remember it so strongly, just four words, lets her know it was something important. She can't help but wonder what led her to realize and say such a thing once, after it took so long to dawn on her, to muster up the courage this time around. But before she can ask, he keeps going. "So... what are you doing here, what are you gonna do, now you know that?"

And that is the real question. The whole reason she's here. She tugs on her sleeve cuffs again, straightens her spine.

"I don't know if you would even want me here, but-" Tears bloom in her own eyes, suddenly, thickening her throat, blurring her vision, and she forces herself to keep going. "But I'm trying. This, here, me being here right now, this is me trying, for us. For me to be here, home, with you."

In front of her, on his doorstep, he simply looks at her. She is laid bare, her soul out there before him. She knows she's asking a lot, asking everything. To try, for him to let her try, with them. She may never remember. They may always have this pain hanging over them. She may mess up, hurt him, struggle relying so completely on him, being so constantly open and married and real- she's sure she will, even. It's a huge ask.

But she's trying.

She waits, wondering what he'll say, god, if he'll just tell her no, it's too hard, it's been too long, and she'll have to walk back out of this familiar courtyard and return to a strange, blurred world, with eyes of sympathy and sadness and a mind always thinking of him. But then he nods, lip trembling once more.

"Of course I want you," he presses out, sounding so choked, like he can't say much else, but he manages one more thing. "C'mere."

He opens his arms.

And she falls into him, falls into his love and embrace and his grace, and she lets him hold her as they weep, in their doorway. Just being there in his arms, she knows she's home.

#chuck #chuck fic #chuck x sarah #nbcchuck #mine #tswiftchuck #:') #these aren't my solid headcanons on what happens post 5x13 bc those often vary #but the song led me here and ooft.

[buckleyydiaz]

Dirty, Dirty

Moreid, 2.9k words. Also on ao3

Reid had been perfectly happy just fantasizing about the dream life that he wanted to have with Morgan. He let himself think that anyway, but it didn’t take much for everything to all come tumbling down around him.

Derek had bullied Reid into going to a club with him and the girls, finally wearing down the resistance Spencer only ever showed to try and hide just how much he truly wanted to be with the older man.

They walked into a building that was far too loud for Spencer’s own tastes, with lights too bright, music turned up too high, and too many sweaty people crowding on the dance floor. And whilst that phased Spencer slightly, he continued on, willing to sacrifice his own comfort and ease to see Morgan look so happy, so carefree.

It was something he didn’t see enough of on his co-worker’s face, not with the reality of the job being what it was. Anger, focus, and carefully concealed sadness most often graced Derek’s face, so the change was a relief.

But Spencer had already noticed a change, before they had driven to the bar, before Spencer had even said yes to going.

Derek had been happier over the last few days, less on edge when on the most recent case, less bored when doing his paperwork. It seemed as though something else had taken over the forefront of his mind, the same way that thought of Morgan had taken over Spencer’s.

Spencer had always been acutely aware of his feelings for Morgan, from early on in his career in the BAU. It was just a fact of his life, something that he lived with, never speaking about it or acting on it, leaving those thoughts to himself, as company for lonely nights in bed, or just when he wanted to feel like his future was actually going somewhere, like he could have the family that he had dreamed of since he was young, a desire that had always been pushed back as unimportant compared to his academic pursuits.

And Reid knew the thoughts weren’t something he should have been having. He shouldn’t be thinking of his best friend in that way, it was dirty, wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t his fault that Morgan, despite generally coming off as a straight man, occasionally seemed to throw him hints, taking the flirting just a step too far to be friendly.

That didn’t make it easier when he looked up from the back of his friends’ heads which he had been following through the club, to see a woman sitting at the table to which they were headed. It didn’t make it hurt any less when Derek turned and grinned at him, Prentiss, JJ and Garcia, and began to introduce them to the vaguely familiar woman in front of them.

“Hey!” Derek called out, capturing the girl’s attention, “These are my friends, Emily, JJ, Penelope, and Spence. Guys, this is Alexa.”

At that moment, Spencer began to lose all focus on what was happening. He took a seat at the table, not trusting his legs to hold him up, and lost control to his mind.

Of course the woman looked familiar. All it took was the name and he knew exactly who he was looking at. Alexa Lisbon, the girl from his highschool who was behind the most humiliating moment of his life, the girl who came up with the master plan to tie a twelve year old boy up to a goalpost, naked, by tricking him into thinking that for once, something good was happening to him. The girl who he had named in a story that Morgan clearly hadn’t cared enough to remember. 

He looked at her, seeing that she hadn’t made the same connection that he had, hadn’t realised that the man standing in front of her was once the nerdy boy she had loved to torment. He looked at the way she had her head leaning against the crook of Derek’s neck as they stood side by side.

Spencer couldn’t help but wonder what Morgan saw in that… that bitch, that he didn’t see in Reid. Maybe she was closer to Derek’s age, was the one who wore designer clothing and had perfect hair, skin, and a gorgeous face, but surely Morgan wasn’t that superficial, could look past, see all the things that Spencer had and Alexa didn’t. 

He sat there, for what seemed like it was much longer than it realistically was. When he realised people were trying to talk to him, and he was just ignoring them, he hurriedly excused himself, leaving to his car under the guise of going to the bathroom. He would send Emily a message in a few minutes, but he was so uncomfortable there that escaping the discomfort won out over his need to be polite.

Crying in his car. Spencer had never been known for having interesting weekends or nights out, but this truly had to be an all time low. He was sitting in his small old car, crying over a man who chose a horrid girl over him, a man who had so much more to offer.

Contrary to popular belief, especially amongst the team, despite not being as stereotypically masculine as the rest of the men of the BAU, Spencer had never been one to wallow in his own misery, or be overly insecure. He knew his abilities, and had long ago accepted and understood his shortcomings. 

In a way, that made it harder for him to get over the Derek and Alexa thing. He knew he was better than her - more genuine, smarter, kinder, more professional, didn’t enjoy bringing harm on innocent young boys who just wanted to be liked. He could acknowledge that he wasn’t as typically beautiful as Alexa, but Derek had always referred to him as “Pretty Boy,” and surely that had to count for something.

He knew he didn’t have long before someone went looking for him, reminding him to text Emily - the one who was least likely to try and hunt him down, interrogate him. He wished he was strong enough to stay, to just prove to Derek what he was missing, but he wasn’t that type of person. He wasn’t the kind of person to go out and find another guy or girl to prove his point, so he was just stuck, jealousy burning inside himself.

With each tear that fell down his cheeks, his anger at the bitch in the club with his friends rose. It should be Spencer spending time with Derek, dating him, fucking him, cuddling him, loving him. Not a girl who cared more about what they looked like than if they cared for each other, if they were perfect together in the way that Morgan and Reid could be, would be.

So he was the one sitting alone, wishing that Derek would finally see who was right in front of him, had been, for all the years they had known each other. 

--

Derek could tell something was wrong from the moment he had introduced Alexa. Spencer became guarded, closed, and his mind drifted to something else. 

At first, he couldn’t tell what had happened to cause it. He had expected his best friend to be happy that he had found a beautiful, kind woman to be with, but instead he seemed angry, even sad.

He tried his best to keep his focus on the conversation, playing the charming, happy boyfriend that he was supposed to be, had to be, in order to keep up appearances. But it felt odd, almost unnatural, especially when Spencer was ignoring them all when they tried to talk to him.

“Sorry, excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom,” was the first that they had heard from him all night beyond the initial exchange of ruched awkward pleasantries. Spencer raced off, out of sight, and Derek had to resist the strong urge to follow him, to make sure he was okay.

Because Spencer was his best friend. And no one would want a friend that close to go on feeling uncomfortable or out of place. It wasn’t right.

But it wasn’t right for him to up and leave for no real reason, either. Spencer had said he was going to the bathroom, and there was no real reason to suspect anything different, other than the pit of dis-ease growing in his stomach.

As the time ticked by, seemingly dragging on for as long as it could, Morgan grew increasingly restless, concerned for his Pretty Boy. A phone buzzed from its position on the table. When Emily flipped hers over to check, she saw a notification, reading it out to the rest of them.

“I am not feeling well, and I am going to go home. Don’t worry about me, have fun.”

Barring Alexa, they all turned to each other, concerned by being told not to worry. It was uncharacteristic for Spence to just up and leave, especially with just a text message, even if he was ill.

Unable to sit still and do nothing any longer, Morgan stood up. 

“I’m going to go and see if he has left yet. This isn’t like him, I’m a bit worried.”

Alexa looked up at him and pouted, getting on his nerves. Spencer would never do that, he thought, he would be too worried about the other person. It's so selfish of her, maybe she was just a pretty face.

Derek walked off towards the car park, wondering what the hell had happened to make Spencer so upset. He didn’t enjoy going to clubs, but he never reacted like that. So it had to be something to do with Alexa.

Nothing reasonable came to mind. It wasn’t like his Pretty Boy to be jealous, and judging off the women Derek had seen him with before, Alexa wasn’t even his type. It had to be something else then. Something personal, something serious enough to make him betray the manners that were usually important to him.

That was when everything began to click into place. His childhood. His Pretty Boy had been bullied and teased relentlessly, and he remembered Alexa telling him that she had grown up in Las Vegas. Oh shit, he thought. The case, where Owen Savage went around shooting people who had wronged him, when they had been alone in the boy’s room.

An Alexa Lisbon had been the one who had used herself as bait, in a situation ending up with Spencer tied naked to a goal post, left there for hours until some teacher had found him and untied him.

No wonder Spencer left, and it was his fault for being a stupid idiot who forgot about his best  friend telling him one of the moments that would stick with him for the rest of his life, haunt him. 

Spencer’s car was still in the car park, and as much as Derek wanted to go and talk to him, apologise more than anyone would believe to be humanly possible, he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do, or if it would just make things worse for Spence, a reminder of how much his supposed best friend had fucked up. 

Instead, he decided to walk back inside, a newfound sense of purpose taking over. He was breaking up with her, in front of everyone, because she deserved to feel the same humiliation she had brought upon Spencer, and if this did anything towards achieving that, he would be happy.

As he approached the table, glaring, JJ, Emily and Garcia looked shocked, and Alexa looked confused.

“How could you… you absolute bitch! I can’t believe I dated you, you are absolutely disgusting! How could anyone do that to a 12 year old boy? Get away from me, or I swear to god…”

A look of realisation dawned on all of their faces, although his colleagues still looked shocked, and slightly confused, whilst Alexa seemed to just get angry.

“That was Spencer Reid? Really? How could a man like you want anything to do with someone like him?”

Suddenly his team mates no longer looked concerned, instead just angry, ranging from pissed off to murderous.

Before Derek even had a chance to say anything, his Baby Girl stood up. 

“I think you are going to leave now, because you don’t want to know what is gonna happen to you otherwise. Maybe every computer and phone you have ever owned will stop working? How does that sound?”

Alexa recoiled, and began to walk away from the four angry FBI agents.

“Well this has been a night,” Emily said, “Is Spencer okay?”

Derek realised that he hadn’t even checked up on Spence, and became alarmed, hoping that he was still in his car outside the club.

“I didn’t get the chance to talk to him. I realised who she was, and then I came straight back in to get rid of her.”

The girls turned and looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Really Morgan? Go and check if he is still there! Talk to him.” JJ instructed.

Feeling rather reprimanded, he headed back out into the cold night, looking for Spencer’s car. To his luck, he found it, still parked where it had been earlier. 

He paused for a minute, unsure of what to say if he could get Spencer to talk to him, because a million apologies would not be enough to make up for what he had done.

Knocking on the window of the locked car, he prayed that Spencer would hear him. It hurt him to see his friend looking the way he did, his head in his hands, crying. When the first few knocks went unanswered and likely unheard, he tried again, louder.

That seemed to draw Spencer out of his own mind. He gestured for Morgan to go away, but he stood his ground. Derek wasn’t leaving his Pretty Boy in such a state.

Spencer finally relented after a few more minutes, very aware of how stubborn Derek could be when he wanted to.

Before the door was even fully open, before he was in the car, Derek was apologising. The remorse he felt could not be put into words.

“Spencer, I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realise who she was, but she is gone now, you can come back. I’m unbelievably sorry.”

Derek paused for a moment, expecting Spencer to say something back, but instead a silence enveloped the car.

As he opened his mouth to continue on his tirade of apologies, Spencer cut him off.

His voice was rough and unsteady as he spoke.

“What did you see in her?” He asked. 

The question took Derek by surprise, his mouth opening slightly as he struggled to come up with an answer.

“I mean it Derek, what did you see in her?”

Spencer no longer sounded quite so sad, insistence and anger controlling his voice.

Derek remained silent, as no words came to his head. It was something akin to vanity, but not quite. She was beautiful, yes, and they’d look good together, but it was largely a distraction from other things. Things that he didn’t want to feel. Things that he couldn’t come to terms with feeling.

“What does she have that I don’t, Morgan?” He recoiled at the use of his last name, “She’s prettier, I know that, but surely I’m smarter, kinder? I know I’m far from perfect, but I’m better than her, surely.”

Derek’s thoughts were racing through his head, and he could barely keep up with them. What did that mean? Did Spencer just want to prove that she was horrible, and he shouldn’t have dated her, or was he saying something else, something that meant maybe he could finally dig up the feelings he had attempted to bury years ago.

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be having these thoughts about you, that I have no right to be jealous, but it’s hard when you flaunt that you are dating a stupid bitch who I know I am better than!”

So Spencer did feel that way towards him. And he was right. As always. Derek would be better off with Spencer than with Alexa, or any of the other girls just like her that he had dated over the years. He just hated that it had taken hurting his friend to realise that.

“Why do you always have to be right Spencer? I am so sorry that I dated her, that I forgot what you told me, that I never connected the dots. I just saw a chance, a chance to make my life easier, by dating a woman, rather than ever even trying to get the person I actually want. And it hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You should go back to the club. The girls are probably wondering where you are. I’m just going to head home.”

“No, Pretty Boy, come on. You should come back in. The girls are really worried about you. But before that, I want to try something. Tell me no, and I’ll stop, but I think we both want this.”

Derek slowly leaned in, giving Spencer plenty to back out, pull away, but their lips connected.

When they finally pulled away, a comfortable silence rested over the car.

“How about we head back in now, before the girls come looking for us,” Derek said, and they laughed, before leaving the car, and walking to the club again, this time, hand in hand.

#moreid #derek morgan #sperek #spencer reid #spencer #spencer x derek #derek x spencer #fanfic #cm #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminalminds #doctor reid #derek #morgan #reid #angst #fluff #cute #happy ending #ao3 #on ao3 #fandom #criminal minds fandom #emily prentiss #jj #jennifer jareau #penelope garcia #garcia

[melodious-madrigals]

london calling (yes, i was there, too)

For Day 1 of Wondertrev Loveweek! 

Fandom: Wonder Woman Pairing: Diana/Steve Prompt: London  Word Count: 2154 Rating: T (for ~innuendo~ probably)  Summary: A view of London, past and present, from Diana's point of view. 

Read it here on [AO3] or below the cut.   

***

present

*

London has become a glittering, sprawling city in the years since Diana first arrived at its docks. Some would go so far as to call it the greatest city in the world.

Diana still dislikes it.

She never warmed to London. She loves Lisbon, adores Amman, visits Xi'an every chance she gets, calls Paris home for now. But London remains something of a frustration for her, a necessary evil for business trips from time to time.

There are things she doesn't mind, she supposes.

The red telephone boxes, for one. They're a bit cliché, but iconic. (She remembers when those were first put in.) They're less common now, but every time she passes one, she snaps a photo and texts it to Clark, with the caption thinking of you, because one time in a pinch, he used one to change into his Superman suit but in his haste accidentally broke one of the panes of glass, and she's never going to let him forget it.

Then there's Hampstead Heath. It's a bit outside the bustle of the city proper, sure, but it's a breath of fresh air (literally), and it has lovely views of the city. She's enjoyed her walks there, even fondly recalls a picnic or two on the grassy hill as she gazes at the skyline, stuck in the city between one meeting and the next.  

Indeed, the city itself has largely been cleaned up. There are still stately aging buildings and parks, but less of the pervasive grime. Still, there's something about London that she can't quite put her finger on that makes her feel unsettled.

It's totally irrational.

*

1918

*

"It's hideous."

"Yeah, it's not for everyone."

*

Diana hates it here. The air is bleak and grey and thick. It's like the air on Themyscira on the winter solstice, when it's choked by smoke from their celebratory bonfires, only worse, because this isn't fragrant, woody smoke. It's a thick miasma of coal and smog, utterly pungent, with an acrid odor layering it that Diana will soon find out is what the aftermath of bombings smell like.

The streets, too, are filthy, full of trash and grey with coal dust, and she's never seen anything so utterly uncivilized in her whole life.

And it's loud, an ugly cacophony of sounds like she's never encountered: people shouting—a language that she understands, to be sure, but one that is just a little dissonant all the same because it isn't hers —and bells chiming and the creaks and groans of the bridge as it raises, and hissing of the engines in the automobiles.

Truly, she doesn't know why anyone would live here, but it's all right, because soon they'll be headed off to the War. Battlefields are not good, but she is sure they are something that she at least understands.

*

Her first day in London has been a whirlwind: the clothing shop, the fight in the alley, Parliament and the horribly rude generals, and finally, assembling the team at the pub. She's not ashamed to admit that she's looking forward to a bit of rest before she goes to confront Ares.

After leaving the pub, Steve leads her to a quiet side street, and directs her up three flights of stairs into a cramped set of rooms.

"It's not much, but when I'm in London, it's home."

The apartment is largely impersonal—it's clear that Steve doesn't spend much time here, away on missions more often than not—but it still feels warm. To that end, Steve ushers her into the little kitchen and hands her a cup of tea.

It's pleasantly warm despite being bitter, and she manages to finish it as Steve gets up and starts rearranging the cushions on the sofa.

"What are you doing?"

"Um. Making up the couch?" It sounds like more of a question than her own, honestly.

"Yes, I have eyes," she says impatiently. "Why are you making up the couch?"

"I...don't have an answer you'll approve of."

She huffs. "I do not understand your society in the slightest. Did we not sleep together on the boat, just last night, and all the ones before it?"

"Er. Yeah."

"And tonight is different how?"

"Um," says Steve, clearly looking uncomfortable. "There's a bed?"

Diana levels him with a very unimpressed look. "You sat alone at the kitchen table with me while we drank tea."

"Well, I—huh? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, what on earth do they teach you about the pleasures of the flesh that makes you think a bed or even a horizontal position is a requirement?"

Steve chokes on air and starts coughing. "Diana—"

"I'm just saying you get very flustered about very peculiar things. The bed, for example, but not the kitchen table, which looks very sturdy, by the way—"

"Okay, okay! You've made your point! I'll sleep with you."

"Finally," she huffs.

"It's—"

"—not polite to assume, yes, you have said, but it is hardly an assumption on your part if I have clearly stated my feelings."

"Right, well, we'll just. Um. Go to bed, then."

Steve, anticipating Diana's lack of concern over modesty, offers her an oversized flannel shirt to sleep in.

"If it will make you feel better," she says, and puts it on over her undergarments.

"Goodnight," she says, once he's extinguished the light.

"Night."

She's not awake long enough to see him fall asleep, falling into a slumber almost as soon as her head hits the pillow.  

*

Diana wakes up to warmth, an intangible yet visceral feeling of safety, and a comfortable weight around her waist. It's clearly morning, weak light dappling the side of the room, the view out the window in front of her proving it's a cloudy day. She shifts slightly and realizes that in the night, Steve has rolled her way and thrown his arm around her.

They're meant to get an early start, but Diana is used to waking up so early for training every morning that it can't possibly be time to get up yet. She's willing to lay in bed just a few moments longer, but her shifting appears to have woken up Steve, who tugs her a little closer and then seems to realize where he is.

He lets go of her like her skin is aflame and jerks backward so hard that he nearly falls off the edge of the bed.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"

She catches his hand in the middle of a wild gesticulation. "If I thought you were being disrespectful, you would no longer have the arm in question."

"Right. Neat. I'll just, uh, go make some tea."

Sameer and Charlie knock on the door not long after, and then they're out of London, off to the War.  

*

London, upon return, is even worse than London before. Even amidst the celebrations, it seems so much bleaker, so much colder.  

Etta, dear lovely Etta, helps with all the arrangements to make it appear as though she existed before last week. Documents, a day job—and a place to stay.

"I've arranged it all so that it's yours. Young ladies, they usually have to stay in boarding rooms, but I think this is what he would've wanted."

Etta makes time to take her to the apartment, under the guise of ensuring that it has everything she needs.

It's a grey day, the kind that doesn't really let much light make its way indoors. The small apartment is dim, and it feels so desolate, so empty.

Diana turns in a circle as Etta rummages through the drawers, making a list of the few things she finds to be lacking. She was just here a few days ago; how can a place feel so intrinsically different?

"Well, luv, it appears to be mostly in order. If you don't mind, I'll come 'round tomorrow with a new spatula and a bit of sugar, and you'll be all set."

"Yes, of course," Diana says distantly, and then Etta's gone, out the door.

An apartment so small and cluttered shouldn't be so capable of feeling empty, but it does.

Diana, who's always run hot, feels vaguely cold.

*

She tries, she really does. She does her job and goes on missions and tries to make friends, invites people over for dinner or tea, does her best to make London home.

She makes it a whole month before it drives her mad, being in that little apartment. London itself doesn't hold Steve's ghost, but this apartment does.

After a month, she can no longer stand it, even though she's hardly ever there anyways. In a fit of impulsiveness, she turns the keys over the Etta, and moves to Paris, a place she's been several times already, on missions with Sameer, and once, Napi.

She moves frequently, after that, from place to place, city to city, country to country, but doesn't call London home again.

*

present

*

So it's irrational, but every time Diana thinks of London, all she can think of are the grey skies and the colorless light in that apartment, like the world was slowly being sapped of color. Each time she thinks of London, she can't help but associate it with sorrow. With each emotion she felt in the aftermath of Steve's death, all of the complicated ways her victory felt like anything but.

No, she never takes to London, even as the years pass and the city changes. She arrives only as absolutely necessary, and leaves as soon as whatever work is done.

Today, for example, she's here for a conference on artifact preservation. She knows the man from the British Museum who's presenting the seminar—and frankly he has no business giving this talk—and as soon as it's over she'll be on the Eurostar back to Paris.

*

Her next meeting in London is with the director of the British Museum itself. She and a small team from the Louvre are meeting with a team from the British Museum to hammer out a loans agreement for a couple of highly-coveted pieces. It's the most important meeting outside of the Justice League that she'll have all year, and she's the lead negotiator.

The day before she's expected to leave for the week-long trip, Steve shows up, alive again after a century and change.

She already wasn't looking forward to the trip—this just makes it worse. She's in emotional crisis, and has no desire to leave Steve for any period of time, but this is literally the one meeting of the year that she cannot miss. (After all, if there's one attitude regarding museums and artifact "ownership" that she hates more than France's, it's Britain's. She's not going to miss this meeting and let them get away with anything.)

"I could...come with?" asks Steve, uncertainly. They're both still trying to figure things out.

"Would you?"

"It's hardly the worst place I've ever followed you," he says weakly, trying for a joke, and it's met with a wet laugh. "Look, I know London. Knew London, anyways. I could walk around somewhere familiar while you were in meetings and then after…" he trails off.

"And then after, there is no one I would rather spend time with," Diana declares.

"Neat, so—I'm coming."

Diana wastes no time booking the second ticket.

*

"It's hideous," says Steve when he sees the ultra-modern skyline for the first time.

"Well, London isn't for everyone," replies Diana with a smirk.  

"It's just—strange. London was sort of home for so long, and now I don't even recognize it."

"You get used to it, after a while," she says softly, and Steve has the distinct impression that she's not just talking about London.

They've arrived the evening before the meetings are set to start, so they wander around a little before getting dinner and checking into the hotel. (Diana has accumulated properties in plenty of places, but London was never one of them; instead, they're staying downtown, near several excellent take-away spots that Diana was already planning on taking advantage of.)

"How many shades of red would you turn if I offered to take the couch right now?" Steve jokes, surveying the hotel room upon arrival.  

"Objectively? Fewer than if you joined me in the bed."

Steve flushes almost as many shades as he had in mind, still a little startled by her bluntness.

"Oh? And now who's assuming?" he says as evenly as he can.

"I don't know what you mean," she says, far too innocently, "I run hot when I sleep."

"Right."

She can't help but laugh at that. She feels so—content, for the first time in so long. It's coloring her view of everything: the business trip suddenly doesn't feel so unmanageable, London doesn't feel so soul-less, even the sterile hotel room feels cheerful.

It's true that Diana never warmed up to London, but it has a fighting chance now.

***  

Final Note:  Please pardon any negative depictions of London; it's not my favorite city but it mostly comes from Diana's emotional relationship with the place.

***

#wondertrevweek2020 #wondertrev #diana x steve #steve x diana #wonder woman #diana prince #steve trevor #wondertrev fanfiction #lenci writes

[raquellmurillo]

After the heist I want Raquel to pack her bag and get some money as Lisbon and leave Sergio ...She should stay with her family in some paradise.Monica will also join her ... They both should focus on raising their children and casual dating with guys..And sometimes Rio , Helsinki uncle will visit them .

That’s actually such a cool idea! I love Sergio and Raquel, don’t get me wrong, but above all, I love consistency lol 

Why not? What if Raquel tells him that after her talk with Alicia, she has realised that because of her love for him, she has neglected her daughter and ruined her future. Because lets face it, if Raquel is on the run, her daughter is too. 

And, I know the show never really mentions this... but Sergio is like... a criminal. I know he’s meant to be the ‘good guy’ and all, but he also goes around hiring, what, the Serbian mafia? (Who are those people???) Has a lot of money, buys a shit ton of stuff on the dark web... If the police can’t track him, the mafia’s running that shit-show can. His wealth isn’t built on an empire of people to protect him.... what is one kid with a billions of euros with no protection, living as an outcast to a criminal organisation looking for easy money? Doesn’t that just sound like a target??? It’s easier to take one person down, than a well built up ‘empire’ of people lmao - okay, if he hid away etc. but not go around making purchases like them army trucks... because as soon as he starts his heist, the people who he purchases those things from are gonna tie the two ends together... If Alicia can track him, what is finding him to an organisation with more hackers than he has??? 

Back to the point, Raquel isn’t the ‘weakest link’, both her and her daughter are ‘weak points’. If Sergio ever pisses off any of the probs very dangerous people he is working with... the main targets are gonna be the people closest to him. Back in the day when he was a petty and poor criminal, well, didn’t really matter. Now, however, things have changed.

Raquel has given her life up to be on the run not only from the police, but like, a large proportion of the criminal world. She is never going to be safe, nor is her daughter. By association she has condemned her family to, well, to some probably not fun situations in the future.

But like.... ignoring all of that.

I totally get you; love is love, I do ship them, but who said their love story had to be conventional; say she came to visit him at the end of s2, told him that she would meet up with him here and there, she would come to live with him, but in 10 years time or so, when her daughter is grown up enough to take care of herself and her decisions won’t impact her. That money might’ve bought Sergio freedom, but the moment Raquel leaves her life for it, its gonna cause her problems, ones which money won’t be able to fix. She’ll never be able to let her daughter go to school without fearing that she might say something, be recognised. She’ll never be able to have the freedom Raquel had when she was young. Her childhood might be carefree playing on the beach, but purely through association she’ll always be on the run from the police, interpol, the other criminals out there who feel like getting a few billions for, basically free, having to take down a person, not an empire. I get financial security, like totally. But its not exactly too great if the price you’re paying for it is your personal security.

And look how much more fun s3&4 would’ve been if Raquel was still part of the police... darn that would’ve been so amazing her in terms of character development, as she’d really have to decide whose side she was on. (obvs with a different plot) - acting as a double agent type thing, to alongside Sergio, make sure no one was hurt etc. 

... she is safer not being with Sergio. If Sergio truly loved her, he wouldn’t be with her. I know, I know, that’s so controversial of me to say, but I’ve seen it been done in masterpiece style on screen. I had never seen a better ship been written even though I didn’t get a single kiss! Both of the characters acknowledged they loved each other but were in an environment in which them being together would end in defo at least one of their deaths. Their love for each other was greater than any sort of sexual desire; keeping one another safe was a priority, even if it required sacrificing (very unfortunately for the audience) the desire part. It can be done. 

Love can be either selfish or selfless; I think, from the way things have been written, Sergio is more Andres’ brother than one could’ve imagined. He loves her, but not enough to resist his temptation, to ruin her, destroy her life, risk her life and her families. It sounds hella dark, but when you think about it, it sorta is. Because it is wrapped up neatly and nicely and Sergio is all cute... because she loves him and goes after him, blindly. Because however much Alicia’s dialogue about Raquel’s taste of men was written to obvs make the audience disagree with her about Sergio’s case..... darn nobody is perfect, but come on. Denver lost his father in the last heist, Sergio’s brother was shot (ik he was dying, doesn’t that make it worse for Sergio tho? The last months with his brother in paradise, lost?) but there’s one hella completely different reaction. And then we have the scene in which Raquel tells him he is just trying to avenge Berlin; does vengeance have a higher value than love? Is the whole Berlin thing not enough for him to be like, “actually, putting people that I love at life threatening risk, really isn’t a great idea”...??? Rio will eventually be arrested, and tough luck, ya know. Why put the rest of his team’s life at risk? idkkkkk His true love for Raquel will be shown in lcdp7 when he plans a heist to avenge her? WHy for the love of god is she in the bank? 

Damn right, Raquel should pack her bags up and finally find a man who is not so willing to harm her. No one said love or the character had to be perfect; I’m a true believer that love requires sacrifices, and Raquel has sacrificed a lot for him... you’d think he’d have the decency to at least not go ahead with the heist ya know. Sergio might be a bit socially awkward, but he’s not fucking dumb. I hate how people seem to think that because he hasn’t had much experience in relationships, he won’t know what he is doing... firstly, when does anyone have any sort of idea of what they’re doing in a new relationship with a new person? It’s all new, and it’s always a learning process ya know. Secondly, Sergio has enough brain cells to lecture Andres about getting married to someone knowing he has very little time... he knows enough to acknowledge that what his brother is doing, isn’t exactly too fair on his wife - which is fair enough; ya know, ‘best three years of her life’ and then she drinks herself to death from the heartache in the year following that? Very hard situation, tbh. Andres is being fucking selfish, but darn, turns out there is something in these genetics...

disclaimer: I still love Serquel, but damn I love my analysis, (I am being very picky today lmao) and if they keep this writing up, they’re gonna keep pushing me to make such unconventional findings. Never before today did I think I’d come to a conclusion that Andres and Sergio are similar in terms of ‘love’... but darn, under the cute dialogues and all the rather radical decisions of the screenwriters point towards very dark threads. 

Saying that, if you’re gonna write something like that, have the balls to actually explore it. Don’t make Raquel the ‘love interest’; consequently follow the choices through and make Sergio the nut job who put her back into the bank. Maybe even write it as him idealising the idea of his love for her... maybe the trap in their relationship is as Alicia said, Raquel idealising these guys, but Sergio also idealising her. 

#darn this took too long to write #someone take away my wineee lmao #someone tell me they get what im trying to say #the tea #asks #sorry anon if i dissapoint

[zmairinarurik]

JENNA LOUISE COLEMAN, THIRTY, IRINA RURIK. ❝ ⤚⟶ EUROPE, 1458. thanks is given by the GRAND DUCHESS, IRINA RURIK, from RUSSIA. they are at best DEDICATED, and at their worst ENVIOUS. whilst abroad, their ambition is to BE INDISPENSABLE TO HER BROTHERS & FAMILY AND TO MAKE RUSSIA STRONGER. SHE seem/s to remind everyone of JENNA LOUISE COLEMAN & AN ARROW RIPPING THROUGH THE COLD WINTER BREEZE, STRING OF PEARLS, SOFT HUMMING OF LULLABY . ❞

FULL NAME : Maria Irina Zinovia Rurik TITLES :  ( FROM BIRTH UNTIL PRESENT )

Grand duchess of Russia (by birth) Princess of Sweden, Dowager duchess of Värmland (by marriage)

BIRTHPLACE : Russian Kremlin, Moscow AGE : 30 years old LANGUAGES : Russian, Swedish, French, Latin, Spanish, English  DYNASTY / HOUSE: 

Rurik (by birth) Valdemarsson (by marriage)

MOTHER & FATHER : Dmitri Rurik & Vasilia Palaiologina  SPOUSE : ( IF ANY ) Prince Magnus of Sweden, duke of Värmland ISSUE : 

Sveinn Kristoff Magnusson ( 6 years old ) Astrid ekaterina Magnusdottir ( 4 years old ) Kjell Olaf Nikolai Magnusson ( 3 year old )

SIBLINGS :

Ivan, Tsar of Russia Konstantin, Crown prince of Russia Nikita, Grand duke of Russia Katrinka katherine, Grand duchess of Russia, Princess of Wales Youngest Grand duchess of Russia

OTHER : ( NIECES / NEPHEWS, BETROTHALS, ETC )

Vasilia, ( niece ) daughter of Ivan & Adalsinda Mary, ( niece ) daughter of Katrinka/Katherine & Harry of Wales Eudoxia, Crown princess of Russia ( in-law ) Adalisnda d’Anjou, Tsarina of Russia ( in-law ) Harry Plantagenet, Prince of Wales ( in-law )

ZODIAC : Gemina ( May 19, 1428 ) RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION :

Orthodox ( my birth ) Roman Catholic ( after marriage )

ORIENTATION : Heterosexual with very slight biromantic tendencies but she loves dick too much im sorry VICES : envious, impatient, scheming, cynical, mistrusting VIRTUES : dedicated, loyal, eloquent, independent  FACECLAIM : Jenna Louise Coleman HEIGHT : 5′2″ ft / 157 cm RECOGNISABLE FEATURES : dark brown hair, high nose, big round brown eyes. REPUTATION : 

she is not a force to be reckoned with. in russia, she is known for her assertiveness and sharp wit. She often makes appearances in her brothers councils and serves as an advisor. She has eyes and ears all over russian court and is known to be a spitting image of her mother, always by her side. Irina will do whatever it takes ensure the safety of her brother’s rule. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS :

spies in english court - shes sus about it over there and wants to ensure her sister’s position

lovers - she’s basically a free woman now. irina knows she has done her duties to her family and to her husband so she’s chilling and living her best life

enemies - those who oppose russia 

friends - shes doesnt have very many lol but id like for her to have some in lisbon 

coughs husband number 2 maybe?

⇢TIMELINE

1428 - birth of the 3rd rurik child, Ma. Irina Zinovia Rurik, Grand duchess of Russia 1450 - Marriage to Prince Magnus of Sweden 1452 - Birth of eldest son Sveinn 1454 - Birth of daughter Astrid 1455 - Birth of Kjell   1456 - Death of Prince Magnus of Sweden & return to Russian court 1458 - Lisbon Summit

What current conflicts does your character face?

As a young girl, Irina didn’t understand why her brothers were always put first other than the fact that they were older.  She was just as smart, just as strong, and just as intuitive as they were. They were siblings were they not? Then why does she often get told to sit down and watch or embroider some flowers? How was this fair? These were beneath her, the grand duchess wailed, refusing to be treated as such and would not stop her cries until she got what she wanted which was to have the same education as her brothers. She truly was her mother’s daughter people whispered seeing how ambitious and assertive the grand duchess was. Her chin was always held high and knew exactly what she wanted which people saw as intimidating. Irina felt like she needed to put this façade up to be taken seriously even with in her family. It becomes a conflict because at one point it gets tiring. It’s exhausting to put such a cold and hard front but she knows she has to in order for her to survive her in brother’s court— or anywhere for that matter. She had to be strong in Swedish court, establish that she is more than just the youngest prince’s wife. Now that he has passed, Irina continues to fight for her place but now back in Russian court, proving herself to be important but because she’s female and a woman, it makes it a little a harder. She has dreams for herself and for her beloved Russia, which her family has helped build and fortify. Sometimes she wonders is it all worth it? This is what she asks herself continuously.

What are some potential plotlines you are interested in pursuing?

It was always about family for Irina. The things she does, the things she wants to achieve is all for the Rurik family name. Despite her pride, she knew that a marriage outside of Russia was her destiny to which she gracefully accepted to keep Russia’s neighbor, Sweden, as an ally. It pained her greatly to be away from her family but she did it with no complains. Now a widow, she knows that her place is to be a mother to her children and guardian to her eldest son who will inherit his father’s lands however there is still that itch, a desire to more than that, a desire for power. Which was only soothed when her mother called her back to Russian court shortly after his death. She aides her brothers as a councilor, representative, and as a mediator— heavens know what they’ll do to each other. The grand duchess knows that the tsarina is still getting to know the Russian court and by the order of her mother, she helps the French woman assimilate into Russian customs despite of her not so subtle ways. She helps the queen mother oversee and run the court and household. Now in Lisbon, her one goal is to see her youngest sister married. Irina wants to help oversee her betrothal and make sure it’s as powerful as hers to both make Russia stronger but to toughen up her sister as well. In short, Irina finds ways to become indispensible to her brothers, make them see that they need her. She cannot be their equal; She can never be tsarina, no, but she vows to see to it that a Rurik will always be on the Russian throne no matter what.

three bullet-points.

Nobody needed to tell Irina that the Russian court was initially mildly disappointed that the 3rd Rurik child was female. She could see it in their eyes that they had hoped she was a boy. The grand duchess was just as disappointed as they were too. Why must she have to wail and fight for her right to be as educated and skilled as her older brothers? It was not becoming of a grand duchess to learn such masculine activities such riding and archery, they said. But Irina simply did not take no for an answer. She learned these skills, along with languages, politics, and literature, wanting only to be taught the same things as her brothers. Why was she not allowed to have the same education? She was never going to be tsarina anyway, a young Irina argued. Although her brothers were still prioritized, she made sure she excelled to prove to everyone that she was just as capable as them. Deep down the eldest grand duchess envied her brothers; she envied how everything was much easier for them whilst she had to throw a tantrum before being heard.

Assertive and astute, these were attributes she learned from her mother that, to this day, has been engraved into her psyche. Her pride is her strength but it can easily be turned into hubris, which will one day either be the cause of her success or her ruination. If she wants something, she must fight for it. That’s what she has been doing all her life, fighting for what she thinks she deserves. This, in turn, has somehow made her as cold as the snow that falls on Russia, her personality forming around the ideology of being a fighter. She hides the fact that she grows tired of it and wishes things were different. It was a heavy burden to bear and there was no one to blame for it but herself.

Prince Magnus of Sweden, duke of värmland was the youngest brother of the-then King of Sweden. His marriage to Irina kept the Swedish at bay from invading Russia’s territories. The grand duchess wouldn’t say she was exactly thrilled with the match but she didn’t oppose it either. It was commanded and she simply had to comply; she didn’t have much of a choice anyway. She was prepared for her new life away from Russia and performed her duties as a wife, bearing the prince 3 children namely: Sveinn, Astrid, and Kjell. However, the prince died in battle shortly after the birth of their 3rd child. They were only married for 6 years. His death devastated Irina greatly. Though since she bore him children, they get to keep their father’s lands. The 1st year she spent in Sweden after her husband’s passing was very difficult. When her mother called her back to Russia, she hesitated at first but later came home, bringing her children with her. She found strength being in her homeland, and oddly enough, renewed vigour and a newfound purpose.

#crhs.intro #♔‘ﾟ‣ { headcanons } — sad birds still sing #AYE AYE I FINALLY FINISHED OMG #krp #krp ad #skeleton krp #lsrpg #krpg

[citylightsbooks]

5 Questions with Megan Fernandes, Author of Good Boys

Megan Fernandes is a writer and academic living in New York City. She is the author of The Kingdom and After (Tightrope Books 2015) and the new book of poems, Good Boys (published by Tin House). Her work has been published or is forthcoming in the New Yorker, Tin House, Ploughshares, Denver Quarterly, Chicago Review, Boston Review, Rattle, Pank, the Common, Guernica, the Academy of American Poets, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency, among others. She is a poetry reader for The Rumpus and an Assistant Professor of English at Lafayette College. She holds a PhD in English from the University of California, Santa Barbara and an MFA in poetry from Boston University. She reads from her new book Good Boys with special guests at City Lights Bookstore on Tuesday, February 25th.

***

City Lights: If you’ve been to City Lights before, what’s your memory of the visit? If you haven’t been here before, what are you expecting?

Megan Fernandes: Of all the places I’m reading this Spring (and it’s probably not politic to say this), I am most excited to read at City Lights. I’ve never been, but I understood at a very young age that the bookstore symbolized possibility, spontaneity, digression, lostness, community, etc. As a teenager, I read a lot of Beat literature, my favorites being Dharma Bums, In the Night Café, and everything Ginsberg. I was compelled by their portraits of America’s expansiveness. And I also just think as an immigrant kid not born in the USA, the Beats gave me some sense of American geography. I went to Colorado for the first time last year and I had this memory of my first impression of Colorado as a place described in On the Road. When traveling across the country, I often have Ferlinghetti’s feverish, twitchy, carnivalesque poetics in my head. I also think in this indirect way, Beat literature shaped some of my thoughts around feminist thinking as I was conscious of my orientation as outside certain privileges of the “male, womanizing adventurer” often romanticized in Beat lit. I had to interrogate what it meant to feel intimacies with Ginsberg and Duncan who were destabilizing masculinities and cultural logics of hate. 

And so what I learned from City Lights and Beat lit is really something about the relationship between myth-making and counter-culture communities. I’m understanding the truly expansive network of the movement in so much more detail right now while reading an advanced copy of a fabulous new book called The Beats: A Literary History by Steven Belletto. 

What are you reading right now?

I’m reading a book called Dapper Dan: Made in Harlem, co-written by Dapper Dan himself and my good friend, Mikael Awake. It’s a history of Dapper Dan’s iconic work in fashion, of course, while being really intimate. And it’s just as much a history of his family’s internal dynamics and, through his family, New York City at large. In particular, 1970’s NYC is so vividly, brilliantly wrought in this book.

There’s this one section where Dap is at Iona College at a lecture on protohistory and the professor, a Czech immigrant, tells the class that “In order for man to have survived during those ancient times… he must have had powers that he doesn’t have now. The only people that could possibly still have these powers today are the black and brown people on the planet” and when Dap hears this, he is transfixed. He says: “This is one of the most esteemed scholars at Iona College telling a packed lecture hall that black and brown people were the only ones on the planet who still had spiritual powers. How come this was my first time hearing about that? I looked around. I was the only black student in the class. I wasn’t tired anymore. He had my full attention… I said to myself, This is what I need to know. This is how I need to formulate myself.” I’m loving how the book captures these intense moments of transformation. I love that word choice: formulate. What poetic agency is modeled in that word? I needed that word the moment I read it. 

Recently, I’ve also read Samiya Bashir’s Field Theories and Edgar Kunz’s Tap Out. Samiya wrote this legitimately weird and imaginative book that feels like it’s made out of the time-space continuum. Some cosmic materiality is really showing up in that book. I remember this line: “A body. A zoo. A lovely savannah. Walls of clear, clean glass” and I’m just on a ride with the musicality of her shifting assonance. Plus, I know that writers like June Jordan and Toni Cade Bambara are operating influences/specters of the book and you can feel that energy. Edgar’s book is more narrative and quieter, but so devastating. I sort of get what makes his speakers tenderize if that makes sense. I think it’s the same phenomena that tenderizes me, too.

Some of my favorite novels of recent years includes A Questionable Shape by Bennett Sims, The Small Backs of Children by Lidia Yuknavitch, Sonora by Hannah Lillith Assadi, and very recently, The Nickel Boys by Colson Whitehead.

What book or writer do you always find yourself recommending?

I think Jean Toomer’s Cane is the most beautiful book of the 20th century. I remember just being blown away by its call and response, the repeating imagery of sun and smoke and pines. That book is so stunning. Other astounding work that I always recommend includes Mebvh McGuckian’s Captain Lavender, Anne Carson’s The Autobiography of Red, Evie Shockley’s The New Black, Franz Wright’s Walking to Martha’s Vineyard, Eleni Sikelianos’ Body Clock, Jorie Graham’s The Errancy, Bhanu Kapil’s The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers, The Collected Poems of W.B. Yeats, and Galway Kinnell and Hannah Liebmann’s translations of Rilke. Those are my hard-hitters. Those books are why I became a poet. 

What writers/artists/people do you find the most influential to the writing of this book and/or your writing in general?

You know, I collected poems while I was writing and editing this book. And I think those specific poems created a kind of constellation around me, almost protective, that kept me writing. Some of those poems include “The Long Recovery” by Ellen Bass, “A Matter of Balance,” by Evie Shockley, “What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, “I am Not Seaworthy” by Toni Morrison, “Becoming Regardless” by Jack Spicer, “A New Bride Almost Visible in Latin” by Jack Gilbert, “To the Young Who Want to Die” by Gwendolyn Brooks and many, many others. Definitely O’Hara as well. He never leaves me. The most important poem of that little self-curated archive is Frank Bidart’s “Visions at 74” where he writes: “To love existence / is to love what is indifferent to you.” I remember reading that line and just losing it. I have been guided by so much of Bidart. And maybe my book is a little bit about how to sustain rage in the face of that which is indifferent to you, what cannot love you (both personally and abstractly). How do you sustain rage so as to not fall into despair?

I also listened to a variety of music while writing and editing. A mix between contemporary sad kid hip-hop, old school jazz and blues, gospel, 80’s bands, pop culture queens, 1970’s hypnotic modal vamp, classical Spanish guitar, electronic pop, really pretty varied. A few names that come to mind: KOTA the Friend, NoName, Vince Staples, Travis Scott, Miles Davis Quintet, Bessie Smith, Sam Cooke, The Knocks, Solange, Archie Shepp, Pharoah Sanders, Alice Coltrane, Big Mama Thornton, Miriam Makeba, Kamasi Washington, Thompson Twins, Misfits, Bowie, Talking Heads, Tears for Fears, Cher, Whitney Houston, Portishead, Goldfrapp, Memphis Slim, Dinah Washington, Alberto Iglesias, Gustavo Santaolalla, Holychild, Blood Orange, etc.

If you opened a bookstore, where would it be located, what would it be called, and what would your bestseller be?

My grandpa played violin on a ship that sailed between Tanga, Tanzania and Goa, India. I never had the chance to meet him. He died when my dad was sixteen, but I always thought about what that journey might have looked and felt like, its many hardships, but also the wonder of gazing out at the sea playing strings. For that reason, I’d love to open a bookstore that focused specifically on Indian Ocean diaspora and sold books exclusively by authors working, uncovering, or investigating the literature of that oceanic rim. I think there is something rich in thinking about books not necessarily focused on nation-statehood but thinking more about a kind of social-imaginary with a literature that is messy in its conceptualization and crosses, migrates, misses, and mythologizes across many cultures over generations. You could have sections on food, underwater exploration, piracy, long-distance intimacy, trade routes, empire, transnational feminism. I like the idea of a bookstore that is anti-genre and instead, organized by associative thinking and imagination. It would be a logistical nightmare. You would never find what you were looking for, but you might find something you didn’t know existed.

So yes, I’d vote for a little homegrown network of bookstores in India, East Africa, and actually, maybe one of them in Lisbon which is a city that has a long (and problematic) history with the Indian Ocean. I’ve spent a lot of time in Lisbon the past eight years of my life, spending time visiting family and researching the history of the Portuguese empire especially as it relates to my family history (my folks are third generation East African Portuguese colonized Indians). I have a lot of conflicting homelands which is a way of saying that there are times when I feel like I have nothing but a rootless present. That’s something I investigate in my work, that weird (a)temporality. And I’m drawn to the particular light of Lisbon which is quite unusual. I’d call the bookstore “Malaika” which means “Angel” in Swahili and is the favorite folk song of my parents who grew up in Tanzania. I like the idea of a bookstore in Lisbon with the name in Swahili run by a Goan-Canadian-American woman. That’s the world I grew up in… one of multiplicities. 

#Megan Fernandas #City Lights Bookstore #Tin House Books #Good Boys

[thequeerhistorian]

Mary Wollstonecraft, Mother of the Mary’s

For centuries, women have fought for the right to a proper education. History shows that noble or upper-class women were the only women allowed to get any sort of learning, and as history has continued, there has been a greater fight to give all girls the right to a proper education. One of the most notable women in this fight is Mary Wollstonecraft, an English woman who would fight tooth-and-nail for the education of girls and would not hold back against her male opponents. But to understand Mary’s importance to history, as with anyone, we must take a look at her life to see what led to her trailblazing fight for women’s education.

Mary Wollstonecraft was born in Primrose Street, London, on April 27th, 1759. She was the 2nd of 7 children, and the eldest daughter, to her father, Edward, and her mother, Elizabeth Dickson, an Irish Protestant, though Mary’s life was anything but a primrose path. Edward Wollstonecraft was an abusive bully, who seemed to leave a trail of failed work behind him. His father had been a successful silk merchant from Spitalfields, and left Mary’s father at least 10,000 pounds, which he squandered in failed farming ventures. His failures took him to six different places in Britain, until 1780, when her mother died. This would not be the last time Mary is faced with death, or failed marriages.

After losing her mother, Mary decided to make her way in the world. She lived with her lifelong friend, Fanny, and in 1783, Mary helped her sister escape an abusive marriage, and kept her safe, while the divorce was finalized. The three girls, together, decided to build a school in Newington Green, which failed financially. After this, Fanny left for Lisbon, got married and became pregnant. She begged Mary to come visit and Mary arrived in Lisbon to Fanny in premature labor. Sadly, Mary would have to watch her dear friend, and Fanny’s newborn baby, die on the same night, in 1785. All of this would likely culminate in Mary’s less than happy view of marriage and motherhood. Mary was surrounded by women who died for motherhood and were repeatedly failed by men who were supposed to love and support them. Mary also supposedly mimicked Fanny’s death in one of her later novels. (Mary, A Fiction)

Mary would end up leaving the school to go to Ireland, which is when the young writer found herself employed as a governess in Co. Cork, Ireland, in 1786 for Lord and Lady Kingsborough. Mary taught their three daughters and was just beginning to make way as a writer. She had already submitted her first book, Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, a series of essays, to Joseph Johnson. Her essays would be published in 1787. During her stay, Mary would begin working on her book, Mary, A Fiction (1788).

Upon her return to London, Mary began working for Joseph Johnson again, creating more writings and growing her literary prowess. She wrote her next book, Original Stories from Real Life; with Conversations, calculated to Regulate the Affections, and Form the Mind to Truth and Goodness (1788) and The Female Reader; Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose and Verse; Selected from the Best Writers and Disposed under Proper Heads; for the Improvement of Young Women (1789) created under the nom de plume, Mr. Cresswick, teacher of Elocution.

I find it telling that even as a woman with growing knowledge of literature and the education of young girls, she felt the best way to get people to truly listen to her was to take the appearance of a man. After all, despite Wollstonecraft’s lack of a formal education, she had gained quite a vast knowledge on these subjects. Considering the school she created, her work as a governess, her work with Johnson that led to her getting to rub shoulders with men like William Blake and Godwin, as well as having direct access to review and translate the works of men like Jacques Necker, Reverend C.G. Salzmann, and Madame de Cambon from Dutch, French, and German. Even with what little she had, she was a woman of great intelligence and knowledge in these fields.

Mary was also not afraid to go toe-to-toe with writers of the day. She was a staunch supporter of the French Revolution for their egalitarian views (though this support would pointedly end during the Reign of Terror) and wrote a scathing response to Edmund Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France which would become her book, A Vindication of the Rights of Men (1790). Two years later, Mary wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Woman which included an equally scathing response to Jean-Jacque Rousseau’s book on education, Emile, which included the story of a boy and his learning through experiences in nature, while in the same book, discussing a little girl who could not learn or understand like Emile could because she was a girl. Wollstonecraft likens him to a barbarian and calls his beliefs “madness”. She believed there was no reason a girl shouldn’t be taught as a boy would.

Perhaps Wollstonecraft’s growing attack against her counterparts shows her determination to stand up for girls and their education. After all, Mary would have particularly strong feelings, considering she had to watch her brother get a formal education while she and her siblings were pushed aside. After all, she worked just as hard, if not harder, than these men, so why shouldn’t she? I also find it interesting that while she worked with many of the more respected of her time, Mary’s name tends to be the one we know better over many of these men.

The same year Mary published her most well-known book, she met Captain Gilbert Imlay, whom she began an affair with and had a daughter. She named the girl Fanny after her childhood best friend. Mary would make a note to continue writing as she raised her daughter, but this romance would not last long. Imlay would turn on Mary and abandon her and their daughter, leaving Mary distraught and alone. She attempted suicide, but was luckily saved, and she would soon fall in love with her old friend, William Godwin. The two married and Mary gave birth to their daughter, also named Mary, but this would not be such a happy time. Despite Mary wanting a midwife who would be more experienced, Mary was put under the care of a doctor who mishandled a minor surgery that would lead to Mary’s death, eleven days after the birth of her daughter, who would go on to be as great a writer as her mother. Mary would die at the age of 38, never truly knowing the daughter who would follow in her mother’s path of literary skill.

Mary wrote eight books in total, one being published after her death. Mary was a woman of wit and fire, who as she learned, would become less and less apologetic about her opinions for women’s right to equal education, and how they should be taught to be independent and how a lack of education would lead to future generations not receiving the schooling they needed. She was a woman who would inspire future generations to fight for women’s equality and education. I studied Mary’s works through a class, “Women in Modern Europe” my sophomore year and after all we learned, I rather wish we got to see Mary Shelley grow up with her mother. I can only imagine the incredible things those two women would have accomplished together.

Links to Sources:

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/84

https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/wollstonecraft/#Bio

https://www.biography.com/scholar/mary-wollstonecraft

https://www.bbc.co.uk/teach/mary-wollstonecraft-britains-first-feminist/zkpk382

#womenempowerment #mary wollstonecraft #girlpower #girl positivity #women in writing #education #girlseducation #women in history

[shes-soparticular]

Slow Burn (part III)

Part One.

Part Two. 

A/N: A little from Alex’s point of view this time. Other Alex related one-shots can be found in my Masterlist. Hope you like! Comments, reblogs, likes are always appreciated!

Word Count: 2325

uh-huh, I think you're movin' in too close but I think that it's my body wanting it the most, like uh-huh, I don't know what it is I feel but I know it's my emotions going in for the kill

 It’s somewhere on the road between Lisbon and Montpellier that Alex realizes how truly fucked she is. A slight bump in the literal road jars her awake, her eyes fluttering open with a soft whimper. She’s still getting used to the disorientation of being on tour and waking up within a different set of walls every other morning and it takes her a second to realize where she is. There’s no lumpy hotel pillow under her head but there is a rather firm, rather warm chest laying beneath her cheek. Alex sits up so fast her head spins, the surrounding dark and empty communal space of the tour bus swirling before her. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she glances to her nap partner who has started to stir at the absence of her. He lets out a yawn but seems to settle back into sleep and the last thing she wants to do is wake him. Her heart skips a beat as she studies his sleeping face, his dark curls falling over one eye, his features placid. What she wouldn’t give to lean in and place a soft kiss to his lips, to curl back into him and drift back off to her dreams. Dreams where this doesn’t have to be so complicated, this dance they’ve been doing. Where the timing is perfectly aligned and there’s no one at home for her to answer to. A reality where they’re just two regular people able to give themselves fully to their feelings without hesitation. But that isn’t the world they’re living in. Far from it. Yet here she is, having allowed herself to nestle into him under the protection of sleep. When everyone else on the bus had insisted on retiring to their respective bunks, Alex and Shawn had both looked at one another, wide awake, not wanting to call it a night just yet. It was his idea to stay up and watch Netflix and after some bickering about the options (he wanted Grey’s Anatomy, she wanted Sex and the City), they finally settled on a mutual favorite, The Wedding Singer. Sharing his air pods and MacBook, they’d settled into the couch, keeping just enough unspoken distance between them to play it safe. Alex can’t remember how far into the movie they made it, but she’s fairly sure it was at some point after the love triangle was fully underway. Had they not grown so tired so fast, she’s certain they’d have realized how uncomfortable of a movie choice it was. Quirky girl hits it off with emotional singer but she’s too busy dating an asshole to realize she’s falling for him. Yep, she fucking recognizes that trope and it hits a little too close to home.

She truly never intended for this to happen and honestly, she hadn’t even expected to become close friends with Shawn when she’d been assigned to his tour. It wasn’t like being a travel manager brought you especially close to the talent or took you into any deep inner circle. It was purely by happenstance that they hit it off the way they did. Or so she believes. She doesn’t want to dramatize it in such a way that maybe, just maybe, they were meant to find one another. That fate pushed them both into that hotel bar and laughed wickedly as they made eyes at one another along Amsterdam’s moonlit canals. To be completely fair, she was technically single then, as she flirted with him over the strain of Northern Lights they’d picked simply because it sounded cool. Ethan, she didn’t even want to think his name right now with Shawn’s thigh touching hers, had given her that ultimatum. It’s the nature of ultimatums that they’re not supposed to be easy to choose between, that there’s supposed to be a calculated amount of heartache on both ends. But when Ethan made her choose between him and the road? A rush of relief had pumped through her veins. It meant he could be their undoing and she didn’t have to get any blood on her hands. Didn’t have to suffer the guilt. He’d made an impossible request and it was his fault for making it, but she was happy that he did. Those first few days on tour, she was returning to herself. The happy-go-lucky woman that wasn’t bogged down by the frustration and insecurities of a man. But of course, rather than just becoming reacquainted with herself and focusing on that alone, she met him. Shawn. From there? It was all sexual tension and fleeting glances and watching him every fucking night having the time of his life in increasingly tighter tank tops. Seriously, anyone would agree that she never stood a chance at keeping her shit together. No one could possibly expect her to. Even though it was probably best for her to take a breather from all men, even rockstars in tight jeans, Alex would have been all in if it wasn’t for the mess to be untangled back in Chicago.

When Ethan had called her in Berlin, she should have ended it then and there. But as much as he could be a dick, as much as she knows they’ve been over for quite some time, Alex feels like she owes him an official breakup. In person. No amount of closure would be gained from ending things over a staticky phone call, not after all of the years they’d spent together. When she’d left Chicago, it’d been with her middle finger held high. Now, the soft spot she had for him returned. She didn’t want to shatter him. Not that she necessarily could, it’d been a long time since they’d fallen out of love. Several seasons had come and gone since they’d even really touched each other, more than a faded fuck here and there where they did their best not to make eye contact. The fact that he was even trying to salvage the relationship shocked her at first. Until she remembered that with Ethan, it was about control and having the last word.

Giving even the slightest bit of thought to her sort-of relationship back home just reminds her why she was falling so ridiculously hard for Shawn. There was this immediate ease between them, like picking up with an old friend. Except there was barely anything friendly about it; the undercurrent of emotion and tension had been high even that first night. It only grew as the days passed, still unspoken, but constantly ringing in her ears. The way he looked at her, those hazel eyes so soft every time they raked over her? The way his hand always seemed to fall tenderly to the small of her back anytime a stranger came too close? The way his voice got raspy from laughing at her stories, even the ones she’d told repeatedly? All of those factors sent shivers down her spine. Yet it’s about so much more than the way he treats her. It’s about how endlessly kind and compassionate he is towards everyone around him. The way he’s truly concerned that everyone is happy and taken care of. It’s his vulnerability and the fact that in their late-night conversations, he’d been so open with her. He’d explained how scared he was to lose himself to his image. How worried he was for the day to come when he might become irrelevant. That he had to constantly be vigilant not to make a misstep that would end it all. It was so much pressure and she was in awe that he could manage to bear it with so much grace. If a line of people, hundreds deep, showed up outside the hotel demanding photos of her? Alex would have a few choice words and a couple choice fingers. She didn’t have the unconditionally generous soul that Shawn did, but it was one more quality that enamored her to him. They were far from a case of opposites attracting, honestly, they were more similar than different. They both had exuberance and passion in spades. They both loved control and they were both way too stubborn for their own good. Yet somehow, even in such a short time, they managed to temper one another. There was this instantaneous unspoken bond where their energy just matched and fed one another in a way that Alex had never experienced with another person.

No matter how badly she wants to throw caution to the wind and let herself fall as fast as her heart will take her, she can’t. Not with Ethan waiting for her at home. Not without finding a way to protect herself. The truth is that her heart hasn’t been unguarded in years. With Ethan, it’d been a long time since he even had the power to break her heart. But now, with Shawn? They hadn’t even started anything, hadn’t even admitted their feelings, and she was already aware of how hard he could break her. Alex was petrified of what would happen if she fully gave herself over to him, every wall knocked down. And realistically, what was she supposed to expect? Tour wouldn’t last forever. Hell, this leg wouldn’t even last forever. How would things change when they were in two totally different countries? How would things change when they couldn’t stay up late almost every night in hotel rooms simultaneously baring their souls and arguing over pop culture? How would things change when she wasn’t in the crowd, staring back at him during Mutual? What would happen when they returned to their lives (normal, in her case, and not so normal in his)? It was akin to falling in love on vacation, how could they ever recreate it in the real world? There was a deep seeded fear in the pit of her stomach that maybe this was all about convenience. Maybe the bond she was so convinced of was just a result of constant proximity. Once she was in Chicago and he was in Toronto, maybe it’d be out of sight, out of mind as yet more young starlets and Instagram models flocked to him. She wasn’t sure that she could ever compete from afar and she also wasn’t anywhere near ready to change her entire life around to fit another person. It just. It was all bound to break, even now, even before they really started.

Although she knows all of this, her brain begging her to listen and ignore that impulsive heart of hers, it’s all immediately forgotten whenever he looks at her. Like he is in that very moment, his eyes slowly opening as he stretched beside her. There’s a second where his arms reach for her, presumably ready to pull her back into him. Honestly? She’d probably let him if he did. But he stops short of touching her hip, sitting up instead. “We fell asleep?” He looks utterly exhausted and the protective side of her kicks in, wanting nothing more than to fix even the slightest bits of discomfort for him.

“We did. We should really get some real sleep before morning, you in particular.” Getting to her feet, she offers her hand to him to pull him up as well. “C’mon, time for bed.” Shawn looks at her as though he’s going to protest, beg her for one more movie. However, his eyes soften after a moment and he nods, taking her hand to pull himself up. But even once he’s standing, their hands remain intertwined, neither one of them moving to let go. Without a word or a thought, Alex starts her slow walk to the bunks in the back of the bus, her hand in his as he trails behind her. Silently, she wishes she were leading him back to a place they could be together, where she could lay her head back on his chest and fall asleep to the beating of his heart. Where they could explore one another with more than just their eyes. When they reach the last two bunks left empty for them, she turns back towards him to say her goodnight. Their eyes lock and she swears his face is dipping towards hers. This. This is going to be the moment. Her heart starts racing and she imagines he must notice that her palm grasped in his has gone sweaty. Disobeying the instructions being sent by her rational brain, her tiptoes raise, trying desperately to bridge the gap to his lips. Still, she leaves a space. Enough that their lips don’t brush, but she can still feel his breath on her face. There’s something about the dark, about moving through countries and timezones in the night, that makes this moment seem like it’d be untouchable. Free from the circumstances, free from her guilt, free from the fear of what’s to come. But her better judgement knows that isn’t true. This moment will still be judged against the circumstances and the guilt and the fear. So instead of capturing his lips and letting this fire consume them, she drops back to her heels. Brushing her thumb across the back of his hand as if that’s enough to tide her over, she finally lets go. Her heart sinks a little at the mixture of disappointment and frustration on his face, the longing. But he also looks grateful, somehow, like he knows as well as she does that they can’t start this way. “Goodnight, Shawn.”

He gives her one last craving glance and she can’t help but notice his lips tugging up at the corners. Defiant. Because he also knows this isn’t their last chance. That there’s so much more to come. “Goodnight, Alex.” Just like that, they both turn away from one another and climb into their bunks. As if their bodies aren’t begging to be satiated.

She lays awake in her bunk the entire damn night, heart still racing and an ache between her legs. Fuck.

#shawn mendes fic #shawm mendes imagine #shawn mendes #slow burn fic #slow burn

[hanalwayssolo]

What We Owe To Each Other: Ch. 3 - Night

A/N: Here’s the angsty part of a fic literally no one asked for!!!

Morning | Noon | Night | Midnight | Nightmare | Dawn

[Link on AO3]

Sam did not want to admit it out loud, but he was starting to believe that he was truly and utterly lost.

He pulled out his phone and checked his current location. He was sure about the direction he had taken; he had passed the right landmarks, made no unnecessary turns from the main road. His destination was off the beaten path but thankfully, it had stopped raining and the fog had partly cleared that he managed to easily spot his way. He had been certain that he was in the right address. This had to be the right place.

What was bothering him now was that the house that loomed behind the massive iron-wrought gates was the exact opposite of a fucking cottage.

Sam pulled over next to a silver Sedan (another rental, he could tell by that same tacky sticker plastered on its windshield) hooded over by the blood-red foliage of maple trees on what appeared to be the lot’s designated parking space. In the discomfort of the Chevy’s front seat, he began to assess all his available options. He could check out the house, ask its occupants for proper directions. Or he could turn his way back around. He could find a decent lodging to spend the night somewhere in Westmore, or any nearby town perhaps, and craft another excuse to tell his brother as to why he didn’t make it.

Or, well, he could disregard his pride and simply call Nathan for help.

This is stupid. I’m being stupid.

Sam sighed. He fished his phone out again, scrolled through his list of contacts, hovered over Nathan’s name for a little too long. He has not even called him yet, but he can already hear his brother’s clever and punk-ass reaction.

Fine. Fuck this.

He took another deep breath. Just as he was about to press that Call button, a knock on his window startled him out of his wits.

“Holy Mother of God!” Sam hissed, accidentally slamming a hand over the car horn that it shrieked like a shameless cry for help. He turned, and by the window was a familiar face curiously watching him with an almost amused expression.

It was Elena.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as soon as he got out of the car. She was in a cozy-looking parka, sweatpants and running shoes, her cheeks a shade rosier from the cold. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It was freezing as fuck. “What’re you doing out here?”

“I was out for a walk. Then I saw that there’s another car parked next to ours. Figured it would be you.”

“Oh.”

“And you were in there for a really long time, so. Yeah.”

“Well, I thought I was…” Sam trailed off. He looked at the house behind Elena, then back at her. “I’m in the right place, am I?”

“Yup.” Elena was smiling. “Trust me, that was our reaction when we first got here, too. Seriously, Sullivan needs to work on his definition of a cottage.”

Sam stared at her. “Christ, Victor owns this place?”

Elena nodded in response. “C’mon,” she said cheerily, nodding her head towards the gate, “Let’s get inside. I’ll let Sullivan explain everything to you and maybe get him to take you on his personal tour.”

Sam grabbed his duffel from the trunk and let Elena lead the way.  

The sun slowly plummeted over the horizon, simmering gold through the trees, scorching the sky like a third-degree burn. There was no noise except for the crunch of their shoes on the carpet of gravel and dried leaves, the whistle of the wind, the chorus of birdsong from somewhere up the canopies. The air was sharp and chilly. Not far away, the Mansard roof and the whitewashed façade of Sully’s estate began to reveal itself behind the veil of autumn foliage like an enigmatic bride.

“By the way,” Sam began as they climbed the front steps, “I heard from Nathan. Congratulations. Good job for making me an uncle.”

Elena laughed. “You’re welcome. Glad to be of service, I guess.”

“Now I hope you don’t mind if I teach your kid a thing or two about picking locks and—”

“Oh don’t even think about that.”

“Alright. I’ll simply bore them to death.”

“Now that’s impossible. Trouble makes you the least boring person I know.”

“Whoa, now I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment.”

“It is a compliment.” She turned to face him, smiled at him knowingly. “But y’know, I suppose I should thank you, too.”

“Really?” Sam quirked a curious brow. “For what?”

“Nate told me about your sage advice.”

“Oh. That.” Sam shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it sagely,” he said, “but more like a push in the right direction.”

“Of course. But I appreciate it, really. Anyway,” she said as she casually opened the mahogany doors before them, “After you.”

Elena ushered Sam inside the house. Walking into the foyer, he found himself taking a sharp inhale and stuttering to a halt: gilt mirrors and chandeliers, potted palms and porcelain vases, plaster-medallioned ceiling and ivory floors polished to saintly perfection. Down to the wide archway to his immediate right was a gallery exquisitely curated with the finest marble sculptures and Impressionist paintings (there were a couple from Monet and Cézanne and Renoir which he recognized almost immediately, like spotting a familiar face in a crowd of strangers, and he hated how he still knew this because this was Darcy’s thing and fuck he did not need to be reminded of her at this time of day), a couple of photographs and portraits lining the walls, and ancient pieces that would probably cost more than his life. Somewhere, the jazz music he had heard earlier from the phone echoed like a sickly sweet invitation. Even the room smelled nice and elegant: of roast beef, of roses, of cigars and big money. Also, it was comfortably warm.

Startled and half-dazed, not quite sure what he was seeing or where he was even, as if he had been suddenly jettisoned to outer space, Sam turned to Elena and said: “This is… are you positively sure this is Victor’s house?”

Elena huffed an amused laugh. “I know it’s a lot to take in but yeah.” She shouldered off her parka and hung it over a coat rack. She helped Sam out of his jacket, too. “Nate and Sully’s in the kitchen—”

“I’ll be goddamned—look who decided to show up.”

A rich and sonorous voice that Sam knew so well rang out and sauntered into the hall.

“Victor.” Sam offered a small nod as the one and only man of the house—nay, mansion—gave him a strong, parental hug which he returned rather sheepishly. Though he found it strange to be shown such an affectionate gesture, it was even stranger for him to see Victor outside his usual colourful Havana shirts; in his gray long-sleeved turtleneck and dark trousers, he almost seemed so foreign. Warm and snug, sure—but still painfully foreign. Despite that, he still carried that same slick and silvery charm as if he never aged a day.

“Well now.” Victor stepped back, clapping both hands on Sam’s broad shoulders. “I honestly thought you wouldn’t show up.”

“What can I say? I live to disappoint.” Sam shrugged. “But anyway,” he said, “be honest with me: who did you murder to afford this place, huh? We had all the time in Lisbon and you didn’t tell me about this!”

“I’m glad to let you know that I didn’t get my hands bloody to get this place. This belonged to my family for generations.” Victor extracted a pack from the back pocket of his jeans and lit a cigar. “This—“ he was gesturing a hand in the air, the curl of smoke rising between his fingers— “had been in tatters a couple of years back. Had to make sure this entire place was in its pristine condition before I had anyone come over and see it.”

“And that’s only half of the story,” Elena added. She crossed her arms and looked at Victor critically. “Wait until you hear about how he acquired a certain Rembrandt piece.”

Sam waved away Elena’s words with an incredulous hand. “Wait a fucking second.” He stared at Victor. “Did I hear that right? You have a goddamn Rembrandt? What the—”

“Elena? Sully? You guys left me in the kitchen and you all know how I’m accident-prone—oh, about time you got here!”

Sam turned and was welcomed by Nathan with a firm slap on his back as soon as he walked in. He was wearing a dark cashmere sweater, ripped jeans, and one of those aprons with an obscenely suggestive text that said May I suggest this sausage written in a terrible font face.

“Why hello there, little brother,” Sam said a shade too mockingly. “Don’t you look dashing.”

Nathan scowled. “Okay, before you even judge me,” he began to tell Sam defensively, “I have to say that this—” he gestured a hand over his apron— “belongs to Sully.”

“Not that I needed clarification, but okay,” Sam said smugly. They all laughed.

“Look, kid,” said Victor, turning to Nathan, “why don’t you take your brother to his room? Elena and I will take care of things down here.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Nathan peeled off the apron and handed it to Victor. “Can’t bear the thought of being the jackass to accidentally burn your mansion.”

Victor shook his head. “That’s why I’m effectively relieving you of kitchen duty. Now scoot.”

Sam followed Nathan down the hall, up a sweeping staircase, and then another hall with mahogany doors leading to more rooms. More photographs and more gilt-framed portraits hung on the walls. Everywhere smelled sweet and musty and oppressively opulent.

“Here we are,” said Nathan as he opened the last door at the end of the corridor.

Obviously, the room was nothing less lavish than what Sam had seen thus far from the entire house. Stepping inside, it was as if he had slipped into a different time period, some Gothic universe that distinctly reeked of that 19th-century grandeur: fancy carpets on hardwood floors, paneled walls of deep green, gray velvet curtains draped over large windows. A pair of armchairs and a lumpy sofa upholstered in rose-patterned fabric were primly arranged opposite a marble fireplace. Figurines and books occupied any available surface. In the middle of the room, an ornately carved four-poster bed covered in fluffy linens seduced Sam with the lure of much-needed sleep.

“Jesus,” he said, dropping his bag next to a rosewood desk. “This house is fucking nuts.”

Nathan laughed. “I know,” he said. “This is like one of those rooms in Hampton Court Palace. Remember—“

“Yeah, yeah—first heist with Cutter, I know.” And with Darcy, too. Sam winced an empty smile. “Don’t need to remind me,” he muttered almost to himself. “So—“ he paced across the room, looking around earnestly, decidedly eager to change the subject— “how did the talk go with the wife?”

“Oh.” Nathan sat at the edge of the bed. “It was okay. Got to sort things out. And…” He trailed off. “Well, you were right,” he said quietly.

Sam stopped and narrowed his eyes at Nathan, a snarky smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Come again? I didn’t quite catch that.”

Nathan snorted a derisive laugh. “You just want me to say it again, don’t you?”

“I really need you to say it again ‘cause I didn’t hear it the first time.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“Really? So that’s how it is?”

“Fine, fine. I said you were right.”

Sam beamed a triumphant smiled. “Why, thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

They did not say anything for a while. Then, Nathan got up and walked to the door. “Anyway,” he said, awkwardly clearing his throat, “I know you’re tired, so I’ll leave and give you time for a decent shut-eye. Dinner’s at eight, by the way.”

“Yeah, sure. Got it.”

Left to his own devices, Sam began to look around the room with a studied carefulness, examining every trinket and decor he could find like a detective dusting for fingerprints. He soon lost interest. He rarely got bored with things like these, but perhaps it was the exhaustion. Perhaps it was an exhaustion of an alien stranded in a different time, trying to phone home.

But there was no home. He never had one. And somehow, as he laid down on the bed in resignation, staring at the ceiling, he felt like he was not supposed to be here at all.

___

Sam is back in his prison cell in Panama.

He is supposed to be used to this by now—as one does, he guessed, if one had spent more than a decade incarcerated for a crime he did not commit—except the rush of terror that cuts him is a freshly sharpened blade. The trauma resurrects itself anew. It does not settle to be a memory so it replays itself like this:

Two men seize him by the arms, dragging him out and throwing him into the darkness. He is welcomed by a sharp embrace of a metal pipe, of many pairs of fists, and his knees, oh his knees are traitorous allies that buckles and trembles onto the cold, shit-stained floor. His bullet wounds have not fully recovered yet but the guards are his doctors believing that he will find his healing in the violence. This is his medicine. They watch him swallow and gag and retch. Get used to it, they say. This will make a better man out of you, says another. This is what your freedom looks like now, someone else spits out. The men restore his body with bruises. Paints him purple and pink and bloody. Split lip and swollen eyes. What is his body but a dishrag pulp of flesh? Pain is as sweet as morphine, a name that his body has memorized like an old lover’s kiss. So he takes and takes and takes. He does not scream. He does not beg them to stop. But he cries. His sobs echo without a sound. He lets his own voice choke him until they kill him for good.

___

Sam had meant to only sleep for a few hours, but he woke up sweating and with a heaving start to find the room bathed in silvery moonlight that made everything seem so startling and disarmingly unreal. Groggily, he looked around and the first one he saw was a woman sitting by the side of his bed.

And he was gripping her wrist like he was squeezing the life out of her.

It took him seconds to realize that it was Elena.

He let go of her, suddenly aflame with embarrassment.

“Shit, I—“ he stammered, running a hand over his hair, fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp— “I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t—“

“Hey, it’s alright,” Elena said. She was looking at him with a pained and worried expression on her face that made his embarrassment even worse. “Bad dream?” she asked.

“Sort of.”

“For how long have you been going through this?”

Sam did not answer. He did not know what he should tell her. He could only avoid her gaze like a fretful child, and a part of him hated it.

Before the silence could stretch on for more uncomfortable minutes, Elena got up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” she said regretfully. “Anyway, Nate was supposed to be the one to wake you up, but Sully sent him for a quick errand but um, I’m here to let you know that dinner’s ready.”

Sam nodded weakly. “Right. Uh, Elena?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell Nathan about this.”

Elena stared at him with obvious admonishment, as if she was she was holding back the judgment she was trying to pass. “Okay, I won’t,” she said finally. “Because I trust that you’ll be the one to tell him about it.”

Sam said nothing. He watched Elena close the door behind her.

#uncharted #uncharted fanfiction #samuel drake #sam drake #elena fisher #nathan drake #victor sullivan #my writing #if you can't tell already i kind of like to suffer i guess??????????