#foster the people lyrics
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(trigger warning : blood)
I found God,
I found him in a lover,
When his hair falls in his face,
And his hands so cold they shake.
I found the Devil,
I found him in a lover,
And his lips like tangerine,
In his color coded speak.
Coming down - Halsey
[All I have to say is that I should draw more evil people with red lips. It’s hot as fuck.]
Taglist!
stopstealingtomatoes @theseasonismerrybutimnot @bylerlve @that-glasses-dog @constant-sapphic-breakdown @katniss-elizabeth-chase @abubble125 @callas-pancake-tree @appleflv @writingandwritten @theseasonalarsonist @isnt-it-delicate15
#I’m sorry I robbed yall of evil Biana#sophiana#this is my hot evil people era I think#Nobody told me evil sophie was so hot#kotlc#keeper of the lost cities#kotlc fanart#sophie foster#sophie x biana#biana vacker#kotlc biana#kotlc sophie#evil sophie au#halsey#please reblog this#my art#flori doodles#I know the last wuote is also based on lyrics. What are you going to do about it#kotlc fandom#flori-doodles#art#artblr#blood tw#tw blood
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The words to "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People are hard to understand - so much that the only part I would sing along to was the chorus, which I heard as: "All the other kids in their pumped up kicks better run, better run, faster than my bubbe." Did I question WHY the kids were being pursued by a Jewish grandmother? Of course not! I now realize that is a pretty silly mental image.
Then I learned what the lyrics REALLY are. (A shooting from the shooter's perspective, if you don't want to open it up.) I think I'll keep singing about speedy Jewish grandmas instead.
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A few years ago, a friend told me her school banned the song Pumped Up Kicks by Foster the People. I was like WTAF?!...because I thought the chorus went like this:
All the other kids with the pumped up kicks
Better run, better run outrun my darlin'
All the other kids with their pumped up kicks
They better run, better run, outrun my girl
ISTG I thought the song was about a dad whose daughter was a really good runner, but who couldn't afford the latest running shoes like all the other track parents 🤦🏼♀️😅
#lyrics#pumped up kicks#foster the people#misheard lyrics#school shooting#combine#track and field#running#why am i like this#funny shit
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𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈, 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝙩𝙧𝙮
𝐈'𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐬
𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧
𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐮𝐭
𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝
𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧?
𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈, 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡
𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭
𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭?
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧
𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐮𝐭
—𝙰 𝙱𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝙶𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗 // 𝙵𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎
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"I see us dancing by ourselves
We do it better with no one around
Just in my imagination"
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Days, they can feel so long
I've been hanging on to a sad love song
Nights, never came to dawn
They went on and on
All About You, The Knocks ft. Foster The People
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Floating to the endless nights
The dust cradles our names
And all the things we ever cared for
To run again without the pain
To love you without bein' afraid
To fall into the flowers bloom, of the other side
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See, Kylo Ren is just like the song Pumped Up Kicks, because people act like it’s just a fun little innocent song but if you actually listen to it, it’s about a school shooter.
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Random Things About Your Future Spouse | Pick A Pile
Hello and welcome to this Pick A Pile! In here you'll find out a few random things about your future spouse. I hope you guys enjoy and find this useful. Do make sure to leave comments down below on your experience! I do want to remind you all that this is a General Pick A Pile which means this is for a lot of people: therefore keep what resonates and leave what doesn't.
Masterpost > Questions > Paid Readings [NEW]
Pick A Pile!
Art: fresh_bobatae
Pile 1:
They enjoy creating elaborate scavenger hunts for family gatherings.
They have a talent for turning ordinary moments into spontaneous dance parties.
They collect fun, random, and for a few of you old stuff.
They possess an uncanny ability to remember the lyrics to obscure songs.
They always keep a secret stash of snacks in unconventional places around the house.
They have a passion for stargazing and will try to see shapes in them.
They enjoy writing handwritten notes and leaving them in unexpected places.
Pile 2:
They organize the family photo album in chronological order with meticulous captions.
They have a knack for giving thoughtful, personalized gifts for every occasion.
They can flawlessly impersonate various cartoon characters, delighting children and adults alike.
They maintain an impressive collection of board games and hosts game nights a lot with friends and family.
They adopt 'useless' traditions, like celebrating "reverse birthdays" where they give gifts to others.
They have an adventurous palate and loves experimenting with unique and exotic recipes.
They possess a green thumb and turns the backyard into a thriving garden full of fruits and veggies (mostly veggies).
Pile 3:
They always have a witty and clever response ready for any situation, much to your annoyance.
They enjoy writing and illustrating whimsical bedtime stories for the family.
They organize spontaneous road trips to explore hidden gems and off-the-beaten-path destinations.
They have a talent for creating elaborate, themed holiday decorations for the home.
They initiate random acts of kindness like leaving encouraging notes for neighbors.
They love adopting and fostering pets, turning the home into a joyful animal haven.
They enjoy learning and teaching fun and useless facts that become family trivia.
#pap#pac#pick a card#pick a pile#pick a photo#pick an image#pick a reading#pick a picture#spirituality#spiritual#divination#channeling#channeled message#channeled reading#channeled messages#tarot#tarot reading#tarotoftheday#daily tarot#dailytarot#tarotblr#tarot readings#tarot deck#tarot cards#law of assumption#future spouse#future spouse reading#fs#love reading#tarotcommunity
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nine people you’d like to get to know better!
I was tagged by the lovely @abovetherainandroses — thanks so much, guys!! <33
last song: 1x1 by Bring Me The Horizon and the Nova Twins
fav colour: orange!!!!!! its my favorite color not only because its great but also because everyone i know hates it and thinks its the worst
currently watching: been rewatching the good place lately
sweet/savoury/spicy: all three!!
relationship status: complicated. im single tho
current obsession: i loved fall out boy so much i had to make a whole blog about it lol
last thing you googled: shc lyrics foster the people
tagging: @bsideheart, @roscoe-me-and-this-fuckin-kid, @setting-in-a-honeymoon, @random-knowone, @pnuk-r0ck, @pisshandkerchief, @thekidsarentalright? no pressure, of course!! and if you’d like to join and i forgot to tag you please feel free, just tag me so i can see it :))
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Part 1 Here
Prompts combined for Pt. 2 are : Outsider POV, Steve Harrington is an idiot (affectionate), Wayne Finds Out, and Everyone is Queer Because I Said So.
Wayne Munson knows he’s not the best parental figure. He never liked kids. Never wanted kids. And he nearly said no when the social worker called asking if he wanted to take guardianship of his thirteen-year-old nephew. Because surely there was someone better suited. Except then the social worker told him why Eddie had been removed from his father’s care. About the magazines Eddie’s father had found in Eddie’s backpack that preceded him kicking Eddie out. About the fights Eddie had been getting into at school. About the song lyrics his temporary foster had found in his journal. And suddenly Wayne wasn’t so sure there was a better option. He knew there had to be people more equipped to raise a traumatized queer teenager, but there was no guarantee Eddie would end up with one of them. The opposite was far more likely. Wayne knew firsthand that much of the world was unkind to people like them.
In the years that follow, they don’t talk about it. He figured once he’d won the kid’s trust, Eddie would bring it up in his own time. Or maybe Eddie would ask why Wayne spends a weekend in Indy once a month or maybe ask who he’s spending the weekends with. But somehow those conversations never happen and Wayne doesn’t force them.
It’s not until he finds Steve Fucking Harrington keeping vigil at Eddie’s hospital bedside that he thinks maybe he should have pushed the issue sooner.
Because Harrington looks like he’s been through a war. He’s covered in blood and grime; only his arms, washed to his elbows where he’s holding Eddie’s hand, are clean. He’s looking at Eddie with naked emotion. And, perhaps most damning, he’s wearing Eddie’s battle jacket.
When Wayne enters the room, Harrington startles and says, “Hi. I’m Steve Harrington,” like Wayne and everyone else in Hawkins weren’t already aware of that.
“I know who you are. I know who your father is, too.”
“I’d uh, prefer you didn’t hold that against me.”
Wayne makes no promises. “How do you know Eddie?”
“We’re…friends,” Steve says. There’s a continent of things unsaid behind the word.
“And how are you in his room past visiting hours?”
“I bribed the nurse," he admits. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”
“Well. On that, we’re agreed. But I’m here now. And no offense, kid, but you look like you should be in one of these beds yourself.”
“Yeah. I told them once you got here I’d let them stitch me up. It’s not anything life-threatening.” He says this with the resigned intonation of someone who is familiar with the difference.
What the fuck has Eddie gotten himself involved in?
Harrington stands. It’s a slow, painful, movement, and he only lets go of Eddie’s hand at the last possible second. “Can I—I’d like to come back. After. If you don’t mind.”
Wayne considers him. He considers Eddie’s blood-smeared vest on the kid’s shoulders. He realizes, belatedly, that Eddie’s guitar pick necklace is hanging around Harrington’s bruised throat, the rings usually crammed onto Eddie’s fingers lined up on either side of the pick.
“Sure,” he says. “Be nice to have some company. And you can tell me what the hell happened.”
Harington sighs. “Not sure how much I’m allowed to tell. Or how much you’ll believe. But I can try.”
Wayne takes his place holding Eddie’s hand.
He tries to ignore the fact that Harrington stands in the doorway for more than a minute, just looking, before finally slipping into the hall.
He’s back a few hours later, clearly showered, wrapped in gauze, and wearing the preppiest goddamn outfit. Honestly, Wayne can’t fathom how Eddie and Harrington have anything in common. He’s also still wearing the necklace, though. And when he pulls up a chair to sit on the opposite side of Eddie’s bed, he removes the necklace and carefully, downright tenderly, returns the rings to Eddie’s fingers. Wayne notices, almost despite himself, that Harrington isn’t just guessing at the placement, either. He knows. So either he’s intimately familiar with Eddie’s fingers––something that, as impossible as it sounds, is starting to seem more and more likely––or he’s particularly observant. And that kind of observance speaks to its own sort of devotion.
Wayne isn’t excited about either of these options.
He’s trying to figure out how to ask if Steve Fucking Harrington is Eddie’s boyfriend without scaring him away when Eddie shifts, which has Wayne and Steve both jumping to their feet.
“Wayne?” he murmurs. And Wayne isn’t one for emotional displays but he finds himself participating in one for the next few minutes nonetheless.
Once he gets ahold of himself, Eddie’s head turns, slow with painkillers, to see Harrington.
“Stevie,” he says, grinning. “Hey. I’m not dead.”
“Despite your best efforts,” Steve chokes out. His hands are fisted under his armpits and he looks about five seconds away from crying. Not that Wayne can judge since he’s more than five seconds into crying.
“What did I tell you, what did you promise?” Harrington snarls.
Eddie’s grin dims. “Not to be a hero. But Dustin––shit. Dustin. Is he...”
“Fine. Sprained ankle. Pissed as hell at you. Everyone else is fine too. Max is down the hall. She has some broken bones but she’ll be alright.”
“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs. “How did I—“
“We went back for you.”
“We?”
“I,” Harrington grits out. “I went back for you. Thought you were dead. Carried you back anyway. Didn’t realize you were still breathing until we got you in the car. Drove like hell to the hospital.”
And that’s. Well, shit. Apparently, Wayne is going to need to temper his distrust of this particular Harrington. Because it sounds like he saved Eddie’s goddamn life.
“He also refused treatment and waited with you until I got here,” Wayne feels he has to add. “Despite the fact he was bleeding everywhere.”
Eddie glances between them, eyes huge. “Shit. I’m sorry. Hey, no, don’t––”
Steve is crying now, not even trying to hide it, and Eddie holds out a hand, wincing. “Come here, man, I’m fine. Or I’ll probably be fine, right?”
“So says the doctor,” Wayne agrees.
Steve doesn’t need a second invitation.
He all but collapses, carefully, into Eddie’s outstretched arms, and Eddie’s hands bunch into the fabric of Steve’s sweatshirt and he crams his face into Steve’s neck and they’re so––their obvious, desperate, affection for each other is so unapologetic that Wayne has to look away.
It’s not until later, when they’ve hashed out the basics of the insane upside-down phenomenon, that they finally convince Steve to go home and sleep.
He waits ten seconds after the door has closed to exhale, pressing his palms into his eyes.
“Jesus, kid. I knew you had expensive taste with cigarettes and guitars but this? He’s the closest thing to royalty this town has.”
Eddie lets out a hysterical little warble of a laugh. “No. No, no. That’s not—we’re not.”
“What the hell are you then?”
“Friends. Bonded through extreme trauma.”
“But you’d like to be more than friends.”
Eddie looks at him askance “I’ll take what I can get and I won’t ask for more,” he says quietly.
Unfortunately, Wayne is well familiar with that kind of love. He just can’t get Steve’s expression out of his head. The gentle way he’d replaced Eddie’s rings. He doesn’t think Eddie’s interest is as one-sided as Eddie does. But he doesn’t want to meddle. He’s certain they’ll figure themselves out.
Two months later, Wayne is starting to think they’re both idiots. Because half the time when he gets home from his evening bar shift––a new job after the plant disappeared into the fiery abyss––Steve’s BMW is parked down the street and when he cracks Eddie’s bedroom door he finds them cuddled up, asleep. Sometimes he’ll go to rent a movie and Steve will be wearing a shirt that Wayne knows is Eddie’s and half the time when he wakes Eddie up in the mornings he’s wearing a pastel sweater monogrammed with initials that don’t belong to Eddie. He’d think they’re together and keeping it quiet if not for the fact that Eddie is driving him absolutely insane with pining. He’s written three songs about longing and heartbreak in the last two weeks and if Wayne has to listen to one more wailing ballad he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.
He’s walking back from the bar after closing, only a mile from the new fancy trailer the government had installed for them when he passes Harrington’s conspicuous vehicle a few houses down. He sighs. The boy really has no sense of subtly.
He’s expecting to find them, as usual, asleep in a tangle of limbs, except when he reaches the porch stairs, he can hear the boys talking.
He pauses with his hand on the railing.
“What are you doing,” Eddie murmurs, voice just carrying from the open living room window.
“Well. I’d like to kiss you, if you’d let me.”
About damn time, Wayne thinks.
“Steve, wait,” Eddie says. And it’s so quiet, so uncertain, that Wayne is tempted to open the door right then if only to prevent Ed from sounding so broken.
“I can’t be a practice run for you,” Eddie says, “Please. I can’t. I wouldn’t survive that.”
“A––what the fuck, Eddie.”
“It’s just, I know this is new to you and I’m, obviously, all about exploration and, um, finding yourself. Congratulations. Yay. But I can’t be an experiment. Not with you. I can’t.”
“You’re not an experiment,” Harrington says, voice a little louder than Wayne would prefer, given the circumstances. The trailer park isn’t exactly spacious. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. I want to kiss you because I’m in love with you, how could you think—besides. This isn’t that new. I’ve kissed other guys.”
“You’ve what? Who? When?”
“Just. You know. Friends messing around. I didn’t know that made me bisexual until I talked about it with Robin but apparently, I’ve been kinda gay this whole time.”
“I’m sorry. You thought making out with your basketball buddies was…a standard heterosexual pastime?”
“Well, when you say it like that.”
“What other way is there to say it?”
“Okay,” Steve says, “I already had this conversation with Robin this morning. I don’t need to rehash it again. So I’m a little bit of an idiot. Memo received.”
“Jesus, Harrington. You just found out bisexuality was a thing this morning and now you’re here, what, asking me to be your boyfriend?”
“I mean, yeah. Ideally.”
“You don’t do anything by halves, do you.” Eddie sounds disgustingly fond.
“Eddie. I just said I love you.”
“You did,” Eddie says, high and cracked. “You did say that.”
“So if we could refocus.”
“Right.”
“I don’t expect you to say it back, but––”
“God, you really are an idiot. Of course I fucking love you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And then that’s––well, that’s probably his nephew getting his first kiss from Steve Fucking Harrington.
Wayne decides to give them to a count of thirty before interrupting, but just as he’s about to stomp his way up the stairs, Eddie says, “Sorry, sorry, I’ve never done this before.”
“Hey, no. It’s ok. Neither have I, really. But you’re crazy if you think I’m going to fuck you right now,” Steve says.
“I meant kissing. Hold on, does that mean you would be willing to fuck me later?”
Wayne winces. There are things he does not need to hear come out of his nephew’s mouth.
“Wait,” Steve interrupts, “You’ve never been kissed before? How is that possible?”
“Who would have kissed me?” Eddie hisses, “ I’m the town pariah. And until I met Robin I didn’t know any other queer people existed in Hawkins. Though apparently, I should have just joined the basketball team since you’re having orgies or whatever.”
“The first two were on the swim team,” Steve says.
“First two. How many were there?”
Steve ignores him. “And that wasn’t––you’re so hot, though. And your band has played in bigger cities. Haven’t you ever gone up to Indy to any of the bars there?”
“I need you to understand,” Eddie says, “that I am 90% bravado and 100% anxiety.”
“That’s not how percentages work.”
“Steve.”
“Sorry. Okay. Well, if this is your first kiss then I better make it good, huh?”
“Yes. That is absolutely the burden placed upon your capable shoulders should you choose to––oh.”
Eddie stops talking and doesn’t start again, though he does make a breathy little noise that Wayne takes as his cue.
He stomps up the stairs as loudly as possible, fumbling longer than necessary with the door handle, and pushes his way inside.
The boys are both shirtless, clearly in the process of shoving themselves away from each other. Eddie’s face is pink and his lips are kiss-swollen and Harrington’s back has a set of welted scratches on it that Wayne imagines are a perfect match for Eddie’s fingers.
“Well, shit,” Wayne says. He definitely should have opened the door sooner.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Eddie says.
“What the fuck else what it be?” Steve says, only sounding a little hysterical.
Except then the kid is pushing Eddie behind him and squaring up to Wayne with his jaw clenched and his head high, the discolored ring around his neck, still not yet healed, the scars down his belly, on display. Wayne is well-acquainted with the nuance of a man posturing versus a man who would gladly throw himself into a fight, even one he’s not certain he’d win. Steve Harrington is indisputably the latter.
Wayne can’t decide if he’s offended or endeared.
“Stand down, kid, I’m not going to hurt him.”
“I wouldn’t let you.”
“That is…extremely apparent.”
“Steve,” Eddie says. “It’s ok. He knows. Or. We’ve never really talked about it but.” He meets Wayne’s eyes. “He knows. It’s ok.”
Eddie pushes around him, stepping into Wayne’s open arms.
Steve watches distrustfully as Wayne wraps Eddie in a hug.
“You’re both safe here,” he says. Mostly to Steve, since he’s the one who needs to hear it. “And I’ll call up my boyfriend in Indy and have him vouch for me if you don’t believe me.”
Harrington’s expression is just as magnificent as Wayne hoped it would be.
“Your what?” Eddie shrieks.
Part 3 Here.
On AO3 Here.
Tempted to do one more from one of the kid's POVs when the kids find out. Thoughts?
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My Reply | S.R
This one was a request from the lovely @reidsaurora-replies for my milestone celebration which got wildly out of hand. I think I damn near used every lyric of the song in this one. Also, Maeve does not exist in this universe. I felt like his phone calls with her were too similar to the letters with reader and not needed
Summary - Spencer writes his deepest tragedies down on paper for his pen pal. After ten years of exchanging letters and some divine intervention from JJ, the two of you finally come face to face.
CW - this one covers most of Spencer’s canon storylines including Tobis Hankel and his drug addiction, his moms illness, his fathers abandonment, getting shot in the knee, his headaches, Emily’s “death”, prison arc, Mr Scratch and Emily’s kidnapping, angst, interfering friends, lots of literary quotes.
WC - 6.3k
Making friends was always something Spencer Reid had been inherently bad at. He was always too young or too smart which always seemed to put people off of forming friendships with him.
When he joined the BAU, his team called themselves his friends. But Spencer knew if he’d met any of them outside of work he would have nothing in common with them.
They were simply friends by proximity, which admittedly was better than having no friends at all. But he couldn’t talk to them about everything, afraid to scare them away with talk of his mothers illness or his fathers abandonment.
And sometimes he just needed to talk to someone.
It was Garcia’s idea that he sign up for a pen pal. When she found out about his mom during the course of the fisher king case, he’d confessed that he didn’t feel comfortable talking to the team about such things.
At first she’d actually suggested talking to someone online, she had many online friends who she talked to in various chat rooms. But after almost an hour of trying to explain that to the technophobe doctor and getting little more than a deep frown in response, she changed tact.
A pen pal appealed to Spencer greatly. He already wrote daily letters to his mom and found it somewhat cathartic, getting his thoughts down on the page, but he never bothered her with the darker stuff.
The idea of a faceless person he’d never meet reading his deepest, darkest thoughts was actually intriguing to him. And so with the help of Penelope he found himself a pen pal.
In his first letter he’d just introduced the basics, his name and age, what he did for a living and that he lived in DC.
He went on to explain how hard he found it to make friends and the difficulties of talking to his already established friends about the darker parts of his life. He ended the letter with a quote from To Kill a Mockingbird.
“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” - Harper Lee.
He received a reply little over a week later.
Your name was Y/N and you were twenty two, three years younger than him and a grad student at Columbia University. You told him you would be happy to read whatever he sent you, that you were more than willing for him to write to you about the things he didn’t tell his friends.
You signed off with a quote of your own quote from the book Infinite Jest.
“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realise how seldom they do.” - David Foster Wallace.
And so he did just as you said and he wrote another letter.
His second letter to you was five pages long. He went into great detail about his mothers illness, how he’d been left to deal with it alone at ten years old. He wrote about how he’d made the decision at eighteen years old to have her committed to a sanitarium.
He told you about growing up as a child prodigy in Las Vegas and how hard that was. You were the first person he ever told about Alexa Lisbon and being tied naked to a flagpole.
He spoke about the events surrounding Elle leaving the team and how it didn’t feel complete without her.
He ended the letter by apologising profusely that he’d wasted your time with his long winded rambles and said he hoped to hear from you soon and scrawled a quote from The Great Gatsby.
“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.” - F. Scott Fitzgerald.
He said he would understand if you didn’t reply. But you did.
The letter took two weeks to arrive and you explained that it was because you wanted to really process his words and give each and every one of them the time they deserved. He read the last few lines of your letter over and over again in a loop even though they were etched into his memory after only one glance.
I wish there was something I could say, to erase each and every page you've been through,
even though it's not my place to save you.
“When I get lonely these days, I think: so be lonely. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.” - Elizabeth Gilbert - Eat, Pray, Love.
He wasn’t familiar with the book and so he’d gone out and brought it and read it cover to cover within an hour.
Reading your letter made Spencer feel understood for the first time in his young life. You didn’t pass judgement on him. Spencer found that between the pages of your letters he found a kindred spirit.
The letters continued back and forth for several months until one day you didn’t receive a reply. His last letter had been penned to you on route to a case in Atlanta, which you’d responded to the day you received it. But there was radio silence from Spencer.
You shouldn’t have been as worried as you were, but you couldn’t help yourself. His letters had become such a huge part of your world, often rereading them hundreds of times just to make sure you didn’t miss any little nuance on the page.
His handwriting was ingrained within you, his scrawly, sometimes barely legible penmanship danced behind your eyelids every time you closed your eyes. His letters had rapidly become the best part of any day. And for over a year you didn’t receive a reply.
After a while you’d stopped holding out hope every time you collected your mail. Eventually you gave up ever expecting to hear from him again. Maybe he didn’t need you anymore. Perhaps he’d made a real life friend, maybe even a girlfriend and you’d been rendered ineffective.
But then little over a year after you sent your last letter, you found an envelope in your mail slot with the familiar handwriting you adored so much and the DC postmark.
Y/N,
I don’t really have any excuses, all I can say is I’m sorry. I have written you fifty three letters over the course of the last year but never mailed a single one. They are piled up on my desk, addressed and even stamped, but I couldn’t bring myself to mail them.
I’ve been struggling, I can’t lie to you. I can’t even lie to you through a letter and tell you I’ve been fine because I haven’t. I think you would see through my prose, know that I wasn’t being truthful. And you’ve never given me a reason to be anything but honest with you.
The case in Atlanta was one of the hardest I’ve ever worked. I’m not going to beat around the bush, I’m just going to tell what happened and hopefully this letter will end up with you and not in the pile on my desk.
I was kidnapped by the man we were hunting down. I spent two days tied to a chair being beaten within an inch of my life but a man with multiple personalities. In fact, that’s not strictly true. I wasn’t beaten within an inch of my life; one of the personas killed me.
I’m not entirely sure how long I was technically dead before he revived me but obviously not long enough to cause permanent neurological damage. Irreversible brain damage occurs after four minutes without oxygen so it stands to reason it was less than four minutes.
But during that time, my life flashed before my eyes, including every single word of every single one of your letters.
One of the alter’s drugged me in his own way of trying to save me. Drugging me was supposed to help with the pain, both mental and physical. I fought it at first, desperate for him not to stick that needle in my vein. But after that first hit, I stopped resisting.
I think you can probably already see where this is going. You’re incredibly smart and you seem to know me so well. After I shot Tobias Hankel dead I took three vials of dilaudid from his corpse.
I should have prefaced this by saying I am now ten months sober, and offered up the good news first. But there were several months that I continued using the drug in secret, hoping it would aid in erasing the memories of it all.
It took a case in New Orleans in which I met up with an old friend Ethan and ended up almost destroying my career for me to decide to get sober. I’ve had a lot of difficulties in my life, as you know, but getting clean is the hardest thing I have ever done.
And now for the first time in months I’m craving again. Maybe that’s why I’m writing to you, determined to send this letter this time. I need to know that everything is going to be ok and you are the only one that I will believe it from.
My team tries. Now it's all out in the open, they try to help. But you don’t even need to try. Your help is so effortless, so easy and I’m in real need of that right now.
His letter went on in this vein for another six pages. He also included several pages of handwritten poetry which he had copied out of a book to send you. With each word you consumed you felt your heart breaking for him a piece at a time.
And he signed off with a surprising choice of quote from The Lorax.
“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” - Dr Seuss.
You spent the next month or so trying to cultivate the perfect reply, but for the first time in your life, words failed you.
It was three days after Spencer received his one year sober chip that your letter arrived.
I got your letter and the poetry you sent me, postmarked in December of last year. I really hope you’re doing better, all your friends close by your side, one step closer to recovery.
I hope by the time you receive this you are close to one year sober, but if you didn’t make it you need to know that’s ok too. Life is full of ups and downs Spencer. If you didn’t make it this time you will the next time. Or the one after that.
If you relapsed I need you to not beat yourself up over it. You will be ok, Spencer Reid, for that I am certain.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” Maya Angelou - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.
***
When he got shot in the knee, he wrote to you from the hospital. He told you how hard it was for him to turn down pain medication when he was in so much agony. But he was over two years sober now and he wouldn’t do anything to risk a relapse.
Your reply spoke of how proud of him you were and how you knew it couldn’t have been easy for him but you hoped the fact you were proud went some way to aid him.
He told you it meant more to him than you would ever know.
Then he started having headaches and the letters became sporadic. When he did write he told you how painful it was for him to try to focus on the words in front of him.
I’ve seen so many doctors and no one can tell me what’s wrong with me. It’s like they think I’m making it up, like this pain isn’t real.
On my good days it’s a dull throb but on the bad days it’s nearly paralysing. I’m so scared that this is a precursor for schizophrenia. I'm still young enough for my first break, and it is a genetic illness.
I love my mom but I can’t turn out like her, Y/N, I just can’t. I'm so, so scared.
But your letters are the greatest comfort to me. I don’t think there are words to describe how much they mean - I will try to surmise it with a quote from Charlotte's Web -
"'Why did you do all this for me?' he asked. 'I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.' 'You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing.'" - E.B White.
You could feel his fear through the pages. His handwriting was somehow even harder to read than usual and sentences often tapered off with no ending. There were whole passages scribbled out so violently his pen had ripped the paper in places. There were crude drawings of brains and dark rain clouds in the margins.
Spencer,
I am so sorry you are going through this and that no one can give you the answers you seek. But this isn’t the end for you, even if it is schizophrenia, you can still live a full and normal life.
If you'll just hold on for one more second, if you just hold on to what you have, you will wake up tomorrow. Behind every rain cloud lies the sun. As Victor Hugo said in Les Miserables -
“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
In his next few letters he seemed to be getting better, his headaches slowly dissipating until they only hassled him every once in a while. Things seemed to be looking up for him.
But then one of his best friends died.
His detailed letter told you all about Ian Doyle and Emily’s history with him and went on to conclude how she died on the operating table.
I’ve been through a lot of trauma in my life, lost a lot of people close to me but never like this. I’ve never had to bury someone I love and honestly I don’t know how to move past this.
My initial reaction has been dilaudid. It's the only thing I can think of to take the pain away.
Tell me not to do it, Y/N, please. Please tell me that this grief will get better and that using drugs again is not the answer. Please help me stay clean.
"When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time — the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers.” John Irving - A Prayer for Owen Meany
It took you longer than it should have done to formulate a reply. You felt pressured, like his sobriety hung in your hands. You hated that his friend had died but you didn’t think it was fair of him to put this on you. And you told him such.
Spencer,
I am sorry to hear about Emily, I know how close the two of you were. I’m no expert on grief, I can’t tell you how to deal with this.
You know full well that using dilaudid again is a bad idea, you really don’t need me to tell you that. Honestly, I’m a little frustrated at you for putting this on my shoulders.
I am always here to help Spencer, in any way I can but sometimes I think you expect too much from me. We’ve been trading letters back and forth for the better part of five years and I don’t think you’ve ever really asked me about myself aside from those first initial letters.
And it’s fine, you needed this friendship more than I did. But over time this has started to feel so one sided and I don’t always look forward to your letters as much as I once did.
I realise this is not the best time for me to be saying these things but I can’t hold back any longer. I’m glad I can be someone you can turn to but I have my own life, my own issues and I have no one to talk to about them.
You put too much pressure on me Spencer and it’s a lot to take. I’ve tried to help shoulder your misery all these years but it’s starting to bring me down. All I can say is you need to wake up, you've gotta believe; you can't give up. Time keeps going on without us, long after we're dead and gone.
And you finished it with a simple quote from After You by Jojo Moyes.
“No journey out of grief was straightforward. There would be good days and bad days.”
It was no surprise to you that you didn’t receive a reply.
***
Y/N,
It’s been two years and I’m sorry for that. Two years, one month and eleven days. The truth is your last letter was hard for me to read as you can probably understand.
The hardest part of reading it was the fact that I knew you were right. I’ve been selfish all these years. I’ve treated you like a sounding board for my problems and never once asked how you were.
It's taken me time to write this because I wanted to get to a better place before I responded. I was angry at first, I felt like I was being abandoned again and my anger would not have been conducive.
Then I was hurt, hurt that the one person I thought would always be there for me had turned their back on me. I displaced my grief over Emily’s death onto you and anything I would have written in that time would have only been the rage fuelled epitaph of a grieving man.
And then once I dealt with those emotions, life simply got away from me. Emily was alive and well, her death was faked to get Doyle off of her back. Again I was angry about being lied to by my friends but eventually I was just happy she was alive.
Then I turned thirty and had a crisis of faith I suppose. I guess with my intellect I always assumed I would be doing something more with my life and turning thirty kind of threw me through a loop.
We had some changes to the team, new agents coming and going. All in all things have been somewhat hectic.
But that’s not why I’m writing.
I am writing because I really do want to know everything about you. I want you to be able to open up to me the way I always have to you. I want to be your shoulder, your repreve. I really hope I haven’t completely blown our friendship and I hope to be the kind of person who you can talk to.
These arms remain stretched out to you and maybe someday you'll accept them. Maybe it's too late to save a young girl's heart that's long stopped beating. But I hope that it isn’t.
“You have been in every way all that anyone could be…if anybody could have saved me it would have been you.” Jennifer Niven - All the Bright Places.
You wanted to tell him it was too little too late, that after two years of silence you weren’t interested anymore.
You wanted to simply not reply, ignore him entirely like he’d done to you.
But you couldn’t. And so you replied.
It was your longest letter to date, depicting in great detail how he’d made you feel over the years and all the hardships you’d faced without having someone to vent to.
But getting to write it all down had been purifying, and by the time you were finished you weren’t mad anymore.
I am willing to give this another shot, but things have to be different. If we’re to continue this friendship then it has to be a two way street.
But I can’t pretend that I haven’t missed your letters because I have. I see pieces of you between the words, parts of yourself I’m not sure you realise you leave on the page.
I’ve painted a picture of you in my mind's eye and even after two years with no letters, I’ve carried that picture with me wherever I go.
I feel like I somehow know you better than I know myself and I hope going forward you can start to know me the same way. Charlotte Bronte once said -
“Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.” - Jane Eyre.
***
Spencer didn’t know how it happened, he only knew that it had happened. Over the course of all the years writing to you it was almost a surprise it hadn’t happened sooner. Or maybe it had and he just didn’t realise until now.
Spencer Reid had fallen in love with the woman who wrote her prose to him.
It had been ten years of letters, every single one of which he kept in their envelopes in date order in the bottom drawer of his desk at home.
Those letters were his lifelines on bad days, the one thing that kept him tethered. He didn’t even know what you looked like, even what you sounded like but he loved you. He loved you with every fibre of his being.
And he couldn’t stop himself from telling you exactly what you meant to him. Even if it inevitably destroyed what the two of you had, he couldn’t stop the words from flying across the page.
So that’s pretty much everything that’s happened these past few weeks. Mom’s doing ok but obviously it's a huge adjustment for her and I’m not entirely sure how long I can keep her living with me but for now it works.
How did the interview go? I have absolutely no doubts that you blew them all away with your presentation, you’re a hard person not to fall in love with.
Your presence in my life has brightened my every waking minute. You once told me that behind every rain cloud lies the sun; you are the sun behind my clouds. Your letters bring me back to life, your handwriting penned onto my soul.
Is it foolish of me to be in love with someone I have never laid eyes on? William Makepeace Thackery said in Vanity Fair -
“It is better to have loved wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all.”
I suppose that’s as good of an answer as any.
***
Five days after he penned his love confession, he was arrested in Mexico. Once all the drugs had left his system, only after he was extradited and arraigned and placed at Milburn was he able to dwell on the fact he never received your reply.
And being trapped in a cell gave him way too much time to think about that.
It was possible you had replied, maybe even just to tell him he was crazy to even think he could be in love with someone he had never met. But he was sure you wouldn’t have even bothered to respond, thinking him a lunatic you needed to cut ties with.
After a month in prison on one of JJ’s visits she brought a letter with her which she had found in his apartment. She recognised the handwriting on the envelope from several she’d seen him reading over the years.
She wasn’t allowed to give him the letter but she offered to read it to him. At first he’d declined because he had no idea what to expect from your reply but after several long minutes he’d decided to let JJ read it to him.
Spencer,
I am pleased to hear your mom is doing well but I do think you know that this solution won’t work in the long run. You say you live in a one bedroom apartment? You and I both know that you can’t sustain having your mother live there permanently. But I know you and I know you will figure out what’s best for you both.
The interview was amazing and they offered me the job on the spot. If it wasn’t for all your help with the presentation there is no way I would have gotten it, so thank you so much for that.
As for the other thing…
For some time now I have been wondering about feelings I didn’t understand. You’ve been such a large part of my life for so long and even though we’ve never met I feel like we have, if that makes sense? I feel like in my heart I know you. My heart knows your heart.
Falling for you was as inevitable as the sun rising each morning. Perhaps it is foolish but I believe Thackeray knew what he was talking about. And I also believe Emily Bronte was talking about me and you when she said, “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
Spencer had interrupted JJ then, when she was smiling from ear to ear as she read your words out loud.
“That’s enough.” He cut her off, burying his head in his hands.
“Wow, Spence, I had no idea you’d met someone.”
“I haven’t met anyone. She is simply a woman at the other end of a series of letters.”
“How long?” JJ placed the pages down in front of her.
Spencer looked up at her, a small blush on his cheeks. He didn't want to be talking about this, least of all on the other side of a plexiglass screen with his other inmates nearby but he responded all the same.
“Ten years.” He shrugged.
“Ten years?” JJ sounded incredulous. “Ten years of letters and you’ve never met? Why?”
“I, uh, it never really came up.” It wasn’t a lie, you’d never once discussed meeting in all those years.
“Is it like a distance thing? Does she live far away?”
“No,” He sighed with a shake of his head. “She’s in New York.”
“New York!” She huffed. “New York is a five hour train journey, Spence!”
“Jennifer, now is really not the time for this.” He lowered his voice as JJ’s had garnered eyes in their direction. “There is really no point in discussing this as we have no idea when or even if I’m going to get out of here.”
“Don’t say that.” She shook her head.
“It’s true.” He shrugged sadly. “I really can’t think about all this right now, ok? Just take the letter back to my apartment and pretend you didn’t see it. Please?”
If it weren’t for the desperation in his eyes she might have argued it. But she didn’t want to waste what little time she got to spend with Spencer fighting.
“Ok.” She relented with a small roll of her eyes.
“Thank you, JJ.” He offered a tight lipped smile. “How are the boys?”
JJ filled him in but she wasn’t really focused anymore. In her head, she was already penning a letter of her own…
Y/N,
My name is Jennifer Jareau, JJ, and I work with Spencer at the BAU. I’m not sure if he’s mentioned me to you or not. He hasn’t really told me too much about you if I’m honest. But I have learned that he has strong feelings for you and you for him. I’m wondering if I can make a suggestion…
***
When you received the strange letter from Spencer’s friend JJ in response to yours, you’d been initially extremely confused as to why he was letting his teammates read your secret correspondence.
But when she’d gone on to tell you that Spencer had been arrested along with all the details surrounding his incarceration and how she’d read your letter to him during their visitation, you started to understand.
But then a few days later, before you had a chance to reply to her, you received another letter from Spencer with a postmark from Milburn Correctional Facility.
Y/N,
Maybe Thackeray and Bronte were right or maybe they were wrong, I can’t say for sure. What I can say with certainty is that I can’t carry on like this a moment longer.
Something has happened to me, it won’t be hard for you to figure out what as soon as you see the postmark. I am not willing to get into it or explain how I ended up here. But I have no idea how long I am going to be inside and I don’t want the rest of our communication to be sent through a string of guards who will pick apart each tormented sentence.
I ask you not to write me back. This has to be the end of the road my dear. This letter has to be our last. I don’t know how much longer I will continue to be able to live like this. Each day my hope dies a little more and I’m sure I won’t make it out of here alive.
I am writing simply to say thank you. Thank you for all your years of listening, for all your patience and kind words and your hopeful prose. In my darkest hours you have shown me the light, dragged me out of the shadows of my own creation.
I love you for all that you are and all that you have done but even you can’t save me this time. This really might be the end for me and I don’t want you to blame yourself. You are the only reason I made it this far in this treacherous game we call life.
Take care of yourself, continue to live your absolute best life. And in time I pray that you forget me and are able to love someone far more tangible.
All that is left to say can be summed up by a quote from The Miniaturist -
“You are the sunlight through a window, which I stand in, warmed. My darling.” Jessie Burton.
You replied firstly to Spencer, his heartbreaking words more pressing than JJ’s letter. You kept it short and to the point, knowing that various other prison guards would read it before it even made it to his hands.
I appreciate but can't accept this thank you note that's sealed with your last breath and I won't stand aside and listen to you give up.
You are stronger than that Spencer Reid and if I know anything about your team from all the years of hearing you speak of them it’s that they are the best at what they do and they will prove your innocence.
Just remember what Ernest Hemmingway said in A Farewell to Arms -
“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.”
You will be stronger at those broken places, Spencer, I have no doubt about it.
And besides, if you don’t make it out of there, how do you propose to ever meet me?
Whilst on a role, you grabbed a clean sheet of paper and started scrawling again.
Jennifer,
Thank you for your letter. I have spent some time musing on your suggestion and I think you might be right.
I think it's time for me to take a trip to DC…
***
Spencer never opened your last letter because he had no intention of replying to it. If he didn’t read it, he could pretend you had never sent it and he wouldn’t be tempted to write a response.
Instead he stuffed it between the pages of his book and tried not to think about it.
After two and half months his team proved his innocence and he was released but he was thrown into the deep end of trying to find his mother.
And even once he found her unscathed, he was rapidly thrust right into Scratch’s web after he kidnapped Emily.
Taking the elevator back up to the BAU alongside JJ after they’d escorted Emily to the hospital it already felt like a lifetime had passed since he left prison. And all he wanted to do was chronicle all of it to you.
Maybe once the dust settled, once he’d wrapped his head around everything that happened he would open your letter and send you a reply.
But for the first time in ten years, Spencer didn’t want to drag you into his mess.
JJ was strangely quiet as the elevator made its ascent. He didn’t even want to be here, he’d planned on going straight home after leaving the hospital. He hadn’t slept in his own bed for two and a half months and he couldn’t wait to collapse into it.
But JJ had insisted that instead of him getting the metro home, if he popped back to the BAU with her to collect some paperwork, she would drive him home.
And honestly he was just too exhausted to decline.
JJ’s eyes were hyper focused on the digital floor numbers as they got higher. A few seconds after it displayed number five, one floor below the BAU, she turned and looked at him.
“Don’t hate me for this.” She blurted out.
“Excuse me?” Spencer frowned, too tired to try to understand what she meant.
“I couldn’t just let it go.” She shrugged, a guilty smile on her lips.
“Let what go?” His frown deepened.
Her eyes flicked back upwards as the number five rolled into the number six and the elevator started to judder as it prepared to stop.
“Just remember I love you and that’s the only reason I interfered.” She shrugged as the elevator stopped entirely and soon the doors were peeling open.
Spencer looked away from her and out of the open doors to where someone was standing just a few feet back.
Spencer’s eyes landed on the stranger only it wasn’t a stranger. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew exactly who this person was standing on the BAU floor.
He remembered the way JJ had read him your letter and how you’d told him your heart knows his heart.
Well his heart knew yours too. And he knew the heart beating a few feet away from him was yours.
“Y/N?” He croaked, slowly stepping out of the elevator but not too close to you.
“Spencer?” You smiled at him, the kind that reached all the way to your eyes.
Neither of you noticed JJ slipping quietly away, wanting to give you some privacy.
“What are you doing here?” His brows were furrowed and he was rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.
“You’re friend JJ wrote to me. She told me everything that happened to you. And she made me realise that ten years is too long to wait for a first meeting.” Your voice was like honey to Spencer’s ears.
Your prose was beautiful, but hearing the words from your lips as you stood in front of him in all your ethereal glory was more than any letter could convey.
“I…I am actually speechless.” He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.
“You? Speechless?” You giggled and Spencer felt the sound all the way to his heart.
“You’ll come to learn I am much more of a wordsmith on paper. In person I am incredibly awkward and often trip over my words. I ramble when I’m nervous or clam up entirely, no in between. I spout facts and statistics rather than have a meaningful conversation. I am much more comfortable writing my words down on paper than speaking them out loud.” He let the words spill out of his mouth, proving his point entirely.
“I’ve waited ten years to hear your voice. Please never stop talking.” You smiled so brightly at him he felt like he was floating.
You were here in front of him, not just hidden between pages of letters. You were real, tangible; within his reach.
And suddenly the last thing Spencer wanted to do was talk.
He took a few tentative steps towards you and cautiously raised a hand to your cheek. You sighed in content when he cupped your face and nuzzled against his palm.
“I could talk to you about anything and everything all day long, my love.” He smiled, inching his face closer to yours. “But at this moment in time I have one slightly more pressing desire to do with my mouth rather than speak.”
“Oh yeah?” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer.
The warmth of your body and your smile encompassed him. As he looked into your eyes, finally looked into your eyes, every bad thing that had ever happened to him slipped away.
“Love starts as a feeling, but to continue is a choice. And I find myself choosing you, more and more every day.” He quoted Justin Wetch’s Bending the Universe.
“Spence?”
“Yes Y/N?”
“As sweet as that is, I thought there were more pressing desires to use your mouth for?”
“If you insist.” He smiled and quickly closed the small space between you.
When his lips finally met yours it felt like all the pieces of the universe were falling into place.
For ten long years you’d communicated in the pages of letters, constructing replies to what felt like one sided conversations that were confined to only live on paper.
As the kiss deepened every single one of those words seemed to float in the air around you, spiralling like a tornado made of a decade worth of missives.
He swore he could hear each and every word whispered to him in the voice he’d longed to hear all these years as he kissed you like you were the most important being on the face of the earth.
And when he pulled back and mumbled I love you against your lips, it was the easiest reply you’d ever given.
#milestone celebration#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds
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fun facts
Portugal. The Man is a band from Alaska. while in high school, several of the members lived in Wasilla while Sarah Palin was mayor. they went to a town hall meeting and asked if the city would build a skate park. palin said they would, but only if the kids raised half the money-- clearly not expecting them to be able to pull it off. the band members actually were able to, but unsurprisingly, palin didn't hold up her end of the deal. they gathered all their punk friends and went to every town hall meeting for a year until the city built the skate park, to the dismay of sarah palin
"Pumped Up Kicks" follows a fictional character as he fantasizes about killing his rich classmates. the odd pairing of upbeat tune and dark lyrics was intentional: Mark Foster said that "it’s a ‘fuck you’ song to the hipsters in a way – but it’s a song the hipsters are going to want to dance to"
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Hazbin Having Blues
ALASTOR x READER
Summary: You and Alastor hate each other in every respect. But what if something did help you get along?
Warnings: NONE.
This is kind of a backstory for my fic 'Only for You' based on the line "how you get got along in the first place" and inspired by @anon-of-the-void
Requests are still open!!!
The Hazbin Hotel was a bustling haven for lost souls seeking redemption, but amidst the chaos and colorful characters, a particularly unique dynamic brewed between Alastor, the Radio Demon, and the new arrival…you.
The animosity between you and Alastor was palpable since day one, with every interaction echoing with sharp, witty remarks that cut through the air like daggers.The constant banter between you both created an uncomfortable atmosphere within the hotel, much to the dismay of the optimistic and ever-hopeful Charlie. Despite the young Moringstar’s best efforts to foster a sense of unity and camaraderie, the stalemate in this war of words persisted. Alastor, with his charismatic and devilish charm, found himself enjoying to harp down upon what he saw to be a gross naivety and unmannerly conduct. Meanwhile, you were a soul unafraid to stand up to the radio demon's antics, viewing him as nothing more than a pompous and insufferable presence.
Simply, Alastor and yourself had developed a fierce dislike for each other. The verbal sparring matches were legendary within the walls of the hotel, often leaving other residents uncomfortable and seeking refuge from the bickering.
Insulting conversations include but are not limited to:
“Well, well, if it isn't the radio demon himself. Did you run out of jazz records to torture people with?” “Ah, my dear, I always save the best tunes for special occasions. Unlike your taste in humor.”
“Look who decided to join the conversation. Are you here to dazzle us with your sparkling personality?” “Better than your attempt at a fashion statement. Monochromatic stripes, Al? Even Hell has standards.”
“Heard you like to play games, Alastor. How about a round of ‘Guess What My Expression Means’?” “My, my, how thrilling. I'll start: my face means I'm thoroughly unimpressed by your attempts at banter.”
“You know, Y/N, they say laughter is the best medicine. Too bad it can't cure your lack of charm.” “And they say pride goes before a fall. How's the weather down there, high and mighty?”
One evening, however, something changed.
As Alastor wandered the halls, his keen senses picked up on a faint sound emanating from your room. The unmistakable notes of a trumpet played with soulful precision, and a voice as smooth as molasses crooned lyrics that resonated with a timeless elegance. Intrigued, Alastor pressed his ear against the door. Deciding that was not enough, he slunk into the shadows and appeared in the room behind you.
Inside, you sat alone(you thought you were alone at least) immersed in the soothing melodies of Louis Armstrong's "West End Blues." and Etta James “Bye Bye Blackbird” on LPs for the record player you had thrifted. The soulful and jazzy tunes seemed to transport you to another world, away from the chaos of the hotel. Unbeknownst to you, Alastor found himself captivated by the same enchanting spell.
Alastor found himself captivated by the soulful notes. He couldn't help but appreciate the musical talent behind the song. He couldn't deny the care and emotion woven into each note, and for the first time, Alastor recognized something within you that transcended the ongoing feud. That something he wasn’t quite sure what it was but it was…different. Yes, the songs had come out in 1928 and 1926 respectively, he was alive when they graced the radio waves for the first time. Often finding himself tapping along to a beat in Mimzy’s lounge back then. How did you come to know something of such class when he found you to be a peasant in most respects?
But instead of announcing his presence with a snide remark, Alastor leaned against the doorframe, silently appreciating the moment. When the final notes faded away, he couldn't help but admit with a slow clap, "Not bad, Y/N. Not bad at all."
You, startled by his unexpected appearance, yelped and eyed him suspiciously. "What are you doing in my room, radio head?!"
Alastor smirked, his usual air of arrogance softened by a newfound appreciation. "Just thought I'd acknowledge the good taste when I hear it. That Armstrong fellow knows how to play a mean trumpet."
Raising an eyebrow, you were surprised by the change in tone. "Yeah…what about it?"
“Nothing my dear, simply acknowledging. You may not be such a ducky afterall.” Slinking back into the shadows, Alastor disappeared as quickly as he had come.
You were taken aback but managed a nod of acknowledgment. The tension between the two of you began to ease as Alastor, in his own peculiar way, had found common ground through music.
From that day forward, the interactions shifted. While the witty banter persisted, there was a newfound respect lingering in the air, as if the shared appreciation for timeless jazz classics had bridged an unexpected connection between two souls trapped in the chaotic tapestry of the Hazbin Hotel.
Over time, the insults became less frequent, replaced by a begrudging mutual respect. The other residents were astounded by the change, especially Charlie, who believed her intervention had led to a surprising connection between two seemingly incompatible souls.(My apologies dear Morningstar, trust falls and all…simply not the case.)
As Alastor and you had found a shared appreciation for music, discovering that beneath demonic exteriors, there was more to each other than met the eye. Alastor often found himself up in his radio tower, listening to the jazzy tunes he knew would draw you in. And like a very good little pet, as he liked to call you, you would climb the stairs and sit next to him in silence. Listening and tapping your foot along to the beat, only to leave a few hours later. As the time went on, a few weeks or so, conversation slowly filtered into the listening sessions. Turns out…maybe both of your distastes for each other might not have completely founded. Not that you would ever admit that to his face, nor him to yours.
The Hazbin Hotel, once filled with discord, became a place where even the most unlikely friendships could blossom. And maybe, just maybe dear reader, that friendship could be something more. Alastor did look good in monochromatic stripes anyway.
#romance#alastor the radio demon#hazbin hotel alastor x reader#hazbin hotel fandom#radio killed the video star#request#answered#hazbin hotel alastor#alastor x reader#alastor being a petty bitch#louis armstrong#circa 1920#jazz music#etta james#record player#vizziepop#vinyl#enemies to lovers
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𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈, 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞
𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐲
𝐈'𝐦 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐬
𝐍𝐨𝐰, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧
𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐮𝐭
𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝
𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧?
𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈, 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐡
𝐈𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞
𝐖𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞
𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐥
𝐓𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥
𝐖𝐞'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐬
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧'𝐭
𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐭?
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐈'𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧
𝐖𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐮𝐭
𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞
𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐲
𝐓𝐨 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐲
𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠
𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐬
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡
– ᴀ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴᴇʀ's ɢᴜɪᴅᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇsᴛʀᴏʏɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ // ғᴏsᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ
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