#If you want to learn more about the world you got to ask

[reidsism]

➳ THE SOUND OF HEARTBREAK — S.R

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spencer reid x soft!bimbo!reader

in which, for all your love, you just can’t compare to the most beautiful girl in the world

wc: 13.5k (woah)

warnings: post maeve arc (so spoilers for 8×10 - 8×12), heavy angst, but so so much love and fluff before it! im picturing this taking place between s8 and s9 lol. also some of the bau aren’t like. super nice in this one soz :/

a/n: don’t stress abt the ending too much bc im already planning a part two (tbh a whole saga around these two icl). also yeah if u can’t tell, i don’t really like maeve im so sorry. i don’t think i do her any injustice here but this is like. me fixing stuff. sorta. kinda. not really. mostly just painfully. :,) also omg reblogs?! best part of my day fr

“Just as one day we will be separated by my death or yours. I know this must seem like a heaping up of obscurities to you. I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.” -Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago.

The living room is quiet.

Spencer’s apartment is always quiet, peaceful, warm. How could it not be, surrounded by books you’d never heard of, shelves that reach the ceiling and lined edge-to-edge with copies of novels that are older than you, in languages you can’t begin to comprehend?

The chess table is still set up, mid-game, from where Spencer had been teaching you how to play the other day. He’d gotten a call from his boss that he had to come in, and Spencer had stared at the board for no more than a moment before saying you could continue once he was back, then he pressed a kiss to the space between your eyebrows—your glabella, as he had once mentioned—before rushing out the door.

It still feels strange, being in his apartment without him here. But he had called you from the jet on his way back, and asked if you’d be home when he got back. He sounded so sleepy, so sweet, you couldn’t help the murmur of assent from spilling from your lips.

He’d only given you a key a week ago, and you were beyond shocked when he had pressed it into your hand, the metal digging into your palm. This, between you, was still so new, so young. But he’d assured you that he trusted you, that he always wanted you around, that you having a key to his home wasn’t a matter of if, only when, and he’d prefer not to waste unnecessary time.

It’s late when the door opens.

Spencer is quiet when he enters, expecting to see you either curled up on his couch or lying asleep in his bed, but instead, you’re standing at one of his bookshelves, your hand outstretched to reach at the higher shelves.

He’s a bit surprised. The top three shelves on that unit are all foreign novels, ones he’s collected from his youth. Latin, German, Russian, Korean, and even a couple of thick Spanish texts that he used mostly to continue learning the language.

You’re silent, not even turning your head to acknowledge his presence, and Spencer wonders if you’ve even heard the door at all.

“Angel?” he prompts, causing your head to whip to the left so quickly he’s momentarily concerned you’ve given yourself whiplash. You tear yourself away from the shelf immediately, like the surface itself has burned you, and Spencer pauses. “You okay? You didn’t even hear me come in.”

You just nod, jerkily, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. “I was just looking,” you tilt your head to the shelf and shrug, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands and crossing your arms over your chest. “Sorry.”

Spencer shakes his head, hanging up his messenger bag and coat on the hook by the door. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says, coming closer to you. “Are you curious about them? You can borrow a few, if you want.” He sits on the couch carefully, like he knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You shake your head with a sigh, glancing back over at his stacks of novels. “That’s alright, Spence.” He pats the cushion next to him and you seat yourself slowly onto the cool leather, crossing your legs under yourself. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d get it anyway.”

Spencer furrows his brows. “I’m sure you would, actually. There’s no reason why you couldn’t, unless it was a language you don’t understand. But even then,” he tilts his head, scooching ever so slightly closer to you. “I can still read them to you.”

You sigh softly. “I know, honey. You know I love it when you read to me,” the corner of your lips twitch up, and it makes a slow grin pull at Spencer’s cheeks. “How was the case, anyway?”

Spencer shrugs. “Fine, as usual. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway.” He rests his arm over the back of the couch, a silent beckon for you to curl into him like usual. “I’m home now. With you,” he presses the softest of kisses to your hairline. “Are you tired?”

You shake your head, “Not really. I’m sure you are, though. Want me to start the kettle?” Spencer can’t help the nod—he is tired. Exhausted, even. You just smile at him before standing and padding to the kitchen and turning on the stove, setting the metal kettle on the burner.

He hears the cabinets open and the sound of ceramic being placed on granite. You’re quietly humming to yourself, and Spencer closes his eyes. It’s nice, so domestic in a way he hadn’t expected. You peek your head around the corner for a moment. “Lavender or peppermint?”

He smiles, all warm and soft. “Lavender, please.”

You nod once, your head hiding behind the wall again before you peek back out. “Maybe take a shower, honey. It’ll help you relax, y’know,” you grin, teasing at him. “The tea’ll be done when you are.”

Spencer’s eyes crinkle as he chuckles, watching you turn back to the kitchen. He stands with a sigh before heading into his bedroom to grab pyjamas and a towel, then into the bathroom where he leaves the door open, just a crack.

You take the kettle off the burner before it has a chance to whistle, not wanting to disturb this quiet, peaceful comfort that has settled into the cozy warmth of your boyfriend’s apartment. You make his tea exactly how he likes it; black, with no less than four sugars.

You hear the water from the shower shut off just as you’re bringing the mugs to the coffee table—on coasters, cute little pastel ceramic ones shaped like fruit slices. You’d bought them at a flea market downtown years ago, and when you saw that he didn’t have any, despite all the coffee and tea he drinks, you didn’t hesitate to bring them over.

They might look slightly out of place in this warm, cozy place, but, well… Maybe you have that in common.

The bedroom door creaks open before you have the chance to spiral too far. Spencer emerges in a loose-fitting MIT tee and sweatpants. He meanders slowly to the couch before flopping down and grabbing his mug—his usual one, with “think like a proton, they’re always positive!” faded on the side. It’s starting to chip, but he got it for free at a physics convention in Anaheim back when he attended Caltech, and it’s been a memento since.

He smiles as he picks it up off the bright coaster before looking at you. He nods towards the bookshelf you were staring at earlier. “Can you grab that red one for me, angel?” he gestures to a large leather-bound hardcover on the second shelf.

You nod and reach up to grab it. It’s heavier than you’d expected, but you take it to the couch before curling into Spencer’s side.

This has become routine every night you spend here. You make tea, and Spencer reads to you on the couch until you’re either both passed out or too tired to continue, before heading to bed.

You get comfortable, pulling your knees to your chest as he covers you both with the plush throw blanket he keeps on the back of the couch. Spencer clears his throat before starting to read, flipping to some random page in the middle of the book. You don’t question it, just close your eyes and rest your head on his chest.

His voice is low, quiet as he begins to read. You’ve already begun to drift off by the time you start to register the words he’s saying. They’re not from anything he’s ever read to you before.

“I felt a mortal pity for the boy I was, and still more pity for the girl you were. My whole being was astonished and asked: If it’s so painful to love and absorb electricity, how much more painful it is to be a woman, to be the electricity, to inspire love. ‘Here at last I’ve spoken it out. It could make you lose your mind. And the whole of me is in it.’”

You sit up, peering at the pages that Spencer’s eyes are trained on. You can’t hold back the way your breath catches.

“Spence, what is this?” Your brows furrow as you sit up fully, removing yourself from the warmth of his embrace. You wrap the throw blanket around your shoulders tightly.

He glances up from the book. “Doctor Zhivago,” he says simply, as if that explains everything. At your slightly raised brows, he continues. “It’s a Russian romantic novel by poet and composer Boris Pasternak. It was first published in 1957, and—”

“No, I mean, what is that?” You shake your head, pointing at the page.

Spencer’s brow furrows. “The language? This is Cyrillic. It’s the Russian alphabet, and—”

You cut him off again. “I know what Cyrillic is, Spencer.” You can’t hide the bite in your voice. “I meant, what- how- why are you reading it in Russian?”

He shrugs, closing the cover softly. “I have both the original Russian and the English translation, but I prefer this version. The translation makes it clunky, it doesn’t get the tone quite right.”

You just blink at him. “I didn’t know you spoke Russian,” you whisper, curling deeper into the blanket. You hate this, the feeling of inadequacy that comes so frequently from being with a man like Dr. Spencer Reid.

He sets the book down on the coffee table. “I don't, actually. I can read it, though.” He glances sidelong at you. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You shake your head, finally looking at him. “No, of course not, honey. I just,” you sigh. “I don’t know. I feel like I can’t keep up with you sometimes.”

All the time.

Spencer purses his lips. “Well, I don’t need you to. Frankly, I don’t really want you to.”

And that gives you pause. “Really?”

He nods, reaching for you, and you allow him to cradle you in his lap again. “Really. This might come as a bit of a surprise, angel,” he grins, “but I do like you.”

Your face goes warm. You press your cheek into his chest. “I know.” It’s quiet, a murmur, a whisper.

Spencer presses a feather-light kiss to your head. It’s late and quiet and calm, and you’re so warm, cuddled into him and under this plush blanket, that it takes no time at all until you’re fast asleep.

The sun wakes you before you’re quite ready, the bright rays shining on your face.

You’re still curled into Spencer’s chest, his legs stretched out along the length of the couch, whereas you know it’ll hurt to stand after having your knees tucked up all night. The blanket is still wrapped around you, the warmth more suffocating than comforting now, but the weight of his arm slung around your waist is a welcome one.

You peer your head up to look at him, to take him in, in this peaceful state of relaxation. You love this part, when you wake before him and he doesn’t turn his face away when you admire him.

His face is smushed into the throw pillow, his hair wild and messy, thrown every which way like a halo around his head. He’s snoring so softly you can barely hear it, but you do, because there’s nothing about this man you can’t notice.

You try to ignore the tug in your chest. It almost hurts. He looks so peaceful and happy and loved, so relaxed in this sleepy state of the early morning. You almost feel guilty for the thoughts that run wild in your head. How is this real? How is he real? How the hell do you fit into this world—his world—full of chess and tea and comfort and Russian poetry and genius minds?

But then he stirs, and his arm instinctively tightens its hold on your waist, his large hand splaying out over your back. He stretches slightly and, before he even opens his eyes, there’s a smile on his lips.

“Morning, angel.”

Your heart stutters wildly in your chest. You almost feel like bursting into tears right there, collapsing into his chest and letting him comfort you in that way you know he will. But you swallow it back. Just smile at the dopey look on his face, his eyes still shut.

You press the softest of kisses to his cheek, and maybe it’s your mind, but you swear he looks confused for a moment, his brows pulling together as he inhales, his nose at your neck.

It’s your mind. It has to be; your feelings of inadequacy are making you paranoid. “How’d you sleep, baby?” you murmur, your lips brushing his cheek before you pull away.

Then he opens his eyes, his honey-brown irises taking you in so sweetly, scanning over your face as a soft smile overtakes his lips. “Best sleep I’ve gotten in a long while,” he grins, pressing a peck at your lips. “Do you want any coffee?”

You nod, allowing him to crawl out from under you and stand from the couch. He pads into the kitchen, leaving you with your mugs from last night and the red leather hardcover of Doctor Zhivago. You soften immediately. Spencer was reading you poetry. He’d never done that before, read anything romantic. Usually, he read something you were at least familiar with, the classics, stuff you somewhat remember reading in high school. But this warms your heart so much you swear it’ll melt right there in your chest, drip down your ribs like sticky-sweet honey.

You stand, stretching out your legs, and pick up the mugs before bringing them to the kitchen. Spencer’s standing at the counter, his back to you, his hands bracing the edge of the counter. You set the mugs down in the sink and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek on his back. “You okay, honey?”

Spencer nods, placing his hands over yours where they lay on his front. “I’m fine, angel. You can leave the mugs, I’ll wash them. Did you want to shower?”

You hum, pulling away from the hug but maintaining your hold on his hand. “Sure. Did you wanna join me?” you grin, “y’know, save water, and all that?”

Spencer’s neck flushes red, and he swallows harshly. “Not right now, sweetheart. But go ahead, take your time.” He gives your palm a squeeze when you pout. “Your coffee will be done by the time you’re back, and I don’t have to go in to work. Not unless I get a call.” He smiles when your face brightens. “So we’ll have the day, okay?”

You nod, a grin wide across your lips before you’re bouncing off to his bedroom. He hears the shower turn on a moment later, and he sighs heavily as he turns on the sink to wash the mugs.

Spencer can’t stop the quirk of his lips as he stares at your mug for a moment—a cute, bright pink one, tapered at the top like an upside-down strawberry. He takes extra care as he washes it, making sure to get soapy water around all of the molded leaves and seeds.

He exhales as he sets it aside. Runs a damp hand down his face. He needs to collect himself, but god, it’s so hard when he swears she’s hovering over his shoulder.

Spencer’s reading silently on the couch, sipping at the last bit of coffee in his mug. You’re on the other end, scrolling absently on your phone as you set your strawberry mug onto an orange slice coaster. You glance over at him, and you soften. “Spence?”

He hums, looking up at you. You’re lost looking into his eyes. He’s wearing glasses today, his thick browline ones that frame his face just right, and you wonder why he wears contacts so often. Why he doesn’t let himself look like this more frequently. He looks stunning in spectacles. “Angel?”

You blink at his prompting. “I was just wondering,” you shrug, glancing over your shoulder at the chess table behind you. “Did you want to continue?”

Spencer lets a smile slowly overtake his cheeks. He nods, setting down his mug onto a pink grapefruit slice coaster. “If you want, sure.” At your assent, he stands, holding out a hand.

Your cheeks flush with warmth as he helps you stand from the couch. You follow him to the table before seating yourself in the same seat as a week ago, staring at the pieces in concentration.

He smiles. “Do you remember where we left off? You nod, and he moves his rook up two places.

Your hand hovers over your knight, then your queen, almost shaking with uncertainty. Spencer watches you, his eyes soft but calculating, patiently waiting for your next move. You rest your fingers over a pawn and move it up one space with resignation.

“You know, angel,” Spencer says softly, all gentle comfort. “It’s not about making the perfect move. It’s about thinking a few steps ahead, but also,” he moves his rook up and takes the pawn you’d just moved, setting it to the side. “Trusting your instincts. You’ve got this,” he smiles so warmly at you, so reassuring. You still feel the slightest twinge of frustration and embarrassment.

Chess doesn’t come naturally to you, but you’re determined to figure it out. For him.

You bite your lip, glancing over the board. You’re sure his comment about trusting your instincts has something to do with the way you’d hesitated, but you’re still so confused about what to do. You glance up at Spencer again, his eyes fixed on the board, his hands gently tapping at the edge of the table.

“What should I do with my queen?” you ask, a little hesitant. “I feel like she’s… I don’t know. Not doing much.” God, how do you stop feeling so stupid about this?

Spencer just smiles, that warm, gentle expression that makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Remember, your queen can move in any direction. Horizontal, vertical, or diagonal, but only as long as nothing is blocking her path. She’s powerful. You have to decide how to use her.”

You nod slowly, trying to picture it in your head. “So… I can go anywhere? Like, here?” you ask, pointing to a spot near his king.

“Exactly,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze never leaving the board. “But you’ll want to think about what happens after you move her. Like, does it leave you open to being attacked? Does it bring you closer to checkmate?”

You inhale shakily, trying to digest it all as you nod, but it’s a lot to process. You take a deep breath. You can do this. You look down at the board, then back at him, his gaze still so patient. “What if I mess up?” you ask softly, unable to hide the shyness in your voice, your tone full of the nervous doubt you try to push down.

Spencer chuckles gently. “You won’t mess up, angel. Even if you do, it’s just part of learning. I’m not going anywhere,” he smiles. “You’re doing great.”

His words warm you more than the mug of coffee you’d just finished, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest. You allow yourself a small, shy grin before focusing on the board again. You move your queen exactly as he described, cautiously placing her diagonally across the board.

Spencer’s eyes light up a little, and his smile widens. “See? That’s the right move. You’re getting it. You’re really good at this,” and oh, how your chest positively aches at the pride in his expression.

Your heart skips a beat at his compliment, like it always does, and you let out a soft giggle. “I’m not that good, Spence,” you reply, trying to play it off.

He shakes his head, and you can see the admiration in his eyes. “You’re more natural at this than you think, trust me. Just keep practicing.” You sit back, watching him move a piece, and then he looks up at you, tilting his head. “It’s all about finding balance—taking risks, but also knowing when to protect what matters. Just like life.”

You blink at him, a little stunned by the way his words feel. Just like life? Maybe that’s what this whole chess thing is about—finding a way to balance your moves, even when things feel a little uncertain. Even when you’re just learning.

And then Spencer laughs softly, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You look so lost in thought, angel. Am I being too deep or introspective?” He gently pushes his glasses up his nose from where they’ve begun to slip down the slope of it.

You shake your head quickly, your heart racing as his eyes meet yours. “No, no! Not at all! I’m just thinking about how much you know.” You move your knight in an L-shape, like he taught you, and if the twinkle in his eye is any indication, you’ve made a good move. “Like, it’s crazy. You make it all sound so easy.”

Spencer just shrugs modestly, then picks up his rook and moves it up. “It’s just about seeing the whole board. Everyone has their own way of learning. Yours just happens to be different.” His eyes soften as he looks at you, and you feel your heart tug. “And I think that’s what makes you special.”

You bite down on your lip, trying to focus on the game again, but his words are ringing in your ears, making everything feel like it’s a little too perfect. The fact that he’s teaching you, patiently guiding you through something new, something you want to learn for him, feels so intimate.

You try to steady your breath as you make your next move, feeling your fingers brush against his as you capture his bishop. It’s a brief touch, but it makes your heart race. You chance a peek at him, and oh. His smile is so impossibly bright. You clear your throat and continue, tucking his bishop onto the table beside the board.

You’ve got this.

It's mid-afternoon when you pipe up again. “Y’know, the weather’s really nice today, Spence.”

He looks up from his book, honey-brown eyes tracing your nose from where you’re curled under his arm. “Yeah, I saw. It’s supposed to be pretty temperate until next week; then the rain is supposed to hit.” He lifts his arm from your shoulders and tenderly traces his knuckle down your jaw. “Did you want to go out?”

You shrug lamely, going shy and warm under his gentle gaze. “I don’t know, I guess, yeah. It’s really warm out.” Your eyes lock onto his. “I think we could go to the park or something?”

Spencer smiles, his hand gently gripping your chin as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. “That sounds great, sweetheart.” He stands, and pulls you up with him. He crouches to help you slip on your running shoes and ties the laces. You can’t tear your eyes from his lithe, slender fingers working the laces and, oh. Your heart beats wildly in your chest.

He stands and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder before grabbing his keys with one hand and yours with the other.

His fingers intertwine with yours, and you flush with warmth. He smiles at you as he leads you out of his apartment, locking the door with one hand before you head downstairs.

It’s warm and breezy, the air a perfect 75° outside, the wind just soft enough to sweep at your hair without messing it up. Spencer’s hand is still tangled with yours, and you can’t keep the smile off your face as he goes on some tangent about the differences between mallards and pintail ducks, because you’d just passed a pond and wondered why they looked so different.

You wish you were focusing, but god, you’re lost. So incredibly lost. Staring at his side profile, his brows raising and furrowing, his nose scrunching in that perfect way that makes you just want to bite it. He’s so animated, so enthusiastic about this, it’s a bit staggering.

You don't know when it happened, but now, looking up at him in this dreamy way, like he’s hardly real, like you’ve invented him to cover up the hurt from the meanness of those in your past, you’re sure of it.

You’re in love.

Somewhere between the way he reads to you and teaches you chess with all the patience in the world, between the way he remembers how you always take your coffee and kisses you first thing in the morning, between his warm linen sheets and the dusty scent of his books, you’ve fallen totally, completely in love.

And you don’t know why that invokes so much fear within you. Isn’t it a good thing, to fall in love with your boyfriend? To love him so wholly, so deeply, you aspire to learn the things he loves? To yearn for sameness, to relate to him, to keep up with his statistical rants about anything from the decline of leather-bound novels to the likelihood of walking past a serial killer without ever knowing it?

And then he looks down at you, notices the wistful, faraway look in your eyes as you just stare at him, and all he can do is laugh. He pulls you ever closer, pushes your hair back, and kisses your temple, and you positively melt. He’s so gentle with you, it almost hurts.

Then he’s tugging at your hand, and you look away from him for the first time since you arrived at the park. There’s a couple of tents set up along the path further ahead, and even though you groan through a laugh, Spencer looks so giddy, so excited, you can’t even think about ruining that. So you go along with him, his hand gently tugging at yours, before he stops at one tent towards the end.

Jewellry.

Spencer takes a while looking down at the display, before he picks up a simple gold necklace, a modest, tiny pink gemstone hanging off the chain. Spencer doesn’t hesitate before asking how much and pulling a twenty from his wallet.

You can’t tear your eyes from him. You feel like you haven’t so much as blinked in the last three minutes.

Spencer turns to you, the necklace hanging from his hand like it’s nothing more than a silly little trinket, and maybe it is. It’s probably some cheap, knockoff thing that’ll tarnish in a week, something that he paid far too much for, and you’re sure he knows that.

But he’s standing in front of you, holding it out with the sweetest, gentlest, most open expression you’ve ever seen on him.

And for that? The necklace might as well be twenty-four-carat gold and diamond-encrusted.

You blink at him, your brows furrowing upwards and eyes wide like a doe. “Do you want me to wear it?” you ask, sheepish and small and looking up at him like you’d give him the very earth itself if you could.

Spencer just smiles, all soft and warm and good. “I got it for you.” He shrugs, like this is nothing. Like it's casual and not like he’s holding your heart in his fist, like you trust him enough to not throttle it. “You can do whatever you want with it, angel.”

And, oh.

This is love. You’re certain of it. You’re so lost in the warmth of his eyes, the love pounding against your chest, that you don’t even notice the way he goes quiet, rigid, no longer looking at you, but through you. Like he heard something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Can you put it on me?”

Your soft voice breaks him from his trance, and immediately, the warmth returns to his gaze, his smile comes back so quickly it’s almost as if it never left. He nods, gently turning you around, and you pull your hair away from your neck.

Spencer is slow, reverent, as he drapes the chain around your neck. Careful as he clasps it. He even bends enough to press a soft, almost intangible kiss to your nape before stepping away.

And when you turn around, dropping your hair? Your palms go to his cheeks, clasping him like something precious between your hands, and you kiss him with all the love in the world.

All the love you’ve left unsaid.

You’re barely back inside his apartment when Spencer’s phone buzzes from its place in his bag.

You haven’t stopped toying with your necklace since he put it on you. The charm is almost glued to your fingers now; you’re unable to stop messing with it on your neck. It’s something so simple, but it feels like something more. Like something meaningful.

You’ve already seated yourself on his couch when he comes and plops beside you, a new, brighter grin on his face. “What was that, baby?” you ask softly, watching as he sets his phone face down on the coffee table.

“That was Garcia,” he smiles. “She invited us for drinks at Porter’s tonight.”

You blink. “She invited us, or she invited you?”

Spencer pauses, his hand momentarily ceasing its ministrations on your shoulder. “I mean, she invited me, and the team. But,” he sighs, turning to face you fully. “But, I think it would be nice. Introducing you to them.”

You inhale softly. “You sure? You don’t think it’s, like,” you glance down at your lap. “Too early?”

He shakes his head, his hand gently hooking under your chin to tilt your face up so he can look at you properly. “Angel, you already have a key to my place. I don’t think anything is ‘too early’ anymore.” His head tilts. “If you’re not ready to meet them, you know I wouldn’t force you to, right?” At your nod, he continues. “I would like for you to meet them. Really. They’re really important to me, and so are you. But if you don’t think you’re ready, or if you don’t want to, you don’t have to come. Or, I can stay home.”

Your eyes go wide, doelike and soft. Where on earth did this perfect man come from?

“Las Vegas,” he murmurs. You blink at him. He simply grins. “And I’m not perfect, sweetheart,” he turns bashful, his thumb gentle as it caresses your jaw.

“You’re so good,” you whisper, a whine in your voice. “Why- how are you so good?” You can’t help the tears that fill your waterline now, and Spencer immediately cradles you to his chest.

He shushes you softly. “I’m just normal, angel. I promise,” he chuckles. “I’m not doing anything that you don’t deserve.”

You sob impossibly harder.

“I would love to meet your friends, honey,” you pull away, your mascara smeared down your cheeks. Spencer’s hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb lightly brushing away the black smears from your skin like he’s doing something holy. Like he’s done it before, like he’d do it a thousand more times if you asked.

“You sure?” he whispers, careful, like if he speaks too loud this—you—might disappear. Like this is all some vivid dream he’s not quite convinced he deserves to wake up into.

You nod, just once. A little wobbly, but firm. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure, Spence.” Your fingers tug at the chain around your neck, the clasp digging gently into your skin. It stings, just a little. Just enough to feel real. To remind you, he gave it to you. Just today. That it means something. That Spencer is different.

“They’ll love you,” he smiles. He sounds so certain it almost breaks you in half. “I know they will.” You want to believe him. You want to let that live in your chest and take root. Because you’re not sure of much, really, but this? What you feel? It’s real. You know it’s real.

When he presses a kiss to your mascara-stained cheek, you close your eyes. Take it in. Take him in. He pulls away, looking at you warmly, openly, lovingly. “You can wear whatever you want. You don’t have to dress up,” he stands, his hand still warm where it’s clasped in yours. “We’re just going to a bar, and most of them are going straight from work.”

And maybe that’s exactly why you do want to dress up. You love Spencer. You want to make a good impression on his friends, his team, the people who keep him safe when he’s across the country chasing killers. Because you’re not just trying to impress them. You’re trying to seem enough.

In his bedroom, the light hangs low and golden and warm. Your dress hangs off your shoulders, and your hands tremble just slightly as you smooth it down again.

Spencer stands behind you, zipping you up with quiet hands and a look that could positively undo you. His touch settles at your hips, warm and grounding and real.

You study your reflection. “Is this okay, baby?” You catch his eyes in the mirror. Your voice is barely above a whisper, and you hate how small it sounds. How unsure. You can’t hide the way it trembles, the nerves that show through.

Spencer’s hands slide to your arms, trailing a path of fire before they cover your wrists, holding them steady. “Angel,” he whispers, turning you around gently. He looks at you like you’re an oasis in the middle of the driest of deserts. “You look beautiful.” He kisses you softly, tenderly. “I promise, they’re gonna love you. Please stop worrying.” His lips find that space between your eyebrows again, your glabella.

You know it means it. And that’s the worst part.

You’re still not used to someone holding you so closely, so gently, without an ounce of malice, of annoyance, of condescension.

You exhale shakily. You move your hands to the lapels of his blazer. Then to the knot of his tie. Then, finally resting them on his cheeks. Your eyes dart around his face, studying him like you haven’t already memorized the slope of his nose, the pink of his lips, the honey-brown warmth of his eyes.

Just in case. There’s a sinking in your gut you can’t explain. Let me remember you, it says, just in case.

“Thank you, honey.” You kiss him again, and when one of his hands finds the back of your head, you let him.

But then you sigh, pulling away. “If you ruin my hair, Dr. Reid, so help me,” you giggle, pressing a final kiss to his chin.

He chuckles softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he grins before heading to the living room and pulling his messenger bag over his shoulder.

You grab your purse and glance one last time at your reflection. Not to fix anything, no. Just to see yourself. To pretend you might resemble someone worth loving in a room full of people who love him.

When you step into the living room, Spencer’s already waiting by the door, his hands wringing at the strap of his bag, his smile still impossibly wide.

He links your fingers with his again like it’s second nature. Like this is just what you do. Like you belong with him.

You pretend—for just a moment—that you do.

You know you’re nervous when you hardly remember the metro ride. Conversations blurred around you until they were nothing but mist in the background. Just the steady warmth of Spencer’s hand in yours, his thumb moving in slow, absent circles on your skin, like he was tracing something only he could see. You remember the vibration under your feet and the way he held you when you stumbled as the train stopped.

By the time you step off the train and into the buzz of the city night, the air is cool, crisp. There’s a dewy scent of rain on the horizon.

You don’t even remember the walk to the bar until Porter’s flashes in bright red neon.

Your pulse is back in your throat, and suddenly it all feels too fast. Too real.

The gentle tug on your hand has your head snapping to your left. Spencer’s brows are furrowed, his lips pressed together. “Just take a breath, angel.” His voice is soft, warm. His thumb runs tenderly across your hand again. ��It’ll be fine. Like I said, they’ll love you. I promise,” and oh. Oh, he looks so earnest. So sure. You can’t help the nod, the shaky exhale, the way your shoulders straighten out.

You blink. Look over at him again, a small smile quirking at your painted lips. “Okay, baby. I’m ready.”

He grins like sunshine.

Porter’s is busy; not packed, but there are enough patrons to have the bartenders ignoring attempts at conversation.

Spencer grins widely as a group of six, all settled around a circular booth, waves him over. His hand stays locked with yours until you get closer—then, he places it on the small of your back.

Their smiles start to… well. They falter, a bit, when they notice it. His hand, warm and steady on your back. You expected to surprise them, sure, but… You figured that for FBI profilers, they’d be a little better at hiding their shock.

And that means they’re not hiding it. They’re not trying to. If you can see their confusion, their surprise, their—is it discomfort?—then it’s intentional.

And that’s what stings the most. That this sudden tension, the glances, the raised brows, all point to you not fitting in.

They’re not impressed.

Spencer hardly notices it, though. You think it must be because he’s been so excited, but… really, how doesn’t he notice it? It’s like all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out, leaving six pairs of eyes staring at you like you’re other, like you don’t belong.

The blonde with wide eyes smiles at you, but it’s the kind that feels practiced, calculating. You’ve seen it before, more times than you can even remember.

The man next to her—broad, confident, handsome—raises a brow, his glass of whiskey stopping by his lip. He tilts his head when his eyes lower, meeting Spencer’s hand on your back.

Then the third woman, dark hair, a sharp gaze, pursed lips. God, she looks like Spencer when he’s trying to solve a crossword. You hate it, being studied like a puzzle yet to be solved.

And then Spencer says their names, and suddenly, for a moment, it clicks. “This is JJ, Morgan, Blake, Hotch, Rossi, and Garica.” Names you’ve only ever heard in fond little stories, in memories over takeout containers and sleepy mornings in bed.

You take a breath, willing yourself to breathe again. Your eyes land steadily on Garcia—Penelope. She’s already standing to hug you, her arms outstretched and a grin on her face. Spencer had described her as glitter and joy personified, and you can’t disagree. You think you love her already. “Oh my god, you’re real!” you giggle, “I was so sure Spence made you up!”

Penelope laughs with you, her hug warm and inviting, and you can’t help melting into it. She smells nice; like coconut and vanilla and citrus. You squeeze her back before pulling away, and her eyes are crinkled behind her wide pink glasses. “Oh, honey, I’m so real! But who are you, gorgeous? The Good Doctor’s been hiding you away from us!”

You smile shyly up at Spencer, watching as his hand returns to your back. “Uh, guys,” he glances down at you, all softness, before looking back at them. “This is my girlfriend.”

He says your name with reverence, dripping in pure affection, and the mood shifts yet again. Even Garcia freezes from her place next to you.

You wave timidly at them. “Hi,” you smile. “Spencer’s told me loads about you guys. He really loves you all, I can tell.”

And… there’s silence. JJ, Morgan, and Blake blink in unison. Like they’re sizing you up. Surprised in the worst way.

Your fingers reach up to your necklace again, gently pulling at it, tucking the charm between your digits again and again. You smooth your dress, tug it down. Maybe it’s too short? You bite your lip, check your posture, standing up straight. You hold back a sigh. You want to be enough. For them. For him.

JJ smiles a little softer, now. Her eyes more forgiving, just a fraction. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says. “What do you do?” she asks, scooching over on the bench. Spencer slides in first, then pats the space next to him. You squeeze onto the seat, and try to ignore the warm weight of his hand settling on your knee.

“I work in a flower shop,” you say softly. Blake’s eyes brighten a bit at that, and she unclasps her hands.

“You’re a florist?” she presses, taking a sip of her margarita.

You shrug. “I guess, that’s what my nametag says,” you laugh softly, folding your hands in your lap, fingers fidgeting beneath the table. “But I dunno if I’m like, a real florist. I just do the arrangements.”

Spencer squeezes your thigh gently. You do your best to ignore it.

Blake’s eyes dull again, just slightly. “So, how did you two meet?”

You feel underwater. Your hearing is muffled, you can barely hear the sweet story Spencer’s retelling, of when he walked into your flower shop and you giggled and handed him the store’s card with your number scribbled on the back.

You can’t tear your eyes away from the surface of the table. You try to control your breathing. Keep the tears at bay.

You’re being ridiculous. Absurd. Your insecurities are making you paranoid; you know it. This happens all the time.

But then Spencer’s lightly shaking your knee, his head tilted low enough to catch your gaze. His eyes are worried. You grin at him. “Sorry, what was that, honey?”

He furrows his brows. “I asked what you wanted to drink, angel.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. “Um,” you bite your lip, looking around the table at everyone’s drinks. Your eyes land on Garcia’s. “Penelope?” you prompt, and her head snaps over to you.

“Yeah?” She looks happy, a little buzzed.

“What’re you drinking?” you ask, nodding at her glass.

She grins widely. “Oh, sweetness,” she stands, holding out a hand for you. “Only the most delicious frozen strawberry daiquiri you’ll ever have! Come on,” she wiggles her fingers at you. “I’m due for a refill anyway, let’s go!”

You blink at her before taking her hand; it’s soft, and she closes it around yours in a way that feels so warm, so comforting. You barely get off the bench before she’s practically dragging you towards the bar.

She orders two frozen strawberry daiquiris, giving the bartender a flirty wink and an “extra pink, thanks, babe!”, before turning to you. “Oh my god, I need to know,” she says, gripping your shoulders like a lifeline. “How long have you and Einstein been together?”

You blink. “Um,” you furrow your brows. “Like, two-ish months, I think?”

Her face blanches, and suddenly, everything feels too fast, too sudden, like it’s the wrong answer, even though it’s not. You swallow your paranoia. “Spencer could probably tell you, like, the actual day, if you ask him. He’s really good with that stuff,” you add on, your voice low, a shy, proud little smile curling at your lips. He really is good with that stuff. Remembering the important things. Even something as simple as your favourite takeout place or the way you take your tea.

She pouts at you, her eyes softening, like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s hearing. It’s almost like she’s worried for you, like she feels sorry for you, but you can’t quite figure out why. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, collecting you into a hug you’re too confused to return. “I’m so sorry.” Her arms are too tight, too warm around you. You just stand there, stiff and unsure why everything feels so off.

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean, sorry?” you frown, your stomach doing a nervous little flip. “Everything’s been great. Spencer’s, like, sunshine in human form,” you try to laugh, but it comes out quiet, timid.

She sighs heavily, like she’s carrying a too-heavy weight on her shoulders, and then looks at you like she’s afraid to ask. “But… you don’t think this is, like, really soon?” She furrows her brows softly. “He doesn’t think so?”

You shake your head, confusion knitting your brows. You pull away from her grasp gently, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you didn’t before. “Penelope, what do you mean? Why would it be too soon?” You cross your arms over your chest, vulnerability eating at you. “Like… like me meeting you guys? ‘Cause I was worried about that, ‘cause it felt like, really early. But Spence said it was okay, ‘cause… like, I already have a key to his place, and I’m there, like, all the time, so—”

Penelope’s gasp is so sharp, so dramatic, that she covers her mouth with both hands in complete shock. “Oh. My. God!” Her eyes are nearly as wide as the frames of her glasses. “No- You- What?! You have a key? To his apartment?”

You nod slowly, and for some reason, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re saying the wrong thing. “Yeah? He gave it to me, like, a week or so ago,” you add, hoping it doesn’t sound as bad as you’re starting to feel it is.

And Penelope? Oh. She shifts like ice in the Arctic. Cold and imposing. You don’t think she even catches it, but she’s looking at you like you’re the villain in a story you didn’t even know existed. “That’s… so soon, sweetness.” Her eyes soften only slightly, and there’s a sympathetic lilt to her voice that feels less inviting and more pitiful. “What about Maeve?”

And you pause. Blink at her a couple of times, unsure if you’re dreaming, the weight of her words pressing on your chest. She stares at you, awaiting an answer. One you don’t have. “I-” you hesitate, like the words are too heavy to lift from your throat. “Who’s Maeve?”

Penelope frowns, her nose going red as though she can’t bear to see you confused. “Oh, honey,” she sighs, pulling you into her arms again, like she’s trying to shield you from the pain of her words. “Maeve was,” she starts, then pauses. “I feel like Reid- Spencer, should be the one to tell you.” She shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. She pulls away from the hug, her hands still lingering on your arms.

You keep a trembling hand on her wrist. “Clearly, he never told me anything. Who’s Maeve?” you ask again, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “Is he-... Is he seeing someone else?”

You don’t want to be the fool again. Not again, not with Spencer. You swore he was different.

Penelope shakes her head, her arms smoothing over your shoulders in a calming motion. It doesn’t work. “No, no. Not at all, honey,” she whispers softly. She’s so… soft with you now. Her hands caress your shoulders like a mother comforting a child, explaining something you can hardly understand. “Maeve was Spencer’s girlfriend. They dated for, like, almost a year,” Penelope adds quietly, like she’s treading carefully around a wound that’s still raw.

That gives you pause. A year? That’s… serious. You feel the weight of its importance, like you’re not measuring up somehow. But Spencer’s not required to tell you about all of his past relationships, right? You know you haven't told him about yours, either.

But then Penelope sighs. “She died four months ago.” And the world goes still. You freeze, like the air’s been sucked right oout of your lungs. “She was kidnapped by her stalker, and she got shot. Right,” she pauses, swallowing hard. Her voice cracks as she continues, like she’s holding back her own pain. “Right in front of Spencer.”

And it’s there. A slow death, you can feel it creeping up on you. Your heart starts to melt against your ribs like thick, sticky honey. It burns you from the inside out, like acid; hot and relentless. “So,” your voice trembles, barely above a whisper. “So… I’m what?” You look into Penelope’s eyes, searing desperately for something to hold on to, but all you see is a deep, profound sadness. “I’m, like, a rebound?”

You wait. Penelope is silent. Her lips part, like there’s something she wants to say, to comfort you, to tell you no, he really loves you, but… She doesn’t. And when you see the minuscule shake of her head, you break.

You shatter like glass, like crystal. Like you’re fragmented in tiny shards scattered across the sticky bar floor, and suddenly, Porter’s is too bright. Too loud. Too much.

The sob escapes you before you can stop it, crawling up your throat and across your tongue like bile. You cover your mouth with your hand, tears freely spilling down your cheeks relentlessly.

Penelope’s lip wobbles as she watches you push past her and run down the back hall, before hearing the slam of the ladies’ room door.

She stands there, still and frozen.

What did she just do…?

Her gaze slowly moves to the table. Nobody has turned around, nobody has noticed a thing. Spencer’s laughing at something JJ says, and the guilt gnaws at Penelope like a plague.

You stumble into the bathroom like a storm, leaning your back against the door like you can hardly hold yourself up on your own, your legs shaky and trembling like a fawn taking her first steps.

The bathroom lights are harsh, fluorescent, and unforgiving. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and recoil like you’ve seen a ghost. Your mascara is smeared down your cheeks, bleeding down to your jaw, inked like grief itself has manifested onto your skin.

Your lipgloss is mostly gone—just a faint shimmer clinging to the dip of your cupid’s bow, like it’s trying to hold on for you.

You can’t help the way you begin to sway, dizzy as your knees nearly buckle in your heels. You grip the sink like it might hold you upright, like you’re not actively falling apart. But the second you meet your own eyes again, something inside you cracks.

You can’t look at yourself.

You can’t look at her—the girl stupid enough to think she was someone’s forever, not just a placeholder for a ghost.

You stumble into a stall and lock the door behind you, the click too loud in this stifling silence. You sit down hard on the toilet lid, burying your face in your hands as the sobs come back with a vengeance.

You feel like a fool. You’d really thought Spencer was different.

You wish he was here.

You wish he wasn’t.

Penelope shudders a breath, wobbling back to the table with two frozen strawberry daiquiris in hand. Her smile is long gone, her face pale and blotchy and tear-stained. Her eyes are red behind her glasses.

She sets the glasses down on the table like she doesn’t know what else to do with her hands.

JJ’s brows knit together. “Garcia?” She leans forward from her seat. “Are you okay?”

But Spencer’s looking over his shoulder, eyes darting around for you. He’s already standing when he notes your absence, like a string inside him has been pulled too tight, too restrictive, too wrong. “Garcia?” he asks, his voice shaky and low. “Where is she? What happened?”

Penelope’s lip wobbles. She wrings her fingers together, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispers. “I swear, I didn’t mean to—I just, I thought she knew, I thought you told her, and I—Spencer, I’m so sorry—”

Spencer’s heart drops to his gut. His mouth goes dry. “Told her what?” Penelope doesn’t answer. He takes a step closer, his throat going tight, his voice sharper now. “Penelope, what did you say?”

Her silence says everything. Her guilt fills the blanks. She shakes her head weakly at him, her hands coming up, her mouth opening and closing like she doesn’t know what to say. She sniffles.

Spencer’s eyes go wide. “Penelope,” he breathes out, horrified. His irises dart around her face. “What did you say to her?”

Penelope’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. No words come out. Her face crumbles as she looks at the man in front of her. Her own words play back in her head, your reaction playing like a film sheet behind her eyes. She collapses next to Morgan on the bench, tucking herself into the booth. “Bathroom,” she mutters softly, like a confession. Like it hurts.

Her glasses come off in one swift, clumsy motion as she covers her face with both hands. She’s wiping her tears, covering her guilt, trying to hide from the shame of what she’s done.

Spencer’s gone before anyone can even fully comprehend what’s just happened.

He doesn’t walk, he runs, tearing through the bar like it’s life or death, like he might already be too late. His heart’s in his throat, hammering loud against his ribs, and he doesn’t care who sees, doesn’t care how crazy he must look.

He just needs to find you. Needs to explain, to defend, to apologize.

Maeve’s ghost hovers over his shoulder like a curse.

There’s an incessant banging at the door to the bathroom.

You think it must be him—who else would knock on the door to a public restroom?

You do all you can to ignore it; you cover your ears, tucking your face as far into your lap as you can. Try to block it out. Block him out.

But then the door opens, and frazzled footsteps rush into the bathroom until they stop in front of the locked door of your stall. You can see his brown oxfords standing in front of the door. “Angel,” he whispers, slightly out of breath. “Please open the door… please?”

You inhale shakily, holding your hands tighter over your ears. You don’t want to hear him, his excuses, his lies.

“Go away,” you murmur, tears coating your voice, your throat clenching tight. “I don’t want to see you.”

Spencer sighs, crouching in front of the door. “Sweetheart, let me in, please. I don’t know what Garcia told you,” he knows it’s a lie. “But you have to believe me. I want you. Only you. I swear it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to hear more lies, Spencer.” You swallow a sob. “I know about Maeve.”

Spencer’s heart stops in his chest. “It- It’s not what you think,” he tries, his voice thick with tears he feebly attempts to hold back. But then you sniffle harshly, from under the door he sees you stand, planting your heels on the tile. He stays crouching, swiping at his red-rimmed eyes.

You open the door just a crack, eyes catching sight of his lowered form. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is quiet, pained, tight. Spencer raises his head, meets your eyes. You look ruined. Makeup smeared, eyes red and puffy, lips bitten red and swollen.

He hates that he’s made you look like this. He hates that he still thinks you look gorgeous. Like a tragedy, beautiful and broken and raw.

“I,” he hesitates, eyes never leaving yours. He swallows. “I’m sorry,” he sighs simply.

Your face crumples again, and Spencer’s brows knit tight. His eyes stay locked on the way you tuck your lip between your teeth to hold in a sob, like he’s never seen anything more beautiful than the way you fall apart. “You should’ve told me,” you whimper, sniffling. “It’s not fair, Spence.”

He flinches at the crack in your voice. He bows his head. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I should’ve, I’m so sorry, angel.” He can’t help the way he leans forward, just enough to rest his forehead against the softness of your tummy.

Your hand cards through his hair like you don’t hate him, like you never could, and it breaks you even more. This was a betrayal. You can’t forget that, even if the softness of his curls feels like home between your fingers. “Was I just a rebound for you?”

Your question is broken, tearful, and your chest stutters with a breath. Spencer’s head lifts slowly from your middle. He swallows. “No,” he breathes out, the word like acid on his tongue. His eyes are slow to meet your gaze. “No, angel. Never.”

Your eyes close, a shaky exhale exiting your nose as you purse your lips. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” You remove your hand from his hair, crossing your arms over your chest.

You’re closing off. Spencer stands from his crouch, his left knee clicking as it extends. He wrings his hands to prevent himself from reaching out for you. “I should’ve.”

You just shake your head, lifting your chin to eye him steadily. “I asked why, Spencer. Why didn’t you tell me about her if I wasn’t a rebound, a replacement?”

He swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “I don’t know. I think I was still…” he shrugs meekly. “Hurting, I guess.”

Your arms fall to your sides. “I could’ve helped you.”

Spencer lowers his head, shaking it roughly. “No, you couldn’t.” His eyes squeeze shut. He swears there’s a cold spot on the centre of his back, like someone’s staring into him, through him. He tries desperately to ignore her presence. “I never really dealt with it, I just wanted to move on. And,” he raises his head again, his eyes pained as he looks at you. “I did. I started to. With you.”

He reaches out his arm, his shaky hand settling softly on your elbow. You sigh, setting your gaze to the floor, but you don’t pull away from him. Spencer thinks it’s a small win. He tests the waters by taking a small step closer, invading your space, and his heart thrums in his chest when you let him.

You can’t hold it back. You want to hate him. You want to hurt him, like he’s hurt you. You thought you’d finally found it, your forever, the man who would treat you like you’re something worthy of love, of respect, of kindness. Who doesn’t criticize your curiosity, but who lets it thrive, who answers your questions softly, with reverence in his voice, with love in the way he holds you.

You thought he was different. You really did. But you think it’s fitting, really. To still love him, even now, even after he’s shattered your heart in your chest, even after he’s killed you from the inside out.

You collapse into his chest, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around you, holding you tightly, like he’s holding your very form together. Like if he so much as loosens his grip, you’ll break apart into tiny pieces on this dirty bathroom floor.

His lips go to your hair, his hand cradling the back of your head. He can feel the way the sobs wrack through your body, the way they shake against him, your form trembling as you fist the fabric of his cardigan, needing something to keep you grounded in reality—to keep you out of your head.

“I thought you were different,” you sob, broken and pained and whimpering into his shoulder. Spencer freezes. “I thought you wouldn’t hurt me. Not like them, not like before.”

He opens his mouth, but he can’t find the words. How does he respond to that? To your wailing of grief, of betrayal? Of admitting you’d believed in magic just to find out it was all sleight of hand? How does he acknowledge being the source of your pain, of hurting you so wholly that your knees buckle under the weight of it?

He doesn’t know. So he just holds you impossibly tighter, rocking your trembling form in his arms as he tries to find some way to fix this mess he’s caused.

You’re silent for too long. No longer sobbing, just quiet sniffling as you bury your head in Spencer’s chest, no doubt staining his cardigan with your makeup. He doesn’t care.

You pull back slightly, hands still fisted in the fabric. “I want to go home.” Your voice is quiet, raspy, like your throat itself is protesting you talking to him.

Spencer nods, petting your hair down softly. “Okay,” he whispers back. His gaze catches yours before you lower your eyes to his chest again, your hand instinctively going to wipe at the smudge of mascara. Your brow furrows, and your eyes fill with tears again as your thumb rubs at the stain, just to smear it around. Spencer gently wraps his hand around your wrist, and your eyes snap up to meet his. “It’s okay,” he nods softly. “Please don’t worry about it, angel.”

You sniffle again before pulling away, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I want to go home, Spence,” you murmur again. He nods, holding a hand out for you.

You don't take it, don't even look at it, averting your gaze to the floor again.

Spencer sighs, blinking away tears before he’s opening the door to the bathroom, and following you out.

He doesn’t touch you, even though his hand is hovering over your back, your head down as you stand by the front door. Spencer swallows roughly, grabbing his bag off the bench of the booth, avoiding the eyes of his team, who watch him silently.

Hotch’s eyes stay steady on the black stain on the front of Spencer’s cardigan, Garcia’s still got her hands on her face, and JJ is looking at you; small and feeble and shy, and still shaking with tears as you wait for Spencer. He holds the door open for you, whispers something to you as you both exit, and JJ heaves a sigh, taking a gulp of her drink. She and Blake share a look.

The back of the cab is quiet. Uncomfortable, stifling, suffocating silence. You’re seated on opposite ends of the backseat, Spencer’s eyes on you, your gaze out the window.

When the driver pulls up to Spencer’s apartment block, your brows furrow, your eyes going to Spencer, who’s already climbing out the door and opening yours. “I said home, Spencer,” you frown, ignoring his hand. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

Spencer flinches. “Please, angel. Just for tonight? So we can talk?”

You heave a sigh, glaring at him as you slap away his hand, stepping out of the yellow car and walking past him and into the building.

Spencer exhales, his hands wringing tightly on the strap of his messenger bag before following you up the stairs. You’ve already unlocked the door with your key and slumped onto his couch, sniffling as you lean down to take off your heels.

He doesn’t bother removing his bag from his shoulder, just closes and locks the door before rounding the couch and sitting on the coffee table, gently taking your foot and tucking it into his lap. His fingers undo the strap around your ankle, his hands slow as they pull off the offending shoe. He does the same for the other foot, then stands, picking up your heels as he heads back to the entrance to place them down beside his beat-up old converse.

Spencer hangs up his messenger bag, toes off his oxfords, and looks over at you.

You’re curled up on the couch, tucked into the corner, arms around your knees. Your gaze is fixed on one of his bookshelves, brows furrowed, lips pressed tightly together. Like you’re trying to understand something, trying to solve a puzzle he can’t see.

Spencer slowly makes his way over, sits cautiously beside you, his eyes following yours to the shelf. He doesn’t know if the book you’re staring at is the one his eyes are drawn to immediately, but he tears his gaze away like it’s burned him.

The Narrative of John Smith sits like a ghost on his shelf, its very presence mocking what Spencer’s tried so hard to build with you.

“I don’t know how to get over this,” you mutter softly.

Spencer looks up at you to find your eyes already on him. You shake your head gently, like the small motion of it is just too much. “I don’t know how to move on, now.”

He swallows, tucking his feet up under his legs. “I know.” His hands wring in his lap. “I don’t either. I just know that I want you.”

You scoff, avert your eyes. “If you did, you would’ve told me about her. Now you’ve just made me feel like an idiot,” you sigh. “Again.”

His lips turn, the corners of his mouth pulled into a pout. “Again?”

You sniffle again, shrugging. “I told you. I thought you were different. I thought,” you sigh, raising your head to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Spencer tilts his head. “You say that a lot,” he notes. “‘I don’t know’. Like you’re afraid to say what you’re thinking. Like you’re expecting to be wrong, or dismissed. Or left,” he catches your eyes when your head snaps back to his. “And I hate that. I hate that someone taught you to apologize for existing, for being curious, for not knowing. And I…” he sighs, blinking at you, his expression soft and gentle and guilt-ridden. “I hate that I did that, too. To you.”

You swallow a sob, your eyes going wide.

Spencer scooches a little bit closer to you, just enough that your knees knock against his. “I should’ve told you about…” He tries to say her name. His tongue freezes, paralyzed.

“About Maeve,” you whisper. Spencer tries to hide his flinch, like hearing you say her name is wrong. Like the mixing of these two aspects of his life shouldn’t be happening.

He nods jerkily. “About Maeve,” he tries to ignore the way his voice catches on the word. “I’m sorry that I didn’t.”

You nod, tucking your lip between your teeth. “I know you are,” you glance sidelong at him. “I know.”

Spencer exhales shakily. “And I’m sorry Garcia told you.”

“I’m not.” Your voice is shockingly steady as you say it. You shrug when he looks at you. “If she didn’t, I don’t know how long it would’ve been before you did. Honestly, Spencer,” you turn to face him. “Would you have ever even told me?”

He wants to nod, to tell you he would’ve, but he swears he can see her brown hair in the corner of the room, stalking, watching, waiting. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You wait. And then sigh heavily. “You’re not okay,” you murmur. “I can’t help you, you were right.”

And then you stand from the couch, head into his bedroom, and close the door.

Spencer hears rummaging, the sound of his drawers being opened and closed, then his shower starts, and he buries his face in his hands. Rubs his palms aggressively over his cheeks, pushing his hair away from his forehead.

He stands, peeling the cardigan off. He holds it out, his eyes locked on the black stain that’s, ironically enough, just over his heart. He exhales softly before putting it into the dirty laundry hamper in his bedroom. The bathroom door is closed, the sound of the shower muffled behind it.

He sighs. Drags his feet into the kitchen to start the kettle. His hands move on autopilot: setting the kettle onto the stove, the soft clanging of your mug and his being pulled out of the cupboard, just like always. He freezes when his fingers close around the handle of your pink strawberry mug. It looks like something Garcia would’ve picked out. Too bright, too bubbly, too you. His heart skips a beat.

You were right. God, you were right. He wouldn’t have said anything; not now, maybe not ever. He would’ve stayed silent, keeping you blissfully unaware. You would’ve never found out about Maeve had Garcia not told you anything. The guilt eats at him, gnawing on his chest like a disease, spreading through his ribs like rot.

His hands tremble as he sets it down on the counter beside his. The ceramic clinks too loudly in the silence. He rocks his head back and forth, like he can shake the memories out.

When he opens his eyes, he swears she’s there. Just there, at the edge of his vision, he catches a glimpse of her sweater. He pours the water from the kettle into your mug. It’s all he can do to stop himself from shouting at a ghost.

She haunts these walls—ones she’s never once stepped into. It drives him mad.

Spencer’s sitting on the couch with his hands in his lap and his head bowed when you re-enter the room.

He looks up as the couch dips beneath your weight. You settle in the opposite corner, as far as you can be while still sharing the same space. Spencer clears his throat, rubs his palms nervously over the tops of his thighs. “I made you tea,” he whispers.

You blink. Your strawberry mug sits neatly on an orange slice coaster. He reaches for his, and you see the grapefruit one under it. Your throat goes tight again.

You don’t want to cry again. You refuse to.

You sigh. “I didn’t really want any tea.” Your lips press together as you curl further into your corner. “But thanks anyway.”

Spencer flinches. It’s barely noticeable, just a twitch. But of course you catch it. There’s nothing about this man you don’t notice.

Or so you thought.

Because now he’s staring at you.

Or, not quite; he’s staring through you.

You swallow hard. How many times has this happened before without you noticing? Without knowing he was haunted? Broken? Grieving someone you never knew existed. Mourning the woman you replaced.

You avert your gaze again. You can’t keep looking at your boyfriend while he stares through you, at the woman he lost. “Spencer,” you say, quiet yet sharp. It snaps him out of his trance.

His eyes dart to the side of your face. His brows pull together, unsure, almost pleading. He swallows roughly. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, setting his mug down. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to,” he chews on his lip, shrugging. “I just… I thought you might want it. Like…” he trails off.

You know what he was going to say, anyway. Like every other night. Like routine. But if he thinks you’re about to cuddle up to him while he reads to you, he’s sorely mistaken.

But then you look at him. Just once. And he looks so broken, you can’t bring yourself to say it.

So you stand, slowly, achingly, like just leaving him there is enough to hurt. “I’m tired,” you mutter softly. Spencer’s eyes track your movement. He untucks a leg, like he’s about to follow you like some lost, desperate puppy. You hold up a hand. “I’d like to be alone for a bit. You brought me here,” you can’t help the narrowing of your eyes. “The least you could do is let me have that.”

Spencer gulps, sinks back into the couch with a jerky nod. “Of course,” he whispers. He doesn’t look away, not even when his bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

He turns back around, squeezing his eyes shut. He scrubs at his cheeks, as if trying to wipe the grief and guilt from his skin itself.

There’s rustling behind the door. Spencer pictures you crawling into his bed. He wonders if you’re cuddling his pillow, like you always do when he leaves for work in the morning.

Then he figures you’ve probably thrown it off the bed. The thought tugs harshly at his chest.

He sighs, pulling the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around his shoulders. He sits in silence, his mind running too loud, too fast, for even him to keep up.

There’s a chill to his left. He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t want to face the visible manifestation of his guilt, his grief.

Spencer doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there. The tea cools in both mugs; the steam rising and fading, like breathing out a ghost. His apartment is too quiet. Too silent to have you just in the next room. Too quiet for a mind like his. It feels wrong. Suffocating. Smothering. His lungs ache like he’s drowning in it.

It’s been hours. Two cups of lavender tea, three hours lost in casefiles and novels and poetry, and none of it has helped him sleep. It hurts even more when he realizes it’s because you’re not there beside him.

Spencer stands with a quiet groan, dragging himself to his bookshelf. He stares at it, needing something else. Anything to get him to sleep, anything to quiet his thoughts, even if just for a moment.

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to go to it. Doesn’t even realize his hand’s already reaching, already pulling it off the shelf. His mind doesn’t catch up to reality until Spencer’s already sitting on the couch with The Narrative of John Smith open on his lap. Maeve’s handwriting stares back at him from the first page.

“Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone—we find it with another.”

The tears come before he even realizes he’s crying.

Spencer’s vision comes back slowly, like waking from a dream, walking out of a fog, seeing past the haze. He blinks, looking down at the book in his hands. He sets it down on the coffee table—careful, like it burns to so much as hold it.

He gulps. Two books sit side-by-side. Two mugs, four coasters.

He sighs, lying back on the couch. He listens, but the bedroom stays silent.

You wake early. So early that not even the sun is up, the birds aren’t even singing, and the stars are still twinkling in the darkness. You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling in silence. It’s so quiet here, the only sound is the crickets chirping softly outside the window.

You sit up, heaving your legs over the side of his bed with a heavy sigh. This room… you’ll miss it. It’s warm, comfortable. Smells like old books and clean linen and him.

Spencer.

Just the thought of him has you holding back tears again.

You shake your head, trying to push away your impending grief, and stand slowly. You open the drawer he’s dedicated to you, your hands trembling as you dress yourself. You avoid your reflection as you take the rest of your clothing out of the drawer and shove it into your bag. You grab your toothbrush and your makeup bag.

And you take one mismatched set of socks from his drawer.

You’re slow, quiet, as you creak open the bedroom door, your bag slung over your shoulder. You peek over to the couch. Spencer’s stretched out, long limbs draping over the armrest. His brow is pinched, mouth slightly agape, but he’s asleep.

You exhale a sigh of relief. Your eyes catch sight of the coasters—your coasters. Bright, vibrant, fruit slice circles of ceramic. They still look out of place. Still don’t belong here.

You can’t bring yourself to take them with you. They brighten up this warm, cozy space, this place that they just don’t fit in. You’ve related to them since you brought them over.

Oh well.

Spencer can decide what to do with them. You try to ignore the stinging in your chest when you imagine him throwing them out.

With a reluctant turn, you silently slip on your shoes, tug on your jacket, and sling your purse over your shoulder beside your bag.

You don’t leave a note. You wouldn’t know what to say.

You exhale as you crack the front door open quietly, allowing yourself just one last glance around the apartment.

You’ll miss it.

You close the door gently behind you, careful not to let it click. Your hands shake as you lock it, fingers trembling as you remove the key from your keyring. You slide it under the door. It catches on the floorboard for a second, then disappears into his apartment. Like it never belonged to you in the first place.

Your fingers go to the tiny pink gemstone on your neck. You tug at it gently. Rest your fingertips over the chain in something not unlike reverence, before lowering your hand.

You straighten your shoulders. You don’t look back.

Spencer wakes sluggishly. Like his body’s not quite his, his limbs tired and heavy. When he finally manages to sit up, he blinks the sleep out of his eyes. The door to his bedroom is open; he can see his bed made neatly. Too neatly.

He glances to the kitchen, expecting to see you standing at the counter, humming, pouring coffee into your favourite mug and smiling over at him, like you always do, every morning. But it’s empty.

Spencer’s brow furrows, knitting together tightly. He calls your name, soft, then louder. His voice shakes.

He rises slowly, like lost in a dream, his gaze drifting to the door.

Your shoes are gone, leaving his beat-up old converse and scuffed oxfords alone by the door. Your jacket’s not hung up beside his on the hooks. Your purse is missing from where you always hung it in front of his messenger bag.

Spencer rounds the couch, his hands trembling, panic rearing its ugly head, fear clawing at his chest. “Angel?” he tries again, his voice softer now. “Sweetheart, please… please answer me,” he whimpers, his throat going tight.

His gaze drifts down to the floor, like he’s hoping, just for a moment, that he’s wrong. That his peripheral was lying to him.

It shines, like some cruel joke, where it rests on the hardwood, the first rays of dawn catching it.

The spare key. The one he gave you. The one he thought meant home.

It gleams from the floor, tossed carelessly, just in front of the front door, like you’d locked it and slid it under the threshold when you’d left.

Left.

He doesn’t even know when you left. Doesn’t know if it was hours ago or mere minutes, but the air still feels thick with your absence.

Spencer stumbles, almost collapsing to the floor beside that key. The key to his home. To his heart. The key you’d left behind.

He staggers back to the couch, eyes hollow, locking onto the coffee table. Your coasters. And your mug. Just… sitting there.

You’d left them.

He swallows his sobs, choking on the grief that’s clawing its way up his throat. They look so bright. Too bright. Out of place here, in the dim silence of his apartment. You were, too. You brought a brightness to this warm, cozy place. One he didn’t know he needed until you’d taken it away. Like the sun setting, sinking slowly beneath the horizon, leaving nothing but a cold darkness in its wake. An emptiness he can’t escape.

Spencer reaches for the book left beside them. Flips it open to page 639 like muscle memory.

The Cyrillic stares back at him. He can hardly make it out through the tears clouding his vision. His voice cracks as he forces the quote out—the one he had meant to read to you just last night—his memory carrying him.

“I can't say it in a more orderly and comprehensible way. I love you wildly, insanely, infinitely.”

He breaks down into a lump of broken sobs on his couch, clutching the red leather-bound novel to his chest like it’s the only thing holding him together.

This is it. Doctor Zhivago, bright fruit slice coasters, and a strawberry mug. It’s all he has left of you, when he never thought he’d have to face the reality of life without you again.

Your absence chokes him like a vice.

The air turns frigid; Spencer feels like he’s wrapped in a sudden chill, like the warmth that was in his chest is being stolen from his soul itself.

He won’t open his eyes—refuses to. He won’t face this ghost that haunts him, keeps him broken, that pushed you away. He can’t look at her brown hair and warm sweater and blood on her cheek.

He just hugs the novel closer to his chest and mourns once more, wailing his grief into the air like pain personified is being ripped from his chest, leaving him hollow, empty, alone.

[headspace-hotel]

i spent like 5 hours deep diving into the blog of some guy who self identifies as a "rationalist" and looking at the array of opinions/ideas being expressed on the blog and in the comments

made me think about how "the left" is actually really, really homogeneous in terms of beliefs that are acceptable to express and discuss, whereas with "centrist" and "the right" you see written out the internal variety and incoherence that I think characterizes most peoples beliefs and ideas

i forgot the name of the blog, i'll find it again later. basically the guy self identifies as "anti-woke" at the same time as being progressive on some aspects of society, "centrist" on others, and...definitely not fascist but kind of "reddit evo-psych" on a few, pursuing a general open-minded approach to things.

it definitely made a few things click for me in terms of right wing stereotypes of "leftists" and concern with "cancel culture." At one point he discusses his experience being ""cancelled"" for a comment that got misunderstood, and from the description, the harassment, threats of harm and isolation that ensued were genuinely traumatic.

It honestly reminded me of my experiences on Tumblr, where since I was 18 I've been writing posts about whatever I happen to be learning or thinking about at the time--- some of which were ignorant or poorly worded or offensive--- and getting hate for it.

Before I turned off asks completely and sort of walled myself off from engaging in discussions with people, I got messages constantly telling me to kill myself, or that the world would be a better place if I was dead, or that [speaker] hoped I would die, or that I was virtually every kind of bigot you could imagine, and at least some number of political bloggers on here nursed enough of a long-term hatred of me that I actively came to mind as someone they despised.

This was in fact distressing, especially the fact that I could never predict what kind of post would elicit this reaction and nothing I did would make it stop.

It's easy to dismiss this as just, like, the typical online experience, and I dismissed it myself like "yeah yeah who hasn't gotten a bunch of suicide bait for making a poorly worded joke"...but it really shouldn't be. It occurs to me now that normalizing receiving harassment also normalizes participating in it. And if my real life face and name were attached to this account, that kind of harassment would be fucking terrifying.

It also occurs to me that "the right" despite having an incomprehensible array of beliefs on non-essentials, are not constantly acting like they want to kill each other with hammers.

Jack Posobiec's Unhumans, despite being a work of fascist garbage, had a gleam of genuine insight in it: when suggesting strategies for countering the "left," it mostly recommended not directly engaging and instead waiting for the left to rip itself apart internally. It seems like multiple right-wing writers and bloggers have suggested walking back the criticisms of "cancel culture" simply because leftists harm other leftists much more with "cancel culture" than they do their actual political enemies.

I'm thoughtful about it...

[alisonsfics]

what about me?

pairing: bucky barnes x ex-gf!ex-avenger!reader

summary: as an ex-avenger and the ex-girlfriend of james bucky barnes, you’re shocked when you see the new avengers announcement on tv. so, you decide to pay avengers towers a visit to reminisce, until you run into bucky. then you both realize you’ve been holding some grudges.

word count: 2k

warnings: ⚠️thunderbolts* spoilers⚠️ angst between you and bucky

You were having a peaceful start to your day. Or as peaceful as it could be. The past couple years had really messed you up. You’d basically lost everything. The Avengers. Your friends. Your boyfriend. Your home.

Nothing had felt the same since then.

You tried to start over. You weren’t exactly built for the real world. You had telekinetic abilities. Your father was a successful scientist, but after you were born, he became captivated by the idea of superheroes. Then, he started to experiment on you, accidentally giving you abilities.

When you became an Avenger, you learned to harness your powers. You also blossomed into a great fighter, training with both Steve and Natasha.

Your skill set was very specific. And it didn’t exactly suit a corporate life, or any kind of regular life.

A couple of months ago, you got a call from Sam, whom you hadn’t spoken to since Tony’s funeral. He said it was about Ross going out of control. You were happy to help, and for the first time in years, you felt like you were doing the right thing with your life.

But nothing had happened since then. You started hanging out with Sam more often, craving any tie back to your previous life.

That’s where you were right now, out for lunch with Sam.

“So, is our new President showing any possibility of turning into a raging Hulk of a new color?” You joked, earning a chuckle from Sam. He quickly shook his head.

“Nope. All clear, but if it happens again, trust me, you’ll be the first one I call.” He told you. The thought of another president turning into a Hulk shouldn’t have comforted you, but it did. Because it meant having a purpose again.

“How have you been? You’ve seemed a little distracted since the whole Ross thing.” Sam asked, switching into counselor mode.

You laughed to yourself, thinking about the best response that would make Sam worry the least. “I don’t know, Sam. I feel like I’ve forgotten what being okay feels like.” You said, honestly.

“Just a professional opinion, maybe it’s cause I’m the only person you talk to. You can’t isolate yourself.” He mentioned. You switched your gaze to the ground. Of course you knew he was right. It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about it.

But all your friends, your family, were scattered around the globe or dead. You were alone.

Before you could respond, you both heard commotion around you the patio of the restaurant. You could hear the sound of phones dinging all the way down the street. Hushed whispers grew louder.

You felt heads turn towards you and Sam.

“Sam, what’s happening?” You asked, quietly. He glanced down at his phone. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled under his breath, before flipping around the screen for you.

You immediately recognized Val, and then you noticed Bucky. He was bruised and bleeding and standing behind her. The headline scrolled across the bottom: “Welcome the New Avengers after NY Attack.”

People started to rush towards you both. As two ex-Avengers, everyone wanted to know why you both weren’t on this new Avengers group.

“C’mon,” Sam said, quickly standing up and rushing towards you. He tapped a button on his watch and his flight pack appeared on his back. He grabbed you, and you wrapped your arms around him.

Your feet lifted off the ground as Sam flew you both to a nearby rooftop. You stepped away from him as soon as your feet hit the concrete.

“You alright?” He asked, watching you begin to pace. The words “New Avengers” repeated over and over in your head. And the image of Bucky bruised.

Sam repeated your name, pulling you out of your thoughts. “I don’t understand. There was an attack? Why didn’t he call me? Or you? He could’ve been hurt. He’s like family to me, and he’s just moving on? Why do we all act like the Avengers didn’t happen? I mean, everyone is moving on, and I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know who I am if I’m not an Avenger. And I just— I need to go home, Sam. I really need to think.” You rambled.

Sam nodded, understanding where you were coming from. “Come on, I’ll bring you home.” He said.

You spent the next two weeks sitting in your apartment, basically wasting away. You’d always struggled to cope with change, but you felt yourself being tugged back to the good old days.

Then, one day it was different. You woke up and felt yourself being pulled out the front door. You didn’t know where you were going until you got there.

You stood on the cold street, looking up at the tall building: Avenger’s Tower. It had been your home for years, and now it was a building you hardly recognized.

You walked up towards the front gate. The security guard immediately recognized you and brought you inside. He gave you a security pass, so you could freely roam the building.

You took the elevator up to the top floors where most of the rooms were. It was a path you’d taken so many times before.

You stepped out of the elevator and were met by a million memories. Memories you hadn’t thought of in years came rushing back to you.

A loud metal door slammed shut, bringing you back to reality. You jumped and turned towards the noise.

Then, you saw him.

Bucky Barnes.

“Hi,” you stuttered. His eyes met yours. You saw his eyes soften and the weight lift off his shoulders. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, breathlessly.

“I don’t know. I think I just wanted to see you.” You admitted.

He walked towards you, closing the distance. “It’s nice to see you, really. I’ve been thinking about you recently.” He said, sincerely.

“It’s definitely not because you moved back into the place we used to live. Don’t think that would make you think of me at all.” You quipped, sarcastically. A soft smile spread across his face.

“It’s been too long.” He said, his voice only coming out at a whisper. He felt every memory of you come rushing back to him at once. He remembered movie nights with the rest of the team. And the first time he kissed you, after a mission. And sneaking out of training to be with you.

“Yeah, it’s been a couple years. Y’know, since the world almost ended and you dumped me a few months later.” You said, your tone coming out harsh.

You had really missed Bucky. But you were also mad at him because it was his fault that you’d had to miss him. He’d gone radio silent for years, and you lost your best friend.

Bucky wore a pained expression. “I’m sorry about the way I handled everything. I was in a really bad place with Steve leaving and everything.” He apologized.

“C’mon, Bucky. Of course I understood that, but what you didn’t understand was that my world was also turned upside down. So many of our friends died or left, but I thought I’d always be able to rely on you. I loved you so much, and you left me like it was nothing.” You argued.

Each word felt like a cut to Bucky’s heart. He’d never wanted to hurt you.

“It wasn’t nothing. Do you really think that wasn’t the hardest thing I ever had to do?” He shot back.

“Then why did you do it? Nobody forced you into that, Bucky. And if you regretted it, why haven’t you reached out to me since then?” You asked. Bucky was growing visibly frustrated. He ran his fingers through his hair. You noticed the way the light bounced off his metal arm.

“I can’t do this. I can’t have this conversation right now.” He huffed, turning away from you and starting to walk in the opposite direction.

Before your brain could even process it, you were yelling “Yeah, go run back to your new friends and leave me behind with all the problems of your past” at him.

He stood still before slowly turning back towards you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“You’re talking about being sorry that you abandoned me before and now you’re doing it again.” You accused.

Bucky scoffed and shook his head. “Well, you should know a thing or two about abandoning people. I heard about you and Sam taking on the Red Hulk.” He snapped.

“What does that have to do with anything? I helped out a friend.” You said, defending yourself.

“Neither of you thought to call me to help, and you know I would have been there in a minute. And you didn’t exactly show up to help me when the Sentry almost destroyed all of New York.” He said, finally letting it out even though he promised himself he wouldn’t. He knew it was petty, but he couldn’t help that he’d been so affected by you helping out Sam and not him.

“I didn’t show up because I didn’t know it was happening. And you know how I found out? I found out while also learning that apparently there was a New Avengers team.” You argued.

“That wasn’t my idea, I swear. That was all Valentina. I was just as surprised as you were. But why do you care so much if I’m on a new team?” He asked you, and you realized how close you both were standing.

He was close enough that you could smell hints of cedar wood from his cologne. You focused your gaze on the floor to avoid looking him in the eyes. “Cause it means you’re moving on and leaving the Avengers in the past. And what about me? What if you decide to leave me in the past too?” You asked, softly.

His metal fingertips grazed your hip. His touch was soft and unsure, like he was waiting for you to pull away. When you stayed still, he used his other hand to pull your chin up, so you were looking at him.

“I actually asked the team if you could join because it wasn’t the same without you. I promise, I am not leaving you in the past.” He whispered.

He leaned in, pressing his lips against yours. You leaned into his touch, and it was like he never left. His arm snaked around your waist, while your fingers found their natural place weaving through his hair.

The kiss was soft but also hungry. Bucky had missed having you in his arms, and he wasn’t going to let you go anytime soon. A warmth started in your chest and spread throughout your body.

Bucky's grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer to him until there wasn’t any space between the two of you.

His lips explored yours, taking the time to refamiliarize himself with everything about you: the taste of your strawberry lip gloss, the way you smiled as he kissed you, and the way that your fingers tugged on his hair.

Bucky nipped at your bottom lip, smirking cockily when you lightly gasped. “I’ve missed you, sweets.” He mumbled against your lips.

You both jumped when you heard someone clear their throat down the hall.

“I see you’ve got a friend, Barnes.” The man scoffed, smirking at Bucky.

“Walker, this is my old friend—” Bucky started to introduce you to the man.

“I know exactly who that is and all about your friendship.” Walker responded, smirking and using air quotes around the word “friendship.”

“Now, who do we have here?” Another voice came from behind you. You and Bucky spun around, his arm wrapping around your waist until your back was pressed up against his chest.

A blonde woman with light blue eyeliner under her eyes stared back at you. She smirked at you and Bucky. “Well, we’d love to stay and chat, except we wouldn’t. So, we’ll see you guys later.” Bucky said, steering you towards the stairs.

“You’ll have to introduce me at some point.” You whispered in Bucky's ear.

“That’s a later problem, darling. We have some catching up to do.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

taglist: @laurakirsten0502 @miraclesoflove @nathaliabakes @millipop18 @lillyssh-tposts @shyinadarkplace @vanteguccir @missroro @guiltandguitarstrings @sw33t-cupid @ice-dtae @leyannrae @sia2raw @nyx2021 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @shyconversationalbookworm @shadowhuntyi @iamavailablesstuff @ruzannetheseahorse @superdeath @wandaswifeyforlifey @spookyqueen @mcuswhore @astheskycries @n3ssm0nique @peakascum @cjand10 @namsey1987 @supernaturalstilinski @stephv213 @sunwardsss @studentville-struggles @impossibleapricotlampbat @infjkiki @weirdfishy @lickmymelaninn @eternally-timeless @andreasworlsboring101 @glassesandthunderthighs @holding-on-to-my-youth @fanofalltheficsx @spiderstyles04 @mostly-marvel-musings @madisondelstan @spookyparadisesheep @beyondthesefourwalls @basicfangirlx @rivirox @i-wish-i-knew-what-i-was @reniescarlett @multiplums @alotofrandomfangirling @bbl32 @bob-fucks @stressydepressyandlemonzesty @faykyrie @dorothea-hwldr @cherryyxbabyy @lovethemfictionalboys @starsdancegirl @akumune @harrysthiccthighss @warriormirkwood @one-sweet-gubler @narliesstuff @bibissparkles @stupiidfrogs @navs-bhat @marvelcasey05 @velyssaraptor

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for all my imagines or for a specific character/fandom!!

[blond3ang3l]

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

"head back Jay Jay." He hummed as the water ran right by his head. His naked body covered by the warm water you filled the tub with.

This had been one of the hardest weeks for the man.

He had been dealing with hallucinations and damn there snapped on everyone these past few days. You knew it wasn't his fault, he was having an episode. When he didn't come home the night before you weren't worried about him cheating, instead worried he was hurt. He couldn't think clearly.

You woke up to him sitting in the empty tub, stuck in a daze. Flickering the lights to let your presence be known to not scare him. He was completely covered in blood when you saw him. Not in his own but the blood of others. This had been something you grown used to, but right now it was so much that you couldn't help but wonder how ended up on his bad side.

Small mumbles about needing to get clean was all you could hear from him. Barely missing it because of how quiet his voice was. He went to get up but crashed into you making you hold him up. His eyes were so dull, like he was dead once again. Worry filled you and you had him sit back down in the tub. "Jay?" All you wanted was for him to look at you. Just so you know he was still there at least a bit.

When you got the small glance it was a victory for you. "I'm going to touch you now okay? Is that alright with you?" Not a single fiber on you moved until you got the nod of confirmation. When he got like this, the more depressed state of his episode you never knew if touch would trigger him so as a precaution asking would just be the best. He never denied you but it was still better just in case.

Helping him out of his clothes and starting the water was nothing. Getting him bathed was nothing. But when it came to washing his hair that was the rough part. You tried to have him put his head under the faucet before but that caused an entire melt down where he ended up having a panic attack. As scary as it was you were also grateful to be there to see what helped him and what didn't.

Instead you learned to take slow steps with him and the water. You cupped your hands and dunked them into the water. "Head back, there you go Jay. You're doing amazing, you know that?" A smile grew on your lips as you let the water fall into his hair from your hands, being careful to not get much on his forehead. He chest started to rise a little faster, his eyes fluttering until he felt your hand rubbing the scar covered skin. Letting out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding until then. Leaning back against your chest to let you continue helping him.

He was your everything and if that meant you had to help readjust to the world 100 more times again then you'd do 1000 more to ensure his safety. Because he would do the same for you and more. A love he never got to experience was the love he had now. And he couldn't be more grateful.

⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱♱⋰⋱♱⋰ ⋱✮⋰ ⋱⋰

[hwaslayer]

the space between us three (jyh) | ten.

⇢series masterlist | series playlist

⇢summary: while juggling the demands of life, yunho continues to do his best to raise his independent 11 yr old daughter, seora. throughout the years, they've built a strong foundation, an unbreakable bond— one that consists of late night talks and food runs, father/daughter dates, and sideline cheerleading at her basketball games. so when you unexpectedly come into their world, things shift. despite the uncertainty and the fear of stepping outside of their comfort zone, yunho and seora eventually learn how to open their hearts and learn how to rebuild a home where three can thrive together.

⇢pairing: single dad!yunho x f. reader

⇢genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, single dad au | fluff, angst, smut

⇢word count: 4.6k

⇢chapter content/warnings: cussing/mature language, hwa just hella unsure and causing problems lol, typical yunho x oc being cute af, making out, a lil bit of some dry humping, flashback scene of yunho taking seora to see her mom, crying, yunho opens up to seora about his relationship and it goes south

⇢a/n: the hongjoong fic is starting! you can find it here in case you missed it <33

"Hey." You pop into Noeul's cubicle, welcoming yourself into the free chair. "How's it going?" You're taking a break after the emails briefly stopped flooding in, checking in with your bestfriend. She seems better, but you know where her mind is still at.

"Hey cutie." She looks at you. "It's been alright. Dealing with some more internal issues, but nothing too bad." She chuckles. "Finally got a minute to breathe?"

"Mhm."

"Seeing your man later?"

"Mhm." You respond in a sing-song tone. "Can't wait. Miss him." 

"Cuties. Love you two."

"Have you talked to Seonghwa?" You ask, just to give her time to vent if needed.

"Nope."

"He didn't text you back?"

"Um, no. No he hasn't." She gives you a tiny, forced smile and it breaks your heart. "He's been ignoring me, actually. I saw him this morning on the way to the office, and I thought it was my window to talk to him."

"But? Did you guys make contact?"

"Yeah, but he literally popped out his phone and made a beeline for the entrance." She scoffs. "Yoori's also been majorly giving me the eye."

"Well."

⇢FLASHBACK

noeul: hey, can we talk?

hwa: sorry, not a good time. swamped today.

noeul: okay, so can't we talk after work?

hwa: can't.

noeul: seonghwa, really?

"Sorry." Seonghwa says as he slips into Yoori's office, her face unamused when he finds him tucking his phone into his pocket. "I just got caught up with something."

"Noeul, you mean?" She looks at his pocket and he lets out a heavy sigh.

"No. I was editing an article I need to get out before the end of the week."

"Right." Yoori looks at him over her computer. Seonghwa can tell she's still not happy. And although he doesn't blame her, he is getting tired of the attitude. Of her temper and being short with him. Of keeping within the same routine. He tried to make it up to her. Tried to make this different.

But in the end, it didn't feel so different and he doesn't want to continue if it'll keep heading down this route.

He does think about the fun he had with Noeul. He thinks about having more fun with her. He thinks about how maybe, Noeul would be different. A different kind of fun for him.

"I didn't come here to fight." Seonghwa sighs. "I wanted to ask if you wanted to go out to dinner tonight."

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"I don't really wanna be out tonight, especially after the day I've already had."

"I'm sorry, but what does that have to do with me taking you out to dinner? I'll pick you up and drop you off. Or, you can stay at mine if you want."

"Seriously Hwa. Not tonight. Can we raincheck?" He sighs again and nods defeatedly.

"Yeah sure."

"Is there anything else?" She asks him and he just shakes his head. Feeling like he wasted his time to see her. He was excited to see her and ask her out tonight.

But, that went down the drain.

And now, as he's heading back to his office, he's staring at the thread between him and Noeul. Wondering if he should text her and finally talk to her. He's starting to think that Noeul wasn't just that shiny new toy to him and that his heart hasn't truly belonged to Yoori all this time.

Maybe, he needs to break free if all they do is go in circles.

Circles he feels obligated to follow because Yoori is all he's known these past months.

⇢END

"I'm sorry." You brush her hair away from her face.

"Maybe I am just stupid."

"You're not. He's just.. not the right guy, and that's totally fine." You look at her, slightly frowning. "You'll find someone who is worthy of your love and will shower you with the love you deserve."

"I know, but why can't I let go of it? We literally made out at your birthday and that was it."

"Well, you had fun with him. You were with him for the majority of the night. He's attractive too, I can't lie." You shrug. "But, he also needs to really get his shit together, especially with the whole Yoori thing. You don't wanna be another part of that equation, and you don't deserve to." She sighs.

"I just gotta let it go. You're right. It makes no sense for me to hold onto this. He's with Yoori and there's no changing that."

"Quite frankly, I don't even know if Yoori has him." She looks at you, forehead crinkled. "Okay, sorry. Point is, he needs to get himself together and you deserve someone who is sure of you. They'll come along, no doubt."

"I hope so."

"My sweet Noeul." You throw your arm around her. "Come over sometime this week or weekend? We can have a girl's night. I'll tell Sian, too."

"I could use another shopping date. I need a new, cute but functional, everyday bag."

"Are we thinking luxury bag?"

"Maybe."

"Treat yourself! Let's do it." Noeul smiles. "There she is."

"Love you."

"Love you, too." Your phone dings, signaling a text from Yunho and another coworker about a project-related. order "Let me get back to work. I've gotta check on this order I placed for the team. They needed specific electrodes for this study and they said they'd have it by a specific time this week. Gotta make sure it's on track."

"Goodluck."

"Thank you. Text me if you need anything? Or come bother me if you have time." She nods.

With that, you text your coworker back as you head to the procurement facility to check on the status of their order. It's an elevator ride down to the basement, and luckily, there isn't a huge line or a lot of people crowding the area to pick up orders. You find your contact to get an update, relieved it should be delivered tomorrow and can be picked up before lunch time. You relay the info to your coworker as you head back upstairs to your desk, the emails and task items slowly building post-break.

yunho: can't wait to see you later pretty girl

you: excited 🥰 what's lunch?

yunho: surprise!

you: boooooo

yunho: don't give me that, cutie. it'll be worth it! 

yunho: gtg, gotta look into one of the systems slowing down

yunho: 😘

You set the phone down to get back to work, only to come back to it with another text from Yunho.

yunho: damn kiss me back at least??????

you: can you go?! 😂

you: 😘

You giggle to yourself, finishing up the other tasks that have made its way to you before lunch time comes around the corner. You get the usual text from Yunho letting you know he was heading to your meeting spot, so you grab your water bottle and head out. It's a bit chilly outside, causing you to wrap your jacket around you tightly— easily finding Yunho's tall figure ahead.

"Hi." You giggle when Yunho pulls you in for a tight hug and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"Missed you, pretty girl." He raises a cute bag up. "Made some kimbap with Seora last night."

"I missed you, too." Your eyes glow at the bag. "That's so sweet. Can't wait to eat 'em for lunch, I'm sure it's delicious." You smile, tiptoeing to give him a curt peck on the lips. You feel Yunho smile against the kiss, subtly biting his lip when you pull back.

"Can we get to the car? Now?"

"Yunho." You laugh, squealing when Yunho laces his hand with yours—rushing over to his car in the staff garage and dragging you along. He has long strides, so you're having to keep up 10x more than normal. "Yunho! You're a giant, I can't keep up!" He laughs when he decides to carry you and gets you into his car— immediately sliding into the driver's seat and reversing out of the spot. "Why are you rushing?!"

"Because we're on a time crunch and I just need my time with you. What do you mean why?" You snort. 

"Uh huh."

"I also just want you on my lap, is that so much to ask?" You let out a cute yell, making Yunho laugh even louder. He makes his way to the usual trail and lake, parking underneath the shade since the sun is out despite the chill. He pops open the large container, showing you the different kinds of kimbap they made. He hands you some chopsticks, allowing you to dig in first and give an honest review.

"Yum! This is so good, Yu." 

"Yeah? You aren't lying?" He looks at you, maintaining eye contact until you break first.

"Swear." You chuckle.

"Your mom and dad said it was good, too. I'll give credit to Seora for the idea and for planning out what kimbap we'd make."

"The girl's got taste!" You pop in another one, looking out at the lake ahead. There's a few people walking the trail, elderly couples holding onto each other as they take their time with their stroll or runners getting a workout in before it gets too late in the afternoon. Ducks are taking a dip in the lake, squirrels running up the trees. 

It's a nice reminder of life's little blessings.

"Hey." You turn in the passenger's seat, tucking your leg underneath the other to sit comfortably.

"Yeah, baby?"

"How was it? Did you take Seora to the cemetery?"

"Yeah." He smiles. "It was good. She was really happy."

"Did she get to decorate?"

"Lots."

⇢FLASHBACK

"What's that?" Yunho asks as he drives over to the cemetery, briefly glancing at Seora's lap when he gets a chance.

"You know how I got into crochet kits lately?"

"Yes, I'm reminded by the monthly subscription that goes through on my card." Seora laughs. "You're making good use of it."

"Yeah. I made one from the Hello Kitty line I got in. I made the Little Twinstars." Seora raises the two. "They're holding hands. I know they're siblings but I wanted it to be like.. me and mom."

"That's cute." Yunho smiles a bit.

"I also made this sushi and named it Oishi. It has a little slice of tamago on the top." Yunho laughs.

"You're just like your mom. Inspiring and creative." Seora smiles.

"Then, I made a drawing of our picture."

"It's beautiful."

"And a threaded bracelet."

"Wow, you really got to work." Seora shows her wrist and holds it near her father's by the wheel. 

"She can match us now."

"That's right." Yunho pulls into the cemetery and drives toward the columbarium. He parks near the front doors, letting out a sigh when he shuts off the car. "Ready to go, ace?"

"I am." She nods with a soft smile. Yunho quickly hops out to help Seora out of the passenger seat, shutting her door for her when she climbs out with all her things. Yunho walks alongside of her as they enter the quiet, still building. Seora holds onto her father's arm as they walk down the hall, Yunho leading her through the familiar path towards Eunha.

"Here." He brings her in front of her niche, looking down to see her reaction. She slowly steps forward, her hand touching the glass.

"Mom." She says quietly.

"Go ahead." Yunho hands her the key to unlock the little glass door. She takes it, slowly sliding the key into the lock before twisting it open. 

"Brought you some stuff that I made." She says quietly. Yunho watches with a smile on his face as Seora continues to explain to her mom what each item is and why she brought it. Once the decorations are settled to her liking inside, she lets out a sigh and drops her head. He hears her sniffling, her hand coming up to wipe her tears away.

"Ace?" He comes from behind, hands on her shoulders.

"I just miss her." Is all she says before she turns to dig her head into her father's chest. 

"Oh, ace." Yunho holds her close, gently rubbing her back as she continues to quietly cry— tears a sign of all the pain and sadness she harbored over the years. "I'm so sorry, babygirl." He whispers against the top of her head before placing a small kiss to the surface.

The days and nights of longing for a mother's love, a mother's touch. 

Yearning and needing.

All coming to surface.

"Can we sit here for a bit and talk about mom?"

"Of course."

"I remember some things."

"You do?" Seora nods. She remembers a few core memories from when she was small; they're all bits and pieces, fragments of the past when she wished she had all the puzzle pieces together to see the bigger picture. But, she remembers. She remembers pieces of her mom and that's what matters to her, that's what she'll hold onto tightly.

She remembers when she finally stopped whining and crying during swim class— finding the courage to join the other toddlers in the water to learn how to float and get used to the feeling. She remembers her mom encouraging her with her sweet tone, telling her she believed in her. She remembers the kiss to her forehead, feeling it against her skin like it was just yesterday.

And Yunho listens.

He chimes in with a few other stories from when she was a baby, the two of them giggling and in good spirits while sitting around Eunha. The hour goes by so quickly, it feels like 5 minutes to the two.

⇢END

"That's so sweet."

"Yeah, we spent about a good hour there. Gonna make it our weekend thing besides our little dates and her games."

"Cute." You smile. "You should." The both of you are sipping water, popping in some gum post-meal. "I'm glad you two had that time together and will keep it a part of your schedule."

"Yeah." Yunho leans his head back against the headrest, eyeing you up and down as much as he possibly can from his seat. "Come here, baby." He says lowly, subtly licking his lips.

"Hm?" You hum, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

"C'mere." He gives you a look, adjusting his seat back to make room for you.

"Babe, people might see us!" You say, even though you're already preparing to take your seat on your man's lap. 

"And I do not give a fuck." He laughs. "They can have a free show." He watches as you climb over, straddling his lap. "Besides, you're already here. Did you really have strong opinions about it in the first place?" He looks up at you as you trace his jaw with your thumb. He takes your hand in his, kissing your fingers, your knuckles.

"Maybe, maybe not." 

"Mm, tease, aren't you?" He smirks, lips edging towards yours. He licks his lips, hands gripping at your hips to keep you close. "Hm, pretty girl?" He whispers just as his lips graze yours, followed by a light, feathery kiss. You finally dip forward to lock him into a kiss.

It's soft at first. Sweet. 

Yunho's lips against yours feel perfect. Like it was molded to fit yours, to console you, to keep you safe;

Like it was made to love you.

Your hands fall to his cheeks, thumb pads grazing the surface, his jaw. The kiss deepens quick, tongues moving together in a slow dance. Yunho grip on your hips tightens, egging you to move on him. 

And you do just that.

Slowly, eagerly. With intent, meaning.

"Yunho." You breathe out, trapping him into another kiss just as he bites onto your bottom lip and tugs it back. 

"Yeah, baby?" He whispers, hand coming up behind your neck; fingers threading through your hair to keep you close. 

"Wish we could be home right now."

"Say the word and I'll take you home." You giggle against his lips, pecking him once more.

"You've gotta pick up Seora later."

"I can stop by yours before I do." He leans forward to continue kissing you like there's no tomorrow. "I plan to tell Seora tonight, by the way." You pause, hands still cupping his cheeks.

"A-are you sure, love?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" He rubs at the sides of your thighs, but you sit back— titling your head as you look at him.

"Maybe we should wait a bit more? You just took her to the cemetery to see her mom, Yu. She might need time."

"She'll be okay. I just.. I wanna tell her sooner than later. Or else, I'll feel like it's never the right time and that's unfair to you."

"Well, she's the one who matters the most."

"I promise she'll be fine. You trust me, right?"

"I do. It's not that. I'm just not sure how she'll react." It's true, you don't know how she'll react and that's what you're afraid of. You're afraid she'll take it the wrong way, you're afraid she'll never look past it. You're afraid she'll never accept this.

And if she doesn't, then it'll be something you'll have to accept.

Seora will always come first and you will never do anything to challenge that. To break her beautiful relationship with her father, to ruin her comfort zone.

"Either way, it's going to be an adjustment, but we'll make this work."

"Together?"

"Always." His eyes fall to your lips before he dips in for another sweet, long kiss. You giggle after awhile, breaking the kiss to look at your phone.

"Fuck. Maybe we should head back." You flash your phone at him, seeing there's only about 10 minutes left of break." Yunho sighs, groaning a bit.

"Fine."

"Grump." You joke as you climb back into the passenger's seat.

"No seriously, can I pop in before I pick up Seora?"

"Yunho." You pinch his arm. "And be late to pick her up? Absolutely not."

"Ah— okay." He pouts as he starts up the car and begins to head back toward the hospital. "Are you working from home any day this week?"

"Maybe." You laugh, and he wiggles his eyebrows. You swear Yunho is such a dork, but you fall for him more and more every day. 

"There's my invite." 

"You're too much." He slides his free hand into yours, kissing the surface.

"Just love my time with you, that's all." He smiles softly. Yunho looks at you, and he just feels love. He feels lucky to have found someone again who understands him, takes him for him and is willing to love him and all that he comes with. 

He doesn't want to lose that.

Even though he knows it'll be tough, he doesn't want to lose that.

The ride back to work is quiet besides the tiny kisses shared before hopping out to get back to your offices. You've got a few hours left in your workday, and for Yunho, it's a little longer in comparison with all the tickets he's helping the team with. He's also got a check-in meeting to finalize the plans for the new unit before he can wrap up and call it a day.

All in a day's work.

"Hey." He hears a familiar voice as he straps in his backpack and throws his hat on before heading out for the afternoon.

"What's up?" Yunho looks at Seonghwa with a small smile. "You look beat."

"I am." 

"Didn't you see Yoori earlier?" Seonghwa walk alongside of his bestfriend as they head out to the staff garage.

"Yeah. That didn't go all that well."

"Well, how do you expect her to act?" Seonghwa shrugs.

"I don't know, but quite frankly, I'm getting kinda tired of it."

"What?" Yunho snorts. "You wanted the casual, lowkey thing."

"Yeah, but things were kinda changing. Now, we barely even do anything. We don't go out, we don't have fun. Nothing. It's usually a quick outing to eat or else we stay at each other's places."

"Isn't that the point of lowkey and casual?" Yunho looks at him. "What's making you second guess? Noeul and the whole club thing?"

"Maybe?" Yunho shakes his head.

"Figure it out first. Don't get Noeul wrapped up in this even more if you aren't sure."

"I feel bad, I brushed her off earlier."

"Exactly, Hwa. Don't do that. Not only cause she's Y/N's friend, but you don't string someone along because you want a fun backup." Hwa sighs.

"It's not even just that."

"Then?" Yunho unlocks his car and tosses his backpack in the trunk.

"I don't know."

"Figure it out, my guy. Wouldn't hurt to get expedited shipping on that either. Someone's gonna end up real hurt if you aren't honest about what you want and need right now." Hwa sighs. "Can never be simple with you, can it?"

"Anyway. Did you see Y/N earlier?"

"Mhm. Of course." Yunho chuckles.

"Are you still planning to tell ace tonight about you two?"

"I think so, yeah. I kinda just wanna rip the bandaid off."

"Goodluck. I'm sure she'll be fine eventually. But, let me know how it goes."

"Deflecting." Yunho teases making Seonghwa roll his eyes as he starts to back away towards the direction of his car.

"Fuck off, alright? Tell ace I said hi." Yunho chuckles before sliding into his car and heading out to pick up his daughter and his tiny-but-not-so-tiny bestfriend. He parks in the school's lot, walking over to the gym to catch the tail end of practice. He watches as they run their last play of the evening, running a few minutes over time. Coach calls it, yelling out the play until the girls run it all the way through in perfection. Yunho nods, loving these moments when he can see his baby girl in action. He greets a few of other parents before watching Seora drag herself to the locker room to grab her things and head home. "Hey ace." Yunho says when he sees Seora dragging her huge duffle bag along. He laughs and takes it from her, slinging the strap over his shoulder. "How was practice?"

"God, awful. We ran so many of the plays just to get a feel for it for the next playoff game."

"That's good."

"Not good. My legs are beat." She looks up at him as she sips her water bottle. "What's dinner?"

"Was thinking we could just do kimchi-jjigae."

"Mm. Yum!" She says, throwing her backpack in the trunk once it's popped open. "Sounds good right about now."

"Yeah, doesn't it?" When the trek home begins, Seora starts to tell her father about her day and how much of a good day she had. None of her friends were out sick, and they got to watch movies in a couple of her classes. The more he hears her talk about her day, the more he feels the guilt building in the pit of his stomach.

Because he would be the reason that would change.

The reason why her day would ended on such a dramatic, life-changing note.

But, he keeps himself strong— keeps his decision firm because he knows he just has to do it. He looks at her and cherishes her smile and her laugh, hoping he could still see those same bright features once he lays it all out for her. For the future.

He hopes he doesn't lose his baby girl.

When they get home, they greet your parents through the kitchen window and more guilt settled into the pit of his stomach realizing that would be the next step.

You, handling your parents. Hoping they'd support you in this relationship.

Yunho kicks off his shoes and Seora races to the bathroom to shower and get comfy. He decides to get the kimchi-jjigae and rice going before washing up for the night and getting into some pajamas. By the time everything's finished, Seora is already sitting at the table watching her show while Yunho brings over the hot pot of kimchi-jjigae to the center of the table. He grabs their bowls to put some rice inside before setting them down next to the pot They say their grace before digging in, Yunho indulging in the show she has on. She explains the current plot, keeping her father up to date on all the drama that's happened so far. They talk about other shows and upcoming movies in between, Seora basically planning one of their dates as another movie date.

This time, at a different theater. One that has different themes in each theater room, and it switches out almost every month. 

Yunho just agrees, wanting to take Seora anywhere just so she could be happy and they can spend time together outside of the house. When dinner is done, Yunho and Seora clean up the dishes and close out the kitchen, but Seora finds it a good time to dig for some dessert to balance out the savory meal they've had.

Yunho also finds it a good time to just cut to the chase.

Let her know what's been going on.

"Ace."

"Hm?" She digs through the fridge.

"Can I talk to you for a sec?"

"If it's about me being head deep into the fridge to find dessert, I'm sorry dad, but I have no regrets." Yunho chuckles.

"No. Listen to me." She shuts the fridge emptyhanded.

"We need more desserts."

"Noted." Seora senses the shift in his tone. The dip.

"What is it, daddy?"

"I've... been seeing someone for awhile now."

"Like friends? I see my friends all the time?"

"No, dating. As in a relationship."

"Dating? Relationship?"

"Yeah." Yunho swallows the lump in his throat when he sees the smile on her face die and turn into a frown. Here it goes.

"Dating?" She repeats in utter disbelief. "So, what was the weekend all about?"

"What does the weekend have to do with what I'm telling you, baby girl?"

"Mom? Visiting her?" She scoffs. "Do you even remember Mom like that, or are you just replacing her with someone because it doesn't even matter anymore? Replacing her with someone who knows where the freaking juice is in the fridge—"

"Seora." Yunho furrows his brows. "Hey, stop that. You do not say that to me. I never said she was replacing your mom. I could never. I just wanted to tell you when the time felt right—" He falters. She stares back at him— expression unreadable at first, then her eyes flicker. "It isn't about forgetting her at all."

"It's about you. It's all about you!" Her tone raises. "You moved on. You moved on and didn't think I'd notice. You're clearly forgetting about her and moving on. You literally don't even care—"

"Seora, that's enough!" She scoffs again, rolling her eyes as she turns to head towards her room. "I thought you'd respond better than that."

"What do you expect me to say, dad? Congrats?!" She pauses and shakes her head. "Whatever. Have fun playing house with your new girlfriend."

"Seora!" She slams the door to her room, leaving Yunho dumbfounded in the living room. His jaw ticks, and he's not sure how to navigate this. Seora has never been this mad at Yunho and vice versa; sure, he's had to calmly discipline her before and correct mistakes, but they've never had this big of an argument.

Whenever they'd disagree, he knew it could easily be salvaged. They'd talk about it, Yunho would fix things patiently. They'd get back to the way they were. Seora would take her lessons to heart and wouldn't make the same mistake again because she'd never wanna disappoint her father, the most important man in her life. Her bestfriend.

Now, it doesn't feel so easily salvageable. Yunho has never seen her so mad. He's never felt this much anger and disappointment. He's not sure how long it'll take to blow over, or how they'd even move past this.

All he can do is sigh, running his hand through his hair before he mutters a short 'fuck' to himself. He cleans the living room and shuts off the lights for the night, sadly heading to bed when Seora doesn't come out for the rest of the evening. No goodnight's, no 'I love you's,' no hugs. And Yunho knows he shouldn't let them go to bed like this, but he knows she needs time. He needs time. He doesn't wanna make this worse, and he doesn't wanna do anything to hurt her more.

But, he expected this. He should've known. So, why doesn't he feel prepared at all? 

Where does he go from here?

"Hey babe." Yunho feels himself relax a bit as he settles into his sheets, letting out a small sigh. "You okay?"

"I don't know. Definitely did not go as planned." You feel your heart beating against your chest, anxiety slightly rising. Of course it didn't go well. You also expected it, so why don't you feel prepared at all? 

What a silly question to ask, Y/N.

"I'm sorry." You respond softly. "Maybe she really just needed time, Yu."

"I guess. Maybe it is my fault." He says defeatedly. "I don't think any other time would've been the right time, and I think she would've reacted this way regardless." He sighs. "But, part of me really hoped she'd be open to it. I don't know what to say to her, I don't know what to do. We've never been in an argument like this."

"Don't push her any further on this, okay? Let it settle and talk about it with her when things feel better."

"Yeah."

"We'll get through this, remember?"

"Mmyeah." He tries to be positive, but it's already killing him how upset Seora is. The silence on the phone is telling, and the silence is enough to scare you. It only makes you fear telling your mom even more, knowing she won't be supportive of it either.

You've talked about the possibilities, so why don't the both of you feel prepared?

⇢taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @nopension @curse-of-art @thechaotictheoryy @likexaxdaydream @dalsuwaha @enha-stars @yasuraokaa @professormingisglasses @yunyunrin @pommelex @astral-trashcan @laura1399 @domfikeluva @tournesol155 @hwaskookies @yusalterego @hwa-stars @hyukssunflower @chngbnwf @jaytheatiny @lucid-galaxys-world @chaotic-floral @sofkloster @honeyrecommends @hwashua-luv @luvv4bby @spicxbnny @pandyandy71 @sanniesaurus @angel-hyuckie @wolviejex @purpleyou7x @honeyhotteoks @woovalin @piecessoull @prodsh00ky @seesawsaredangerous

[malachianderson]

After the leak, speculation went wild, [Chi whispered, falling down onto Vince easily since there was nothing really keeping him up.]

Everyone was guessing all these big names, and as each one said no, people started realizing it had to be someone n-new. So then a bunch of other nobodies... I guess got out there and tried to claim it was theirs. David said it was the Wild West for about an hour. It was a good thing I wasn't there.

But then I guess Kadence got tired of it, so she went live. She said she wasn't supposed to and her publicist was probably going to bite her head off later, but... she wanted to set the record straight. So she got on Live and... confirmed that it wasn't a household name who designed her dress, but it... i-it... it was "p-perfectly made" and "the freshest design she had worn in years"... [Chi barely got out, starting to tear up again.]

And... And I guess she was still trying not to say exactly who made it because there was this whole op-ed piece that was supposed to go out on her website in a couple days, so she just kept... saying I was an "amazing newbie" that's gonna "take the fashion world by storm"--you know, kind of generic stuff... B-But then my name leaked during the end of the Live, and she just came out with it because there was no point in denying it anymore, and now... n-now there's so many people trying to learn more about me. Even David's getting calls from people asking who I am...

Fine. Fine, [Chi agreed, quickly unlocking his phone again (and ignoring the second flood of social media notification that had come in) so he could press the only contact that he knew would be able to give him the full run down on whatever was going on: David.

Before Chi could even open his mouth to say 'hello', David took off, going a mile a minute as he gave the entire run down on what happened. It was only once he had completely caught up to the current moment that David even stopped to ask if Chi was still there.]

...Y-Yeah. ...Y-Yeah, I am... [Chi whispered, his throat claggy from all the tears threatening to fall.]

[There were a few more minutes of 'conversation' with David (mostly him talking at Chi about how things were still stagnate with Patrick) before David finally took a breath long enough for Chi to cut in and shakily say his goodbyes.

Once he ended the call and threw the phone back onto the bed, he hugged himself tightly and tucked into himself.] ...Oh my God...

[sweetiechichi]

something softer

pairing: mattheo riddle x f!reader

summary: you’re not really friends with mattheo riddle. more like acquaintances who share a few mutuals and the occasional eye contact. he’s known for breaking rules and hearts, not for being helpful. so when he offers to teach you guitar after a passing comment, you don’t question it. but sitting on his bed, fingers tangled in frets and tension, you realize this might not be the casual hang you thought it’d be.

warnings: mild language, suggestive tension, soft!mattheo, slowburn/mutual pining, not proofread

wc: 2.8k

it wasn’t really meant to become a thing.

you weren’t friends with mattheo riddle. not exactly.

you knew the same people--theo, pansy, enzo here and there. enough overlap that your worlds brushed up against each other sometimes. same parties. same corners of the common room. you’d sit nearby in group conversations, trade the occasional glance when someone said something ridiculous. but that was it.

you’d never really talked. not just the two of you.

mattheo’s reputation had a way of preceding him--known for breaking noses, breaking curfew, and breaking hearts, all while being unfairly attractive about it.

he wasn’t exactly known for being approachable. or friendly. or even tolerable, depending on who you asked.

but he’d never been anything but decent to you.

he held the door open when you were behind him. he never interrupted you when you talked. he didn’t flirt either--which, honestly, made him more suspicious. mysterious. annoyingly intriguing.

there wasn’t much to go on. no late-night conversations. only a few long stares across a crowded room. just a quiet, consistent sort of awareness. like you were on his radar for reasons he never bothered to explain.

you didn’t know what to do with that. so you didn’t do anything at all.

until last week.

it started, as most things did, with theo being a nuisance.

he was halfway through declaring that every attractive person must know how to play guitar--"scientifically proven," apparently--as the group wandered back from dinner, voices echoing down the corridor.

"there is no one hotter," he said, gesturing dramatically, "than someone strumming a sad chord while pretending they don’t care if you’re watching."

"you literally don’t play guitar," pansy deadpanned.

"i could," theo argued. "if i tried."

"you did try," enzo said. "you broke a string and blamed mercury retrograde."

you laughed, tucking your hands into your sleeves.

"to be fair," you added, "mercury retrograde does ruin lives."

pansy turned toward you then, smirking.

"honestly, i could see you in a band, y/n. like... moody bassist energy. black boots, tragic past--"

you rolled your eyes, grinning despite yourself.

"okay, rude--but not entirely inaccurate."

then, a little more honestly--

"i’ve always kind of had this fantasy, actually. of being, like… the mysterious girl in a band. eyeliner smudged, guitar slung over my shoulder, never speaking to anyone unless it’s during soundcheck."

that earned a round of snorts and knowing nods.

"you’d eat that up," pansy laughed.

"i would," you giggled. "i just never learned. not the eyeliner part. the guitar."

and maybe you would’ve left it there, just a throwaway comment, one of a thousand.

but then mattheo, who hadn’t said a word since leaving the great hall, spoke for the first time.

"i’ve got a guitar in my room."

you blinked.

he didn’t look at you when he said it. just kept walking, hands in his pockets, like it wasn’t even a big deal.

"come by sometime." "i’ll show you."

simple. offhand. like he was offering a spare quill.

like he hadn’t just casually invited himself into the fantasy you barely meant to say out loud.

but--god--he was so unfairly attractive about it you wanted to throw yourself into a vanishing cabinet.

maybe it was how casual he was. like it didn’t even matter to him if you said yes.

just an open door.

and now here you were, sitting on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with your sleeves, the sound of the fireplace crackling softly behind you.

his room was surprisingly clean, but not in a showy way. a stack of worn books sat haphazardly on the desk. his boots were tucked beneath it, scuffed and unlaced. the window was cracked slightly, letting in the sharp scent of rain on stone. there was a coffee mug on the windowsill, mostly empty. the walls were plain except for a few old posters--one band you recognized, the others faded with corners curled.

it looked like him. careless, but not thoughtless.

he was crouched near the bed, pulling the guitar from its case with one hand and grabbing a couple of picks off the floor with the other. he didn’t seem rushed; just focused, humming quietly under his breath like you weren’t watching him.

you cleared your throat, barely loud enough to cut through the quiet.

"thanks for offering by the way," you said, voice softer than you meant. "you didn’t have to."

as soon as the words were out, you regretted them.

he glanced up, giving a small smile, a pick balanced between his wet lips.

"didn’t seem like a big deal."

you smiled a little, swinging your feet.

"still. it was nice."

he looked over his shoulder, eyebrows slightly raised, and smirked.

"what, you didn’t think i could be nice?"

the way he said it made your stomach flip--light, teasing, but with just enough weight to catch you off guard.

your laugh came out softer this time.

"i mean--no, i just..."

he shook his head gently, that boyish look in his eyes.

"relax, doll. i’m messing with you."

you looked down, heat crawling up your neck.

"sorry. i don’t know why i’m so nervous."

he didn’t respond right away, but you could feel his eyes on you. not judging--just watching. like he didn’t expect that answer and didn’t want to miss any part of it.

you kept talking, voice lower now.

"it’s just...it’s been a while since i tried something new in front of someone."

he leaned forward, grabbed a few more picks off the floor. then he looked up, face scrunched slightly like that thought almost offended him. it didn't.

"nah. don’t be nervous. you’ve got it. i’ll show you."

he leaned over, starting to actually pull the guitar from its case, handling it with casual ease. his bicep stretched, briefly straining the hem of his sleeve. kill me now.

"so," you said, clearing your throat halfway through the word, "how long have you been playing?"

you weren’t dying for the answer--you just needed something to fill the silence, which was starting to feel weirdly loud. the kind of quiet where every creak in the floorboards echoed louder than it should.

he glanced over his shoulder again, brows lifting slightly at the question.

"shit...probably like..."

he turned back to the guitar, one hand brushing up to tug at the curls at the nape of his neck.

"fuck, i don't know."

a quiet, breathy laugh slipped out of him.

"a few years. picked it up when i was bored one summer."

he strummed a lazy chord, the sound low and slightly uneven in the best way.

"didn't have anyone to teach me, so i just...figured it out."

there was a beat of silence as he adjusted one of the tuning pegs. then he spoke--calm, a little cocky.

"why? you want a lesson or something?"

you raised an eyebrow at his teasing.

"no, i just really needed to see your half-empty coffee mug and three posters falling off the wall."

he laughed, a real one this time.

"okay here, i'll show you something easy."

he walked over holding the guitar by the neck, the thick wooden piece looking small in his large hand.

though your eyes fell to your fingers picking at each other, his dark eyes subtly observed your anxious state.

though he'd never admit it, he thought your nervous posture was quite cute. maybe even instructing in a way, challenging him to take advantage of your vulnerability.

the weight of him atop the bed shifted your body into him, making you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

he sat down beside you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. the neck of the guitar hung loosely in his grip, fingers tapping absently along the frets like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

he smirked, shifted a little closer on the bed, and patted the space next to him.

thigh brushing yours, he didn’t move away.

you gave a small shrug, still twisting your fingers. his gaze flicked to them. then to your face. then back to the guitar, like none of it meant anything.

the guitar looked almost small against him, but in his hands, it somehow looked like it belonged there.

he glanced at you, eyes falling to your hands again.

"you've got soft, little fingers," he hummed simply.

you choked on your breath.

your brain immediately short-circuited, catching the weight of those five words and spinning them into something they probably weren’t meant to be. your cheeks went red hot.

he looked over, mildly confused--then gave a crooked smile, catching on.

"not like that," he said, a little laugh under his breath. "just--guitar strings hurt. they’ll rough up your hands a bit. see mine?"

he put out his hands, casually rotating them to reveal calloused, scarred skin. you nodded quickly, still trying to remember how breathing worked.

"right. yeah. obviously."

smooth.

he turned back to the guitar, still smiling to himself like he’d won something you didn’t know you were playing.

"you alright?" he asked, voice low, amused but not unkind.

you nodded quickly.

he smiled, the kind of smile that barely showed, just curled at the corner of his mouth like he was trying to hide it.

"you're acting like i’m about to throw you on stage," he teased, shifting the guitar slightly. "it’s just me."

you gave him a look.

"you’re kind of intimidating, mattheo."

he let out a short breath, glancing at you with a half-smile.

"funny," he said, fingers idly brushing a string, "most people say that about you."

you tilted your head, surprised.

"me?"

he shrugged, eyes briefly falling on your legs.

"you’re quiet. always watching. people don’t know what you’re thinking."

then, after a beat—his voice low, a little more sure—

"that sort of thing gets to people."

your heart gave a small, traitorous flutter. he caught it, of course. smirked, just barely.

"not me though."

your cheeks flushed despite yourself.

"thanks," you muttered, half hiding behind your hair as you tucked it back again.

he leaned a little closer, just enough that your arms brushed.

"here--" he said gently, "let's get you started."

he guided your hand toward the neck of the guitar, fingers skimming yours as he helped you find the right frets. his touch was light but purposeful, and when you looked at him again, he was already watching you--not with amusement this time, but with something quieter. something softer.

"hold it like this," he said, his voice warm. "yeah... just like that."

you smiled without meaning to, a little stunned into silence. he didn’t push it.

instead, mattheo shifted the guitar slightly, angling it toward you again.

"alright," he said, fingers brushing yours, "press here yeah?"

he guided your hand, his touch light but sure. his fingertips brushed the inside of your palm as he moved your fingers into place--slow, almost lazy, like he had nowhere else to be.

"good," he said quietly. "just like that."

you pressed down on the string, uncertain.

"you weren’t kidding when you said it’d hurt," you muttered, wincing slightly.

he chuckled under his breath.

"that’s how you know you’re doing it right, y/n"

you glanced up. he was already watching you again, but when your eyes met, he didn’t look away.

"play it."

you did--badly. the chord came out uneven and muted. you cringed.

"that was..."

you looked at him and fell into a fit of giggles.

"...fuck—that was so bad."

he gave a soft laugh, head tilting.

"no," he said, amused. "it was cute."

you rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. he leaned in a bit closer, lowering his voice like it was just for you.

"try again. i'll help."

and this time, he didn’t take his hand off yours.

his hand stayed on yours, steady and warm, and you felt everything in you shift.

you weren’t focused on the chord. you weren’t even hearing the guitar anymore. just the pressure of his palm, the rough glide of his fingertips across the back of your hand as he adjusted your grip again.

"your thumb," he murmured.

and then he reached for it--slowly, deliberately--brushing against your skin to guide it gently into place. the touch was light, but it sent a jolt up your arm, sharp and warm all at once. like static under your skin. like he knew exactly what he was doing.

your breath caught.

he must’ve felt it--how still you went, how your hand trembled slightly under his. but he didn’t say anything. he just paused there, his fingers lightly curled over yours, not moving, not letting go.

the room felt impossibly quiet. the fire cracked in the distance, but even that sounded muted under the weight of his closeness.

and then--so softly you might’ve imagined it--

"better."

his voice was low, and it hummed through your bones.

you couldn’t look at him. not yet. you knew if you did, you’d find him already observing you--and you weren’t sure what your face would give away. the way your pulse quickened. the heat blooming just beneath your skin. the way one small, guiding touch had unraveled you.

he didn’t pull back.

you stayed like that--his hand over yours, the guitar almost forgotten between you.

neither of you spoke.

he adjusted the guitar on your lap, then reached for your hand--slowly, like he wasn’t in a rush.

"here," he murmured, voice low. "let me."

his fingers wrapped around yours, guiding them gently across the frets. he moved your hand under his, shaping your fingers, steadying your wrist.

you weren’t sure which chords he was playing. you weren’t really listening.

and then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, his thumb moved--just once--brushing slowly across your knuckle. barely there. but it lit every nerve in your body.

it was hard to focus on the music when his hand was on yours, steadying and careful, like he’d done this before--but never quite like this.

once your fingers were in place, he nodded toward the strings.

"alright," he said. "you strum, i’ll play, yeah?"

you looked at him. he was setting up the chords.

you dragged the pick across the strings, hesitant at first, but the sound came out smooth--soft and right. he shifted behind you slightly, adjusting his grip on the neck of the guitar, his knuckles brushing yours as he changed chords.

the rhythm was simple, but something about it made your chest feel full.

you kept going. strumming. letting him lead.

you finally looked at him.

he was already watching you.

not smirking. not teasing.

just... looking. like he’d been waiting for you to meet him here at this exact moment. quiet, close, no pretenses between you.

your lips parted, something unspoken caught in your throat--but you didn’t have to say it.

there was something different in his expression--something quieter. the usual sharpness in his eyes had softened, like he’d just realized this wasn’t just some random moment. like maybe you weren’t just anyone to him anymore.

then--knock knock.

the sound made you both flinch.

you jumped slightly, eyes flicking to the door. mattheo blinked, like he was waking up from something.

"dude!" theo called from the hallway. "we're gonna be late!"

mattheo exhaled slowly, like the interruption had pulled him out of somewhere he hadn’t meant to go. his fingers slipped from yours, lingering for a second longer than they needed to.

you stood, smoothing your shirt as you stepped toward the door, heart fluttering somewhere near your throat.

"quidditch," he said quietly, almost apologetic.

you nodded, hand on the doorknob.

"i’ll see you. thanks again," you offered softly, already feeling the warmth bloom in your chest when he didn’t hesitate.

"come by tomorrow," he said, voice just above a whisper. "if you want."

you turned to look at him. his hair was a mess, his hand resting on the neck of the guitar still on the bed. and his smile—barely there, but real--was enough to make your heart flutter.

"i want to," you nod. "i will."

and for a second, he just stood there, like he didn’t know what to do with that feeling. then he gave you the tiniest nod, and his eyes dropped to the floor in that rare moment of boyish bashfulness.

you opened the door--and stepped right into theo.

he froze. his eyes flicked to yours, then quickly took in the entire situation: you, leaving mattheo’s room, the faint smile still on your face, the faint blush in your cheeks. he didn’t say a word.

just raised his brows a little, as if to say damn...

then looked past you toward mattheo, who stood just inside the door like he was already bracing for whatever theo wasn’t saying.

you gave theo a quiet, polite smile as you passed. he nodded once, still silent, still watching.

and when you disappeared down the corridor, theo turned back to mattheo with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"what the fu--,"

mattheo just ran a hand through his hair, already walking past him.

"shut up."

A/N: eeekk thank you so much for reading! pls check out my other stuff, as i cannot wait to put more full fics out for u guys.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦢˚. ᵎᵎ also, divider creds to: @dollywons (im obsessed)

[rotagnus]

pieces of comfort for u. | 🐠

hiii guys 🧍‍♀️sorry for not posting for a while. i haven't been doing so well so i took an unannounced break. i hope that all of you have been doing well! i feel like so much changed ever since my last post on here, and i hope that you guys have had more abundance in your arms since then. this post will give you some reassurance that you desperately need :). don't worry, i haven't forgotten the eyecontactship reading...sorry to all those who were waiting.

pile 1.

receive, the hermit, trust, sanctuary, the initiation.

you guys are the most suspicious people i've ever heard of oh dear lord. you prefer to stay away from everyone and never be open, at all. even when you tell yourself you are, you're just giving people a facade that illustrates the exact opposite of who you are inside, and everybody sees it but you. i just got the image of a kid sitting alone in my head while everyone else plays. you guys have deep-rooted wounds lingering in you, the fear of being alone a big one--truly alone. which is why you make sure people stay by giving them a surface-level version of you because you believe that the true version of you is 'too much' or 'too hard' to love, which only attracts people who want you for SURFACE-LEVE things, because you never ever open up truly. shame, because deep inside, you're fucking gorgeous. holy.

for now, your blessing is that you'll be able to let go of that desire to control how people view you. you're in the midst of a process that'll change you and your view of the world forever; for now, seek some guidance from any mentor figure you have...deities, parents, teachers, older figures. you need some reassurance, so don't be scared to ask for it. i promise you...i think all of you are scared that no one will ever love you the way you love, and that's not true. there are. there are people like that. friends, lovers, other figures. they exist. but you need to blossom and open before that comes. your comfort is that you'll get all of those people, but first, my love, you must break this old layer of skin and let your true, colorful self, shine. change is coming.

pile 2.

hope, prosperity, leap, healer.

ahhhh my intuitive pile, but blessed to always know the right thing but never believe it. head bowed down, ready to give your power so easily without expecting it back. why do none of you have boundaries? i know this is about comfort buttt...point is, the comfort that's coming is that you will learn to set boundaries. unfortunately i feel like a lot of you tend to attract people who seep off of your energy, and it's NEVER the people you expect. stop idealizing people who have done you wrong and get them out because there are people who would do ANYTHING for you (not in the freaky obsessive way, but in the gentle, loving way. you guys feel like you're drowning because you can't leave...but it also doesn't feel right to stay.

honey, you'll leave. i know you, right now, don't feel like this is possible, but it is. you'll leave and you'll feel so blessed and free and all that weight you've been carrying on your back will go away. you'll realize how you gave away those beautiful pieces of yourself too easily, and you'll be rewarded with more opportunities that give you the same energy BACK. you guys are the kind of people who feel bad for others with bad paths but...those people have the power to heal, as you do. and guess what, you healed!! if they didn't, you're not their mother. don't try to fix them. it's not more heroic. you guys will learn that lesson, and better things will come to you.

pile 3.

death, scorpions, awareness, cycles.

a lot of you guys have just finished a cycle that left you windblown, feeling empty. this emptiness will not last forever. think about planting flowers; first, you must clear the soil of debris, then put the seed in. and honey, you bet it takes time to grow. just because it's underground doesn't mean nothing's happening. a lot of you feel extremely self-conscious, for your physical body, your mistakes, your actions, literally everything. maybe it feels like you're in some twisted, sick reality show. baby, you gotta take a deep breath. i can feel your anxiety through this reading, and i promise you, things aren't as bad as they seem. some of you have severe sleep deprivation and knotted muscles so i highly recommend doing some stretches or taking a nap.

this pile is my pile that became mature wayyy quickly. way way WAY. so right now, do yourself a favor. be kinder to yourself. do the things you always wanted to do, dress like you wanted to. yknow? visit those places. this rebirth happened because you were out of alignment and were willing to take what you're given and settle just like that instead of pushing for what you truly deserve. me and you both know you guys have a heart of gold and would gladly let people step all over you just to keep the peace, but you guys truly do deserve better. the world is telling you to fight for it, but before this? rest. things that you want are coming, as long as you don't fill that void in you with mere distractions.

[am-i-interrupting]

Hi so sorry to bother you but may I request a silco x female reader where both silco and reader are both biologically Mylo's parents and reader was a woman who worked at the brothels and she met silco (this is when they were both young in their early or mid twenties and it was before the revolutionary war at the bridge) and reader ends up sadly dying after Mylo is born so he has no idea who his parents are again sorry to bother you you don't have to do this if you don't want to.

Never See Him Grow

Mylo never really knew his parents. Claggor had some inkling, memories of blurred faces. Vi and Powder knew the names and habits of their own parents. Even Ekko had some vague ideas.

Mylo knew one thing. His mother worked in the brothels.

He only knew that because he’d been raised there until Vander picked him up one day and decided not to let go. The people there did what they could but even the prettiest didn’t have much. He grew up starved and dirty, malnourished in the streets.

Once, one of the girls sat outside with him, not caring that her cigarette smoke blew directly in his face, and told him more than anyone else. It was what he’d learned over time was his birthday and she was more than a little inebriated at the time.

“She knew who he was, you know,” she said as she leaned close to him. “Your daddy.”

He didn’t know that.

She grabbed his chin. It caused the little fat and skin of his cheeks to scrunch up. His face got pulled close to hers and she looked at him so intently.

“Said you had his eyes and that’s it,” she told him. “And no matter how hard I try, I still can’t find anybody with ‘em.”

She let go of his face and took the effort this time to blow her smoke away from him.

“That and your name was the last thing she said.”

Mylo would join her search after that night for someone else with similar eyes but too many people had blue eyes. Fewer people had blue eyes tinted with green though.

After a while, he just stopped caring. It was too much effort with far too much disappointment.

One day, when he was beaten down and tired. His stomach felt like it’d expanded from the little food he managed to cram into it. He sat at the bar.

He was twelve and freshly taken in by Vander. Well, not fresh. It’d been almost a year but it still felt new.

“Did you know my mom?” he asked.

“Yes, I did,” Vander answered.

“What was she like?”

“Too good for this world. Smart, quick witted, charming, cared more than she ought to.”

Mylo was silent for a moment and then, “What about my dad?”

Blue-green eyes looked up at Vander. He couldn’t help but falter for a moment. Because he knew. He knew the information only one other person knew and she was dead.

He lied.

Thirteen years ago was when he learned. When you pulled him away to the back during a shift. Your breathing was heavy and your eyes were wide.

“I’m pregnant.”

He stared at you for a moment. Your hands gripped his so tightly but they shook.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Do you know who the other parent is?”

You breathed in. It was a shaking noise that rattled your chest. Those eyes began to blur with tears. Your lips stretched and partly quivered. You nodded.

He was silent a moment. Then came his answer as your anxious heart filled the emptiness in a desperate attempt to not be alone, “Silco.”

Vander felt his heart stop in his chest. “What? How— how do you know?”

“I haven’t been getting shit, Vander,” you told him. “That’s why I needed to pick up this job. Silco is the only person I’ve been with in the past two months.”

“Does he know?” You shook your head. “You should tell him.” You shook your head again. “Why not?”

“He’s so focused on making plans. They’re good plans, Vander. He can’t get distracted.”

“He deserves to know.”

“When we figure this thing out, he can know but right now it’d just cause problems.”

“Can you—“ he felt sick to his stomach suggesting it but he had to know— “Do you want to get rid of it?”

You took a shaking breath and gripped his hands harder. “I’m more likely to die trying to do that.”.

Vander felt sick now, turning his back to Mylo as he began to fiddle with a lock. Some part of him wished you’d at least have tried because you would die either way.

That wasn’t a fair thought to the boy but the way he was and Vander had watched from afar how he’d been raised, he knew Mylo had had a life of struggle.

Still, with you gone, he tried to at least not fall into what you’d called those many years ago a distraction. It was only after the failed revolution that he’d given into the instinct he’d had all along and brought the boy in.

Three years later, when Silco acquired a daughter, he didn’t know he lost a son.

[dark-l-angel]

I love your omnilingual reader…i require more…pretty please with a cherry on top😫‼️🙏🏽

A/N: We're making it a series, Huh? 😂

Batfam x Omnilingual Reader - PART 5 : The UN Called, They Want Their Interpreter Back

~ Batcave - 10:42 PM ~

Bruce is doing his usual brooding-in-the-dark routine, while the rest of the Batkids are gathered around the table arguing over who broke the coffee machine again. Reader walks in, sipping Yerba Mate like a world peace delegate on vacation.

Dick: "Okay but can we talk about how you straight up seduced a weapons dealer in Romanian?!"

You answered "Correction: I flirted in Dacian Latin. Man was a sucker for ancient dialects. Not my fault he folded like a lawn chair."

Tim (holding his head): "Do you realize how much damage control I had to do?! I had to pretend to be a UN translator and accidentally told the ambassador’s wife she smelled like wet ham!"

Jason (genuinely impressed):

"Lowkey though, that’s a power move. ‘Yo girl, you smell like deli meat’ Boom. Dominance."

Damian arms crossed, offended: "Tt. That’s not even the worst part. They managed to negotiate a peace treaty between two gangs. In Tagalog. With puppet theatre."

You said innocently : "Puppets transcend violence. Learn the art, gremlin."

Alfred passing by with a tray of cookies: "If anyone needs me, I’ll be re-reading the Geneva Convention to see if ‘Diplomatic Menace’ is a chargeable offense."

~ Flashback : Earlier That Week

In gotham museum gala ~

You’d been tasked with “behaving” and “blending in” Naturally, that meant playing interpreter for Bruce while he schmoozed politicians. But somewhere between the second flute of champagne and the Prime Minister of Spain asking you out, chaos ensued.

Prime Minister: "¿Te gustaría venir a Madrid conmigo? Tengo un yate."

You Translating : "He wants to know if you'd like to visit Madrid and see his boat."

Bruce flatly: "Tell him I don’t date politicians."

You in fluent Catalan, smirking : "He says your boat is probably compensating for something."

Dick trying not to snort champagne :

"That’s the y/n we know and love."

~ Back to the Batcave ~

Tim typing furiously: "I tried to look up what you said to the German arms dealer yesterday and all I got was: (Your soul is as soft as a day-old pretzel.) What does that even mean?!"

You(dead serious): "It’s a German idiom. It means he's emotionally constipated."

Jason slamming the holy ghost of the table : "I knew it. That guy did look like he hadn’t cried since 1997."

Damian: "You’re a linguistic weapon of mass destruction. Father should lock you in the vault."

You tilted your head: "Aw, sweetie. If I’m a weapon, then why did you just ask me to help you write a love letter in Arabic last week?"

Entire cave goes dead silent.

Dick: "Ooooooooooohhhh.. exposed."

Jason (laughing so hard he chokes on a protein bar): "You used the love language cheat code?? You sly little demon."

Damian reddening: "She understood the cultural nuance! Do you know how hard it is to convey sincerity in romantic MSA?!"

You with smug : "Maybe next time don’t call her ‘a rose that blooms even in bloodshed.’ That’s... a bit intense for a first date."

Bruce (rubbing his temples): "We’re banning all languages but English in this cave."

You smiling sweetly : "Fine. But you’ll miss me when the next French assassin refuses to speak English and you accidentally offer him custody of Gotham instead of a ceasefire."

Tim googling 'can one person cause an international incident' ):

"Yup. We're doomed."

~ Later that night ~

~ Rooftop Patrol ~

Jason: "Hey, how do you say 'You’ve got pretty eyes' in Russian again?"

You : "Твои глаза, как два сапфира в ночи."

Jason smirking : "...Damn baby girl. Say that again but like, lower. Slower. With a little bit of threat behind it."

You leaned in : "Твои глаза... как два сапфира в ночи."

Jason: "...Okay, now I have to kiss someone or commit a felony. Possibly both."

[dilly-dahlia]

"if y’all want more on specific characters just drop an ask i will gladly answer because it forces me to think about it" Okay.

Vylad.

(please)

guys i’m being so serious but Vylad has actually been so hard for me to figure out because he has such a pivotal role in my rewrite (even if he doesn’t show up for the beginning part) and i need to get like. that good feel for him which I DONT HAVE 😭😭

anyways. as opposed to the more sure “this is Vylad” post like I did with Garroth and Laurance and Dante and whoever else, this is kind of gonna be me throwing stuff at a wall and seeing what sticks. it’s also gonna be me going over some concepts i have for him, even if they’re ones i decided not to go with. you will see me connecting dots in real time. but i promise Vylad is so important and i want to get him to a point that feels right for me!!

okay so we keep the basic mcd lore. affair baby, shadow knight, brought Adelaide (Aphmau) into the world, all that. but i’m gonna start at the beginning

okay, affair baby. i very briefly entertained the thought of Vincent being his birth father, especially since I think the two could have some neat parallels and like obvious similarities yk. plus (and this is more minor) there’s the fact that like, all of the Ro’Meave kids have a name that starts with the same letter as their parents, so like… V and V. ykyk. i decided not to do that cause i feel like that’d be a useless plot line anyway. i’m thinking more like Zianna sort of had a fling with a maritime merchant that often visited O’Khasis

so it’s obvious that Vylad is an affair baby. not only because of his very different appearance compared to his brothers but also because Garte literally announced it and humiliated Zianna. i haven’t figured out the exacts of that but he publicly humiliated her to teach her a lesson

it’s also widely known that Garte hates Vylad. however despite this, Garte took Vylad in as a subtle manipulating “look how kind i am taking in a child that isn’t mine” kind of way yk?? and in the public, at least when Vylad is young, Garte seems to treat him like his own. but in private it’s clear that Garte does not see Vylad as equal to the rest of the Ro’Meave line and kind of shuns him. like he doesn’t give Vylad the same resources his brothers had, especially in academic fields. so Vylad is kind of pushed to the side. Zane kind of plays into that to appease his father

he spends a lot of time with his mother, and with Garroth when Garte allows. Zianna and Garroth actually taught him to read, which is something he’s thankful for because he doesn’t think he would have learned otherwise. Garroth was also the one that was always protecting Vylad from harsh punishments, and a large conflict for Garroth about going to the guard academy was leaving his brother to fend for himself

but Vylad and Zianna spent a lot of time together. their favorite place to frequent is Zianna’s palace garden, where she teaches him the meanings of all sorts of plants and stuff. and when Garte locks Zianna away for whatever “lesson” he’s teaching her, Vylad always finds a way in to keep talking with her. that’s how he got so good at sneaking around later as a shadow knight

okay so as he got older he was sort of excluded more and more from public events. his absence kind of solidified in peoples heads like “oh Garte DOES NOT like this kid…” but Vylad doesn’t mind because he wouldn’t consider himself to be made for these events like the rest of his family

okay so his death. it was something that was semi-planned?? so this kind of serves as a double purpose to also build tensions with Tu’la and all that. so what had happened is that a Tu’la spy infiltrated the O’Khasian guard. and that spy rose through the ranks and became one of Garte’s most trusted and Garte was eventually confiding in them that he wanted Vylad gone, even bringing up a premeditated assassination. the spy took it as an opportunity to kind of put O’Khasis against itself and took it upon themselves to kill Vylad. so his death wasn’t exactly planned, but it was on its way.

so Vylad died when he’s about 16. and he’s actually one of the reasons i have shadow knights age the way they do because I considered having him be like forever sixteen, but i didn’t really like that. i don’t remember why though because i think that’s a fire idea now i might change it…

anyway he’s 16 when he dies. that’s also another reason Garroth isn’t very happy about his marriage to Nicole, because she’s the same age his brother would be, but that’s another topic i’ve already yapped about

back to Vylad!! so he was turned into a shadow knight because it was known that he’s a Ro’Meave, or at least introduced as one. because of this, Gene and whoever else (i haven’t decided who’s in charge) resurrect him assuming he has the blood of Esmund the Protector. when they discover that he doesn’t, they also kind of discard him and hide him away

Vylad eventually breaks out. idk how. but he does. and the thing is he had devised this entire plan to start a new life for himself because he was getting tired of constantly being pushed to the side because he isn’t who people want him to be. so when he breaks out, he steals an orb and herbs that Gene had been working with to plant false memories in someone. Vylad steals this stuff, goes to the Overworld, realizes he doesn’t have a clue what to do, and goes into the sacred forest seeking the help of Hyria

his plan is to give himself a new slate. erase his memories and fabricate a new life for himself to live—one where he would never disappoint anyone or be tossed away. he asks Hyria to help him, and she agrees

before she does that, though, she starts talking to Vylad about the Divine Warriors, warning him about dangers that may come with the memory change. she kind of sort of manipulated him into instead reincarnating Irene, and she kind of used the fact that Vylad is a people pleaser that just wants to be Vylad to convince him to take Irene.

he agrees. with the help of Hyria he created a fake life for this reincarnation to have lived and experience and hides those memories in the orb he stole. and then he starts his journey to find where to place her

now obviously we know he chose near Phoenix Drop. he chose this place because he had been scouting it out for a while beforehand and actually had the suspicion that the head guard was Garroth (who had faked his death at this point, but Vylad didn’t know). so he places the staff or whatever nearby and is absolutely appalled when a whole person just comes out of it. he panics and then she starts waking up and Vylad doesn’t know what to do and he remembers the orb and very quickly does the spell Hyria told him to do

and when she wakes up the first thing Vylad says to her is “Good morning, Adelaide. How did you sleep?” and he comes up with this whole story that she’s a mercenary and then whatever else i decided that i can’t remember now

and. Vylad named her Adelaide, and he named her that because it was a name his mother loves. she always said that if she had a daughter her name would be Adelaide, so to put some goodness into this new being he named her what the most good hearted person he knows would have

and until we get a proper introduction to him in my rewrite, Vylad will be a recurring motif. i haven’t decided what exactly he’s going to mean, but he will often come to Adelaide in dreams or Adelaide will often talk fondly about the person she travelled with before settling in Phoenix Drop

overall Vylad is very insecure. he has this looming fear that everyone he comes across hates him and in an attempt to get people to like him, he ends up being a people pleaser or quiet altogether.

and that’s all i have for him 😢 i wish i had more for you anon because i love Vylad so much and he’s so important to me but alas. i hope you enjoyed this regardless

once again if you wanna know about a specific character just drop an ask! if be happy to answer :)

[laurynjc-art]

Trial Separation: A BMC One-Shot

I watch as Jeremy hoists the box into his arms and shoves it into the back of his car with the other piles of junk he’s lugging out to college. I’m honestly a little surprised that he’s kept up the whole “impure thoughts = push-ups” thing his squip forced him into last year, but old habits do die hard. I don’t mind. He can finally be useful when we’re at my place and I get a sudden desire to rearrange my bedroom in the middle of the night. And his girlfriend Christine certainly doesn’t mind, either. I have plenty of blackmail from knowing Jeremy for thirteen years, but I’m sure he’ll do anything I ask if I ever threaten to tell Christine why Jeremy wound up a beefcake overnight.

I wish I could say I was part of the junk Jeremy was bringing up to college, but earlier in the year, it was made pretty clear that Jeremy was flying out in the world solo. This was an upsetting realization for both of us- “Jeremy, I don’t think I even know what I want to do with my life.” I’d told him at some point after we took the SATs.

“What do you mean?” He asked. “You’re not going to kill yourself, are you?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know what I want to do with my life.” It was some decision paralysis, mostly; I could do just about anything. Math, science, coding, I know computers inside and out. But the question was: what skills needed more refinement? What could I get by on? Like how I was already taking Calculus 1 as a junior, which is a lot more than some people can say. And what if I wanted to try and learn about something completely new? I’m not much of an artist, my writing is abysmal by Jeremy’s standards… I got to a point where thinking about it for too long made me want to start screaming.

But then at some point I remembered: oh yeah, high schoolers aren’t legally mandated to be shipped off to college as soon as they graduate. And my decisions began to clear up.

I thought about staying home for another year or so to work, bulk up my savings, maybe take some community college classes if I’m really bored. And school blows, maybe breaking up my theoretical sixteen consecutive years of education and giving myself a break would be better for me.

We had a really long discussion one night about this, Jeremy and I. About our lives and what the future might look like. Which sucked for him, I know I was the one hyping him up about college, and now I’m the one having second thoughts and backing out. There was a lot of weed and a lot more crying, all the while my Wii’s menu music served as the background track to our bout of vulnerability.

Eventually, after a good while of silence, Jeremy lit up a roll and said, “You can do whatever you want.” His phrasing and tone scared me, as did the fact he took a long drag on his joint without saying anything else. I worried this was going to be Jake’s Halloween Party all over again, but then Jeremy grinned and looked back at me with more tears in his eyes. I’m not sure if they were genuine or a result of him getting too high. “I’ll always be behind you. And hey, maybe a trial separation is a good thing.”

“You were the one who made me swear that we’d be going together,” I joked.

“Because I’d miss you!” Jeremy wailed. I chuckled, he was definitely too high. “I can’t stand it when you’re home sick from school, what am I supposed to do when we’re actually God knows how far away from each other?”

“Hey. Hey.” I put my arm around his shoulders. “We’ll figure it out. No matter where we end up.”

And finally, I cleared my decision with my moms, who were more than thrilled to let me stay a basement dweller for another year or so.

Jeremy slams the trunk of his car shut and leans on it, looking at me like he’s expecting me to say something.

“Is that all?” I ask.

“Mm-hm.” Jeremy nods, but his lips are pursed in his “I’m sad but don’t want to talk about it so I’m going to just run away and cry” way. Like he thinks I can’t see right through him.

“Do you want to talk?” I ask him.

“No,” is all he says.

“Do you want me to leave so you can cry into your porn?”

“Shut up.” Jeremy takes a swing at me, but I catch his arm and pull him into an embrace. He hugs me back just as hard.

“It’ll only be a few months, Jer,” I say.

“I know,” he replies. I could hear that he was crying, and I might’ve accidentally made it worse by rubbing his back. He sobs, then says, “I’ll just miss you, man.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Jeremy lets me go so he can wipe his face, and a thought crosses my mind that I worry is a bit too coupley, but hey, who decided articles of clothing were only supposed to be exchanged with a significant other, anyway?

So, as if I’d been planning it all day, I untie my jacket from my waist and hand it to Jeremy.

“Here. Now I’ll be going up with you,” I say. Jeremy gasps.

“B-but Michael, this is your favorite!” He objects.

“Well, you’re my favorite.”

Jeremy laughs in a way that’s more like another sob, then says, “What are we, dating in middle school?”

“Good point,” I joke along. “I wouldn’t wear that around Christine, she might get jealous.” Jeremy laughs, really laughs, which makes me laugh, and then I get this pang in my heart because I don’t think it actually registered until now that oh, yeah, we’re not going out into the world together. I don’t know the next time I’ll get a moment like this. I start tearing up a bit and pray that Jeremy doesn’t notice, but of course he does.

“No no, stop,” Jeremy cries, throwing his arms around my neck. I cannot resist picking him up and spinning him around, and we could have stayed locked in our embrace all night if a cold evening wind hadn’t started cutting through us.

“I guess I better go,” I tell him. “Don't… do anything stupid.”

“I’m pretty sure I already cashed in my stupid,” Jeremy smirks, “but yeah. Obviously.”

One more hug, then I’m in my car and waving goodbye to Jeremy through my rear-view window. For a moment, a pit in my stomach forms at the fear that this might be the beginning of the end for us, but I banish it. We’ve separated under worse circumstances and came back together regardless. It’s just a year. He won’t be that far away. And besides, doesn’t distance make the heart grow fonder?

[ducksido]

I have an idea. Stay with me on this, okay?

TWST boys with a reader who's like Cole from Yaelokre personality-wise. Their story? They made a wish to be somewhere else and were running away from home with a troupe of travelling performers. Reader played the role of the Hare in their troupe because of how similar their behavior is to a hare: skittery, solitary, timid, but very loyal. They play the guitar, but never perform until they were allowed to wear their hare mask from their world. Then, they can actually be lead singer, like they were for their troop back home.

(STAY WITH ME JOHNY, I did the first years)

Ace Trappola

At first? Oh, he teases you. Constantly.

“Hey, Hare-chan, you gonna bolt again when Crowley sneezes too loud?”

But then he sees it. One night during a casual Heartslabyul gathering, someone coaxes you into performing. You refuse—until someone brings your hare mask. You slip it on, pick up your guitar… and everything changes.

Ace gawks.

“You’re kidding… That’s really you?” His voice is half teasing, half stunned. Your skittish demeanor vanishes on stage. There’s power in your voice. Control. You even make eye contact behind the mask.

Afterward, he’s less of a jerk (only slightly).

He starts guarding your mask like it’s made of gold. Won’t admit it, but he brags.

“Our little scaredy-hare? Yeah, they shredded the courtyard stage. You should’ve seen the crowd.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce is gentle with you from day one.

He notices how you flinch at shouting and always offers you a quiet seat beside him during lunch. He’s your knight-in-shining-blazer.

When you finally sing in your mask for the first time—maybe during a school festival—he’s absolutely shook.

He doesn’t speak for a solid minute after.

“I didn’t know you… wow. That was amazing.”

From then on, he keeps a careful eye on anyone who tries to mock your nervousness. He’ll say stuff like:

“They’re not just nervous. They’re brave. Braver than anyone who hides behind loud mouths.”

Deuce doesn’t understand the mask at first, but he respects it like it’s sacred. It becomes a symbol of your strength to him.

Jack Howl

Jack relates to the whole quiet loyalty thing.

You remind him of a desert hare—small, skittish, but clever and tough. At first, he treats you gently, respecting your space, never pushing you to speak more than you want.

When he learns about your performer past and sees you perform in the hare mask, he's speechless.

Afterward, he says:

“That… was you? You’ve got guts. Don’t let anyone think otherwise.”

Jack will help you train your confidence—not by removing your mask, but by making sure you don’t get hurt when you choose to wear it.

“A mask doesn’t make you less real. You’re still you. You’re just braver with it on. And that’s fine.”

Epel Felmier

Epel thinks the mask is the coolest thing ever.

He immediately romanticizes your whole “travelling performer” background.

“Wait—like a runaway with a guitar and a secret past? That’s sick.”

He’s the first to ask you to perform at a dorm party. When you decline, he respects it… but when you later show up, guitar in hand, mask on… he cheers the loudest.

He’s like:

“YUU’S IN THEIR FINAL FORM!! LET’S GOOO!”

Epel’s also the one most likely to ask if you can teach him to sing/play guitar too, whispering:

“Y’know, just in case I need a stage persona or somethin’.”

Ortho Shroud (Platonic)

Ortho adores you and your story. He logs everything about your performances, your personality shifts, and even helps repair the mask if it cracks.

He scans your brainwaves during music time and says:

“Did you know your anxiety drops 63% when you wear the mask and play? That’s a neural safety association—like a digital avatar!”

He asks questions, but only when you’re comfortable. He’s curious, not invasive.

He builds a mini holographic backup mask you can use in emergencies.

“You always deserve to feel safe. No matter what form that takes.”

Also creates a special mode in your room: low light, quiet ambiance, and a privacy lock he calls “The Burrow.”

Sebek Zigvolt

At first? Oh, he does not get it.

“WHY DO YOU HIDE BEHIND A MASK? SUCH BEHAVIOR IS UNWORTHY OF A STUDENT ALONGSIDE THE YOUNG MASTER—!”

You flinch. He sees it. And something clicks.

He’s horrified he scared you.

From that point forward, he becomes awkwardly careful around you. He tones down the volume, asks permission before speaking, and even watches your performances quietly from the back—hand over his chest.

When he sees you perform for the first time, he’s speechless.

Afterward, he says (a bit too seriously):

“I… apologize. Your voice is worthy of royal halls. You are… stronger than I gave you credit for.”

Sebek doesn’t understand fear, but he respects courage. He’ll be your overprotective bodyguard from then on—quietly, of course.

Grim

“Why do you gotta wear a creepy bunny mask to sing?! You’re already weird enough!”

But he says it with his tail wagging.

Grim teases you, but it’s affectionate. He’s the one who sits on your foot while you tune your guitar and insists you practice with him nearby. (He pretends he’s guarding you.)

When you finally perform at the school festival in your full hare mask?

“THAT’S MY HENCHHARE!! LOOK AT ‘EM GO!!”

He’s smug. Brags about you constantly. May or may not swipe your mask once to pretend he’s the famous performer.

“Who’s the real star now, huh?! Oh wait—this thing makes me itchy.”

He always brings you snacks after gigs and growls at anyone who tries to mock your quiet nature.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

soulmate au but both halves of the pair are aroace, not out yet, and mortally terrified their soulmate thinks this is gonna be romantic in some way. any one you think will be interesting

The thing about just not giving a shit concerning sex or romance was that sometimes people got… weird about it. Like really weird. Sex was tied up in the idea that ‘all people want to have sex’ and that not liking sex meant something inside you was broken.

Then if you add not wanting romance? People would look at you as if you were crazy. Like you were a freak of nature.

More so when you brought your soulmate into the mix.

While sure, it was much more accepted nowadays that not all soulmates were romantic, nor that they were all heterosexual in nature, it was still… taboo. Strange and odd to be not interested in your soulmate.

Bella as such kept her thoughts to herself.

She liked romance in the form of novels. She enjoyed reading a tragedies and sighing over the drama of a confession. She liked to read the novels she snitched from Renée at a far to young age where sex was common place.

But in general, Bella didn’t want it for herself. And honestly, the knowledge of her soulmate most likely wanting it terrified her. She didn’t want to have anyone interested in her like that.

Renee… didn’t get it. She pouted when Bella tried to avoid talking about boys or when Bella asked for her to knock it off with the talk about Phil. It was always Bella wouldn’t support Renee because she found love outside the soulmate boundaries, Bella was so unfair.

Leaving her mother had a weight off Bella’s shoulders. Charlie, who was actually dating himself she learned when she found out just how many of his fishing trips with Billy also involved one tent, didn’t do what Renee did. Didn’t press and press or talk to much.

Still, Bella didn’t talk about her feelings on romance to anyone.

At least not until her timer went off just as the one on a boy with gold eyes did in the middle of the cafeteria.

“Oh my god your soulmate is Edward Cullen!” Jessica was saying, voice a mix of awe and jealousy. Bella didn’t respond, too busy staring at the boy who stared right back.

Fuck.

-

Edward didn’t like sex. Or romance.

He never talked about it, a deep rooted shame from being even more inhuman stopping him. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that more than just soulmate couplings were around in the world. Jasper and Alice made little secret of where they vanished every time Jasper’s old friends appeared.

There were people who had no interest in their soulmate and some who did. Edward had watched as the world changed around them, even as he remained stuck in time alongside his family. He had come to the realization many of his beliefs as a child were wrong.

But he never could move past the fact he held an utter disinterest in sex and romance. Never could really comprehend the fact that he just didn’t like what he had been led to believe was a basic human want.

Edward didn’t talk about it.

And now, here his wrist beeped as a new student appeared in school. Isabella Swan.

He closed his eyes even.

What was he doing to do?

[wormholxtreme]

He hated the idea of peeling away from her, of letting any distance come between them ever again. But they had time now. A concept that seemed so impossible, daunting, like the tick tock of the Quarter Quell arena, always pressing forward oppressively like marching to their doom. Now was different. They could take the time to pause, to explore, to learn each other again in new and exciting ways they had never dared before.

He squeezed her hand, rubbing his thumb across the side as her own nudged across his knuckles. His head fell back in a laugh. Of course his clothes were fancier, especially his suit, one did not live six years in the Capitol even with all the intention of being humble without getting a few over priced textiles. Still, most of his clothes were simple and cheap and not destroyed by paint or rubbing excess flour on them. "They'd run me out of town before I even got off the train." he laughed.

His smile beamed, crinkles touching the corners of his eyes. Of course she noticed, how could she have not? "I asked the tailor to include mockingjays some how. Subtly. But I wanted them there. That way even if you didn't come you'd still be here with me in someway. But if you like that I've got something you might really enjoy." he mused, a buzz of excitement to his words with a touch of embarrassment to his cheeks.

Peeta pulled her with him, guiding her back down the elevator and into the Capitol streets. His flat down the block. The training center had been revamped, a hotel of sorts in some ways and a historical landmark in others, but he didn't want to live there. Even with the cameras shut off, he never could shake the feeling of being watched. So instead, his place was small and unassuming but nestled in the heart of the city. Easy walking to the university and the hospital where he spent most of his time.

He pointed out the buildings that were in various stages of repair after the rebels took over. It was freeing, walking hand in hand with her down these darkened streets. They'd become familiar to him by now, but he watched her careful, wondering how close she knew they were to the President's mansion, and the grim blood stained ground that surrounded it. He talked about the rebuilding efforts, the way the Capitol citizens seemed to falter at community. So many of them had a hard time asking for help, determined not to let those around them see the scars on them the rebellion caused.

So he did what he always did. He baked bread. First handing some out to neighbors who were too shy to approach him as they struggled to find their footing in the new world order. The Capitol were not as on the brink of starvation as those in 12, but many in his building never had to want for anything. The change was a shock to them. It wasn't long before Peeta was gathering people in his building to cook for each other, to have fun at parties even if they weren't catered and lavish. Not everyone got on board, but he found that most people were kind and giving when given the opportunity and safety to be.

He felt like he'd talked too much by the time they reached his flat, hands still intertwined as he opened the door. Peeta pulled her inside gently. "Sorry about the mess." he apologized, his living room filled to the brim with paintings and sketches. One easel in the middle of the room, half sketched, half painted, the two of them sitting on the beach, feet in the sand as the briny waters lapped at them. "A lot of them are at the university as a sort of evidence outside of the tapes. A different perspective." Peeta explained, rushing to flip over some of the more nightmarish looking paintings.

Peeta rubbed his hands along his slacks, suddenly feeling exposed. His eyes darted away from hers as he looked around the room, realizing that for the first time someone was in his inner sanctum. Nothing was carefully chosen or crafted. Nothing was polished or perfect. It was jumbled and messy. Some were simple and beautiful. Depicting happy faces across twelve that he remembered, a reimagining of what twelve was before the bombing. Some were dark and twisted images, not of mutts but of people in clean white coats with burning cold eyes that followed one across the room no matter where they stood.

"Aaaaanyway." he said in a sing-song voice. "This is my flat."

Katniss let out a quiet, trembling breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but her eyes shimmered. She hadn’t realized how desperately she needed to hear those words—not just that she was worth it, but that someone still believed she was worth choosing. Her fingers tightened lightly on the front of his jacket, grounding herself in the reality that he was here, he was hers, and he was asking her to be a part of his next step.

He dipped forward again, and the moment his lips met hers, every thought vanished—washed away by the warmth of him, the way he fit against her like he'd never left. Her body leaned into his without thinking, drawn to him like the like a moth to a flame. There was something achingly familiar about the way he kissed her, and yet it felt new too, as if they were rediscovering each other after a long winter.

She nodded—hesitant at first, then firmer, a quiet resolve unfurling in her chest like new growth after winter. “Yeah,” she breathed, her lips grazing the edge of his jaw, her voice laced with something lighter this time, something just shy of teasing. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t show up in Twelve looking like you belong on a Capitol runway.” It was her way of drawing them back from the weightier things, gently shifting the air between them. There would be more hard conversations ahead, that much she knew. But right now, she just wanted to remember how it felt to laugh with him again.

Katniss leaned back, a smile playing on her lips. "...Were these your idea?" She tapped one of the mockingjays, trying not to show how endearing it felt. She tugged his hand, slipping her fingers between his. "Come on, lead the way"

[rbb-travels-of-the-cube]

Stop ya silly siren event starts!

Blue Moon jolted as he was teleported away. Suddenly he was sinking as water flooded his systems. A blaring timer ringed in his head telling him to get out of the water. Not that he had meant to go in water. That damn cube.

Blue Moon thrashed as he tried to figure out the surface. This water wasn't clear, It was foggy. Blue Moon could guess it was the ocean. Not that he was too thrilled about that. Sinking deeper due to his size.

Suddenly he felt a rush of movement in the water. His body froze as he panicked. There was something in the water. There was something that could get him. A shark a whale some other abominable beast. It could literally be anything, And it could probably eat him in one bite.

Suddenly his movement grew more erratic as he tried to escape towards the water surface. He could see the glint of deep blue eyes staring at him. A large tail flashing about as the beast circled him. What seem to be nutting or seaweed caught onto its fins. It was getting near. His water intake was starting to become too much.

Suddenly he felt something against his body. Something that was stiff and clearly coming from higher above him. He latched onto it like his life depended on it. Which in his mind it did. He felt the strange object get pulled down by his weight before it stiffened and started to pull up.

Blue Moon crawled up the item himself. Exiting the water surface with a gasp. Not quite focusing on the shouts as you continued to crawl upward. The Stick like object was abandoned as he climbed onto something much larger. Only the panic as his weight made the bigger object tip over.

Blue Moon crawled as a thing flipped onto its head. Digging into what he would assume wood for grip. He didn't stop until something grabbed his ribbon harshly. Causing him to yell and pain and finally assess his surroundings.

The thing that had grabbed his ribbon was some sort of small animatronic. He wore a large lavish captain hat. His face scarred and his eyes glitchy. Wearing a large captain's cloak over an orange undershirt. His pants were a deep midnight blue. The bot was mostly black and orange. Bearing a similar resemblance to him. Although the silver steel underneath the scars was the telling difference.

He was on a boat. Boat he had flipped onto its belly. This was probably the passenger that was holding the oars He had latched onto. Behind in the distance he could see a large ship. He was most definitely in the ocean as it spanned on and on and on and on and on.

"Hold on ya strange land lubr, and stop staring at the water! I got you!"