#agent degas

[boasamishipper]

#mission impossible ​dead reckoning part one #mi7 #mi spoilers #mission impossible #jasper briggs #agent degas

[laracrofted]

— we’d still worship this love

#i know like four people have watched this movie but you should stream it for his beautiful face #he’s so sexy #greg tarzan davis #greg tarzan davis edit #javy coyote machado #(because i said so… i know it’s not him) #(but in my special agent au… it is him) #agent degas #ames makes things

[allottavabassa]

I'm happy to report that the men in Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning are very pretty and wear great suits

#a bi movie™ if there ever was one #gabriel mission impossible #jasper briggs #agent degas #zola mitsopolis #mission impossible dead reckoning #mission: impossible #mission impossible

[saltyfilmmajor]

DeBriggs Snippet

He lets his hands cup his protégé’s face, holding him like he was the most precious thing on this earth. Degas’s skin is soft to the touch, his face unburdened with all that which Briggs has seen. His eyes are still full of the spark that have dulled from Jasper’s own.

He wants to commit this moment to memory, before they cross the line that they’ve both been toeing. Then a hesitation, his hands stop at Degas’s, holding them gently.

“Are you sure about this?” the usual bravado gone from his voice. Briggs has to give him an out Even if he wants for Degas beyond all reason, even if his chest aches for Degas’s touch, Briggs has to give him the choice.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The rum you just drank.” Degas stays in place in Jasper’s lap.

“Maybe our first time together shouldn’t be when I’m not fully sober,’ he says, ‘But I know I still want this.”

He plants another kiss on Brigg’s lips, “I want to be with you, Jasper.”

#debriggs #jasper briggs #agent degas #degas mission impossible #briggs x degas #mission: impossible #my writing #my wip fic

[our-happygirl500-fan]

Something that I was kind of thinking about is how Mikey is probably the brother who is the most aware of how much Donnie wants approval from a parent aged adult as Mikey is the Turtle that is typically with Donnie whenever he expresses it.

Donnie: This’ll teach you to compliment my work and give me my first positive reinforcement from a parent agent adult ever!

Donnie: Mikey, I think he was about to say proud. It felt amazing. I'm gonna chase this feeling.

Something that I kind of noticed was that in both the episodes 'Bug Busters' & 'Turtle-dega Nights: The Ballad of Rat Man', Mikey is the one with Donnie whenever he expresses how he want approval from a parent aged adult which might possibly make Mikey the Turtle most aware out of the Turtles of how much Donnie wants approval from a parent aged adult not just simply due to Mikey's natural empathy but also possibly due to how Donnie has expressed the want for a parent aged adults approval in front of him.

#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #teenage mutant ninja turtles #michelangelo hamato #donatello hamato #rottmnt #tmnt

[sylvermage]

I'm not the biggest Mission: Impossible fan, but Dead Reckoning Pt 1 has given me feelings about something (Benji, okay, it's Benji) and I need to talk about them.

Spoilers and ramblings under the cut.

So, while the Entity definitely fears Ethan and the rest of IMF for being the only people with enough braincells to want to KILL the Entity instead of use it (honourable mention to Degas; please join IMF, dude), it strikes me that right from the beginning, it's gone after Benji.

We start with the bomb. The Entity knew Benji would be the one to come looking for it. Why? Because Benji is usually Ethan's eyes (noticing the suspicious bag), and it's a pattern that when Ethan is in danger or out of reach, Benji takes to the field.

Of the team, Benji is most likely to be susceptible to the psychological prodding from the bomb's questions. He doesn't compartmentalize the way the others do; he brings his whole self to every mission, and that makes him a good agent; it's why he babbles when he's nervous, cries openly, complains about the sheer insanity of what they're attempting to do, and then walks straight into the fire without hesitation.

So right away, the Entity wants Benji to know that it knows him. And by doing so, it's letting US know that it knows who Ethan's lynchpin is.

Then it takes it a step further: it steals Benji's voice. Listen to the commands it's giving Ethan through the comms, they're disjointed, haphazard, but Ethan never stops to question it. Why? Because it's Benji's voice. Ethan has always given himself completely over to Benji's directions (Benji told him to jump off a mountain onto a speeding train, and Ethan's thought process isn't nope, find something else, it's how in the goddamn hell am I going to do this. Because if Benji says it's the only way, then that's good enough for Ethan.)

And this hurts Benji. You can see the panic in his face, because he knows Ethan will trust his voice, and he's completely helpless. The Entity has attacked him psychologically, it's undermining his greatest skill (working with tech), and now it's taunting him with the trust Ethan places in him. It's slowly rendering him powerless.

Even though the line of self-harming was removed from the final product (and personally, I don't mind, but that's another discussion), we know Benji has his demons. He's had a bomb vest strapped to him, and he's nearly been hung (which is a TERRIBLE way to die) and both situations rendered him totally helpless.

But I think it's interesting that the Entity never asked him what it was he most feared, because we already know, we've already been shown what it is: Benji fears being a liability.

Specifically, a liability to Ethan.

And although I'm hoping against hope that they WON'T kill off Benji, because he's my favourite and because I think the MI world would be so much darker without him, I can think of no better way to push Ethan into despair than to put Benji in a situation where he has to sacrifice himself for Ethan. Because Benji is the only one that Ethan has repeatedly promised, with words, 'I will not let anything happen to you'. He couldn't even make that promise to Grace, because he's not sure anymore that he can keep it. But he HAS made that promise, repeatedly, to Benji. And Benji knows better than anyone how far Ethan will go to protect someone, how far Ethan has pushed to protect HIM specifically. He has sat there with a ticking timer among innocents completely aware that Ethan is not going to walk away, because abandoning his friends and partners (abandoning Benji) doesn't even appear on Ethan's radar. And that's a lot of weight to carry.

Of course Benji is afraid to die; he's stared death in the face many times. But he's more afraid of being a liability to Ethan. Of being the thing that leads Ethan to fail.

And the Entity is SHOWING him this, it's showing US this. And it scares the hell out of me. Because the one thing that could break Benji, is the one thing I can think of that would break Ethan. Forcing Benji to choose between death and Ethan's failure…and Ethan being forced to watch him make that choice.

Killing Benji before Ilsa might have struck a stronger blow against Ethan; the only reason to hold off is to make it even more painful. Show Ethan he can't keep his promises to protect those closest to him, put the doubt in his mind…then make it a reality. Destroy the one person he's always promised to protect, right in front of him.

And even if they don't kill him off (plzdon'tilovehim), even if they find a third option, the amount of damage being in that situation would do to both Ethan and Benji would be catastrophic.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have made myself sad, so I'll just be over here, writhing in agony until 2024.

#Mission impossible #MI7 #Mission impossible spoilers #MI7 Spoilers #Dead reckoning part 1 #Dead reckoning spoilers #cw: self harm #benji dunn #benjamin dunn #ethan hunt #simon pegg #tom cruise

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Élisabeth Lebas talking about Robespierre like he’s the Messiah or something compilation

[Edgar Degas] told me that, when he was a child, his mother one day took him to rue de Tournon to visit Madame Lebas, widow of the famous Convention deputy who, on 9 thermidor, killed himself with a pistol. When the visit was over, they withdrew with small steps, accompanied to the door by the old lady, when Madame Degas suddenly stopped, deeply overwhelmed. Letting go of her son's hand, she pointed at the portraits of Robespierre, of Couthon, of Saint-Just, that she had just noticed were hanging on the walls of the antechambre, and she couldn’t keep herself from crying out with horror: ”What! You still keep the faces of these monsters here!”  ”Be quiet, Célestine!” Madame Lebas cried out ardently, ”be quiet… They were saints!” Discours de l’Histoire prononcé à la distribution solennelle des prix du Lycée Jeanson-de-Sailly held by Paul Valéry on July 13 1932, cited in Robespierre ou les contradictions du jacobinisme (1978) by Albert Soboul.

I was able to converse, between 1838 and 1839, with a famous parrot who had been the friend of Robespierre. He belonged to Mme the widow Lebas, the wife of the famous Convention deputy who chose to die with Robespierre, and the mother of M. Lebas, Hellenist scholar, who died a few years ago. Mme widow Lebas, a very respectable woman, whom I had the honour of seeing often in her little house in Fontenay-aux-Roses, where she would make the sign of the cross when she pronounced the name Robespierre, adding these words: Saint Maximilien. As for her parrot, when one said "Robespierre", it replied Hats off! Hats off! It sang the Marseillaise with perfect diction and Ça ira like a Jacobin. It was — and perhaps, thanks to its diet of grain, still is — a sans-culotte parrot, the like of which can no longer be found. Mme Lebas recounted with great emotion how she had managed to save this precious psittacus  after Thermidor.  It had been seriously compromised.  After the arrest of Robespierre and Lebas, in the course of a long domiciliary inspection,  every time the name of Robespierre was pronouned the parrot would repeat its refrain, Hats off! Hats off! The government agents had grown impatient and were about to wring its neck, when Mme Lebas, as quick as lightning,  grabbed the bird, opened the window and set it free. The poor parrot flew from window to window, until it found a charitable person to open up for it; a few days later Madame Lebas was able to regain possession of this last friend left to her by Robespierre, the only one perhaps, besides his elderly mistress, who has remained faithful to his memory.  L’Union médicale: journal des intérêts scientifiques et pratiques, moraux et professionnels du corps médical (1861) volume 12, page 258-259.

Finally our providence, our good friend Robespierre, spoke to Saint-Just to engage him to let me depart with [him and Lebas], along with my sister-in-law Henriette. Élisabeth’s memoirs, cited in Le conventionnel Le Bas: d’après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1901), by Stéfane-Pol, page 131.

…If you had been informed of my residence, I would have been eager to tell you the truth. The good that you say of our martyrs is not too charged: they were the true friends of liberty; they lived only for the people, for their fatherland; but some monsters, in one day, destroyed everything; in one day they assassinated liberty. Yes, monsieur, a republican like you would have been happy to know those men, so virtuous on all accounts; they all died poor. Note written by Élisabeth a few years before her death regarding ”a work treating the revolution” (l’Histoire des Girondins?). Cited in Ibid, page 147.

#élisabeth lebas #élisabeth duplay #robespierre #maximilien robespierre #frev #frev compilation #originally i was just planning to compile all the times babet says he’s virtue boy number 1 #then i was like ”…you can actually make a decent compilation only of times she uses religious adjectives to describe him??”

[musings-and-moans]

in another fantasy collab - members list

WELCOME TO THE FANTASY AU COLLAB !!! WHEN YOU’RE TAGGED HERE, PLEASE REBLOG THE MAIN POST AND NOT THIS LIST, THANK YOU <3

Haikyuu!!

[Bass Industries Partner] Atsumu Miya x [van der Woodsen] Reader x [Gossip Girl] Toru Oikawa by @jordyn-degas (ANGST with NSFW - also a touch of FLUFF)

[Walking Dead] Rintaro Suna x f!reader by @maitaro (ANGST with NSFW and maybe dc)

[The Doctor(Doctor Who)] Tetsuro Kuroo x [Companion] f!Reader by @/musings-and-moans (Angst, Fluff, and NSFW)

[Teen Wolf] Atsumu Miya (Selfship Writeup) - @beware-of-the-rogue

[Doctor Who] Kenma x [???] Reader by @mrskenmakozume (SFW - art)

[Beauty and the Beast] Alexander Yoffe x reader by @kagejima - NSFW

[King of Hearts] Tooru Oikawa x [Alice] Reader [Alice in Wonderland AU] by @mekiza (Angst, Some NSFW, and some dc)

Tokyo Revengers

Four!Draken and Dauntless!Reader (Divergent AU) by @shinigamiplayroom (NSFW)

[Gale Hawthorne] Draken x [Katniss Everdeen] afab! Reader x [Peeta Mellark] Mitsuya by (@/musings-and-moans) (Angst/NSFW/DC (to an extent) /Fluff)

My Hero Academia

[Red Hood] Dabi (Selfship Writeup) - @stariwrites

Anime Crossovers

[ agent ] Dabi/ Touya Todoroki x [ agent ] Yor Forger (SFW AND ANGST) [Resident Evil AU] by @lanawrxtes

#🧙‍♀️.inanotherfantasycollab

[fardell24b]

Convergence on Lawndale - Part 7

Daria awoke early. She wondered what was happening with the Doctor’s investigation. She looked out at the TARDIS, before wandering over to her closet.

  The Doctor was still stumped, the TARDIS was still parsing the data and Peter was bored. There was a knock at the door. “Has to be Daria, Quinn should still be asleep,” the Doctor said. He clicked his fingers, opening the doors. “Good Morning, Daria.”

 “Any progress?” Daria asked.

 “Not much,” Peter said.

  The Doctor than explained what they had found so far.

 ‘So, Peter was right,’ Daria considered when he had finished.

 “Yes,” the Doctor answered.

 “I’ll tell Quinn that when she gets up.”

 “Sure.”

  Kim and Ron had found a small café in Dega Street. “This street seems a little run down,” Ron commented.

 “It’s not that bad,” Kim said.

 “I suppose…” Ron said. He paused before adding. “Compared to some places we’ve been.”

 Kim looked in her copy of the Sun Herald. “There’s not much happening. Maybe a radio station would be a better idea.” The café was playing music, but she wasn’t sure if it was from a radio station or a CD.

 “Maybe we should have asked Wade to dig up more information on this period,” Ron groused.

 “I’m sure he already is,” Kim mused.

 “Good point.”

  Daria saw Quinn enter the kitchen. “Peter says that what he said was right,” she said.

 “Huh?” Quinn was still quite tired.

 Daria explained.

“Oh right,” Quinn said when Daria had finished. “I need some coffee.”

 “Sure,” Daria said with a smirk.

  The Doctor was still stumped.

 “Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way.” Peter stated.

 “Probably.”

 “I could sign up to assist at Lawndale High. Keep an eye on Daria and Quinn.”

 “Bad idea,” the Doctor said. “Besides whatever is happening here, they can look after themselves.”

 “I’m still going to check up on them,” Peter said.

 “Go ahead.”

  Peter knocked quietly on the back door. Quinn opened it. “We’re heading to school soon,” she said.

 “Good,” he said as he stepped inside. ‘Much larger than Aunt May’s place,’ he thought.

 “We’ll be leaving shortly,” Daria said. “Has the Doctor figured it out?”

 “Not yet. But I will be going to the school with you. I’ll sign up as a teacher’s assistant.”

 “Is that a good idea?” Quinn asked.

 “I’m not sure that Ms. Li would hire you,” Daria said.

 “Let UNIT deal with that,” Peter responded.

 “Sure,” Daria said, although she didn’t sound sure.

 “I’ll just call ahead,” Peter said.

 Daria nodded.

 “I’m sure that would be OK,” Quinn said.

  Ten minutes later, the Doctor turned and saw Peter re-enter the ship. “The girls and I are heading to the school now,” he said.

 “Be sure to let me know if something comes up,” the Doctor directed. “UNIT have given you the TARDIS number, haven’t they?”

 “They have. Agent Coulson just gave it to me a few minutes ago.”

 “Good.”

 “If something you need to know about comes up, you’ll know.”

 “Thanks.”

  Kim and Ron left Dega Street. “Where are we going now?” Ron asked.

 “One of the Malls,” Kim answered.

 “How many malls does Lawndale have?”

 “Two apparently. We’re heading to the one called Cranberry Commons first. It’s closer.”

 “What is the other one called?” Ron asked.

 “Just, the Lawndale Mall,” Kim responded.

 “Quite uncreative,” Ron groused.

  At Lawndale High, the Principal, Angela Li, was surprised by a phone call. “This is the Principal of Laaawwndaale High.”

 “Knock it off, Li!”  While it wasn’t the superintendent of the School District himself, it was one of his assistants.

 “For what is the purpose of this call?” Li asked with annoyance.

 “An application for teacher’s assistant for your school has been filled.”

 “I was not aware of this!” Li fumed.

 “Nonetheless, he starts today. There will be no negative effect on Lawndale High’s budget! The information is being faxed through now.”

 “Fine! But I will be investigating this matter!”

 “Bye.”

 Li hung up and then heard the fax machine as the information came through. She went over and read the fax. “Peter Parker! I will find out what is happening.”

  Daria, Quinn and Peter arrived at the school. “You go and meet your friends,” Peter said. “While I sign in.”

 “Of course,” Quinn said.

  “There she is,” Daria said, seeing Jane Lane approaching from the Parking Lot.

#angela li #daria #daria morgendorffer #doctor who #eleventh doctor #fanfic #kim possible #peter parker #ron stoppable #spider-man

[infam10135]

degas, a super-fan at the opera

As a very, very casual art enjoyer, I had no clue that Degas was a Palais Garnier hater (for the record, I think it’s a beautiful work of architecture. But I was also briefly obsessed with The Phantom of the Opera, so I might be biased).

Farago says that “today’s super fandom…has roots in the theatrical milieu of the dawn of industrial capitalism,” which, once again, points to the repeat of history as previously discussed in my response to Listening and Longing. While superfans today (or stans, as some prefer) hold significantly less power over their artists, they are still equally capable of distorting their objects of affection. The internet has made it so that the illusion of closeness is extremely easy to accomplish. Parasocial relationships run rampant, with some celebs even encouraging them to strengthen their fanbase. Unfortunately, they frequently descend into something sinister.

Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson have not been spotted in the same location since 2016. And yet, many “Larries” are still convinced that they are in a closeted relationship at the order of “management.” The two stars have since distanced themselves from each other despite a seemingly close friendship during their tenure in 1D; neither have interacted since the band went on hiatus. Tomlinson has even spoken on how it’s damaged their friendship and made him intensely protective of his personal life. Still, the rumors persist—conspiracies and elaborate theories that explain how Styles or Tomlinson are secretly “signaling” that they’re being coerced by their agents to hide their relationship. Some fans are even convinced that Tomlinson’s child is fake.

Larries believe that they need to “free” Styles and Tomlinson, that their two faves are at the mercy of “management” and they’re doing them a service by spreading the “truth”. All evidence points to the contrary, and yet they remain adamant. As Farago so eloquently puts it, “this is the truth about superfans: they smother what they love.”

#reading response

[boasamishipper]

agent degas can get it

#that’s it that’s the post #i LOVE him #mission impossible #mi7 #mi spoilers #mission impossible dead reckoning part one #agent degas

[laracrofted]

greg tarzan davis being a hot action hero in mission: impossible dead reckoning for 20 seconds straight

#aka scenes i wanted to include in my edit yesterday but couldn't find the room #and once again… stream mi dead reckoning #him speaking italian… oh if i speak! #greg tarzan davis #agent degas #mi dead reckoning #agent!javy #ames makes things

[mikeanzivino]

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4. Spend an afternoon at the beach

[saltyfilmmajor]

I called it a year ago @boasamishipper @badgerhuan

#mission: impossible #mi spoilers #mi dead reckoning #jasper briggs #Agent Degas

[rhysismydaddy]

An Artful Revenge Pt. 2

Feyre’s part of The Damnation Series. Part 1 is here.

I am proud of myself for finishing this shit, because it’s long as fuck. Whoops.

~Feyre~

Honestly, I should’ve known.

I should’ve known that somehow, with whatever endless resources he has, he would find me. 

That’s all I can think as I find my way into the Impressionists exhibit and find Rhysand Azara, real estate agent to the stars, leaning against the wall, sipping a cup of coffee and looking at Dancers in Blue with narrowed eyes. 

It’s been five days since our date, and like the cliché I am, I’ve spent the entire time thinking about him. I’ve checked my phone countless times, and I even decided to stalk him and Googled his name. 

When--just like he’d said--nothing came up, I googled Dancers in Pink. He said he had it, but it had been sold a few years ago in an auction to “Amren Valenta.”

Unless Rhysand had a stage name, that was definitely not him. 

I dug some more, but after three hours all I discovered was that he owned Azara Industries, which owned a lot of buildings downtown. Oh, and he never let himself be photographed. 

Which was upsetting, because it means I had nothing to stare at whilst stalking him. 

Pathetic. I am so pathetic.

But anyway, I should’ve known he’d come here. He’d said he’d call, but he didn’t have my number. Plus, I’d told him I come here pretty much every day, so really, what did I expect?

I still laugh as I spot him though, somehow surprised, and ask, “Here to flirt with more art students?”

“Just one,” he answers, running his eyes over me as I draw closer. 

Gods, this man is seductive. He’s just looking at me, but I feel his gaze like a touch, dragging over my entire body with slow, intentional grazes. 

My breath hitches, and his eyes twinkle, like he’s well aware to the dirty place my mind has wondered. I can tell he’s holding in some likely-male comment, but he refrains from embarrassing me and he holds out another cup of coffee. 

I take it, grateful for the caffeine boost, and find it somehow made exactly the way I like it. Maybe I’m not the only one stalking. 

Although his methods have to be better than mine if he already knows about the definitely unhealthy amount of sugar I put in my coffee. 

“How many times have you been here this week?” I ask, curious to see his level of devotion. 

“Three. Not a very convenient way of communicating with someone, I admit. I was about to send a smoke signal.” He watches me sip the coffee, watches my tongue dart over my lip. “Plans tonight?”

I fight a sigh and decide to be a student worthy of my scholarship for once. “I told myself I’d work on my senior project.”

His lips twitch at my dejected tone. “What is it?”

A ginormous pain in my ass. “Bad,” I say simply. 

He shakes his head, sipping his coffee and eyeing me over the rim of the cup. “Details.”

For someone who offers no information, he loves demanding it from me. Instead of fight it, I groan and give in to the patriarchy. “It’s just bad! It’s supposed to be a mix of different styles and mediums, but it’s going so poorly I might just start over. Or drop out and become a starving artist a year ahead of schedule.”

Rhysand smiles at my phrasing. “I would never let you starve. And what do you mean, mixing styles and mediums?”

“For someone who frequents museums and has millions of dollars in art, you don’t know much about it, do you?”

“I have people for that.”

“Amren Valenta?” I ask without thinking, exposing myself as a stalker. 

He pauses, cup halfway to his smirking mouth, and raises a brow. “Clever, creepy little woman,” he teases. “But yes. Amren is my curator, and we use her name because I don’t want media attention. As I’m sure you know.”

Busted and blushing to high hell, I roll my eyes and become a junior detective. “Isn’t it illegal to buy something with someone else’s name? What if the IRS comes after you?”

Rhysand looks at a loss for words at that. If I weren’t serious, it would make me laugh how shocked he looks. “I guess,” he says after a moment, “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

I roll my eyes again, because we both know he doesn’t give a shit. It’s not like the IRS actually enforces rules for the one percent, anyway.

“Now tell me about your project.”

Rolling my eyes at how bossy he is, I tell him, “I wanted to combine photography and painting. And I wanted it to be kind of abstract, but also realistic enough.”

“Ambitious.”

I sigh, not able to repress it this time. “Stupid, is what it is. I don’t even know where to start. I have no motivation, let alone inspiration, to work on it.”

A contemplative look crosses his face. “I know where you could find inspiration.”

I raise an eyebrow and gesture around us, because in case he’s missed it, we’re in a museum. Inspiration abounds. But he scoffs and whispers, “This is child’s play compared to a certain someone’s private collection.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, playing along and pretending I don’t know the someone he’s talking about.

He nods, looking around as if making sure there are no spies in the completely empty room listening we’re standing in. “He has Degas, Monet, Dali, you name it. And he’s generous enough to let you come over tonight.”

Pursing my lips, I scan his face, trying to see if he’s serious. I mean... I am dying to see his collection. But, “Is this just a ploy to get me naked?”

He puts a hand on his chest, offense written across his face. “You think I’d try to seduce you while you study?”

“Yes.”

“You’re probably right.” He chuckles, then says, “If you need to get naked to look at art, I certainly won’t complain. But no, Feyre darling, this isn’t a ploy.”

I pause, half stuck on the whole darling thing and half contemplating what to do. 

Ploy or not, I know that if I go to his apartment or house or mansion or castle, I’ll probably sleep with him. He’s too attractive, and my resolve just isn’t that great where’s he’s concerned. 

Plus, I know it’s insane, but art just... Never mind.

I tell myself nothing’s going to happen and that I’m going because of the art--both lies--as I say, “Okay.”

He extends a hand, and I slide mine into it, almost sighing at how perfect we fit together. Would that be the case everywhere? 

Feyre.

I avoid looking at him as he leads me from the room and outside, where a very beefy guy holds open the door to a black sedan. “Seriously?” I ask Rhysand as he ushers me in the back, then climbs in beside me.

“I usually drive myself,” he says in defense, smiling when I roll my eyes.

The city blurs around us as Beefcakes drives, and I’m about to ask where the hell he lives when the car pulls to a stop and the door opens. Climbing out, I look up at the black, shiny penthouse tower, and say, “Of course you live here.”

It’s expensive and in the city and has a million floors, and I bet he lives at the very tippy top.

He gives me a strange look but pulls me in the lobby, then into an elevator. We shoot up flight after flight till we reach the penthouse, confirming my suspicions. 

For what feels like the millionth time, I ask myself why the hell Rhysand’s taken an interest in me. I mean, a year of therapy got me to admit I’m decent looking and all, but I’m... I’m a college student. He’s older and richer and has his life together. Why does he want me?

I don’t have long to contemplate life’s great mysteries because the elevator doors slide open, revealing his apartment, and I become too busy trying to mask my surprise.

I thought the place would be... I don’t know, like him. Sleek. Modern. Luxurious. 

And it is, at least that last part. Everything is obviously expensive. But there’s also a homey quality created by a fireplace, plush couches, decorative rugs, tapestries.

It’s burgundy and black and cream, and so unexpected I smile.

I step in and walk automatically toward the huge windows, taking in the view and realizing we’re at the dead center of the city. In all directions, Chicago’s spread out, lights and traffic and Lake Michigan surrounding us.

Even though the place is beyond wonderful, there’s one thing missing. 

I turn to Rhysand and raise a brow. “No art?”

“One floor down.”

I have to press my lips together to keep the questions in. One floor down, as in it takes up the whole floor. As in he has a private museum. As in I’m so fucking excited I can hardly walk. 

But he seems to be baiting me, seeing how long I’ll last before demanding to be taken down there, so I casually walk around his apartment, taking in all the little details. “It’s more... lived in than I would’ve thought.”

He nods, knowing what I mean even though it was a poor way of explaining it. “I have a few places around the city, but this is the one I prefer.” Nodding to the kitchen, he asks, “Hungry?”

“You cook?” The thought of him covered in flour seems absurd, but we all have our hobbies.

He smiles like I’ve said something funny. “No, but I have takeout menus in there.”

“Hopeless,” I tease, going to the kitchen and opening the fridge like I’m the one who lives here. “I’ll find something.”

I end up finding beer, wine, cheese, and various fruits and vegetables.

Not a lot, but enough to make a charcuterie board, which just so happens to be my specialty. I search for a few minutes before finding a wooden cutting board, then start to assemble whatever snacks I can find.

Cherries and grapes, two types of cheeses, carrots, and crackers fill most of the board, and I fill in gaps with blackberries and chocolate chips I’m surprised he has. 

Once it’s completed and visually appealing enough, I slide it over to where he’s seated on a barstool and bow dramatically. “I’m a master cheese plate maker.”

“I see that. Wine?”

Nodding, I reach in the fridge and grab the first bottle I see. Setting it in front of him, I move to the cabinet and get two glasses and an opener.

Rhysand takes the opener and eyes the bottle, lips twitching as he smoothly uncorks it.

“What?” I ask, unable to figure out what’s funny. Was it weird to make a board or something? Surely even rich guys like cheese and crackers, right?

He pours two glasses, shaking his head and silently refusing to let me in on the joke.

Eyes narrowed, I sit next to him and suspiciously take a small sip from my glass. He watches me, probably expecting me to say something about it, so I offer, “It’s good.”

He bites his lip but can’t keep the laugh in at that, so I finally demand, “What?”

“It’s an $800 bottle of wine, Feyre.”

I almost spit it all over him, which would indeed be a shame, because there’s probably $50 in my mouth. Managing to swallow it down, I sputter, “You... you should’ve said something!”

He’s still laughing, but he stops to take a huge swallow and shrug. “I say we drink the whole bottle.”

I put my head in my hands, blushing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I couldn’t care less.” He pries my hands away. “Seriously. I just wanted to tease you.”

Now that, I believe. But I still ask, “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” He smiles, taking another sip. “I keep the really expensive stuff at the townhouse, anyway.”

I roll my eyes and drink some more, somehow trying to taste it better or something now that I know it’s liquid gold. Shifting to put my foot on the stool, I lean across him to grab the platter.

His gaze glides over me slowly, and there’s surprise in his eyes, like he can’t believe I’m sitting in front of him so casually. 

It’s probably weird to be so... open around a stranger, but he’s not exactly normal, so I don’t feel any pressure to be, either.

Regardless, it’s a little hard to breathe with him looking at me like that, so to break the tension, I grab a cherry, pull the stem off, and hold it an inch in front of his face. 

“Ready?”

His eyes cross and he pushes my hand away so he can actually see what I’m holding. “Ready,” he confirms.”

I stick the stem in my mouth, using a trick I spent three hours teaching myself on a rainy afternoon to tie it in a knot, then pull it out with a victorious grin.

“Very impressive,” he notes, but before I can gloat about my supreme cherry-knotting abilities, he steals the stem and sticks it in his own mouth.

My eyes are wide, but I don’t have time to ask what the hell he’s doing before he pulls it out. 

Unknotted.

“Impressive,” I repeat, actually meaning it. “How’d you do that?”

“I’m good with my tongue,” he says immediately, obviously having been lying in wait for the question, and I huff a laugh.

If I called my sisters and told them what I’m going right now, they’d probably try to have me committed. I’m sitting in a billionaire’s penthouse apartment, drinking expensive wine and watching him untie cherry stems with his tongue. 

“How was your week?” I ask to get us back in semi-normal territory, grabbing a cracker off the plate.

He answers vaguely and asks me about mine, and just like that, we fall into easy conversation.

It’s honestly strange to me that after one date, we can talk like this. With my ex, it took weeks before I was really comfortable around him, and yet I feel completely at home with Rhysand.

He tells he’s from the south side of Chicago and asks about my hometown, and I it feels natural. It’s just... easy.

“By the way, you can just call me Rhys,” he tells me as we finish off the platter. “Using my full name reminds me of when I got in trouble in grade school.”

I drain my wine glass, a slight buzz in my veins, and ask, “So I only call you Rhysand when I’m about to spank you?”

He howls with laughter, then surprises me by asking, “What’s your middle name?”

“Adalene. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out what I’ll call you when we get around to spanking.” I blush as he continues, “Feyre Adalene should do.”

He puts the empty wine bottle in the trash and runs a finger over my red cheek. I bat it away, embarrassed, but he just laughs and asks, “Ready to go downstairs?”

For some reason, I get a little nervous, but I put on my big girl pants and nod, taking his hand when he offers it.

Then we’re back in the elevator, coasting down a floor, and just before the doors open, he says, “Close your eyes.”

Anticipation makes it difficult to follow the request but I manage, and he guides me out of the elevator and turns me slightly. “Open.”

I open my eyes and come face to face with something I never thought I’d see. 

“You... you have a...” I whisper, not quite able to get the word out.  

“Meule.”

One of eight left in private collectors hands, Monet’s Meules--or Grainstacks--are some of the most recognizable, renown works of art in the world. The last was sold four years ago for over $80 million.

Amren Valenta is a very, very rich woman, according to her art collection. 

I’m standing inches from it now, mildly unsure of how that happened, looking at the sunset colors bleed into the shadows of the grain, taking in the easy lines and brushwork.

Turning to look at him, I see he’s leaned against the wall next to the painting, head tilted as if I’m the most interesting thing in the room.

“I can’t believe I’m here right now,” I say honestly, my voice airy and light.

He just smiles and motions to my right. “The collection goes in a loop.”

I nod, and after a few more minutes staring at the Monet, I start to walk.

Or more like mosey. 

If he’s irritated with how long I’m taking, he doesn’t mention it. He follows me as I stare after pieces of art I never dreamed of being close to. Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Klimt, Pollock, Munch.

And then, at the edge of my peripheral, I see it.

Dancers in Pink hangs besides a smaller Degas, but it’s all I can look at. The dancer’s skirts are so bright in person, the tulle layers seeming to come off the canvas. The gold in the background is vibrant and metallic, in sharp contrast with the dark wall it hangs on.

Gods, it’s beautiful.

I know there are more famous paintings in here, but I’ve spent three years going to look at Dancers in Blue, never imagining I’d see one a similar work. 

Tears slide down my face and a laugh bubbles out of me, the two reactions complete opposites but both somehow feeling right.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, and I feel Rhysand’s chin settle on my shoulder as he hugs me from behind. “You know,” he whispers, seeming to not want to disrupt my moment with loud noises, “I never understood how important this is to people.”

“Oh, Rhysand. It’s... wonderful.”

It’s an inadequate way to say what I want to say, but it’s all I can come up with at the moment. I lean into him, and we stand like that, me staring at the painting, him at me, for a long while. 

When I start to get tired, I turn in his embrace, wrap my arms around his shoulders, and kiss him softly. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I somehow finish the loop, and by the time we’re in the elevator again, I’m so emotionally spent I can’t hardly breathe.

“Inspired?” he questions, linking our hands and pulling me closer to his side.

I nod, but inspired doesn’t begin to cover it. I’m grateful and overwhelmed and so happy I could burst.

A professor once told me that art is a gift that lasts forever and never stops giving, and I never really understood what she meant until now. Over a hundred years after Dancers in Pink was completed, it still brings people to tears.

It’s a powerful and beautiful and eternal way to send a message, and it makes me feel like a small piece of the puzzle, but at the same time, so important and alive.

We glide smoothly back up to his apartment, but neither of us move once the doors ding open. 

Because technically, there’s no longer a reason for me to be here. 

I’ve seen the art, drank his expensive wine. I should get my bag and go. 

I should... but I don’t want to. 

Rhysand’s perfectly quiet and still beside me, patiently waiting for me to make up my mind. 

The angel on my shoulder tells me how sweet and considerate he’s being. The devil tells me to reward this behavior with a few sinful ideas. 

Running a hand through my hair, I debate my options. Be smart and leave, or stay and try and fight the urge to throw myself at him. 

“Oh, fuck it,” I mutter, dramatically taking a step forward like I’m going into war.

He laughs as he follows me off the elevator, strolling back to the kitchen. “More wine?”

I nod, because at this point, I’m already a lost cause. He opens a new bottle and pours me some. “How much was this one?”

“Ten dollars,” he lies, fighting a smile. “On sale at Walmart.”

“I’m surprised you even know what Walmart is,” I laugh, taking my seat back at the bar. 

“You forget I’m from the south side. All this,” he motions around us, as he takes the seat next to me. “Used to be nothing more than a dream.”

“How’d you do it?” I ask, genuinely curious. Most people with his kind of wealth were born into it and given every advantage possible. “What’d you do?”

He looks down at the floor, but there’s a sudden set of his jaw, a tightness in his shoulders. “Whatever I had to.”

I don’t point out he’s given me yet another non-answer. Instead I say simply, “I find working for something makes you value it more, anyway.”

His eyes find me again, and there’s something I can’t read in his gaze. “Yes, it does. And it makes you do whatever it takes to keep it.”

I swallow and nod slowly, trying to figure out what exactly he means.

He takes a deep breath, then drinks the wine in his glass in a single swallow. There’s a story there, and it’s easy to see it burdens him, but it’s his to tell in his own time. 

Just to get that strain out of his gaze, I switch topics completely. “Honestly, I’m still trying to figure out how you untied that damn cherry stem.”

Rhysand smiles, a full one that showcases all his pretty little teeth, and leans in, the intent clear in his eyes. 

“Come here and I’ll show you,” he whispers.

I press my lips to his and open them immediately--for the lesson, of course--and his tongue meets mine in a slow glide. 

Where our first kiss was all heat and drifting hands, this one’s slow and sensual and like ice cream melting on a summer day. 

His mouth fits mine perfectly, and his hands seem to be made to hold me, sliding up my thighs to settle on my hips. The hair at his nape is soft against my fingers, and I lean on the stool to get closer and wrap my arms around his neck.

I suck on his tongue, and he makes a low sound, then his hands are tightening and lifting, and I’m being settled on his lap.

Both of us on one stool isn’t ideal, but I wrap my legs around his waist and hope we don’t go crashing over. 

Gravity comes into play and I start sliding, so he turns the stool and traps between him and the counter. The granite digs into my spin, but I can’t be bothered to care, because the new position gives his hands freedom to roam again, and he slides them over my thighs, across my ass, up my sides. 

His thumbs brush the sides of my breasts, and they become heavy and aching against his chest.

His mouth slowly drags down to my neck, and I sigh as he finds that one spot that drives me crazy. His nips the skin, tongue smoothing the small hurt, and his name slips out of me in a quiet moan. 

Everything seems to change at once.

Cursing creatively, he sweeps me into his arms and stands, then walks us into his living room and plops onto a plush couch. 

My ADHD kicks in and I’m momentarily distracted by how soft the leather is, but then his tongue runs across the seam of my lip and I snap back into focus.

My hips are churning against him, desperate for some friction, and I kiss him without restraint, abandoning our slow, peaceful rhythm from earlier. I hadn’t realized I’d been working on the buttons of his shirt, but then a band of tan skin is exposed, and I dip my head to press my lips against it. 

He tugs my hair to bring my mouth back to his, and I practically attack him, biting his lip and pulling his hair and generally acting like a depraved cavewoman.

He doesn’t complain, though. His hands drag my hips closer, then slip under the hem of my sweater. 

The scrape of his callouses on my sides snaps me back to the shocking reality where I’m--yet again--making out with a man I hardly know, and I gasp, then curse, then practically jump backwards off his lap. 

Standing in front of him, I put a hand over my mouth like that’ll stop me from using it and look him over. 

He’s all sprawling legs and swollen lips and beautiful eyes, and I force my eyes to the ceiling. “You look like a hot, virginal dork I just deflowered in the back of my minivan,” I tell him. 

“I feel a bit like that,” he laughs, running a thumb over his bruised lips almost in shock. “Although it’s always nice to be desired.”

I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so distracted by him looking so thoroughly messy. 

But I know that despite what just happened, I can’t do this with him yet. 

I mean, I definitely could, and it definitely would be enjoyed by all parties involved, but I would regret it. 

Rhysand isn’t someone I can just sleep with and forget. I’ve known him a week, and I already feel a strange sort of bond with him. 

If we slept together, then never spoke again, it would hurt me more than I’d care to admit. 

“I think I should leave.”

He nods like he was expecting this, but asks, “Why?”

Putting my hands on my hips, I repeat what I said earlier. “Working for something makes you value it more, remember?”

He smiles and stands, taking a minute to straighten the clothes I’d pawed out of place.

“It also makes you do whatever it takes to keep it,” he reminds me, a shiver sweeping over me at the words. “Come on; I’ll walk you out.”

We go to the elevator and stay on opposite ends the entire ride down. I’m a little proud, because I most certainly thought about crossing over to his half. 

Stepping outside, Rhysand motions for Beefcakes to open the door. “He’ll drive you home.”

“Thank you,” I say, starting towards the car. 

I take two whole steps before he’s somehow in front of me, blocking the path. “Two more things.”

He kisses me, gently but firmly, then pulls back and slips a piece of paper in my hand. “It’s your turn to send smoke signals.”

I look down at the paper and see a number written in a slashing scrawl, intelligently putting together that it’s his phone number. I look back up to respond, but he’s already back at the entrance to the building. 

Rhysand looks over his shoulder, winks, and disappears inside. 

I get in the SUV and tell Beefcakes my address, and off we go. I study the piece of paper the entire way there, mind reeling with everything that happened today. 

The easy conversation, the art, the kiss. 

Is this how it feels to be swept off your feet?

And how long, exactly, do I have to wait before calling him?

________________________________________________

This took me so long to edit holy FUCK. Part 3

@perseusannabeth​ @cursebreaker29​ @a-bit-of-a-cactus​ @elriel4life​ @girl-who-reads-the-books​ @shinya-hiiragi​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @ireallyshouldsleeprn​ @highqueenofelfhame​ @nahthanks​ @ghostlyrose2​ @tillyrubes10​ @claralady​ @tswaney17​ @rowanisahunk​ @superspiritfestival​ @thegoddessofyou​ @awesomelena555​ @booksofthemoon​ @greerlunna​ @jlinez​ @studyliketate​ @over300books​ @justgiu12​ @maastrash​ @aesthetics-11​ @bamchickawowow​ @b00kworm​ @sleeping-and-books​ @musicmaam​ @hizqueen4life​ @maybekindasortaace​ @elorcan-trash​ @emikadreams​ @alpha-omegas​ @joyceortiz13​ @sapphic-beauty​ @meowsekai​ @ahappyhistorianreader​

#feyre #feysand #feysand fanfiction #rhysand #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acotar fanfiction #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #feyre archeron

[easily-infatuated23]

Lark and Robin

a/n: i love spencer reid so get ready for more of everyone’s favorite fbi agent and doctor. also i’m imagining season 10 reid hair

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: none

summary: Spencer meets a girl in a museum, could this be the start of something? 

There is nothing as incredible as the ambiance of a museum. It creates a sort of melancholy feeling that prompts introspection. At least, that’s how see felt. “Can’t we move a bit faster please?? It’s bad enough that you wanted to spend part of your day off in a museum, but all of it?” She looked at James. She loved her long time best friend but he had the patience of a toddler. “No! You have to really take in the art here. The National Gallery has some incredible pieces” she said. They walked over to a Degas painting depicting dancers. “I mean look at this, look at the brush strokes and the colors, it’s just… beautiful” she said with a sigh. James rolled his eyes. “I saw a sign for a cafe on the next floor, I’ll just wait for you there”. She waved him off as he moved swiftly out of the gallery. She sat down on a bench facing the Degas painting and admired the artistry. She was alone in this small offshoot of the larger museum. It was peaceful. When she noticed another person enter the room she thought nothing of it, as long as they were quiet. The stranger approached her and spoke.

“Do you mind if I join you on the bench?” he asked timidly. “Not at all” she said, flashing a cheerful smile. He flashed a small smile back and sat down beside her. He was wearing a button down shirt and a tie, his hair was a bit shaggy and he was wearing a brown satchel. She leaned a bit closer to him and spoke. “Of all of Degas’s work, I think this is one of my favorites” she said, pointing at the piece titled “Four Dancers”. He nodded. “Yes, Degas actually painted quite a few dancers. He placed a lot of importance on the analysis of gestures and positions in his artistic style” he replied. “Dancers are the perfect subjects then. I used to dance in high school and there was a lot of analysis based on our positions” she added. He nodded. “What brings you to a museum in the middle of the day on a Thursday?” she asked. “Oh um well I’m trying to make the most of my day off before I inevitably get called into work. What about you?” he replied. “Same here. Although I run my own business so I don’t have to worry about getting called in”. “Oh that’s awesome! What do you do?” he asked, turning his body towards her enthusiastically. “I run a new and used bookshop near Dupont Circle called ‘Lark and Robin’s Hideaway’”. The man nodded again. “Why Lark and Robin?” he asked. “My best friend James and I opened it about a year ago. As kids we gave each other nick names, he was Lark and I was Robin so it only seemed fit to incorporate them into the name”. “Thats really cool” he said. “I love books, I try to read at least one or two a day”. “One or two a day? That’s incredible. I can barely get through one in a month! I’ve always been a slow reader” she said laughing.

Just then, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Garcia, informing him that they had just gotten a case. Damn. He was really enjoying this small interaction. “Duty calls, I’ve gotta head out.” he said, a tone of disappointment in his voice. “Yeah of course. You should stop by the store some time, we pride ourselves on having some pretty rare books.” “Ok yeah maybe I will” he replied. She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “Here take this. I’m Y/N by the way”. He took the card and put it in his pocket. “I’m Spencer” he said smiling. She smiled back at him as she watched him walk out of the gallery. He was relived she didn’t try to shake his hand. It was always awkward when he met someone and had to refuse their hand shake, but, she hadn’t even stuck her hand out. Although she didn’t know it, that made a big impression on him.

When he met the rest of the team in briefing room, he felt everyone staring at him. “What?” he asked defensively. “Pretty boy, you have got the biggest smile on your face” Derek joked. Spencer scoffed. “Am I not allowed to be happy?” JJ and Garcia looked at each other and laughed. For the rest of the case, Spencer kept catching himself smiling and thinking about Y/N. On the plane ride home, he pulled her business card out of his pocket and looked at it. It was a beautiful card. It had blue and gold lettering with two little birds on it. “Hey Reid, whatcha got there?” Rossi asked. “Oh um a business card for a book store in Dupont Circle. I met the owner at the National Gallery before the case”. Rossi raised his eyebrows and nodded. JJ laughed again. “What?” Spencer was truly confused. It seemed like everybody knew something he didn’t. “Let me guess, this owner was a woman?” JJ asked. “Yeah why?” Derek pulled his headphones off and leaned over to Spencer. “You clearly have a thing for this girl”. “That’s ridiculous. I just met her! I’m just happy that there are still small bookstores out there” Spencer said defensively.

When they landed, Spencer decided that before going home, it was worth checking out ‘Lark and Robin’s Hideaway’. By the time he got there, it had started to get dark. As he approached the store, he admired the royal blue door before pulling it open. A little golden bell at the top of the door chimed as he entered. “Welcome to ‘Lark and Robin’s Hideaway’ let me know if you need any assistance!” The voice was familiar. It was Y/N. Spencer continued into the store and was delighted to see high shelves stacked with as many books as possible. They were so packed in fact, that the books were overflowing into piles beside the shelves. He walked further in and stopped at the check out desk in the middle of the store. “Oh Spencer hello! It’s good to see you again.” Y/N smiled and tucked her Y/H/C hair behind her ears. “Hi again, I wanted to come as soon as I got off work”. She tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “You just got off work? It’s Tuesday.” He chuckled and nodded his head. “Yeah I have to travel for my job so I sometimes am non stop working for days at a time”. “Wow, that sounds exhausting. I appreciate you coming in then.” He shrugged. “I was curious”. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” He thought for a moment. He hadn’t actually considered what would happen this far into his plan. “Not really, got any recommendations?” “I personally love novels so how about….” she walked over to a shelf and scanned the titles. “This” she said finally, presenting Spencer with a book. He read the title. “Unwind by Neal Shusterman. What’s it about?” he asked. “It’s a fictional story that has a really interesting take on the abortion debate. It’s kinda spooky but I love it.” She replied. “I love spooky so this sounds great”. “Let me grab you a free ‘Lark and Robin’ book mark”.

She took the book and disappeared behind the counter. Spencer wandered through the aisles. She hadn’t lied, there was a quite a selection of books here. The selection ranged from some interesting looking first edition books all the way to children’s picture books. “Here you are, on the house” she said, winking as she handed Spencer the book. “Thanks, you don’t have to do that” he said blushing a bit. “This just my secret way of guilting you into coming back” she said with a cheeky smile. “I would have come back anyway” he said chuckling. He waved at her as he exited the store and unlocked his car. While he was driving home, he could feel himself smiling again. Once he finally arrived, he sat on his couch and opened the book. He pulled out the book mark and flipped it over. Y/N had written her phone number and a small message on the back of the book mark. “Call me sometime :) - Y/N”.

The next day Spencer found himself back on the BAU jet on his way to assist on another case. He brought the book on the plane and decided he would try to read this book slowly. Not because he had to or because he thought he would enjoy the story more, but simply because the book reminded him of Y/N and he wanted to keep that happiness going for as long as possible. “Reid, are you ok? You’ve been reading that book for a while” Hotch said. “Oh um a friend gave it to me and I promised her I’d really take my time”. Derek starting laughing and teasing Spencer. “Pretty boy’s in love..pretty boy’s in love”. Spencer just laughed and looked back at the book. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Either way, he was going to enjoy his book and be sure to call Y/N when they landed.

#dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #derek morgan #mgg #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x y/n #bau #pretty boy #spencer reid au #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid one shot