#<- no idea if i should use these or not but whatever

[isa-ghost]

I fully agree with this (/genuine). And I do wish people would stop using it because of the historical-and-still-current context behind the phrase.

But I am curious about what OP's opinion is about a take I see a lot in defense of using the phrase as a quirky (perhaps even cringe) positive phrase. I've seen loads of people say "well over time words/phrases/images can get a new context behind them that overwrites (but doesn't erase) the previous bad one. It takes power away from the people who use [thing] in a derogatory way." Basically the same kinda logic we use when reclaiming slurs, I guess? Maybe that's too extreme of a comparison though, I dunno. Another example I thought of is how Tupperware is (was?) a company, but we call *all* plastic containers similar to that Tupperware, which completely diminished the company's sway over product competition since it became a blanket term. I'm probably oversimplifying that a bit but it was another interesting educational post I read on here ages ago. I tried looking for it on my blog but the only thing that came up was the post about how they went bankrupt.

Anyway, to an extent I agree with the idea of "new positive context," but like with basically everything, I think there's nuance to it. I think there are times where changing the context behind something simply doesn't work and/or shouldn't be the route people go down, period. And of course there are instances where people abuse the idea and use it as justification for shit they shouldn't. Same kinda deal as "death to the author."

But also the internet (and perhaps younger queers in general in this case?) has a terrible habit of completely disregarding important context or at the very least not acknowledging/respecting said context to the degree they should, if they do so at all. And I'm as sick of that as plenty of other people are.

So I guess that is to say I can see both sides of the argument and am curious to hear if OP (or anyone else) has some additional info that I lack? If there's things about this I can be taught beyond "hey this is an ongoing issue, stop enabling the people who seek to use it to harm us by using it like it's something cute and quirky," I'd really like to learn what those points may be. Especially because then I could take those myself and further spread the word by educating people just like OP.

I think once upon a time I was actually a "we can reclaim this with a new positive context and take the power away from the people who use it to do harm" person myself but then I came across posts like this one and actually put some real thought into the topic and changed my mind? (I say that with uncertainty because I don't actually remember ever explicitly agreeing with takes in favor of the positive context use). Which is another reason I'd appreciate further discussion about why this is a case where "new positive context" shouldn't be the way people go about it. The stronger the argument for it, the better or whatever, right?

Also I'd like to provide a precautionary clarification that I'm asking OP/anyone else here if they have additional insight instead of "googling around" or something myself because I personally tend not to trust stuff like that since misinformation is so rampant, especially with how common the use of ai-generated bullshit is. It's also, in my opinion, better to hear things directly from people you Know for certain are from [group] or have experience with [thing]. I digress.

i fear the battle is lost at this point but i still flinch every time i see "gay panic" used as a cute positive phrase. Like let's go on say wikipedia.org for a second and try typing that one in folks

edit: i caved and looked in the notes and my god you people are stupid. Stop talking about this like it's ancient history. The gay/trans panic defense is quite literally still legal in the majority of the US. Look at this map since you apparently don't have wikipedia or like any kind of search engine on your computers

[sunny-knight]

What Kind Of Monster Was He?

A @forgettable-au fan (colored) animatic

MINOR BLOOD WARNING!

*Was he the kind to do too much, or not enough?

…OK, SO WHAT HAD HAPPENED WAS-

I had planned to finish this into a full fledged animation, but a lot of the parts I did end up finishing just didnt live up to what I imagined…I waited for more motivation to happen, but it just didnt so HERES THE COLORED ANIMATIC CAUSE IM REALLLY HAPPY WITH WHAT I HAVE and ive sat on posting this for like a 2 weeks 😭 which is an eternity in my time

Im gonna post the unfinished “finished” part on my side account @o-sunny-day though! and probably have people yell at me cause it actually isnt that bad AND IT TOTALLY ISNT I just… art. You get it. ENOUGH YAPPING! ITS TIME TO YAP!

except not yet, MORE BACKGROUND INFO HUCDHUC- but its background info on explaining the lore…

The explaining is much less expansive than in Dear My Dear just because I didnt work on it long enough to think every bit of it through. This is just a clean, nicer looking, and colored version of the very first storyboard.

I usually think about and put more effort into the little stuff while making the FINISHED bits since ive had so much more time to think about that in all the preppin n sketching.

BUT I liked the explaining format I did for Dear My Dear so im sticking with it!

The main idea for this was to do a study of Wingdings’ character from what we’ve been given, mainly focusing in on the expectations he puts on himself because holy shit the lyrics for this works so stupidly well it makes me mad LOOK AT THIS???

its ridiculous. i love it. I didnt know Jack Stauber helped write Forgettable AU???? woww!!! ANYWHO thats the gist of it, not much context is needed past that. Onto the sillies!!!! (per usual excuse the shitty quality of the pngs idk why Tumblr does that-)

Did you know love? Will you rest in peace?

Wingdings and Sans holding hands as kids, before turning to a casket like appearance for adult WD. The flowers hes holding are pretty important too, Marigolds to represent grief, Lilys, new life, and Forget Me Nots for this lovely little line I found when looking up good flowers to use-

“a promise to always remember” ….stop that.

That actually also has a double meaning in this case too. 1, ofc the forgetting of Wingdings. But ALSO Wingdings forgetting something himself. Forgetting who he is. Almost like a Zuko ATLA situation.

Did you have a family?

Who knows where theyre parents are, but this is HAPPY TIME and we’re gonna assume they were so awesome and very kind but had to leave or went to a farm in the sky for whatever reason.

The colors here I had a lot of fun with. Their parents had warm colors but the boys have cold, still with warm accents. Its said they more or less raised each other being very independent as shown in the second part with them running out the door by themselves.

How was the view from the shelf? Did you ever believe in yourself?

Before, we started with the beginnings. The good things, the only thing Wingdings cares to even recall. Now we’re seeing his life really start to turn upside down- making first contact with The Player :D

He’s hesitant to reach out, but is intrigued, before getting a rushing revelation of his reality and how it isnt “real”

Rather than feeling crushing existential dread, he more feels pressured to be BETTER, to figure a solution, to do something. Thats what white represents here

WHAT KIND OF MILK WERE YOU?

We then switch to more examples of how Wingdings is taking this pressure (not well) The soft tones of yellow that were shown before, turn to way brighter, intensifying that feeling that he should be fine, he should be happy, drowning in success of being the Royal Scientist.

But he just desperately wants to just go back to a time of nice coldness.

The warm vs cold tones in this I had so much fun with, coldness is supposed to represent hostility usually, while warm is nice and happy. (same with Black and white. Scary, relieving,) But these points often contradict each other, its hard to tell what you’re feeling vs what you’re supposed to be feeling. Just like Wingdings!

WHAT KIND OF LIFE DID YOU LIVE THROUGH?

The white lab coats, the expectations, theyre on all of them. But Wingdings has essentially become his expectations.

He questions what life he wants to live, one being himself and alone (speaking in wingdings) or not himself and with company (speaking in a “normal” font) Still, he frames it in past tense as he believes theres no going back now, based on what he knows.

“One of the last happy moments they had together” stop that. (i cant find a link to when that was said but I know it was once, about them taking a photo together….)

DID YOUR LIFE RUN RICH WITH CALCIUM?

Calcium….bonesss :3 Hehehehdhehfhehehheheheh still dont know why he has holes in his hands so we’re movin on

DID THEY LAUGH AT YOU OR DID YOU LAUGH AT THEM?

Compared to the childhood Wingdings remembered, heres the sadder, bleaker, more realistic version. He always thought they were laughing at him but… maybe they werent.

DAIRY BELOVED. YOUR DAYS ARE GONE,

It doesnt matter now though. Because in the NOW, Wingdings has become consumed by his expectations of himself, seeing this has the “only option” to do the only thing that he feels will give his life meaning and purpose, establishing connection with THE PLAYER

But the grocery list goes on…

And yet life continues on without him, and his room is transformed into a more livable space now that someone is…living in it. Always hurts so much making the differences between Wingdings and Papyrus’ room. It feels like making something out of the man Wingdings COULD HAVE been. Because honestly thats just what Papyrus is,

Thank you to my bestie @fruitytrip for helping me with all of my art in general but especially the storyboarding on this :3 <3

[ourfirstlink]

And that’s how moving in with Sylus happened.

Sylus staying at your place felt like a fever dream at first, but you were so confused once you realised he was as subtle as a bull in a china shop around your place, which was completely unusual.

No matter how much effort he put not to wake you up too early in the morning, you would eventually be woken up from your sweet dreams by him bumping his body against whatever was on his way. However, he had no idea you were hearing his misadventures almost every single time he was staying there.

The genuine shock on his face when you finally admitted that he wasn’t being quiet (which was none of his fault) led him to think that he didn’t belong to this tiny little home of yours. It could be seen as extremely dramatic yet it proves how much he cares about you and your wellbeing — he doesn’t want you to feel discomfort of any sort.

You didn’t want him to feel guilty and actually find this situation endearing, especially how he seemed lost in his thoughts after looking away from your face with a faint blush on his cheeks.

“Maybe i should stop…”

“Overthinking” you cut him off.

Raising a brow, he was anxiously waiting for the words that were about to come out of your mouth.

“First of all, i’ll get used to it and will stop waking up at every single noise i hear…” you placed your hand on his “secondly, our home will be a lot more bigger than this tiny apartment.”

A sigh of relief escaped his mouth and he looked right into your eyes.

“Our?” getting closer to you, his hand left yours just so both of his can cup each side of your face. “Home is wherever you are, my love. But sharing something we can consider as ours…”

Closing the distance between the two of you, he gently placed a kiss on your lips.

“Mmh this is the life i’ve always dreamt about.”

Before you can say anything, your lips are sealed with his with more passion, a hint of yearning and love that only made you melt more.

“I’d buy an entire planet just so i make sure i don’t wake you up ever again, just so you know.”

After this breathless confession, you both decided to let the passion consume your beings.

That’s how you decided it was the right time to move in together.

[milkoomi]

⋆˚࿔ a new canvas means a new you 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

a mini series on the art of becoming a better you

inspired by this podcast i watched recently !!

chapter one — THE ART OF LETTING GO

letting go is one of the strongest and bravest things we can do for ourselves. whether it be letting go of toxic relationships, bad habits, or simply just things that no longer serve you, being able to do something like that will help us grow stronger and create a better life for ourselves. i’m sure there’s so many things, or even people, that have been weighing you down or hindering your own progress, so take that first step and let. them. go.

ᥫ᭡. things/people to let go of

bad friends/partners

toxic relationships, whether romantic or platonic, are extremely hard to free yourself from, but you have to put yourself first. you are always your number one priority. if you believe in “treat others how you want to be treated”, then you should believe in making sure others are treating you the way you want to be treated. you can always give and give to the people in your life, but relationships are a two-way street, babe. you can’t give your all when the person or people you’re giving too isn’t giving anything in return! don’t continue to expend any more of your energy on those who won’t even consider trying to give you even an ounce of energy back. it’s not worth it.

when you’re in a toxic relationship, you start to realize how poorly you’re being treated, but because you want to try and fix the relationship or mend it somehow, you stay. and staying is one of the worst things you can do for yourself. while you try and try to fix something that you aren’t even responsible for fixing, you just keep hurting yourself over and over; making yourself even more miserable in the relationship. and you don’t deserve that! you don’t deserve to be treated poorly time and time again, you never deserved that kind of treatment to begin with!

let them go. leave. free yourself from the constant heartbreak, betrayal, and pain. you’ll lose yourself if you stay, and i know that you’re trying to find a better version of yourself, so if you stay you’ll never find that person. you’ll keep getting lost and you’ll keep getting further and further away from your own happiness that you do deserve.

“but how do i leave?”

if we’re talking toxic friends: distance yourself. put distance between you and them until you’re too far away for them to reach. keep conversations short, keep responses to a minimum until you eventually have gone so far that they can’t find you anymore.

or simply: cut them off, immediately. block them on everything. instagram, twitter, tiktok— all social media. block their number. block them out of your life for good. they don’t deserve to see you, to hear from you, to have the chance to try and speak to you; they do not deserve you.

if we’re talking romantic relationships: send them a message. whether it’s a letter you send to their house or even through a text, send them a message. if you do it through text, do not feel any remorse for doing so. there’s this whole idea of “if you break up with them over text, you’re a coward”, and in most cases i can see that to be true, but if you’re in a relationship where your partner does not value you, respect you, or even love you the way you’re meant to be loved then they don’t even deserve the courtesy of an in-person break up.

sometimes we’re put in situations where even sending a message may seem impossible because our partner has taken too much control over us. when this kind of situation happens, we have to put our foot down. if you feel like you have no control, even over yourself, you need to leave. you have to do whatever it takes to leave because you should never, and i mean never, be put in any kind of situation or relationship where you feel like you have no control over yourself. you should never stay in a relationship that makes you feel trapped or that makes you feel scared to leave. you are allowed to leave no matter what anyone says.

additional note: if you are ever put in a situation where you feel unsafe in a relationship, please reach out for help. whether it be your family, a friend, or even an authoritative figure, please reach out for help. you do not deserve to ever feel unsafe by someone who’s supposed to love you.

negative self-talk

most times we are our own worst enemy. there have been so many times where i’ve put myself down with extremely hurtful words— words i would never say to someone i loved. if i wouldn’t say those awful things to someone i cared about, why should i say them to myself? we need to let go of talking down on ourselves. the more we put ourselves down with hurtful words, the more we let our insecurities take over and eventually consume us.

we have to be kind to ourselves. at the end of each day, we only ever have ourselves. you need to always have your own back! talk to yourself like you would to someone you love! talk to yourself with love.

negative self-talk gives more energy to those who try to hurt us. the more energy we put into hurting ourselves, even more energy will put into those who feel like they have power over us. do you really want someone who puts you down feel like they have so much more power over you? no, right? then, please, use that energy to bring more confidence and power into yourself. the only person who should have power over you, is you. use your own power to bring yourself up, not bring yourself down.

“but it seems too hard, where do i start?”

applaud yourself for making achievements no matter how big or small! did you make your bed today? then congratulate yourself! did you get a promotion or raise at your job? then tell yourself how proud you are! it doesn’t matter what the achievement is, if you accomplished it then you deserve more than a pat on the back from yourself. always take pride in your work, always treat small wins as the biggest win of the day, always tell yourself that you are so proud of who you are becoming and what you’ve accomplished.

compliment your appearance, makeup, or outfit! maybe your skin’s been improving, so you should look in the mirror and say “hey, you have really beautiful skin!” or maybe you snapped a pic of the makeup look you just did, then you should say “wow, i’m really talented at doing my makeup! it turned out great!” or maybe you put together an outfit for your day, then you should say, “i made a really great choice in my clothes today! this looks so nice!”

treat yourself with kindness, care, respect, and love. you need to uplift yourself to feel like your best self! literally, just talk to yourself. look in the mirror and have a sweet conversation with yourself and just admire who you see in the reflection.

sometimes we have to fake it til we make it, and honestly? it works! even if you start out and you feel like you’re lying to yourself, still do it. do it until it finally starts to feel real and then keep doing it from that point forward.

feeling embarrassed

we live in a day and age where everything that anyone does is labeled as “cringe”, and it’s exhausting. now, people feel like they can’t be who they are without feeling like they’re being “cringe” or without feeling embarrassed for being themselves or taking part in things they enjoy.

you should never feel embarrassed for being who you want to be or for enjoying things that genuinely make you happy. let go of feeling embarrassed! you are allowed to have fun and be happy being yourself. don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you can’t.

i always like to think, “well, if someone thinks i’m ‘cringe’ then they must not know how to have fun with their own life!” because that’s more than likely the truth! people will feel threatened by those who exude confidence in what they enjoy and who they are and those people will do anything to project their own insecurities onto others. it’s never anything you’re doing that’s wrong. what’s wrong is the fact that some people just can’t stand seeing others thrive. let yourself be someone that those haters can’t stand to see thrive.

i’ve said this before, and i’ll say it again, be unapologetically yourself.

ᥫ᭡. how to let go

letting go just means detaching yourself from the things/people that have held you down. it means to simply stop caring. i know i said “simply”, but of course it isn’t all that simple. this is something you have to work towards!

emotional detachment.

when you bring yourself the inability to attach your emotions to something or someone, you practice emotional detachment.

now, in some cases, emotional detachment may not be a good thing, but when you’re practicing or in the process of letting go it’s best to emotionally detach yourself from that thing or person.

acknowledge and reflect on your emotions! what do these things or people that you want to let go of make you feel? sadness? anger? frustration? grab a journal and write down all that you’re feeling. acknowledging and being aware that there are things/people who are making you feel a negative emotion is a great first step to emotional detachment. you’re being made aware of your feelings, thoughts, and emotions that are a result of the things/people you want to let go of— and that’s a good thing! it allows you to see how you’re still attached and helps you think “well, i don’t want to feel this way anymore” and will begin the next thought process of how you will start letting go of those particular feelings.

set boundaries! now that you’re aware of how these things/people make you feel, you can start setting boundaries for yourself. with people, like i mentioned earlier, you can create distance or even block them. of course, you can always try to set a boundary with that person, but remember: if they cross your boundary and continue to cross it, let them go. you put these boundaries in place and whoever it is that you are setting boundaries with needs to respect them just as they would want you to respect any of theirs. when it comes to setting personal boundaries for things like the ones i mentioned above, it’s the same idea of cutting off what makes you act on that negative self-talk or gives you that feeling of embarrassment. blocking hateful people on social media, unfollowing accounts that don’t make you feel good about yourself, and/or taking a break from social media and making more time for yourself in the real world.

focus on self care & yourself! after you’ve set some boundaries, whether it was with yourself or with others, start putting in more time focused on you. focus on things and people that genuinely make you happy, consume content that makes you feel good whether in general or makes you feel good about yourself, and practice self care! as i said in the beginning, you are always your number one priority. your happiness, your peace, and you overall should always come first in your own life.

ᥫ᭡. final notes

this is “the art of letting go” and art is always something you have to practice so that you get better at it! take your time and be patient with yourself. letting go isn’t an uphill battle, there’s going to a lot of ups and downs and feelings of uncertainty or even anxiety and fear, but i know you can do it! i know there isn’t a single thing that you can’t accomplish for yourself! you are capable of change and you are more than capable of becoming a a better version of yourself for yourself.

with lots of love, juno 🌷

[captain-kit-adventuress]

I haven't read any cozy fantasy, to be fair, but because these posts are mostly talking about the fundamentals of good writing while the fundamentals of cozy fantasy are taking more of a backseat, I feel comfortable throwing in my pov. I agree with all of the above, but I think we should probably add on discussion of why tension works even when stakes are low.

Given all of the GBBO mentions, let's liken writing a story to baking. So what differentiates a cake from bread from a biscuit from [insert thing here]? Mostly ratios. Cakes and breads and biscuits are all made with the same fundamental ingredients, for the most part, but the ratios of each differ greatly between them, as do some of the techniques used. A more traditional fantasy is mostly plot-driven. That's one ingredient. Of course, you still need character and setting and all the rest, but because a traditional fantasy tends to use a big window into its world, you'll need lots of plot and worldbuilding in the mix. There is The Quest or The Prophecy or The Villain's Downfall or The Hero's Redemption or whatever, and these kinds of story tropes require a lot of moving parts to get to the end. Character is still important in a plot-driven book because it will enrich whatever that plot is, but the big window you're opening will swallow up the characters if you're not careful to get the other ratios just right.

But a cozy fantasy isn't like that. The window is much smaller, and so the ratio of ingredients necessarily has to change. Tension vs stakes is a great way to think about that ingredient mix, but when you're shifting your main base, you also have to shift the ratios of the other ingredients or it's going to turn out wonky. With a smaller window generally comes a smaller (though no less important) story. We don't see as much of the world in a cozy setting, so focusing too much on worldbuilding might crowd out the other elements in the story and overpower them. What tends to fit well in a smaller window is character. But if you want to create tension instead of stakes--and it is incredibly important to know the difference between the two, as the above post illustrates well--you can't rely on plot so much. Tension is all about character.

The reason tension works in GBBO is not just because the characters care about the outcome, it's that we bond with them and care about it also. We want it to go well for them. (Or at least, go well for our favourites lol.) So with bland, uninspiring, nothing characters, even introducing tension isn't going to work well if readers have no reason to root for your characters, and wanting to see good in the world just won't cut it. In the case of the fantasy coffee shop idea, why do we care that this coffee shop survives? What makes the character care? What is the thing (or things) that makes the character get out of bed every day to run this shop? It doesn't have to be a big reason, either. It's not like it has to be to honour the memory of their dead mother whose dying wish was to own a shop like this, it needn't be dramatic. But it does have to feel like a real reason this person would be so motivated.

A different cozy genre that does this well is cozy mysteries, and those are all about characters. We always know there's going to be a murder (or at least the appearance of one). So that part of the plot is taken care of. What the author of a cozy mystery must do, then--besides solving the mystery--is tell us why that murder matters. The only question an author needs to answer before writing a cozy mystery after they've answered whodunit is why they did it. And you can only do that through the people that are still alive. The worldbuilding may contribute to it, but the murder doesn't matter except as it relates to the ones who are left in the aftermath.

Something I've noticed in recent years is that some authors are starting to approach independent stories like they do fanfic. To some extent, that's fine because good writing is good writing is good writing. One of the biggest differences between independent stories and fanfiction, however, is that fanfiction doesn't need a reason to exist. You can write that cute scene with no stakes and no tension and people will read it because it's like a deleted scene from the original, and it has all of the canon to support it. The existing canon is the primary reason fanfiction exists.

Independent stories are not like that. They must have a reason to exist outside of "this is cute and I like it." We readers don't have access to the world in your head in any other way than through the published material, and it's an author's responsibility when writing independent stories to give us that access. You have to show us why we should care, and if you're spending too much time worldbuilding and plotting and dialoguing and not enough time making us care about the people in the story, we're not going to be any wiser at the end, and tension vs stakes vs anything else isn't going to matter.

Cozy Fantasy and Why It Doesn't Work

I think I am among many who feel like they should love cozy fantasy and have found it an incredibly lacking genre.

This newly branded "cozy fantasy" genre that has taken readers by storm since 2020 and while it is new that books are now marketed as cozy, the genre itself isn't new. Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones is a great example of the genre before it was labeled and also how to make it work.

Cozy fantasy is defined by many as fantasy with low stakes. Fantasy aesthetic but less sword fights. On paper, it sounds great. But the execution has been less than stellar for readers like me. The lack of physical stakes has also impacted the emotional stakes of these books, creating forgettable characters with boring problems. As a romance reader, I find this frustrating. Romance is known for being a predictable and formulaic genre, the now defunct Romance Writers of America defined romances as needing happy endings, a term romances have continued to follow. Yet these romance texts manage to have low physical stakes (how to date your neighbor, how to confront your toxic friends, etc) while still maintaining high personal stakes that keep readers invested and begging for more. So I was initially confused why cozy fantasy authors struggle to write texts that connect to readers like me.

I think I have found the answer which is the genre is just here for vibes. It is all about aesthetic, not even worldbuilding that fantasy is known for as most cozy fantasy I read have so many problems as soon as you ask one question. It is hard to acknowledge that a genre that is pitched to work for readers like me doesn't work for many of us. Especially because occasionally there is one that works beautifully to my taste.

I often say my favorite cozy fantasies that are more contemporary are short and visual, which I plays into the idea of the genre being an aesthetic. The Bakery Dragon by Devin Elle Kurtz is a good example because it is a simple story that is given the perfect amount of pages and gorgeous visuals without dragging on when the message is very clear and easy to understand. Books like The Phoenix Keeper and Legends and Lattes have absolutely nothing for me, their very clear message hitting the reader over and over so the readers don't miss it and focusing on the aesthetic of worldbuilding rather than the reality of the fantastic elements within the world.

I guess my point is. . . I realize this genre isn't for me since I have realized it is more of an aesthetic than anything. .. .but I want it to be. Should I let it go and put my efforts elsewhere? Or should I keep exploring this new trend and find the hidden gems?

[kedreeva]

i have an odd animal husbandry question you seem like you might know the answer to, your comment about stan reminded me - ive been thinking about getting into backyard chickens for a couple years and the thing that makes me hesitate most is hard culling. im confident in my ability to put down an animal thats sick, or infirm, or for food, but for like, temperament? or for poor egg layers? just sticks on me for some reason. i think it would feel like telling them theyre not a good enough chicken for me. how to you process this part of animal husbandry?

This will be a little long, so bear with me.

If you want to keep use animals (animals bred for a purpose, to be used for a purpose instead of kept as a companion), you gotta get good with the idea that they are here for you under the agreement that you will only keep them as long as you need to. When you take them on, you are agreeing that you will release them to whatever their next life holds for them as soon as you do not need (or they've completed) their service. Maybe for some people that's just release to the biological cycle of life, for others maybe there's an eternal rest, for others maybe it's reincarnation. For soft culling that's just moving to the next household. Whatever it is, you are allowing them to pass to it in as humane a way as you can, and ultimately it is the single greatest kindness and gratitude you can show to them, to give them proper care while they are here and allow them to end with little to no pain- something animals outside of our care rarely get. You are thanking them for their service, and letting them go. Worth does not even begin to factor into it.

It is not easy to take a life. It is NEVER easy, regardless of reason, regardless of excuse, regardless of anything. It is ALWAYS heavy, and it will always hurt you. And it should. I am grateful for the weight of taking a life, because it reminds me that it is serious, and reminds me to take the production of life seriously, because at some point any life I cause to come into existence via breeding animals will have to end.

On top of that, some things ARE heath related that do not seem health related. Aggression in domestic animals IS A HEALTH ISSUE. A cock is aggressive because he is stressed about intruders, containment, mating threats, resource guarding, etc. Even with the best of care this can be true, and unfortunately for you both, this means the animal is not suited for domestic keeping. The same goes for animals (in any stripe of use, but particularly private care) that display repetitive stress behaviors from normal, proper captive care (for example, mice that are food chewing are stressed and should be culled from lines where possible because they are not having a good time). You are doing them a disservice to keep them in a stressful situation you cannot change because of their biology. It has nothing to do with not being good enough for you, and everything to do with producing/keeping animals that do not experience that stress in captive care and releasing the rest from duty because they will not be okay in any captive care.

For some issues (poor egg laying, for example) you CAN pet-home culls instead of hard culling. It's harder to do, you will spend time finding people who just want pets that don't intend to breed or don't care, but it can be done. However!! Is the bird just slow at producing eggs because her genetics say that's how fast eggs get produced, or is she producing slowly because there's a health problem that isn't immediately evident? Is her ovary damaged, is her reproductive tract infected, does she have a disorder that prevents her from processing food correctly so she can't get what she needs to produce eggs as fast as normal? Are you setting the bird up for failure (and someone else for heartbreak/money troubles) sending them to a pet home? Is it something which could lead to pain/suffering down the road if she's allowed to continue? Hard to say without spending a lot of money. Are you willing to risk your reputation, if someone takes a surprise illness/genetic issue down the road badly ("Oh THAT breeder sold me a sick/unhealthy bird/bird with bad genetics"), and compromise your ability to find homes for healthy birds down the road?

You are okay with culling a bird for food- there's nothing that says you cannot eat the bad temperaments, the poor egg layers, the one with genetic issues, and so on. And if you can tell early enough that you, personally, can't make use of the meat, there are plenty of folks with other animals that would LOVE feed for those animals. Take yourself down to a local reptile expo, grab the business cards for a few people who have big snake babies (retics, burmese, anaconda, redtail boa, even BP) that say they'd be interested in taking culls, OR look up local bird of prey rescues in your area (or reptile rescues or big cat rescues if there are any) and ask if they'd be interested in culls. There is ALWAYS someone that can use what you can't/won't. You may have to jump through some hoops to donate to some kinds of rescues (health testing for example), but it's an option you can look into if you want to combat the feelings you're talking about.

As a last note- and I am saying this gently and holding your face in both hands: do not anthropomorphize animals in reality.

In YOUR eyes, you are culling them an illness or an injury or for food or for temperament or for poor quality or or or---- it does not matter to the animal why you are culling them. A death is a death, to them. They are here, and then a thing happens, and they are no longer. They do not understand life or death or afterlife or reincarnation or that they are here for a purpose or not a purpose or literally anything you as a human might impose upon them in your head. They live while they are alive, and then they are not. They do not "want to live" in the "avoid death" sense because they do not necessarily understand "death" as a future concept. Instincts that have worked well to preserve life have been encoded in their DNA to one degree or another, they can and do respond to avoid pain, but with little exception (like... maybe elephants and dolphins and a crows and a few others), it's unlikely that they understand the connection between doing those things and being alive/avoiding death.

So while TO YOU it may feel like telling the bird they are not good enough, and TO ME it feels like allowing the bird to move on in peace... the bird doesn't know either way, and honestly the reason hardly matters. It is alive in the present, and one way or another it will not be alive someday, and you are responsible for making sure that the one way under your control is so peaceful or quick that the bird hardly knows it is no longer alive. The bird doesn't care about (and cannot understand) the why of their death, any more than they understand their pain/stress and how it relates medical assistance; it's why animals often freak out, refuse meds, etc. They don't hate the vet or the car or the carrier or anything- they just simply don't understand human stuff and react according to instincts/what they do understand. If you treat an animal like the animal it IS rather than the person you imagine it to be, you will find yourself with a lot better relationship with them during life, and be able to frame their passing a bit better later on.

[bylerweek2025]

Prompt list for BylerWeek 2025

Hello Byler Nation ☆

Here are the themes for Byler Week. You'll find those (and more...) below the cut 💚

Guide -> I wanted this event to feel inclusive for everyone and every type of content. The concept of Byler Week is to celebrate Byler in whatever way you can.

It shouldn't matter if you're a beginner or an advanced creator. It shouldn't matter if you're busy all day or have plenty of free time. Everyone should feel included.

For this reason, every day has a main theme, which is a color. The themes are meant to set the vibe for the day.

But it's not over yet. I felt like every day should feel like a 360° experience, so, not only you'll find a color to inspire you, but several other ideas:

A color palette

A moodboard

A song (that matches the colors, the vibes, and that has Byler-centric lyrics, woah)

3 prompts.

You can use all of these ideas as Legos, combine them as you wish ☆.

<- Previous post �� Next post ->

Day one (March 17th) ☆ Cobalt blue

Prompts

Blue hour

Ocean

Liminal pools

Day two (March 18th) ☆ Chili red

Prompts

Upside-down (interdimensional) portal

Rubies

Masquerade

Day three (March 19th) ☆ Mauve

Prompts

1800s ball

Butterfly effect

Lavender fields

Day four (March 20th) ☆ Gray

Prompts

Medieval knights

Growing old

Love locks

Day five (March 21st) ☆ Forest green

Prompts

Spring break

Hiking

Cottagecore

Day six (March 22nd) ☆ Gold

Prompts

Picnic

Sunset

Birthday party

Day seven (March 23rd) ☆ Rose gold

Prompts

Champagne

Engagement rings

Santa Monica Pier

Tag list -> @dollsanddandy @sapphicsforseven @your-ivy-grows13 @dia-depeche @the--last-great-american-dynasty @elephantshoetoo @the-technorats @wistfulenchantress @vampwitchcoven @pjmin-95 @m4dlyn-s0uza @anqelsong @clericsandpaladins @lovemikewheeler @sykatz @fluffyfangirl @sara-yuna @lovebyler20 @bitchybylershipper

(If someone else wants to join, please refer to the previous post)

[sonknuxadow]

also i am begging for people to realize that the "everything is canon" post from the sonic twitter account was a joke. it annoys me so bad that people use that tweet as a source in their arguments about sonic lore and stuff or just take it seriously at all ..... it literally means nothing it was just a silly comment they made when retweeting sonic and puyo puyo tetris crossover art but people always crop out the context when reposting it

[everyones-favorite-butchboy]

hedonism shouldnt be treated like a bad thing, i think. we only have one life (unless you believe in reincarnation but then again, chances are you wont remember your past lives) and we should enjoy it. the idea that these material goods will ruin us and send us to hell or whatever is so hurtful and just anti-human. what am i supposed to do with my life then if im not meant to live it?

[push-the-heartbrake]

𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”  — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day. 

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision. 

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated. 

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager. 

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining. 

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met. 

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library. 

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why. 

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler. 

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors. 

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself. 

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him. 

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory. 

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair. 

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library. 

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional. 

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo. 

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously. 

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers. 

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment. 

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way. 

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it. 

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses. 

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions. 

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying. 

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized. 

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English. 

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир. 

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk. 

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different. 

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs. 

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter. 

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact. 

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.” 

“Are you by any chance from Russia?” 

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces. 

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.” 

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through. 

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.” 

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it. 

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added. 

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.” 

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies—not Russian realism. 

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it. 

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped. 

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book. 

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had. 

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going. 

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review. 

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace. 

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.” 

“Thanks,” he replied shortly. 

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left. 

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you. 

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure. 

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention. 

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed. 

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library. 

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory. 

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” 

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading. 

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?” 

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained. 

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown. 

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.” 

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.” 

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?” 

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier. 

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.” 

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company. 

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with. 

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added. 

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest. 

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria. 

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket. 

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created. 

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word. 

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?” 

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.” 

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal. 

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure. 

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly. 

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking. 

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration. 

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?” 

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?” 

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to. 

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile. 

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.” 

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you. 

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense. 

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities. 

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around. 

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment.  It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked. 

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated. 

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is. 

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin. 

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point. 

“A few.” 

“More than one?” 

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.” 

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.” 

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?” 

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?” 

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end. 

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.” 

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault. 

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had. 

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly. 

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.” 

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?” 

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—” 

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”  

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him. 

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.  

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see. 

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway. 

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?” 

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of. 

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing. 

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?” 

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.” 

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard. 

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually. 

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.” 

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about. 

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?” 

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that. 

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there. 

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first. 

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse. 

“I listened to The Kick Inside.” 

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?” 

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?” 

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books. 

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.” 

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?” 

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said. 

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice. 

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.” 

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace. 

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?” 

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.” 

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.” 

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse. 

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.” 

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.” 

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.” 

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.” 

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions. 

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body. 

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—” 

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.” 

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”  

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?” 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs. 

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh. 

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained. 

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?” 

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.” 

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly. 

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead. 

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it. 

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?” 

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though. 

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.  

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country. 

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.” 

“Kidnapped in his own home?” 

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?” 

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge. 

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it. 

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.” 

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?” 

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.” 

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work. 

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that. 

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.” 

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.” 

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked. 

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books. 

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it. 

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him. 

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?” 

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.” 

You held your breath as he gathered himself. 

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out. 

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.” 

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?” 

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.” 

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.” 

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout. 

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t. 

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it. 

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains. 

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job. 

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.  

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by… 

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain. 

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.” 

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?” 

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good. 

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo— 

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.” 

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?” 

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked. 

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all. 

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book. 

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.” 

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.” 

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker. 

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.” 

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed. 

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.” 

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job. 

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid. 

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up. 

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you. 

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it. 

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces. 

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.” 

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.” 

 “Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion. 

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.  

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?” 

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case. 

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor. 

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?” 

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name. 

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time. 

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation. 

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair. 

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him. 

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number. 

Restless and impossible, the situation was. 

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like. 

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously. 

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too. 

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move. 

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.” 

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you. 

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress. 

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.” 

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically. 

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.” 

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.” 

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply. 

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?” 

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in. 

“Yeah.” 

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you. 

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin. 

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes. 

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket. 

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?” 

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you. 

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest. 

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close. 

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window. 

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped. 

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve. 

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his. 

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious. 

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in. 

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered. 

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips. 

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.  

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours. 

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch. 

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate. 

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones. 

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot. 

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?” 

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. 

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?” 

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.” 

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended. 

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?” 

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—” 

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to. 

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?” 

“Yeah, that could work.” 

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew. 

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying. 

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.  

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”  

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub. 

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra. 

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence. 

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?” 

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position. 

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down. 

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance. 

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?” 

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth. 

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…” 

“Rude?” 

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.” 

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.” 

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was. 

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down. 

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process. 

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm. 

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm. 

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—” 

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.” 

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic. 

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement. 

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck. 

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body. 

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile. 

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him. 

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”  

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly— 

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?” 

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.” 

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.” 

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before. 

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide. 

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles. 

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.” 

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?” 

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.” 

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt. 

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.” 

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”  

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers. 

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence. 

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles. 

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly. 

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes. 

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

[goaheadandgetinthebog]

Little kid Dick gets into Thomas Wayne's old LP records and mishears ELOs 'Don't Bring Me Down'. Instead of Grooss he hears Bruucce. And, well. He makes it a thing.

Tiny 9 year old Dick swinging on the chandelier while Bruce and Alfred try to get him down. 🎶Don't bring me dowwwwnnnnnnn, Bruuuuuucccce!🎶

13 year old Dick being hauled out the Batmobile drivers seat after a joyride with Roy. 🎵don't bring me dowwwwnnnnnnnn, Bruuuuuucccce!🎵

17 year old Dick being extremely pissed with whatever bullshit Bruce has dragged in. 🎶Don't bring me dowwwwnnnnmmn, Bruuuuuucccccccce!🎵 (Sang with anger).

And it comes up in other ways.

Bruce gets back late from a mission with Clark and Diana? There's a gremlin on the windowsill singing. 🎶You wanna stay out with your fancy friends, I'm tellin' you it's gonna be the end.🎶

Bruce has another fight with Selina? Now the gremlin is hanging off the banister singing. 🎶What happened to the girl I used to know? You let your mind out somewhere down the road!🎵

And then Bruce adopts Jason. And Jason fucking LOVES this.

Bruce is going to a gala. Jason walking past. 🎶🎶You're looking good just like a snake in the grass, one of these days your gonna break your glass🎶🎶

Bruce is regretting a lot of life choices.

Then Jason dies.

And his relationship with Tim is not the same.

And as much as he's always said he hates it, he misses Dick singing it.

Then one day, after lecturering Tim for something or other, he hears him mutter.

"Don't bring me down, Bruce."

And now it's back.

He hopes the other kids won't catch on.

Cass makes up dance routines.

Duke coordinates a light show.

The five of them get together to coordinate singing it when he's annoyed of of them.

Damian doesn't join in for a long time, calling it juvenile. But one day, while he's mad at Bruce, he hears him singing it.

The Titans hear about it. Then the Justice League. Bruce realises in the middle of a meeting. "Hal, that idea is not only stupid and dangerous, it doesn't fit with the mission objectives. What we should-" 🎵Don't bring me dowwwwnnnnnnn, Bruuuuuucccce!🎵

[yelenasdiary]

hiiii

request? yelena or florence (same tbh, you can choose) x reader, a little bit of angst but with an happy ending? and maybe fluff somewhere?

one shot that revolves around the phrase "I fell for you before I even knew it myself"maybe?? i dunno lol

Together

Pairing: Florence Pugh x GN! Reader

Summary: Afternoon tea soon becomes a cafe of confessions.

Angst & Fluff

Warnings: None, if there is any, please let me know | 1.3K

AC: Thank you for sending this, I hope you enjoy! x

The rain ran softly down the window of the small café where you and Florence often spent your afternoons. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you like a comforting blanket as you sat across from her, your fingers tracing the rim of your mug, your heart beating with different emotions. It was no secret that you and Florence had grown closer over time, the late-night talks to the shared secrets to the little gestures of kindness made you terrified of ruining the beautiful friendship you had built with the actress. 

Florence was telling you all about the new script she had gotten only a few days ago, you could see her excitement for the new role well beyond her words. She spoke her with her hands but you heard more from the look in her eyes with the way they sparkled with passion, it almost made it hard for you to focus on anything else. But underneath the proud smile you had dancing on your lips, you were struggling with a secret you’d been pushing down for weeks. 

But after all that talk and excitement about her new role, her eyes shifted to the widow and within seconds she seemed miles away. 

“Flo?” You said softly, catching her attention, “is everything okay?” You asked once she locked eyes with you. She nodded, “Sorry love, I’ve noticed I’ve been having more of these moments more than usual” she said, her eyes glistening with unspoken words. You frowned slightly, “you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” 

A small smile tugged at her lips, “I know, it’s just sometimes, it’s harder to share things than it is to keep it buried” 

Reaching for her hand, you felt the coolness of her skin against your fingertips, “there’s nothing you can’t share with me, whatever you say will always stay between us” you assured her. Florence sighed before taking deep breath that seemed to release some of the weight she was carrying, “have you ever had feelings for somebody you’re close with but you spend almost every night tossing and turning wondering if you were to tell them would it ruining things or would it be something beautiful?” 

Your heart began to race at her words, you had been dancing around with the idea of your feelings for Florence in your mind for a while now, completely unsure if she would ever feel the same for you. With her business lifestyle and your own job playing a part in the cons list, you were sure that your feelings were no more than a simple crush and that eventually they would fade away. “Uh, yeah” you replied, questioning yourself if you’d ever be brave enough to tell her how much she meant to you. “I have, I think we all have” you added. 

Florence nodded, looking down at your hand clenching around the mug in your hands, “did you ever tell them?” She asked before her eyes found yours once more. You shook your head, “The fear was too much for me, I was too scared of rejection or worse, ruining what I have with them” you told her. 

“Them?” The blonde questioned, “so you’re still friends with them?”

“I am” you replied unsure as to how her question felt like both a confession and a knife driving into your heart, she wasn’t talking about you, surely. 

“Do you regret not telling them?” Her next question followed. You took a moment to take a sip of your warm drink, using those brief moments to think of the right words to say. “Sometimes I do and sometimes I’m glad I haven’t”

Florence smiled ever so softly, “Maybe I should just let things be” she said with a lit sigh. You saw the way a bit of hope disappeared from her eyes and you hated thinking maybe that was your fault, maybe you didn’t give her the best answers.

“But hey” you started, “you’re a lot braver than I am” you added with a smile. “You can’t tell me that you can go to all those red carpets and put on some out of this world acting but you’re too scared to tell somebody how you feel? I think you should tell them, I mean, whoever it is, they’re lucky to have your attention and besides, what do you have to lose?” You added. 

She took a generous sip of her hot tea before looking at you once again, “it might some as a surprise, but this feeling of fear is a lot bigger than the nerves I have ever felt doing my job” she started, “I have this deep fear of ruining what we already have…. what if they don’t feel the same? I know it’s a risk to take but if it ruins things, I don’t think I would ever be able to forgive myself” she continued.

Her vulnerability hung in the air like a thick mist as you leaned closer to her, wanting to close the gap of fear and courage. “But what if they do? What if they feel something strong but are also too scared to say anything?” 

Florence chewed at her bottom lip lightly while she contemplated the words that you spoke softly to her. You’d never seen her this shy and nervous before and while it started to dawn on you a little that whoever it was had captured the heart of the same person who made you feel like a teenager having their first crush. 

“I guess there was a real reason I called you this morning” she spoke, breaking the brief moment of silence between you both. Your eyes quickly shifted, hating that she was even bringing it up. “The last time we saw one another, I want to apologise for how I acted” she added. 

“Flo, it’s fine, honestly” you assured her, leaning back in your seat. 

“It’s not, I know I hurt you and I never meant to. I’ve always kept my emotions in check, but I have no excuse for snapping at you like I did. I thought if I could play it safe and push you away, I could convince myself it was easier that way” 

“What exactly were you trying to make easier?” You asked. 

“My feelings” Florence replied, her eyes locking onto yours again. Your heart skipped a beat as you discreetly pinched yourself under the table to assure yourself you weren’t dreaming. “These past few weeks, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you and it made me realised that I fell for you before I even know it myself” she continued in a soft and sweet tone. 

Suddenly the world around you became a blur, all you could see was Florence sitting in front of you, the natural loudness of the café faded to nothing but a faint background noise as you listened to Florence open her heart, spewing her feelings onto the table at your hands. 

“I cherish our friendship more than you know which is why I had to take a step back. Every moment I spent with you, I just felt I was losing myself to you, my heart was completely drawn to you and I was terrified if I said anything that it would ruin what we already have” 

“F-Florence…” You struggled to find the right words, your heart skipping a beat with every breath you took, your stomach turning inside out just knowing that the person who captured Florence’s heart was you. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything, I completely understand if this has come as a surprise and you probably don’t eve-“

“I’ve felt the same way for such a long time” you cut her off, the words flying out of your mouth. 

“Really?” Her voice softened with a mixture of hope.

“Really” you smiled softly. 

Florence reached for your hands, giving them a lit squeeze, “I don’t want to lose this, I can’t imagine my without you, even as a friends” she said in an almost whisper.

“Neither do I” you said, leaning forward, “let’s take it slow, together” you added, your forehead resting against hers as her smile grew. 

“Together” she whispered.

Taglist: @noturlondonboy | @umadirectioner | @deathbylesbianwitches | @yelenaslyubov | @boredandneedfanfics | @twentyonetornmyheart | @red1culous | @charlothee | 

If you want to be on the taglist for my work, please click HERE.

[randomthefox]

I'm sorry but the suggestion that Sonic would support the idea of democracy is so absurd. The idea that SONIC THE HEDGEHOG would recommend ANY system of government whatsoever is absurd. The idea of Sonic giving a lecture saying "you should use THIS system to decide the One Single Person who is put into a position of total authority and control over the institution that governs the lives of everyone who exists under it" is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.

IF Sonic supported any political philosophy it would probably be anarchism, since it is against all forms of authority and seeks to abolish the institutions that maintain unnecessary coercion and hierarchy, and advocates for the replacement of the state with stateless societies and voluntary free associations. And that's an IF because I don't think Sonic would even care, and would just be like "yeah you guys do whatever, just don't oppress people or else I'll get ya" about it.

This is the kind of post people make when they A: do not understand the character they're depicting whatsoever and are just using him as a mouthpiece to espouse their own values, and B: do not think to question the systems and institutions that they have been raised under to accept as the default Proper Way Things Should Be.

i imagine the first thing Sonic does after becoming Literal King Arthur is to immediately abolish monarchy

[scarletwinterxx]

thank your stars all you want but I'll always be the lucky one - choi seungcheol scenario

hellooo~ i am soooo not done with the proposal scenarios😅 this one is a request, hope i did it justice. and yes I did cry again while writing this. Happy new year!🤍

you can listen to your universe by rico blanco for maximum feels. this was insipired by this song🥺

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The soft glow of morning sunlight streams through the windows of Seungcheol’s apartment, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering in the air. You stretch lazily in bed, savoring the warmth of the cozy blankets and the faint murmur of the city outside.

It’s a routine you’ve grown used to after nearly seven years together—his home has become yours in every way except officially.

Seungcheol had left early for the gym, promising to grab your favorite smoothies on his way back. The two of you had settled into this comfortable rhythm, a dance of affection and understanding that made your friends tease you mercilessly. “You’re practically married already,” they’d say, rolling their eyes at how well you two knew each other’s quirks.

Still, in the quiet corners of your heart, you sometimes wondered why he hadn’t taken the next step. Not that you were in a rush—you loved him, and you knew he loved you. But the idea lingered, like a melody waiting to be completed.

Mid-morning, a knock at the door pulls you from your musings. You pad to the door, opening it to find a delivery man holding a small, nondescript package.

“For Choi Seungcheol?” he asks.

“That’s him,” you reply, signing for the box. It’s light, plain, and gives no indication of what’s inside. You place it on the kitchen counter and send Seungcheol a quick text: A package came for you. Should I open it?

His response is almost immediate. Don’t open it! I’ll deal with it when I’m back. Thanks, babe.

His urgency makes you chuckle. It’s rare for him to be this insistent. Shrugging, you leave the package untouched and go about your day, but curiosity itches at the back of your mind.

When Seungcheol returns, he’s casual—too casual, you think. His eyes dart to the counter where the package rests, and he quickly sweeps it up. “Thanks for letting me know,” he says, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“Sure,” you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. “What’s in it?”

“Just some gym stuff,” he lies, his tone a little too breezy. You know him well enough to catch the slight shift in his demeanor.

Over the next few days, you notice odd behavior. Seungcheol becomes extra cautious, sometimes darting out of the room with his phone or quickly closing drawers when you walk in.

It’s adorable but also maddening. You’re good at sniffing out surprises, and whatever he’s hiding, it’s big.

The breaking point comes during dinner one night. The two of you are seated across from each other, candles flickering between you. He’s unusually fidgety, his fork clinking against the plate as he tries—and fails—to make eye contact.

“Seungcheol,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him as he pokes at his steak. His fidgeting is driving you insane. “Spit it out.”

“What?” he replies, looking up with wide, innocent eyes that you know all too well aren’t innocent at all.

“You’re acting weird.” You lean forward, pointing your fork at him. “I can tell you’re hiding something. Just say it.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” he insists, but his voice cracks slightly. “Can’t a guy just enjoy dinner with his girlfriend without being interrogated?”

“Not when he’s sweating bullets,” you deadpan, crossing your arms.

He laughs nervously and takes a big gulp of water. “It’s just… I’m thinking about work stuff.”

“Liar,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe it’s gym stuff,” he says, grinning in that way he does when he’s trying to distract you. “I’m planning a new workout routine.”

“Seungcheol, I know every workout routine you’ve ever done. Don’t test me.”

He groans, dropping his fork onto his plate and dramatically rubbing his face. “Can you trust me on this one? I promise you'll love it and will hate me if I tell you right now. I’ve been working very hard on, can you be kind enough to spare me for now. I pinky promise you'll know soon enough"

You blink at him, stunned by his sudden honesty.

Then, a small smile creeps onto your lips. “Fine,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “But I’m only letting this go because you look like you might combust if I keep pushing.”

He lets out a loud sigh of relief, muttering a quiet, “Thank you.” standing up from his seat to go to you, giving your head a kiss.

The rest of the evening is pleasant, even though you can’t help but notice how Seungcheol keeps stealing glances at you, a secretive smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

It’s enough to make your curiosity burn, but you keep your promise and drop the subject—for now.

A week later, the snow falling heavy covering the streets with sheets of white. You love the snow, you've always love cold weathers more even though your body doesn't. Anything below 80° makes you shiver.

Your boyfriend knows this, he learned early on your relationship that you get cold easily so he always brings a jacket for you. Now you own his hoodies, a shared asset.

The air outside is crisp as Seungcheol insists on taking you on an evening walk through a quiet park. It's all covered in snow making the whole scene look magical.

Winter lights hang from the trees, casting a warm glow over the snow-dusted path. He holds your gloved hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he leads you to a secluded gazebo overlooking a frozen lake.

“Why here?” you ask, smiling at his excited energy. “It’s freezing.”

“It’s romantic,” he replies, winking. “Just trust me.”

You shake your head, amused. “I’m starting to think you’re up to something.”

“Me? Up to something?” He grins mischievously

You look up at the sky, it's dark enough to see the stars. Living in the city, it's a rare sight so you close your eyes and send a quick wish to the heavens like you always do when you see a star. Meanwhile Seungcheol watches you, a smile forming on his lips and his heart thumping hard in his chest

With your eyes still closed, you feel Seungcheol lean closer to you. He kisses your cheeks eliciting a giggle from you

“You’re being extra sweet tonight, did you do something?” you tease

“I’m always sweet,” he counters, feigning offense.

He seems restless, though, his leg bouncing slightly.

“Are you cold?” you ask, concerned.

“No, no. Just... thinking.”

You narrow your eyes. “About what?”

He looks at you, his gaze so intense it makes your heart skip. “About how lucky I am to have you.”

You roll your eyes with a laugh, nudging him playfully. “What’s with the cheesy lines tonight?”

He chuckles but doesn’t answer, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple instead. Then another on your cheek. And one on your lips. His kisses grow deeper, hotter, until the cold around you feels irrelevant.

“Cheol,” you murmur against his lips, half-laughing, half-serious, “what are you doing?”

“Loving you,” he whispers, his voice low and warm.

Despite his sweetness, you’re still clueless about his plan.

When he finally pulls back, he takes both your hands, holding them tightly. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

You tilt your head, your curiosity piqued. “What is it?”

He drops to one knee in front of you, and your heart stutters. “You don't know how hard it was to keep this from you, every time you ask I almost wanted to tell you but I wanted everything to be perfect” He pulls a small velvet box from his coat pocket, opening it to reveal a glittering diamond ring.

Your mouth falls open, your breath caught in your chest.

“You are my everything,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. “The one who makes my world brighter, warmer, better. Whenever I think about the future, I can only see us. You. Stealing all of my hoodies, cooking breakfast for us, me bringing home your favorite smoothie on the weekend. To be honest, I don't really need any wishes because I'm already the lucky one. But will you make me the luckiest man and let me be your husband?”

Your lips jut out, quivering as tears fall down your cheeks. You can't even form words right now so you just nod frantically, unable to speak. He slips the ring onto your finger, and you throw yourself into his arms, laughing and crying at the same time.

“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper as he kisses you again, deeper this time, stealing the breath from your lungs.

He smiles against your lips. “I take it that’s a yes?”

“Of course, it’s a yes,” you reply, pulling him closer. “You big, cheesy romantic.”

He laughs, his forehead resting against yours. “Told you, you'll love my suprise”

And you do. With the stars above, the quiet of the snowy park, and the warmth of his love, you know you’ve found your universe in him.

[ajwrks]

—Art of Flirting

thunderclash x gn! human reader

there isn’t many things out there for him 💔. this is about thunderclash trying to get at the reader, but reader has noooo idea who he is. this also might be a littleeeee bit of an x rodimus as well

warning: rodimus being salty

imagine thunderclash sauntering inside swerves bar for the first time on his temporary stay at the lost light, and his optics widening in a fraction of infatuation for the ships dear human

i think that him coming up to you trying to spit game while you have no clue who the hell is his is hilarious to me. i honestly think he’d be more than dumbfounded at your clueless expression as he tries to list off all his accomplishments and the notable reputation he’s established for himself. 

he ignored the attention of mostly everyone just to get to you— and then for you to ask “who are you?” straight to his face

“aw man. its the man of the hour! he's coming straight for us!” swerve marveled at the mere sight of the autobot as he made confident strides towards the bustling bar top. thunderclash in all his charismatic glory, effortlessly slotted himself between you and the vacant barstool, giving you all his undivided attention. “or just coming straight for you… i guess,” swerve grumbled underneath his breath as he resumed wiping cups down. 

“may i know your name?” he asks you sweetly. you offer him a MEAN side eye as you take one final sip of your concoction before fully turning to face this hulking mass of an autobot. you made a puzzled expression as your eyes drink him in. his striking appearance decked out in a few of the brightness colors possible practically blinded you. 

“its y/n…” you answer slowly.

“y/n,” he repeats your name, testing it on his glossa. you straighten as you continue to look at him. 

“since we’re getting names, what’s yours?” thunderclash physically looks taken back at your question. you were even more perplexed to see swerve in your peripheral mirroring the same look— maybe more exaggerated. thunderclash, who is so used to having fans clobber him to death and his name being thrown around by many, utterly shocked. 

“y/n? don’t tell me you don’t know who thunderclash is?!” he exclaims, planting both of his servos on the counter, bewildered. 

“no? should i know who he is?” you laugh off your defensiveness, your eyes flickered between swerve and thunderclash awkwardly. 

thunderclash definitely thought you’d be all “oh i know you! you did this and that and blah blah blah” but it was the exact opposite

he sat there for a good minute trying to get you to “ring a bell” on him and his name. overtime, he saw no change (poor thunderclash) 

he thought if you knew his status, it would expedite the process of trying to get you as equally interested

not to say you weren’t impressed by his accomplishments and… whatever else he did. it was too much to count. at the end of the day, those things can mean nothing. but! you were flattered by his efforts in trying to pursue you, but he had to work for you (as he should) 

thunderclash also made the grave mistake of mentioning you to rodimus…! attempting to get a general idea of your interest due to discovering you and rodimus' close relationship.

“what did you just ask me?” he folded his arms firmly over his chassis, unimpressed. thunderclash released a nervous chuckle. 

“i asked if you could tell me… some of their interests?” rodimus stayed unbearably silent before stepping up to jab a finger into his plating.

“ow! what the hell is up with your chest!? anyway, why are you so concerned with them?” he interrogated, relenting as he took a step back to further bathe thunderclash in his gaze of scrutiny. 

“i find them fascinating— i want to get closer to them,” his faceplates shifted to one akin of being “lovestruck,” rodimus scoffed. 

“how about you ask them yourself since you like them so much,” he sneered, looking away. thunderclash hummed, oblivious to rodimus’ internal conflict with his arising emotions. 

“you’re right. that should be our next topic of discussion,” he said thoughtfully. rodimus perked up at his revelation. well that flopped!

“wait—”

“thank you, rodimus!”

rodimus sulked for the rest of the day like the baby he is

thunderclashes persistence reflected how enamored he was by you, it didn’t take you long to succumb to his endeavor of getting you to go out on a date with him

it went from gifting you the snacks or little trinkets you were fairly fond of, to him stuffing his processor full of your current interest so you could talk to him for hours and listen to your ramblings 

lets just say… he successfully wooed you! #gothunderclash. soon enough, he had you whisked away on a date he thought would be full of enjoyment

don’t worry rodimus will have his time to shine! (i hope) he had no break as he had to sit there, pretending to care about your growing relationship with the legendary autobot as you ranted to him

[nickistuffs]

Chimed encounters

Pairing: Harry x Designer Reader (curvy or plus-sized—whatever you feel they should look like. This is my preference 😌)

Summary: Meet-cutes that's all

Warnings: None, just fluff.

Word Count: 5.5k

Notes: Back at it again! I might make this into a series of blurbs because we all need sweetness in our lives.

✨masterlist✨

...

You wake up to the blaring sound of your alarm at 6 a.m., groaning as you reach over to turn it off. A sigh escapes you as you mentally prepare for the busy day ahead.

Reluctantly peeling yourself away from the warm cocoon of your blanket, you head to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face to shake off the remnants of sleep. After finishing up, you move to your closet, opting for something simple yet comfortable: a white boat-neck tee, grey jeans, and your trusty black Sambas.

The perk of being a freelance designer is the casual dress code—no rigid rules to follow. Quickly, you apply a touch of makeup, grab the closest jacket within reach, and stuff your essentials into your bag.

Before leaving, you glance around your apartment, double-checking for anything you might have missed—keys, phone, or plugs left in sockets. Satisfied, you lock the door behind you and make your way to the lobby. Your bike, chained under the stairs, waits for you. You place your bag in the basket, plug in your earphones, and brace yourself for the chaos of city commuting. But first, breakfast and coffee. ...

The familiar chime of the door greets you as you step into the quiet café you frequent. Felice, the owner, waves from behind the counter.

“Good morning, Y/N! The usual, or are you feeling adventurous today?” she teases with a warm smile.

“Morning, Felice. Surprise me,” you reply, smiling back at her excitement.

Felice and her husband, Jay, have been experimenting with new recipes to add to their menu, often using you as their unofficial taste-tester. Not that you mind—every dish is a delightful creation.

“It’s on the house! I don’t want your money, Y/N,” she calls out as she disappears into the kitchen.

You chuckle at her generosity and quietly slip a twenty-pound note into the tip jar, knowing she’ll try to give it back if she notices.

Finding a vacant table, you sit down and pull out your phone to review your agenda and upcoming meetings. Alongside it, your commonplace journal—a collection of ideas, sketches, and plans—makes an appearance. Pen in hand, you begin jotting down thoughts as the café’s calm atmosphere settles over you.

The door chime rings again, signalling another customer. Glancing up briefly, you spot a tall man wearing a cozy brown cardigan. You don’t think much of it until Felice’s voice cuts through the air.

“Harry! Your order’s almost ready. Jay’s just finishing it up now,” she says casually.

Your heart skips a beat. Harry Styles? You quickly lower your gaze, pretending to be engrossed in your notebook.

Felice calls your name, and you head to the counter to retrieve your breakfast.

“Thank you! Oh, this looks amazing. What’s in the sandwich?” you ask, marvelling at the colourful creation.

“Lettuce, tomatoes, two types of sauce, and pan-fried teriyaki-marinated tofu,” she explains proudly.

Before you can respond, the man beside you—Harry Styles—chimes in.

“That sounds delicious. Is it available?” he asks, his voice as smooth and familiar as you’d imagined.

You freeze momentarily, your mind scrambling to process the fact that Harry Styles is standing right next to you.

Felice, unfazed, answers, “Of course, Harry. Yours will be out in a minute.” She heads back into the kitchen, leaving you rooted in place.

Grabbing your tray, you quickly return to your table, doing your best to avoid eye contact with him. Meeting famous people always makes you nervous, and being an introverted designer who occasionally deals with high-profile clients doesn’t help. Plus, it doesn’t hurt—or maybe it does—that you’re a huge fan of his work.

You take a deep breath, push your straw into your iced coffee, and focus on your sandwich. To distract yourself, you doodle mindlessly in your journal.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Harry taking a seat at the table adjacent to yours. You keep your eyes down, bouncing between your coffee cup, your phone, and your sandwich, trying to act nonchalant.

When Felice calls his name to pick up his order, you resist the urge to look at him, knowing it would only make you more flustered.

...

Finishing your sandwich, you glance at your watch and realize it’s time to head to your first meeting. As you pack up your things, you risk a quick look in his direction. He’s taking a bite of his sandwich, seemingly enjoying it. For a brief moment, you consider asking if he likes it, but you bite your tongue and focus on leaving.

With your coffee in hand, you walk to the door, unhook your bike, and start to prepare for your ride. The door chime rings again, and you assume it’s Felice coming to say goodbye.

“Sorry, Feli, I’m in a rush—my meeting’s in 30 minutes,” you say quickly, only to stop mid-sentence when you see him.

It’s Harry Styles, holding your journal in his hand.

“Hey, you left this on the table. I didn’t want you to forget it,” he says, his voice kind and warm.

You freeze, your hand reaching out to take the journal. As your fingers brush against his, you feel a jolt of awareness that makes your cheeks flush.

“Oh, thank you. I didn’t realize I left it,” you mumble, embarrassed.

An awkward silence lingers as you both stand there. You avert your gaze, fumbling to place your bag in your bike basket.

“Thank you again, truly, but I need to go,” you say, finally hopping onto your bike.

“No worries. Have a safe ride,” he replies, smiling softly.

You meet his gaze for a fleeting moment before looking straight ahead, your heart racing as you pedal away.

As you turn the corner, you can’t help but replay the interaction in your mind, blushing harder than ever.

... I felt so giddy when I was writing this. aaaAAAHHH!