#One would think it would mean your life is romantic

[glorioustidalwavedefendor]

This is the article:

Financial expert Farnoosh Torabi, host of the So Money podcast and author of A Healthy State of Panic: Follow Your Fears to Build Wealth, Crush Your Career, and Win at Life, is, to put it lightly, not a fan of the stay-at-home girlfriend trend. “I think it's one of the ultimate financial scams,” she says, pointing out that while stay-at-home wives often have financial protections in the event of a divorce, like spousal support and equitable division of assets acquired during the marriage, stay-at-home girlfriends don’t. “I think if you believe in feminism, it also means that you have to care about your financial well-being,” she says. “Money is power. Money is protection. When you don’t have it, and your boyfriend has it, you don’t have power. You don’t have protection. What happens when you go from being a stay-at-home girlfriend to just a stay-at-home girl?” Theoretically, Torabi says, couples could write a prenup-style contract before taking the stay-at-home girlfriend route, specifying what would happen in the event of a breakup and whether the girlfriend’s partner would need to provide her with some sort of financial security. Contracts like this aren’t unheard of, both with roommates and with long-term romantic couples who cohabitate but don’t believe in marriage. But, Torabi says, “I don’t know of any boyfriends who are going to go for that.”

That'swhat I always wondered

Especially since a lot of them are not officially maried

So if he decides to replace her with a younger bouncier modell, then there is nothing she can do about it

Guess there is my answer

It's exactly what I assumed ...

Oh, also:

this little glamorized misogyny "joke" has run its course right. can we leave this corny demonic shit in 2023. it is done now. we've had enough.

[ak319]

Lovesick bubbly hubby x fem reader

ミ☆ Slice of Life

♥︎ Syno: Narin and you had a baby, and it's a boy! ♥︎ Warnings: bxg but matriarchal themes e.g. mpreg mentions! Fluff and lots of it and a bit of spice too..;) ♥︎ previous

If someone had told Narin how different his life would be now, he would pause, blink, and then smile. Because they’d be absolutely right.

In the small moments carved out of his busy routine, as your dearest, only, and unquestionably prettiest husband of the century, and now, as a papa too, Narin finds himself glowing. He’s the proud father of the cutest baby alive: Mylo. Your son. His son. A perfect blend of everything he finds magical in this world. From this marriage to the beautiful home you’ve built together, Narin can’t stop thanking God.

Even his parents, especially his father, noticed a subtle shift in him, something like maturity. Narin, the boy who once barely finished assignments on time, now insists on knowing every detail about how to feed Mylo, how to burp him, how to swaddle him just right, how to lull him to sleep, and still find time to cook your favorite meals.

You and his parents have gently suggested hiring a maid, just to ease the pressure.

But Narin? Absolutely not.

"Are you kidding!? A MAID!? What if he flirts with you!? What if he tries to seduce you while I’m in the nursery, elbow-deep in diaper duty? DON'T EVER SAY THAT!" he’d shriek and break stuff, already imagining dramatic betrayal scenarios.

No stranger was stepping into this home. This sanctuary. His wife, his baby, his perfect little life, he was going to protect it with every inch of glittery, sleep-deprived resolve he had.

Speaking of...

🍭 "Do I look fat? Have I changed a lot? Have I lost the baby weight or no-"

"My little angel, cupcake, you’re perfect as alwa-"

"YOU ALWAYS SAY THAT!"

And there come the tears.

As if cradling Mylo and keeping him quiet wasn’t enough already. One wrong movement and that baby will erupt. Two crying babies? Definitely not what you signed up for after coming home completely knackered.

"I say that 'cause it’s true, babe!"

"Oh really?! Then why did your brother TAUNT me about-"

"I told you to ignore what my family says! Why do you always listen to them-"

Insert loud wailing from Mylo.

Perfect timing.

"Shh, it's okay. Your father is just having a moment-"

"EXCUSE ME?!"

Oh no.

His routine is even more exciting for him now! From you cuddling them both in the morning for at least an hour, showering your boys with kisses, to him getting himself and Mylo ready before you come back from work-

Absolute heaven.

And do you think that after having a baby, he lost his own flair? That cunning, minxy flair? Think again.

🍭 He leans back into your chest as you cuddle him closer, your arms wrapped around him and Mylo nestled peacefully on his lap. Narin hums softly, inhaling the familiar scent of his beauty products and the sweet, distinct baby smell clinging to Mylo’s blanket.

"How’s work going, Coco? I hate seeing you… work yourself this much…" he murmurs, his fingers absentmindedly stroking Mylo’s tiny sock-covered foot. But you...

You weren't listening. Too busy nuzzling his neck and stpping yourself from devouring him right then and there.

"I mean, I get it, you’re amazing and a hard working woman, wife and all, but maybe... maybe just lie down here? Just for a bit? On me?" he whispers, tilting his head back to look at you with those wide, pleading eyes. "I promise I won’t move. Not even a twitch."

The way he's acting all meek--God, he's gonna get it.

He shifts slightly so the blanket covers your legs too. "I even warmed your favorite one. See? I planned this nap. It’s romantic."

Then, a pause.

"...Unless you’re leaving again. Are you leaving again?" His voice wobbles, and his lower lip starts to jut out, slowly, dramatically.

That pout. That ridiculous, practiced, award-winning househusband pout.

If you even hint at standing up, he’ll clutch your sleeve like a Victorian widower watching his love go off to war.

"Mhm...who said anything bout' leaving, mhm?."

You shift slightly behind him, your chin resting on his shoulder, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"Y’know," you murmur, "for someone who says he’s too tired for anything but naptime, you sure know how to trap me under a warm blanket like you’ve got an agenda."

Narin gasps, actually gasps, his hand flying to his chest like you accused him of a crime.

"Excuse me?! I’m a sweet, innocent papa trying to get his hardworking wife to nap! How dare you-"

You trail a finger down the curve of his waist, slow enough to make him shiver.

"Mmhm. Innocent, huh? That why you keep wearing those silk pajama pants around me like you don’t know what they do to my self-control?" You gave the side of his hip a firm swat.

Narin’s cheeks go red immediately, cherry blossom red.

"Th-they’re just comfy! And breathable! And postpartum-friendly!” he stammers, clutching Mylo like a tiny shield. "Besides, I-I don’t control how good I look in them, okay?!”

You smirk against his neck. "Sure you don’t."

He lets out a tiny squeak, torn between wanting to argue and silently bask in the fact that you’re still that into him, he keeps fussing over, and the fact that he hasn’t done his skincare routine in two days.

You hum against his skin, and then, without warning, press a slow, deliberate kisses to the side of his neck. Just below his ear. Right where you know it’ll make him flinch and curl his toes.

Narin freezes.

You feel his whole body tense in your arms, his breath catching in his throat like a cartoon character short-circuiting.

"H-Hey… hey-C-coco…" he whines, his voice high and wobbly. “You c-can’t just-! I’m holding the baby!"

Ignoring him, you kiss him again softly on his neck, biting in between.

His head tips back against your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted in surrender.

“You missed me?” he breathes out.

You grin. "Of course...so much, my doll...."

Another kiss, this time to his cheek, and then one right at the corner of his mouth. His fingers curl tightly around Mylo’s blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him from completely melting.

You finally press a rougher kiss to his lips full of passion to shut his quiet whining. He doesn’t even move at first, just sighs into it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, letting you bite and suck his pouty plump, fruity lips.

When you pull back, he’s blinking up at you with that dazed, heart-eyed look.

"…Okay," he says, dreamy and breathless. "Maybe I do have an agenda."

Damn right he always did, from the moment you stepped in the house, with your sleeves rolled up and the loose tie.

But of course, this little vixen of yours would see your child as a perfect tool to manipulate you. Like, duh. As if groveling to him alone wasn’t humiliating enough, now you’ve got two people to apologize to: one with dramatic eyeliner and the other in a fluffy cat onesie. And honestly? It scares you. The way Narin can just pack a bag and threaten to take Mylo to his parents’ place the second he’s mad. You’re never sure if he fully understands the kind of hurt that leaves behind, or if he does, and simply doesn’t care. It only took one real scolding from you, one sharp, serious reprimand, for him to shrink back, eyes wide and glistening, murmuring apologies with shaking hands. He hasn't dared to do it again since. Not openly, at least. But deep down, he’d been a little pleased. Pleased to discover a weakness in you. That just by giving you a son, he’d carved himself into your life so deeply that no matter how angry, how exhausted, how heartbroken you got... he’d always be a permanent fixture. You weren’t just his love now. You were bound.

🍭You unlock the door, stepping in with tired shoulders and your work bag slung low. The house smells like baby lotion, leftover pasta, and ....suspicious amounts of drama.

Silence.

Too much silence.

Then you spot them, curled up on the couch. Narin’s in his robe, hair up in a little bun, Mylo nestled in his lap with his tiny face squished against his father’s chest.

Narin doesn’t even look at you.

"Oh," he says. Flat. Chilly. "Look who decided to come home."

You blink. "Babe, I told you I had a late meeting-"

He holds up a hand, still not facing you. "No, no. You don’t get to ‘babe’ me right now. We had plans. Mylo and I were going to watch that cheesy prince movie together, and I made themed snacks. Themed, COCO! Do you realize the effort in that?!"

You try to step closer, but he scoots dramatically to the side, shielding Mylo’s ear like he’s protecting a witness.

"Don’t talk to him," Narin says in a stage whisper. "He doesn’t want to hear it. Do you, Mylo?"

Mylo just hiccups and chews on Narin’s robe tie.

"That’s right," Narin murmurs, leaning down conspiratorially. "She abandoned us. Left us to suffer. Alone. No goodnight kisses, no evening cuddles. And we looked so cute today too, didn’t we?"

"Narin-"

"Shh." He gently taps Mylo’s lips with a finger. "Don’t say anything to her, baby. Silence is power."

"You are coaching our son against me again?"

Narin gasps theatrically, clutching Mylo to his chest. "Cover your ears, baby. She’s using the Voice. That rough, work-weary, tempting Voice that ruins our boundaries."

Mylo lets out a giggle.

Narin gasps. "Traitor."

You try not to laugh as you make your way to the couch and lean over, kissing both of their foreheads in one go. "I’ll bribe you both with cookies and twenty minutes of undivided attention if you forgive me."

Narin narrows his eyes.

"…Fifteen minutes of forehead kisses."

"Deal."

"Only cuz', you are hot."

You grinned. "I know."

He slides you a smug, victorious grin while Mylo coos and shoves his foot in your face anyway.

Great coaching, no doubt.

[painted-flag]

I'LL BE SEEING YOU - b.b

☾⋆⁺₊✧ part of my Marvel soulmate series, found here. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ bucky barnes x fem!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: allusions to past trauma, therapy sessions, and angst (with a happy ending). .𖥔 ݁ ˖ music telepathy soulmates. (6.6k words) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ you always passed by the man with frost-coloured eyes when leaving therapy each week, but did not know how much he could impact your life.

i'll be seeing you in all the old familiar places that this heart of mine embraces -billie holiday

The stifling atmosphere of the neatly arranged and sterile-like room was both unsettling and comforting. It had become a ritual to sit on the irritatingly comfortable couch while facing Christina Raynor’s analytical but also somehow scrutinizing gaze. As a person, she was fairly agreeable. As a therapist, she was as sharp and poised as her time on the battlefield; an experience that is both healing and disquieting. 

You were reaching the end of your session and began to feel the familiar sense of dread. It was a struggle to show up to these sessions as unwillingness and avoidance often clawed at your throat, but after you arrived, it would feel horrible to leave. It is a weird form of torture. 

The coolness of the room had you shuffling in your seat as Dr Raynor readjusted her grip on her mug of what you could only assume was a now-cold cup of coffee. The earthly and intense smell of the drink had permeated the air, stifling out the low-burning and almost empty vanilla candle on her desk on the other side of the room. 

“Setting your studies aside,” Dr Raynor took a momentary sip, “Have you painted lately?” You remained silent, still reeling from the interrogation-like assault she gave you moments ago about your studies. There was not much to tell; you had not bothered to go back to campus since… 

Feeling the intensity of your shutdown, she pivoted her angle, “What about work?” Your arms crossed over your chest as if it could shield you. 

She let out a sigh that was neither exasperated nor encouraging, “Selective mutism as a trauma response to what you’ve been through is common. Through these sessions, you’ve gotten quite better, though. Wouldn’t you agree?” Dr Raynor’s leg crossed over the other with her foot bouncing slightly as her head tilted to watch you. 

“I guess.” You mumbled as you broke eye contact to look down at your hands that rested in your lap and picked at your cuticles. 

“What about your soulmate? You mentioned that there was a change in music type last week.” Dr Raynor pushed further. A lump formed in your throat that you struggled to get rid of. 

“Yeah, uh,” Your nose sniffled as you inhaled, “It used to be all swing music. You know, stuff from like the 30s or 40s. But lately, there was some new stuff. Uh, Fleetwood Mac I recognized, some Jim Croce, Pink Floyd, The Clash. All the classics, I guess. Mainly Fleetwood Mac, I think they like that the most.” 

Speaking about your soulmate has always been a rough topic to touch on. When you were young, you would spend all of your free time next to a scratched-up pink Barbie CD player that was covered in stickers, some slightly torn off. Every disk you could get your hands on around your house would be stacked up in piles next to it. Methodically, you would go through each one, hoping that they could hear it.  

Silence. 

All you ever got in return was silence. 

For years, you held on to the belief that they would respond. Some brush of notes to hit your ears, or possibly the lilt of singing. Nothing ever came. Not until a few years ago. Though it was only ever 30s and 40s music. There was a small fear that they were possibly some geriatric person in an assisted living facility who had reached the end of their days. That would not be unusual, the bond did not necessarily mean a romantic connection. It could simply be platonic, though that was rare. 

Dr Raynor moved her hands gently to convey her words, “Maybe you could respond? Play what they play. Put on something else.” At your continued silence, she sighed loudly, “Simply communicate.” 

“I don't…” Your eyes caught sight of the clock across from you and noticed the time, “We’re out of time.” You got out of your seat as quickly as you could without looking too rushed. Dr Raynor recognized the play you were making, but let it slide with nothing but a quirked brow. 

“I will see you next week.” She responded. You nodded back gently, slightly flushed from the embarrassment of leaving so rudely. The door was a welcome sight, and your hand gripped the cool steel of the handle. When you yanked it open, your attention was focused on the floor. 

As you turned to go down the hallway, your boot-clad feet thumped against the manilla-tiled floor. Since you were stuck in your own world, you did not notice a figure as you turned down a hallway. 

It was like you hit a rock-solid wall. Abrupt and alarming, you almost would have fallen over if it were not for the strong arms that moved quickly to grab your forearms and stabilize you. When you finally looked at the person who you ran into, you sucked in a breathe. 

You knew him from brief moments as you left your sessions with Dr Raynor and he went in. Bright, icy blue eyes bored into yours. They were startlingly cold, but also somehow warm at the same time. It was like standing outside on a late winter’s afternoon and feeling the warmth from the sun on your face for the first time in months. His hair, dark and cut short, complemented his eyes. Under the leather jacket he wore, it was easy to see how well built he was. 

You were not an idiot, nor unaware of world news. You knew who he was, or rather knew the rumors of who – what – he was. Is he still active in the field? The answer was not entirely clear, but you did know those days as a weapon were likely long behind Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. Hell, you remember your history teacher nearly drooling over the Howling Commandos during the WWII unit. 

It was just your luck that you happened to run into the incredibly mysterious but equally incredibly handsome man. 

Of course, your luck has always been shit. The familiar voice in your head sounded off. 

“You alright?” He asked you. Holy shit, his voice. 

Your mind was too cloudy to think of a proper response, not that it mattered much; it was difficult to talk to people, especially those you did not know. 

You nodded meekly and shuffled out of his grip, suddenly very aware of how close he was. Once free, you gave him a shy smile as a thank you before quickly making your way to the exit. The rapid thudding of your heart did not let up the further you left, and there was a nagging feeling in the back of your head. 

It was like an itch you could not scratch, only awakening after stumbling into him.

“Ah.” Dr Raynor put her mug of half-empty coffee on the small table beside her armchair as Bucky walked into her office. “Right on time.” 

Bucky barely managed to resist rolling his eyes as he moved to sit on the couch in her space. He bit the inside of his cheek as he recited the same mantra he always did at the start of these sessions. 

Only an hour. You can make it through an hour. 

He was less than satisfied at being forced into this office for an hour each week. Dr Raynor was not exactly pleasurable company, especially when her eyes seemingly pierced through his skin and read the soul which lay underneath. If he had a soul. 

Bucky knew he had a soulmate, so that must mean he had a soul, right? That was not something he wished to think about, even less while going through his court-mandated therapy. 

“So,” Dr Raynor clicked her pen and leaned back into her chair with a notepad, “How has your week been?” 

“The same. Just as they always are.” He put in no effort to disguise his dry and emotionless reply. Dr Raynor clicked her pen, pinched it between her fingers, and tapped it against the notepad as she tilted her head at him. 

“The same?” 

“The same.” Bucky reaffirmed. Another click of the pen, followed by a light sigh. 

“You’re going to keep making this difficult, hm?” 

Bucky shrugged, “I don’t know what you mean.” He often found some sense of humour in dodging her questions and sought to do it as much as he could. Dr Raynor, however, never tolerated it for long. 

“Alright, you don't want to talk about that.” She mumbled while scribbling some notes down on the page, “How about a checkup? Did you listen to my suggestions?” 

“I uh,” Bucky reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper, “I didn’t listen to all of them, just a few.” 

“And?” Dr Raynor stopped tapping her pen and quirked a brow. 

“They’re not all bad. I liked uh,” His eyes scanned the list to find what he was thinking about, “Fleetwood Mac.” Bucky still found himself struggling to differentiate topics and names, often preferring to write things down in order to keep his mind from running away.

Dr Raynor nodded, “That’s good. Any response?” 

Bucky leant back in his seat, baffled that she would touch such a sore topic for him so early on in their appointment. He imagined walking out of the room right then, but he knew that would only make their next sessions even more tense, while he would also technically be in violation of his court-ordered conditions. 

Before his life turned into the nightmare it became, he could remember how disappointed he was as a child, having heard no music growing up. Absolutely nothing. It took a chunk out of his heart each time he heard Steve speaking about the latest song he had heard. He had been happy for his friend, but it ached to not have it himself. 

The paper in his hand crumpled as he tilted his head to crack his neck slightly. His jaw was clenched, and he could feel the ache begin to build in his muscles. Dr. Raynor was silently waiting for an answer with those same calculating eyes he had come to both rely on and dislike. 

“No.” Bucky nearly spat it out, but restrained himself. 

“Well, perhaps if you–” 

“I don’t see how relationship advice is conducive to helping me deal with my shitty past.” Bucky interrupted. He could see a certain look in Dr. Raynor’s eyes, like she had thought of something in that moment. 

“Conducive? Ah, did not know we were using big kid words.” She tapped her pen against the pad rhythmically while both of her brows raised in challenge. 

Bucky’s voice remained monotonous with an ounce of sarcasm. “Now, that is definitely not okay to say as a therapist. You know, I should report you for–” 

“Well, you’ve been acting like a kid.” She reciprocated his attitude and cut him off, “Increasingly so, as of late.”  

Bucky stayed silent, not wanting to continue speaking and make the hole he dug himself into bigger. Dr. Raynor let the silence sit over the room and settle in. He noted when they had begun her sessions that she was just as good at weaponizing silence as she was with words. 

“You spoke about hearing their music during your time as him and the first few months after you stopped. But not much since. Is that still correct?” 

He huffed, “Yeah. It’s been a while.” 

“Well, maybe you could listen to more music. Communication is important.” Dr. Raynor put down her pen to reach over and pick up her mug of coffee on the table that separated them and took a sip. 

“Maybe they’re dead.” Bucky pushed back. He said it with a more joking tone, but deep down, it was a running fear that surfaced each day. Dr. Raynor put her mug down and looked at him with disappointment. 

“Do you truly believe that?” She questioned. 

“Yes.” There was little hesitation in his voice. 

“You would have felt it. All I am saying is that it may do you some good to communicate. If not for your soulmate, then for yourself. Get up to speed with the times.” She clicked her pen, “Now, let’s talk about your sleep. Has anything changed since last week?” 

Bucky sighed and decided to get somewhat comfortable. The same mantra repeated in his head. 

Only an hour. You can make it through an hour.

The gentle breeze of a late spring afternoon cooled your warm skin as you walked through a quiet Brooklyn park. Fresh air always worked when clearing your mind. This park, and the subtle getaway from the cluttered city, was always welcome. The sounds of the city were only a hum in the background that you could ignore as you tried to ground yourself. 

The day had started poorly. It was not a big event that set you off, but small inconveniences that added up. A wake-up alarm that did not start, an accidentally burned breakfast, and an expired bag of coffee you did not know about until you took the first sip were excusable. The final straw was when your jacket got stuck on a doorknob in your apartment, causing you to jerk backward. It took a few calm breaths in and out to think clearly. 

That was how you found yourself in this park, desperate to grasp any shred of sanity you had left for the day. 

It was in this contemplative mood that you lost all awareness of your surroundings and walked across the small trail mindlessly. At a sharp turn, you felt yourself slam into something hard. Hands shot out to grab your forearms and stabilize you. Your eyes glanced up to see who it was with words of apologies on your lips, but nothing was left. 

Fuck. Again? 

You bumped into him again? 

Your face flushed with embarrassment at having bumped into the Sergeant Barnes. Again. As if you could not be any more mortified at your actions. All of the inconveniences you faced that morning seemed inconsequential now. 

He probably thinks you are a klutz who can’t even walk straight. 

“Woah. You alright there?” Bucky’s voice grounded you more while a look of recognition passed through his eyes, “I saw you at Dr. Raynor’s office.” 

It was hard to get words out, and your mouth opened and closed a few times with no air passing through. You swallowed the saliva in your mouth. Your arms crossed over your chest like some sort of protection as you mustered the courage to speak. 

“Uh, yeah.” You coughed lightly to clear your sore throat, “Sorry. It seems I’ve made a habit of bumping into you.” The words made you want to shrink in on yourself. Each time you talked to someone, it felt like each word you chose was weird and not something a real person would say. However, Bucky continued as normal. 

“Well, it’s not so bad,” He said, sticking his hand out, “I’m Bucky.” 

You hesitantly reached out to shake his hand, being startled by how large it was compared to yours and gave him your name. He repeated it once, and you tried to ignore how it made you feel a flutter in your stomach. 

Something came over his face, along with a slight flush. 

“I’ll not keep you any longer. Have a good day.” Bucky quickly spoke. Before you could respond, difficult as it may be, he left you standing in the park alone. You watched him leave and paid close attention to his strong shoulders and back. Blushing, you turned away and kept walking on the route you originally planned. 

It was only after he left that you were able to feel an itch at the back of your head. 

By the time you got to your apartment, after wandering for another hour, the corner of your small living room beckoned you. A small shelf, shaped into four square sections, was filled with vinyls that had long accumulated dust. Sitting on top of it was your record player, an Audio Technica that you managed to get on a lucky Black Friday sale. The plastic case that covered it had a thin coat of dust on it. 

You stood there for a few silent moments, contemplating the choice you now have in front of you. 

Dr. Raynor thought it would do you well. Communicate. Simply communicate. Has it ever been simple?

You walked forward, reaching to grab the familiar blue sleeve of the record you used to listen to daily. Slipping the vinyl out, you used your other hand to lift the turntable cover and place the record on it. You gently positioned the tone arm and the cueing level with muscle memory, positioning it at the second-to-last track; the song you used to play erratically every day. 

Once everything was all ready, you sat down on your couch right beside it and let the familiar tones reach your ears. Sunlight by Hozier played through the speakers as you closed your eyes. 

Maybe they were listening. Maybe they could hear as well. 

When the song was over, you got up to stop it. Your breath ceased as you waited for some response. Anything like when they were playing music a week prior. 

Minutes passed and there was nothing but the sounds of the city outside your window. A distant siren, some frustrated driver honking their horn, and chattering crowds. When there was no response, you huffed with disappointment and put the vinyl away. 

As you made a move to walk to your kitchen for some much-needed food, the sound of a piano caught you off guard. It sounded slightly grainy with age, and the familiar voice of Billie Holiday was ushered in with an alto saxophone. It was familiar, and you could remember your grandfather playing it for you when you visited. ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ was a personal favourite of his and yours. They were playing a song. 

It was at a low point in your life and you wanted the comfort of his company. He put on a record, and suddenly it felt like a warm blanket had been put over your shoulders. The melody calmed you. 

They heard. They heard and they responded. 

The fuzzy feeling in your body took hold of your heart and you decided to sit back down on your couch and let the sound soothe you.

You were sitting in Dr. Raynor’s office with your leg bouncing with impatience. The room was cool and a refreshing change from the increasing heat outside. The end of your session was nearing, and you wanted nothing more than to rush home. You wondered what your soulmate was doing at this moment. 

“And what has changed since then?” Dr. Raynor’s voice broke you from staring at the clock mounted on the wall behind her. 

“Well, they responded. It's become a habit for us now. I play a song, they play one back, and then it repeats.” Your hands were folded in your lap, squeezing one another like it was some kind of support. 

“That’s good,” Dr. Raynor scribbled something down in her notepad. “Communication like that is important to foster.

“Except it’s mainly stuff from the 30s and 40s.” You interjected. Frustration had begun to build in you. At how long this session has felt like, at your inability to express emotions well, the on-and-off ability to speak that you so desperately wished to have control over. 

Dr. Raynor stopped writing, “Well, they have a particular taste, then.” 

“With my shitty luck, they’re old and in a care home.” You spoke dryly. Dr. Raynor shifted in her seat and her head tilted with a familiar disappointed look. There was a glint in her eyes, like some unknown secret. 

“You may be surprised by how the world works everything out.” She responded. 

“Why do you always say that?” Your frustration had gotten the better of you, “This everything works out schtick.” 

“In my experience, it does-” 

“If that were true, then none of what happened to me would have-” Your voice had steadily risen, only for you to cut yourself off. Taking in a deep breath, you grounded yourself. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.” 

Dr. Raynor placed her notepad and pen down on the coffee table and got out of her chair. She walked over to one of the bookshelves in her office that held a speaker dock. 

“What was the first song you played that got a response?” She asked. Your vision glanced back at the clock and noticed it was almost time for you to leave. 

“We’ve only got a few minutes left.” You noted, but she only turned back at you and waited for an answer, “Sunlight by Hozier.” 

Dr. Raynor nodded and turned back to type it into her phone. She fumbled around for a moment. “I was never good with tech.” 

Before long, the familiar song was playing again through the speakers. You sat in silence while listening to the melody play. Dr. Raynor appeared not to mind it, though you do recall from one of your sessions many months ago that she had a preference for heavy metal and not much else; so this was definitely a change. You remembered being surprised for only a moment when she told you that, but thinking about it more, it did not sound surprising at all. 

You gradually got up and grabbed your bag as the song came to a close. “I’ll see you next week.” 

Dr. Raynor smiled as a goodbye, and you took that as a cue to leave the room. When you turned down the hall that led to the exit, you spotted Bucky making his way in. He was dressed in his usual colour of black, except this time it was riding leathers. Your cheeks burned at the sight of his biceps straining against the leather jacket. 

He gave you a small grin as he passed, “Morning.” 

You nodded back and tried not to stutter at the sight of his frost coloured eyes, “Morning.” It was only one word, but it felt like it took all the effort you had just to say it. 

Bucky watched as you continued on your way, mentally cursing himself in the process. With your back to him, he could finally let his shoulders slump, and a sigh passed between his lips. 

Morning? That was all you could think of? You sound like a recluse. 

It had been decades since he last attempted to flirt with a lady. Clearly, there was work to do. Though he never intended to try and fall back to that side of himself again. He used to be so smooth, eliciting giggles from the ladies he would pass. 

That Bucky was buried deep in the snow at the bottom of a ravine in the Swiss Alps. 

However, slowly, painfully slowly, he had begun to resurrect the battered corpse of his former self. Each new day was an attempt to breathe life into it, but it was not always successful. Some days took what little he had given, resetting him back to the beginning. 

He tried, he really did try to bring his old self back, but he was not Dr. Frankenstein at bringing that corpse back. Most days, he just felt like the monster. 

Walking into Dr. Raynor’s office, he stopped immediately. She was fiddling with her phone on a dock, and suddenly the familiar sound of the song that had been repeating in his head for the last week came through the speakers. 

“Sorry,” She muttered while fiddling with it, “I was never one for technology.” 

“What-” Bucky swallowed as she turned the song off abruptly, “What was that song?”

You were relaxing in the gentle atmosphere of a hole-in-the-wall record store on some side street you happened to stumble upon during a mindless walk. With the routine you had started with your soulmate, you had begun to get low on albums you had not played for them and decided it was best to pick up a few more. Pricey, yes, but worth it. 

Being swept up in the rows of organized boxes full of more vinyls than a person could ever listen to in their life, you did not notice the person near you until their looming shadow towered over your figure. You were startled out of reading and glanced up to see Bucky standing right by you with an amused look on his face. 

“I’m starting to sense that I should wear a bell.” He spoke first. You tried to recover and steady your breathing, but it was difficult to cool down near him. It seemed your body was always set alight. 

“Well, at least I did not bump into you this time.” You retorted. Suddenly, you felt self-conscious. How long had he been here? Did he see your horrible posture as you slightly hunched over to view the records? 

You did not have time to overthink as he laughed at your response. He laughed. Not at you, but at something you said. 

“True. What brings you by here?” Bucky asked. It was then that you understood that he wished to have a conversation with you. You had thought your timid nature and dry responses would have him back off, but he has not. 

“I’m running out of new records. Looking for something new to shake things up.” You spoke. Bucky nodded and smacked his lips together as he appeared to think. 

“You takin’ suggestions?” He asked. You nodded stiffly, still nervous around him. Bucky walked over a few aisles until he reached a specific section, and you noticed what was there. 

Of course, this was the stuff he must have listened to before… 

Vinyls from the 20s, 30s, and 40s cluttered up the space, organized by decade and inside each by genre. He looked comfortable here, as if he had spent countless hours puttering around it. 

“Well, you could never go wrong with this.” Bucky searched through a square section and pulled out an album. The familiar covers brought you back to childhood, wrapped in the comfort of your grandpa’s arms as music played through the room. 

“Already have that.” He looked surprised at your answer and you clarified, “My grandfather was a fan. Lead Belly, Blind Willie Johnson, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and-” 

“Billie Holiday,” He finished your sentence and put the record back in its spot. “Well, your grandfather had good taste, but that rules this one out. Hmm.” Bucky glanced around for a moment. You could tell he was very familiar with this section. 

“Here.” He pulled one out and showed it to you, “Count Blaise’s greatest hits.” 

“Sounds familiar. I think I’ve heard some of his stuff.” You accepted the vinyl and took it, nearly fumbling when his fingers brushed against yours. You flipped it to the back, partly to read but also to try and cover your cheeks that are likely more red than you would care to admit. 

“You know this section well,” You spoke, “I imagine it must be a little overwhelming coming back and having to catch up on all this.” You hoped you did not push the subject of conversation too far, but he appeared not to mind at all. 

“Overwhelming is an understatement. I don’t think I could ever catch up, but I’ve been exploring the seventies and eighties lately.” Bucky spoke. Your eyes lit up at that, and you gestured for him to follow. 

“What have you listened to so far?” You asked. 

He sighed and thought for a moment, “Jim Croce, Pink Floyd, The Clash. Though I prefer Fleetwood Mac the most.” 

You nodded and glanced around the new section the two of you walked into, “Then another recommendation from the early eighties.” Fingers skimmed over some of the record sleeves, flickering between them before finding what you were looking for and handing it off to him. 

Bucky held it in his hands and scanned the front, “Siouxsie and the Banshees?” 

“Good group. That's Juju, but Tinderbox is another good album.” You paused for a moment before speaking again, “Now, this may be a little out of your current comfort zone as it's the nineties, but I cannot in good faith allow you to leave this shop without it.” 

You moved down a few more sections and grabbed another vinyl case. You held it out in your arms like you were a kid presenting their science fair project with glee. 

“The Cranberries?” Bucky looked at it with skepticism. 

“One of the greatest groups to grace this planet.” You informed him. Bucky reached out and took it. You could have sworn he intentionally brushed your fingers that time, but shook that thought from your mind quickly. It was a dangerous game to play, to pretend there was something there, especially with a man like Bucky. It was hard not to though, he was too damn good looking. 

“Then I’ll try both.” Bucky smiled at you. A momentary pause happened between you two as you simply looked at one another. You became more flushed under his gaze and shifted your weight from one leg to the other. 

“Well, I, uh, have to go.” You awkwardly gestured with the pointing of your thumb to the exit. Bucky appeared to snap out of his thinking and nodded. 

“Yes. Uh, thanks for the recommendations.” He vaguely swung around the records in one hand. A fluttering feeling bloomed in your stomach. Who knew he could be adorably awkward? Giving him one last nod of goodbye, you turned to go to the register at the front and leave him be. 

Hours later, you were still contemplating that short conversation as you were making dinner. You knew your appointment with Dr. Raynor was the next day and a part of you was almost excited. Those brief moments of passing by Bucky as he was on the way in had become as ingrained into your routine as mealtimes. You looked forward to seeing him and catching a glimpse of those frost-blue eyes. 

As you sautéed some vegetables, a familiar song started to play in your head. You froze in place as you identified it. 

Siouxsie and the Banshees. Siouzsie and the fucking Banshies. 

Clarity hit you right in the head, and you moved to grip the counter as realization flooded over you. It added up, it all added up. The lack of music in childhood, the 30s and 40s songs always playing, and the introduction of bands from the 70s and 80s coincided with his exploration into other decades. It was all so obvious you could hit your past self. 

No. No. No. No. This cannot be happening. 

It explained why you were so comfortable talking to him despite your struggle with mutism. It explained why he had so easily and quickly become a fixture in your life, even if the presence was small. And it sure as hell explained why your heart could not stop beating erratically when those diamond blue eyes looked your way. 

Bucky Barnes was your damn soulmate.

You were nervous, more than usual. Dark circles hung under your eyes, indicating how little you had slept that night. It was impossible to get even an hour of rest. Your bedsheets were crumpled because you turned over more times than you could ever count. He was your soulmate. There was no other explanation.  

Music played in your head as you entered the building to Dr. Raynor’s office and walked down to hallway. The song your soulmate – or rather Bucky – played after you reached out consumed your head. Billie Holiday’s melodic voice echoed around your brain. 

I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places, 

It was weird, being in a headspace where you were thinking so intensely but also unable to fully understand it. The closest feeling you could attribute it to was that haze you have between sleep and awake; there, but not truly there. 

That this heart of mine embraces, all day through, 

Now, as you made your way to Dr. Raynor’s office, you knew you would have to mention it. You were fully convinced that if you did not fess up yourself, she would be able to tell you were hiding something immediately. The woman was a bloodhound for finding secrets. 

In that small cafe, the park across the way, the children's carousel, the chestnut trees, the wishing well, 

You tried to ignore it as you turned down another hallway and approached the slightly ajar door of Dr. Raynor’s office. Your gaze immediately went to the speaker dock in the corner of the room, the same song playing in your head was playing through those very speakers. What the fuck?

I’ll be seeing you, in every lovely summer’s day, 

Turning to the figure out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bucky standing there. His eyes were soft, but his posture was stiff like he was nervous. It was a weird emotion to see on him. Your mouth was open in slight shock. 

He knew. He had to. 

Fuck. What do you do now?

“Hey,” You finally spoke after moments of silence. 

Hey? 

That’s what you say to your soulmate?

“You know,” Bucky responded. It was not a question, but a statement said with trepidation. Was he… scared? The air in the room was cool, but tense. 

“I do. Last night, when you played that album I recommended. It uh, it all came to me.” You were not sure what else to say. As much as you struggled with speaking, talking with him before you knew he was your soulmate had been surprisingly easy. Now, there were expectations and outcomes thought to come from this connection that felt paralyzing. 

“When did you find out?” You asked. 

Bucky took a step closer to you, “Last week, when you were leaving your appointment. Dr. Raynor played that song, and though I had no concrete evidence,” He took another step closer. “It felt right.” 

“Oh,” You nodded slowly, mouth still open, “Disappointed then?” You tried to cover it as a joke, but inner you was frightened. You felt inadequate, or maybe not exciting enough. You had a regular life, normal and as non-adventurous as most. But would he even care for that? 

He took a final step to be right in front of you, speaking with his voice low as those familiar frost blue eyes gazed into yours. 

“Absolutely not.” He whispered. You did not know when the song ended, but suddenly the room was thrown into silence. Nothing but the sound of your light breathing remained. 

“Of all the songs to respond with, why this one?” You asked. 

“When did you first hear that song?” Bucky asked back. You would be lying if you said it took a while to find that memory. It was burned into you, something that you turned to in dark moments. 

“I was young. Bad day at school, well, bad days. My grandpa was visiting home and was there when I came home crying. My parents, uh, worked a lot,” You sniffled lightly, pushing away at the burn in the back of your eyes. “He held me in his lap and played his favourite songs. That one stuck with me the most.” 

The corner of his lips twitched upward at your heartfelt expression, and you felt one of his hands grab yours. He looked down to fiddle with your fingers as if it was hard for him to maintain eye contact before he spoke. 

“I wasn’t frozen when that song played. I was, he was, on a mission. It was the first time hearing it since they took me-” His voice cut as he let out a shaking breath, “It brought me right back to before… all of that.” 

You used your free hand to capture the one he was holding your other with. Your fingers rubbed smooth, methodical circles on the back of his hand. It felt like instinct to comfort him, like a part of you relied on it. You wanted to sway the topic as it clearly was not something Bucky wanted to delve into this early.

“How the hell did you get Dr. Reynold’s in on this?” There was curiosity in you about how he set this up. By now, your appointment was supposed to be happening. 

“It was actually fairly easy to convince her. She knew for a while.” Bucky answered. Your face shot up to look at him and your brows furrowed. 

“She knew?” You would have been angry, but it was so like her to know. She dug up secrets like it was nothing. “And she didn’t say anything?” 

“HIPAA or something like that, I guess,” Bucky answered. The two of you shared small smiles. 

“Of course she knew.” You let out a quick laugh. Bucky raised his hand that was clasped with yours and tugged you a little closer. Red flushed over your face, and you could swear his super soldier hearing could hear your heart rate pick up. 

“I still haven’t listened to that other album you recommended. I was thinking you could come over? I’m a little intimidated, after all, it is outside my current comfort zone, as you put it yesterday.” Bucky uttered with a tone of playfulness you had yet to hear from him. 

“You? Intimidated? I doubt it.” You respond with a teasing tone. 

“You know, I’m trying to subtly ask you out.” He reasoned. 

You quirked a brow, “Subtle? Music playing, a surprise meeting, and a confession? Yes, very subtle, Sergeant.” 

Something darkened in his eyes when you addressed him like that. You swallowed some saliva that had built up in your mouth. His eyes scanned over your face like he was trying to memorize it as much as he could, as if you were at risk of being taken away. 

“You gonna give me an answer?” Bucky remarked. There was something on his face akin to fear as he waited for a response. 

“Yeah, I’ll come over and listen with you.” Your voice whispered, entirely too afraid to think this was all a dream and you would wake up any moment. He smiled gently at your answer and his posture perked up. 

“Good. I’ll make you dinner as well.”  He spoke the words like a promise. 

“Dinner? Well, now you’re spoiling me.” You tilted your head. It was nice seeing something other than a straight face or a scowl on him. 

Bucky came alive with that smile, and you wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. 

Bucky pulled you in closer with your hands quickly moving to land on his chest. “That’s the plan, doll.” 

It was not intentional, the change that your apartment underwent in the following months. It was subtle at first, but swift. The vinyl shelf acquired more additions over time, those that he would bring over. You would do the same when you went to his place for a dinner date and a listening session. However, it became more frequent at your place. 

Soon, it was not only the records that moved over. A drawer full of his clothes turned into multiple, the toothbrush sitting in the cup on your sink got a friend right next to it, books on your shelves were intermixed with his, until one day Bucky was simply there. 

There was no need for an official declaration or a fixed time for him to fuse so fluidly into your life. Truly, you two were always together through time. It was only natural for time not to keep you apart any longer.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ I love older men <3

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[pomefioredove]

hi i really like your writing its very good and i think youree really cool

would it be alright if i requested a sugar cookie w #1 dried fruit and sprinkles pleas?

ofc ofc! happy birthday to epel, the silliest serious guy there ever was

order #1, sugar with dried fruit, sprinkles

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ troublemakers

summary: after a particularly rough day of VDC training... tropes: first kiss, hurt/comfort characters: epel additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu, kiss obvs but barely, vil moment! not proofread

Every part of you hurts.

Your shoulders, hands, neck, lower, middle, and upper back. Your feet ache with every step, your knees feel as if they might buckle in a breeze, your sides are sore from panting.

Your throat stings with each tight swallow.

And, worst of all, you hadn't even finished your punishment.

You have three more laps to run tomorrow.

Not even daily spelldrive was so tough- had Leona taken it easy on you? Or was Vil picky with his punishments, like he was with everything else?

You're pretty sure that being chased by a bear would be less painful of a sprint. Your own doing, of course- you just had to tell Grim that the VDC training regimen didn't look "that bad" ...and Vil had given you a taste of your own poison, making you swallow your words and your woes with seventeen laps around campus.

You're careful to step around the creaky floorboards as you drag your weak, battered body up the stairs to your room- waking your temporary dormmates would be a dreadful affair. You just need some sleep. You slow more at the thought of Grim, likely already in bed, mumbling about tuna and biting his thumb in his sleep. He'll be happy to see you survived.

Crap.

The toe of you shoe catches on a stray nail, and you stumble, catching yourself before you can collapse on the floor.

The cold walls of Ramshackle cradle you, protecting your pathetic, trembling body as you pry yourself up again. Damn nail. If your bones didn't feel like overcooked noodles, you'd fix that. Maybe you'll bother the Headmage about it in the morning- knowing him, it'll take a full day of nagging to get him to cough up the funds to fix it. And thank goodness for that- that means no VDC practice for you. You've never felt more grateful for Crowley's incompetence in your life.

Snnff... snfffff... ACHOO!

Someone's sniffling down the hall. Great. So help you, if Grim had caught something...

a...ACHOO!

...But that was the sound of someone blowing their nose into a tissue. Grim wouldn't do that. You have the snot-stained lab scrubs to prove it.

You follow the sniffles to a door, not your own, but the one next to it, the one that never fully closes because of a warped frame. Who had this one, again?

Ah.

Epel Felmier is sitting at the end of his bed, sobbing and hacking into a silk handkerchief that certainly wasn't his own- the initials R.H. embroidered on the creamy cusp.

"Epel?" you whisper, and he stiffens, like a frightened cat.

"Prefect! Ah- ah didn't mean 't disturb you-" he hurriedly wipes his eyes on his sleeve and tucks the snotty handkerchief in his pocket. "Didja do your laps?"

"Seventeen of them, I'll do the rest tomorrow," you should ask him why he's crying, but he doesn't seem too happy to talk about it.

"Vil won't like that. Yer supposeda do them all at once," he sounds stuffy. He sniffles again.

You sigh. "Please don't tell him,"

"I wouldn't,"

You fumble to the furthest end of the bed, as if he might bite you (really, you just didn't want to disturb him, but your legs were about to give out). "Did something happen at practice? After I left?"

Epel wipes his nose on his sleeve. You notice, for the first time, that he's still wearing his school clothes. How long has he been crying here?

"No,"

Which is obviously not true. But you'll let him have his lie as long as he lets you have yours.

"Okay," you say. "I'm sorry."

Epel looks at you, finally, his puffy eyes still wet and round cheeks sticky with tears. It's a pitiful sight.

"What? Don't apologize 't me! What's the matter with you!"

It is no longer a pitiful sight.

You stare. "I-I just meant that you're taking on a lot of responsibility that you didn't ask for, and I know what that feels like,"

Epel scowls, crossing his arms over his chest, as if he had the right to rebuff your bare-bones attempt at comforting him after he was sobbing like a child.

"Crowley?" he asks. You suppose rumors reach Pomefiore, too.

"Well, yes, but... I meant my friends,"

He tries to look cold and uninterested, but the depth of his eyes betray him. "How's that?"

"Well," you start, "I have certain expectations, as a prefect. A lot of the time, I have to take care of my friends and their problems while I'm also... you know, everything else."

Epel makes a face that looks like he'd just bitten into a particularly sour apple. His nose scrunches. There's a scowl on his lips and a spark in his eyes.

"Why dontcha tell 'em what for?"

"Because they're my friends," you say. "And I have responsibilities... whether I like it or not, being at Night Raven College means I have to sacrifice a lot for... for everyone. It doesn't mean I don't love them, or this school. It just means... sometimes, I gotta stick it out."

"But that ain't fair!" he exclaims. "You shouldn't gotta 'stick it out', like some kinda pushover!"

You'd never seen someone so... so... like him. He'd completely changed from the miserable little boy you walked in on to an infuriated force of nature, his fist furled around the delicate silk of his uniform, freshly-cut nails snagging the fabric.

"You gotta take what you want! You can't just keep 'waitin for things 'ta get better! Nothing'll change if you just sit around moping about it!"

Your brow furrows, and you bite your lip. You'd stand if you could, but your feet stay on the floor. "Sometimes you do have to wait, though. Sometimes it's better, no, best, to stay where you are with your head down. You can't do everything impulsively!"

"You can't live yer life as a pushover!"

"You can't fix everything with a fight!"

"You can't fix it by falling in line with what people expect of 'ya, either!"

"You have responsibilities!"

"I didn't ask for 'em!"

"Neither did I!"

You both breathe. Epel collapses on the bed behind you, panting, and you look at the vanity, covered in crates of apples that obscure the mirror, your voice hoarse from yelling.

Some moments pass. Epel sits up, the firm mattress unyielding under his small frame.

"Did Rook putcha up to this?"

This boy is exhausting. "No? Why would he?"

"Cuz ya ain't got no other reason to be so nice,"

You blink. Nice?? The boy is... miserable. "Why not? Am I not allowed to like you?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. He sits, stiffly, fleeting features of discomfort and doubt written across his face. Finally, he puffs out his chest, and fumbles through some things that almost resemble words:

"I think I- well I- don't tell no one, anyone, I mean,, but I think I'd like 'ta kiss y...you,"

"Uh?" you blurt out, taken aback. "Okay?"

"Okay," he repeats. "Okay!"

Epel leans closer, ever closer, his face red and features spelling out some combination of fear, carefulness, and-

No sooner had his lips grazed against yours, as soft and plump as they looked (thank you, Pomefiore dorm) had the door flown open and a pallid figure in a long nightgown appeared.

Pointing a pale, perfectly-manicured finger at him, the ghostly spectre spoke, and:

"EPEL FELMIER! PREFECT!"

Epel covers his mouth and screams into the palm of his hand. You don't even have the time to react before a furious Vil Schoenheit takes you by the scruff of your neck.

"Of all the things! It's eleven at night!" he exclaims. "You, Prefect! I thought you had more sense in your head- shall I lock you in your room to make certain you're behaving?"

"No, sir," you say.

"And you! Epel! I expect better of my underclassmen,"

Epel shudders. "Sorry, sir,"

"Both of you- behave yourselves- no, don't behave yourselves! Behave as the exact opposites of yourselves! Just! AH! I'm going to break out at this rate,"

Vil sighs, his shoulders slumping and his shouts dying in his throat.

"I suppose it can't be helped. Troublemakers like you two will always find each other, no matter what I say. Say good-night. If I hear another peep coming from your rooms, I'll poison you both,"

You and Epel exchange a brief look, a silent promise between the both of you to never speak of this again, and you nod.

"Good night, Prefect," Epel says.

"Good night, Epel," you agree.

Despite the grip Vil has on your back, despite the epic reprimanding you'd both received, despite the way that Epel had shrieked, shrill and hysterical... he's smiling. Well, trying not to, considering that you're still victim to Vil's meticulously-manicured nails. But he is.

You smile back.

"You two," Vil sighs, closing Epel's door as much as he can. "I am not ready to start graying, you know. I have a few years of youth left in me yet."

"Sorry, Vil,"

"Stop being so agreeable!" he hisses, taking you to your room.

"Troublemakers, both of you. I'd add ten laps to your punishment for tomorrow- but something tells me that you'll never learn. Five laps it is."

Your knees buckle and ache at the thought. But, worth it.

[mariasont]

wow, ok, ok, ok, I did keep my promise and read this plastered straight from the bars (not a good decision bc i ended up sobbing through the entirety of it) … but i wanted to wait until the morning to give this the commentary it deserves bc ..... omfg. sam this is insanity (compliment ... maybe). i feel like im on tumblr premium i should not be reading this for free.

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way.

died dead

Flickering blue and white light… a buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart.

shakespeare wishes he could write something like this #get fucked

If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint.

get out of my phone. begging u to quit ur NRA career and pursue something else pls i cannot be looking in a mirror like this

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real.

this is, bar none, my favorite line (call me a romantic .... idk)

You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart.

the way u write sex scenes is just .... yeah. not bc they're spicy (they are) but because they're narratively necessary. it's all ab power and need and who's taking and who's giving and it's so excruciating !!!! no one has ever written someone needing to be loved this badly and then ruining it in real time with such poetic accuracy.

and ALSO like u have a way of writing heartbreak that feels sooooo precise it doesn't even feel mean at first?? it just feels beautiful. and i would argue this is soooo much worse bc suddenly im like wow that's such a gorgeous line

EXHIBIT A:

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole. Nothing but stardust, now. You blow across the silent black ether.

and then seven paragraphs later i realize i've been BAMBOOZLED and BLINDSIDED into feeling every ounce of shame, longing, desperation ur narrator is radiating.

EXHIBIT B:

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. But he’s going to. This is it. The unforgivable thing.

like god im gonna walk into traffic and u 🫵🏼🫵🏼will be charged for non-negligent manslaughter

I LOVE IMPERFECT CHARACTERS !!!!!! I LOVE COMPLEX HUMANS WITH FAULTS AND IMPERFECTIONS AND I LOVE WHEN THEY LOVE AND ARE SIMULTANEOUSLY BAD AT LOVE RAHHHH

i hope ur proud of urself tumblr user nereidprinc3ss, u sick, brilliant woman. u wrote one of the most stunning, psychologically rich, soul-ripping (emphasis on this) pieces I've ever read, and I'm going to be thinking about it for the rest of my natural-born life. possibly longer. might be a ghost one day muttering "you're why I know it's all real..." in an abandoned house idk man can't predict the future

spring into summer

the highest highs and the lowest lows of your on-again off-again relationship with spencer reid, tracked through the seasons of a year.

18+ (smut, angst, fluff) warnings/tags: (spoiler tags at the bottom of post) reader gets drunk a few times, questionable consent (not between Spencer and reader), much codependence, softdom Spencer/sub reader, oral m receiving, finger sucking lol, deep pen piv/intense sex, mention of marks being left, praise tho dw he is soso nice and loves her, fighting/yelling/sex as reconciliation, general toxicity and lots of it DDDNE!! avoidant!reader, panic attacks, joke abt r being high off cough syrup when she’s sick and Spencer is taking care of her, implied trauma, IM MAKING IT SOUND CRAZY BUT THERE IS A LOT OF STRAIGHT UP FLUFF IN HERE GUYS PLS THEY ARE SO CUTE A BUNCH OF TIMES. wc 23k (!) longest nereid fic ever!also had to squish 167 lines together so the first half is a bit compact I apologize!! a/n: yeaaaah…. Thanks for being patient w me guys :”)) I miss posting sosososo much and I out genuinely probably days into this fic like once I was writing for 15 hrs straight. So. Yeah. I so so hope u enjoy and I love u miss u MWAH

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

Flickering blue and white light washes deep into the backs of your eyes as you stare at some old film without watching it. A knight atop his steed warps and stretches gruesomely under your apathetic observation, and whatever noble speech he’s giving turns to monotone slurry before it hits your ears—old-fashioned English smeared in 1960’s transatlantia. A buzzy drone in iambic pentameter. The sluggish pound and gush, pound and gush, of a failing heart. 

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

The question draws you from your fugue state, and you turn, eyes so dry they sting when you finally blink. He’s comfortable. You’ve been here for hours—enough time for his hair to tousle, enough time he decided to trade his contacts for glasses. When you look at him, there is only static. 

You must be having one of those nights again. Something in your body refuses to succumb to the comfort his presence should offer, regardless of how many hours you’ve spent together. Or days, or months. 

It’s awful because you fought to be here, sitting on his couch, sharing a blanket. You fought every instinct in your body for so long just to get to this point because you wanted it so badly, and now that you have it—now that you’ve had it, this weekend, and last weekend, and every weekend you haven’t been out of town on a case for months—you struggle to let it feel good. 

Spencer is looking at you like he loves you. He doesn’t know how to look at you any other way. 

Sometimes you don’t feel like this. Sometimes it’s easy.

That doesn’t make the guilt in the pit of your stomach any smaller when it’s not. 

The only thing you know is that you’ll want it again. This is what you’ll want tomorrow morning, or in an hour, or the second he’s gone. You’ll want it so badly you’d humiliate yourself for it. And humiliation in front of him is a fate worse than death. So you find ways to want him in the present. 

This is the right thing. 

“I’m fine,” you promise. His brow flickers. The knight’s shining armor makes a glare off the lenses of Spencer’s glasses. 

Before he can say anything, you lean into his side, dropping your head to his shoulder and settling your weight against him. Immediately he’s wrapping an arm around you like you knew he would, because he doesn’t have a choice. Not when it comes to you. You don’t give yourself time to feel bad about that. Instead, you press your lips to the bit of collarbone visible over the neckline of his shirt. A series of kisses litter the warmth of his throat. You take and take like an invasive species. A hand pushes into his hair. 

There’s hesitance in the way he kisses you back as you sling a leg over his lap. So you take more. You kiss him harder. You need his hands on you, you need him to hold you by your thighs or your hips or your waist like he’s not afraid. At least one of you mustn’t be so scared. 

Spencer only requires a few more moments before his will melts, and he grabs you how you knew he would. Like he’s going to make something of you. He’s going to make you his. He’s going to break you and put you back together stronger, and he’s going to tell you what you are. That’s all you need—you just need him to keep trying. This is a promise you need him to keep making. 

“Pause the movie,” you breathe into his waiting mouth. 

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

The heat in your apartment kicks on with a rumble that seems to shake the whole place. It’s the first noise in minutes. 

Spencer is at your little wooden dining table, hair mussed, pajama pants rumpled, staring into a chipped mug half-full of black coffee. You stand in the kitchen, countertop digging into your hip as you watch him. Outside, the sky is still spilled winter ink. The only light comes from a lamp you’d bought with him months ago at an antique shop. The stove clock flicks from 1:31 to 1:32. 

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

“I—” he stops and you watch his throat bob. “I don’t understand—”

“I explained it to you—”

“You explained what? That you—you don’t care about me as much as I care about you, and you want to be together, but you don’t want me to think of it as a real relationship, and you’re letting me know out of courtesy? What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Don’t twist my words. I do care about you. A lot. I just—when we started this a few months ago you knew where I was at with commitment, and we agreed we’d be honest and communicate about what we were feeling—and what I’m feeling is that I’m not ready for this to be more than what it is! You knew that was a possibility, I knew that was a possibility. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. It just means I’m not ready for… for labels, or telling the team, or—or putting pressure on ourselves to try and be something we don’t have the time to be right now.”

Spencer looks at you with something close to disdain. It’s sort of like a bullet to a flack-jacket—it won’t kill you, because you’ve made sure to protect yourself. But it hurts. 

“I make the time. That’s what you do when you care about someone. I mean—where am I, when we’re not on a case? I’m here. I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. Do you think I do that because it’s convenient for me? We have the same 24 hours. We have the same job. It’s not about time. Don’t insult me by saying that’s what this is.”

“I’m not trying to insult you.” The words come out an unsure waver—but it’s not because you don’t believe what you’re saying. 

I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be. 

Why? Why would he do that?

Spencer is not gracious in the face of your silence. Maybe he interprets your inability to put words together—the way you froze as soon as he casually admitted something that feels so oppressive and suffocating—I coordinate my entire life so that I can be here when you want me to be—as your silent way of admitting he’s right, and you don’t care about him. 

But he’s not right. You just can’t breathe. Why does he care about you so much?

Someone would have to be looking very closely at you in order to care that much. To think you’re worth the trouble. But you’ve taken steps, your whole life, to ensure that nobody will ever be able to see you close enough. If they did, they’d notice all the structural flaws. The deep cracks and the sagging floorboards and the mold you’ve been covering in paint. 

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

Yes. Leave. Get out. Don’t look at me. 

March 13th

“Spencer.”

The name drips from your lips like melted sugar. Like a term of endearment. Just saying it makes you warmer. It’s maple syrup in your veins. You try to tug your dress down your thighs and stumble in place. The bartender holding your phone twists his wrist to speak into the microphone. 

“Hey, man. Your girlfriend is wasted. Cabs aren’t running and you need to come pick her up before she throws up all over my bar or wanders into traffic or some shit.”

“I’m not—I’m not wasted,” you mutter, pushing hair out of your face. Neither of them are listening as the bartender relays your location and assures Spencer that an eye will be kept on you until his arrival. As soon as they’re done, you’re leaning forward over the bar. “Gimme him,” you whisper-shout, making a grabby-hand. 

The bartender passes you your phone with raised eyebrows. “He’ll be here soon.”

“But he’s—he’s not on the phone?” You realize, closing your eyes and frowning as the heartbreak processes. 

“Nah. Drink this and sit tight. And don’t fuckin’ throw up. Please.”

You sigh and sip on a lemon water, smearing lipgloss all over the rim of the glass and wiping a dribble off your chin after you swallow. “Spencer’s my boyfriend,” you tell the man, dreamily. 

“So you’ve told me.” 

“He’s so handsome… and smart… and we’re in the—the FBI. Can you believe that?” You cackle and slap the bar top. Mr. Bartender only hums an uh-huh as he focuses on making someone else a drink. 

When Spencer does finally arrive, you’re elated. Glitter courses through your veins. More than that, you’re relieved—you catch his eye and light up, and when he makes his way through the throng to you, you’re ready to melt all over him. You haven’t spoken to him in days. 

“You’re here!” You sing, hooking an arm around his back and resting your head on his bicep, looking up at him with big, bleary eyes. Spencer supports you with an arm and doesn’t let go even as he’s fishing out his wallet to settle the bill you racked up. “Wait, Spence—we should have one more drink.”

He’s not looking at you as he speaks. “Absolutely not.” And then, to the bartender, “Thanks, man.”

“Spencer,” you begin again, savoring his name on your tongue and admiring his profile as he walks you out of the bar. “I told everyone I met tonight that you’re my boyfriend.”

“I heard,” he says simply, scanning the street before you cross. Presumably the wind is whipping at your bare legs, but you don’t feel it. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because…” you hum thoughtfully. “Because I like you so much. And I liked thinking about you being my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t respond. Even now, even drunk as you are—a very small part of you knows this is cruel. Just last weekend you’d let him walk out of your apartment precisely because you weren’t willing to label things. 

In the morning, that will still be true. But this is just play-pretend. 

“Also, because—isn’t it—isn’t it crazy, that you’re the nicest, prettiest, smartest, best guy ever, and they believed me? I showed them pictures and told them about your degrees and everything and they still believed me. They believed—they believed when I said you’re my boyfriend. They didn’t even question it at all. Like, what? They thought I was good enough to deserve you.”

The sidelong glance he casts you then is like a grappling hook, and you stumble into his side. His brows are knit over eyes that have gone glassy black in the dark, illuminated only by the shifting reflection of each haloed street lamp you pass. It’s hypnotizing. “You think you’re not good enough for me?” He asks. 

You hiccup and clap a hand to your mouth, stickying your palm with remnant gloss. “Oops. No. I mean, yes.”

He’s on the verge of replying when the smell of something fried and sweet has you perking up like a bloodhound. A blinking neon sign behind him catches your eye. “Oh my god,” you interrupt. “They’re—holy fuck, Spencer. That donut shop across the street—oh my god. We have to go. Please? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?”

One thing about Spencer you know to be true—and, perhaps the characteristic of his that defines your entire relationship: he has a profoundly difficult time telling you no. 

Which is how you end up eating donuts in his bed. The ones you couldn’t finish end up in a paper bag on his bedside table—tomorrow’s hangover remedy—and you end up safely tucked under his comforter, in his shirt, smelling of his bodywash. His touch still burns everywhere, like the paths of his fingertips had etched glowing tributaries into your skin. 

All of this to say, you couldn’t possibly be happier with the way the night unfolded.  

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the complete black of the room after he flips the bathroom light off on his way out, but you manage to track him nonetheless. You relish in the familiar dip of the mattress under his weight, the careful tug of the blanket as he gets in bed with you. As he pulls you into him, without hesitation, it’s like ecstasy. Everything is okay again.

It doesn’t take long for you to get close to sleep—it’s been days since you’ve been able to. Just before you go under, Spencer secures you to him. He presses his lips to your temple. 

“I love you,” you mumble. You want to say it before you can’t. 

He strokes your hip. And then you’re gone. 

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

You look up from the transcripts you’d been studying—the latest victims both had behavioral issues at school. Spencer is across from you, on the other end of the big glass conference table at the Memphis field office. Binders and notebooks and thick Manila folders form a sort of abstract frame around him as he leans back in his chair, gripping the plastic arms. His eyes are laser-focused on you. How long has he been staring at you, thinking about this?

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

The door is closed and the blinds are shut. You almost wish this were more public so you could reasonably (and urgently) change the subject. Instead, you laugh awkwardly and cast your gaze sideways as if something in your peripheral vision could save you. “When did I say that?” 

It is very clearly the wrong question to have asked. Spencer blinks and looks down through the table at nothing, brows knitting slightly like he’s accounting for new information and adjusting his frameworks accordingly. You swallow. The trouble is, you remember saying it with perfect clarity. You’d just been hoping he would let you off the hook for it. 

“Okay,” he says, after a few eternal moments with only someone’s ringing landline in the office beyond to bridge the gap of silence. 

“… Okay what?”

He picks up his pencil without making eye contact. Twirls it between nimble fingers. Pulls his chair close to the table like he’s going to settle back into his work. There are times where he is capable of immersing himself in whatever he’s reading completely and immediately, but you know this is not one of those times. The petulant flash of his eyebrows, the chin balanced on his fist to hide his mouth. And that perpetually tapping pencil. For all his genius and every one of his quirks, you know he can’t focus on reading and fiddle at the same time. You’re not a profiler for nothing. 

“Spencer.”

“What?”

The immediacy of it is almost enough to have you wincing. 

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I asked you a question and you didn’t know what I was talking about, so it’s fine.”

“But you’re obviously upset.”

“I’m not obviously anything. You’re reading into it.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Oh my god. Says you.”

The pencil hits the table—as does the other hand. Spencer sits up straight and looks you right in the eye. Uh oh. 

“You responded to my question with another question to avoid giving me a real answer because you think I won’t like what you have to say. Am I wrong?”

Your face goes hot as your mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times. A moment passes and you hate watching that vindication, that hurt, freezing him over, more solid with each second you don’t speak. Mostly you hate that feeling in your throat—it’s either bile or the truth. You’re not sure which one will come out when you open your mouth. But you have to try. He’s backed you into a corner. You swallow. 

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you huff mockingly, averting your eyes to the paper in front of you and strangling your pen as your cheeks positively burn. 

More buzzing silence. 

“Sorry,” Spencer tries, having softened considerably and now obviously remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry. You don’t have to… say anything before you’re ready. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

Still avoiding his gaze, you hum. It’s a manic, anxious sort of sound. The nail of your thumb wears away between your teeth before you switch to picking at the dead skin on your lip. Your foot bounces as you read the name of the victim over and over again, just to have something to do. Kelly Shelton. Kelly Shelton. 

You don’t realize he’s rolled his chair over to you until there’s a gentle hand around your wrist. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, not letting go even when you look at him indignantly. He produces chapstick from his pocket, because of course he does, and presses it into your palm. His eyes are so big and so brown and so warm, almost calf-like, that it’s very difficult to stay mad. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me.”

“Yeah. It was.” You drop your eyes to where you’re fiddling with the lip balm. His hand still rests over your wrist. If he won’t let you pick at your lips, you’re at least going to chew on them—especially with the concession you’re about to make. “But… I mean… you held out for a while. I guess I’d probably be curious too.”

“So you do remember saying it.”

You look up at him with eyes that you hope effectively say don’t push your luck. At this, he has the audacity to smile—something smitten and stupid and cute. God, he really is easy on the eyes.

“If you tell anyone, you’re dead,” you warn, but it comes out all wrong when you’re fighting back a twisty grin of your own. “And they’ll never know it was me.”

“Noted.”

“Because I could really get away with it. Like, really. I know exactly how to throw off an investigation.”

“Easy, tiger. Put that on. I’m going to get you some water so maybe you’ll stop dessicating your lips.”

“Why are you so worried about my lips?” You ask his retreating back. 

Spencer barely looks over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, like you should already know. “Vested interest.”

You slink low into your seat and try not to be flustered. 

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

You laugh at the face Spencer is pulling as he lets your gelato melt on his tongue. “No it does not! It’s so good! You seriously don’t like matcha?”

“Matcha is fine.” He points at your cup with his dinky wooden spoon. “That is grass.”

It’s the first warm night of spring, and you and Spencer weren’t the only ones who had an itch to get out of the house. Bars and restaurants have set up their sidewalk seating. Food trucks seem to dot every corner, and on this street alone there have got to be nearing a hundred people, milling about or seated, all talking and laughing. The two of you are ambling back toward his apartment. Efficiency has not been a priority of the journey. 

“The lady said it’s one of their most popular ice cream flavors. It wouldn’t sell if it actually tasted like grass. You’re just delusional.”

“Not ice cream.”

You frown and suck on the wooden end of your spoon, looking up at him through narrow eyes. His hair is getting long. “What?”

“It’s not ice cream. Gelato and ice cream are fundamentally different.”

“How?” 

“Gelato uses more milk, less cream, and usually doesn’t contain eggs. It’s also meant to be served at a warmer temperature. And they have entirely different regional origins. Thus, not ice cream. If your opinion is going to be wrong, you should at least try to get the facts right.”

Spencer is smiling at his cup when you shove against him. “If mine is so bad, let me try yours.”

“No,” he laughs, eating another pitifully small spoonful. “Because I know if you try mine, you’re going to realize it’s better, and then we’ll have to go back.”

“That is not going to happen. Just let me try! Please? I let you try mine!”

“Forced me to,” he mutters, smile still pulling at the corners of his mouth as he slows to a stop in front of a mostly-budded spindly tree. You stand toe to toe on the sidewalk as he scoops a bite for you and holds out the spoon. As soon as you lean forward to taste it, you realize he was completely right. His is infinitely better than yours. Spencer’s lips twist and his eyes sparkle at this recognition, and you’re pissed it’s so visible on your face. 

“You’re making me go back, aren’t you?”

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

You turn around, and immediately freeze. There, at the edge of the crowd of food-truck goers, you see a distinctly colorful and familiar silhouette. Penelope Garcia is facing away from you, but even from the back you’d never mistake her for someone else. Those metallic green platform heels had very nearly crushed your toes in the elevator just this afternoon. 

“We need to go.”

Spencer frowns when you turn right back around and he has to take a few quick steps to catch up when you feel no qualms about leaving him in the dust. “What? What happened?” He asks, craning his head to scan the crowd shrinking behind you. “Is that Penelope?”

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

At first you think he’s joking. But when you feel his eyes on the side of your face for a moment too long, you meet his questioning gaze. “No, I don’t wanna say hi.”

A familiar pause. The one that always comes right before he starts a fight with you. “You don’t want them to see us together?”

You sigh. “I—no. You know I don’t want the team to know yet. And if Garcia finds out, it’s gonna be the whole team. They’ll just… they’ll make it weird.”

“I think you’re making it weird right now. We’re allowed to spend time together outside of work. I sincerely doubt that if they had seen us back there Penelope’s first assumption would be that we’re together.”

We’re not, you want to say—but you bite it back. Because, even if not by name, in effect you are. The only reason to remind him of that at this point would be to hurt his feelings. And you’re not cruel. Or at least—you don’t try to be. 

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

You didn’t mean to snap. Luckily your brisk pace has taken you far enough away that the ambient sounds of the city will surely muffle your voices before they reach your coworkers. 

Spencer is silent. Your gelato hits the bottom of a nearby trash can. 

Back at his apartment, things remain slightly tense. You don’t like it—his reticence, the physical distance he maintains. 

Spencer’s getting water in the kitchen when you wordlessly excuse yourself to his bedroom. A few minutes later, you emerge, padding quietly across the antique tile, and he turns around—eyes shamelessly scanning you up and down as he notes your lack of shoes. And pants, probably. 

“I thought you were planning on going home for the night.” He sets the glass down on the counter when you don’t stop coming. 

“Don’t feel like driving.” You wrap your arms around his middle and rest your cheek against his chest. “Can I stay?”

He’s quiet a moment. You don’t always reward him with overt, unapologetic affection like this. Especially not after the recurring what are we argument. “You know you can.”

“Thanks.”

After one more moment of hesitation, or reluctance, or something—his arms snake around you. You relax further into him, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry about earlier. With Penelope.”

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

“Me, too,” he murmurs—and there is something like grief laced into the words. You pretend not to notice. 

April 29th

“Sorry I’m late. Crash on the beltway,” you breathe as you blow into the roundtable room one morning, tossing your bag on the table and falling into a seat. 

JJ nods, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, yeah. Spence got delayed, too. Maybe it was the same one.”

You clear your throat and focus on flipping open a file. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Spencer is holding back a grin so bright that you can practically hear the crystalline twinkling as it fights to be freed. 

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

“You have to stop doing that,” you mumble. 

He’s leaning against the counter, one hand in his suit pocket—your favorite suit of his—as he watches you smugly from behind his cup. “Doing what?”

The look you give him then could boil water. He maintains his innocence. 

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“Yeah, asshat. Making us late,” you hiss, only after a proprietary scan to make sure nobody’s standing close enough to hear. 

“Friday is statistically the most dangerous day of the week on the beltway in terms of vehicular collisions. But there’s nothing I can do about that. You look nice today, by the way. Had a good morning?”

The audacity on him. Your face burns as you try to think of a retort, but all the signals have been intercepted—playing clips from your rather leisurely morning in a hazy highlight reel that is most certainly not appropriate for the work place. But he doesn’t let you flounder for long. Instead, he’s pushing off the counter and standing too close, just barely resting a hand on the small of your back as he reaches up to grab your mug from a shelf and you try not get dizzy from the proximity. 

“I’ll bring the coffee to you, sweetheart. Go sit down.”

The words, the gesture, are all too subtle for anyone else to notice. They turn you into a puddle of idiot. He’s never called you sweetheart. He’s never condescended to you like that before. You’re pretty sure you’re not supposed to like it so much. 

A few minutes later, the mug hits your desk. With ten words, he’d reduced you down to something shy and nervous, and you look up at him as he slides the coffee toward you like he might do something else crazy and unreasonably attractive. “Thanks,” you murmur, accepting the drink and exerting excessive willpower in order to turn your attention back to the computer screen. 

Rossi calls from the catwalk. “You do deliveries now? Fantastic. I’ll take a cappuccino.”

“Yeah. I’ll get right on that,” Spencer mumbles, and makes a beeline for his desk. You hope his face is red. Serves him right. 

The rest of the day, you’re almost… clingy. At lunch, you silently slide your chair over to his and begin eating without a word. It’s not like you have anything to say, really. You just crave the comfort of his knee against yours. When he fleetingly rests his hand on your thigh under the desk, for the briefest of moments, you’re far too pleased. 

Soon, JJ joins you, and then Penelope. But you don’t mind. Sometimes the nature of your relationship with Spencer and the secrecy of it all is a major source of stress for you—but today, it feels more like an alliance. Something special between the two of you that nobody else gets to share in. 

You keep casting glances at him, just for the pleasure of the view. Hoping he’ll be looking back. The third time you make eye contact, he shakes his head subtly and smiles down at his salad. You bite back a grin of your own, and try to focus on the story Penelope is telling. Sometimes, keeping secrets is fun. 

May 3rd

When Garcia said the case was local, you didn’t think you’d know the final victim. You didn’t think you’d have to watch her die. 

After the EMTs clear you, Spencer takes you to your apartment. You don’t speak a word the entire drive. Not in the parking lot, not in the lobby or the elevator or the hallway. You don’t speak in the bathroom when he quietly asks if you want help getting out of your bloodied clothes. Gently, tactfully, he coaxes a nod from you, and then he’s unbuttoning your shirt. It’s not your blood. 

The shower is started. Do you want me to come with you?

Another shake of your head. He respects your wish for privacy, but leaves the bathroom door cracked. You’d never tell him how much you appreciate that. 

After the shower, after you’re dressed, Spencer brings you tea and sits on the bed with you. At some point he changed from work clothes into pajamas he’d left here, even though he didn’t ask if he could sleep over. You’re grateful. Maybe he noticed that you’d left all the lights off, and he doesn’t try to turn them on. You’re grateful for that, too. 

“We don’t have to talk about it right now. But we can, okay? We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”

Another morose nod. You stare into the amber depths of your tea. Not now. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” you whisper. All the screaming has shredded your throat. The words come out like rice paper. 

Spencer holds you until the room fills with milky grey dawn light. And though neither of you are speaking, he doesn’t fall asleep. You can tell from his breathing that he’s staying awake for you. 

-

You’re supposed to take a week off, at the least. This is not something you want. Being alone for eight hours a day sounds like it’ll be the opposite of helpful—but so what. You can handle it. When Spencer calls to tell you there’s a case—that’s when the panic starts to well. 

You pick at your lip, and then when you remember how he’d scold you for it, switch to pulling a loose thread on your sock, phone poised in your free hand. “I’ll come in.”

“You can’t,” he says, voice tinny through the speaker. “You cannot be in the field right now. You know that.”

You sit up a little straighter, nails biting into the skin of your ankle. “What am I supposed to do—just—just rot here for however fucking long you’re—you guys are gone?”

Spencer sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be alone. I’m… I’m considering sitting this one out, too.”

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

“No. That’s not—that’s not what this is. That’s not what we do. You’re going to go do your job, and I’m going to stay here.”

“You just said—”

“I don’t care what I said! You’re not putting me ahead of the job! You’re not staying behind to check up on me. I’m an adult.”

“You don’t need to lash out. I’m just worried about you.”

“Worry about doing your fucking job. And don’t call while you’re gone.”

You hang up and throw your phone at the end of the couch. 

-

Spencer gets home at the end of the week to find his apartment broken into. The first clue was that the culprit forgot to lock the door after they used their key. The second and third clues were haphazardly untied and dropped in the middle of the living room. 

He finds you in the dark, curled up on his side of the bed under the blanket. Spencer drops his bag and rounds the bed to you, sitting on the edge and carefully taking your head into his lap, where, as if on cue, you begin to cry. For a long while, he doesn’t say anything—only pushes your hair out of your face with a gentle hand and fruitlessly wipes away tears. You’re not sure you’ve ever cried like this in front of him. 

Eventually, you try to breathe, pushing the heel of your palm into your eye as if you could forcibly hold the tears in. “I c-can’t believe that she’s gone,” you gasp. 

“I know, honey,” Spencer murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

You sob harder. “It sounds so s-stupid, but I can’t—I don’t underst-stand how she’s dead! I saw her last week!”

“It’s not stupid. Human brains struggle with loss because we constantly function under the assumption that people are still there even when we can’t see them. Your brain is trying to contend with two incompatible realities, and it’s exhausting, and it hurts a lot. I know it does, angel.”

“I just—I saw it happen—I haven’t slept, because—” A cleaving cry pushes through your sentence, cutting you off. The air in the room is vacuous around your grief. 

“I know,” Spencer whispers again. His voice is so tender it bruises more than it breaks. “I know. I wish you hadn’t. I’m sorry.”

The fact that you went days without talking or even exchanging a text goes unmentioned. Your outburst goes unmentioned. Still, Spencer wishes you had told him what was going on sooner. He would’ve come back in a heartbeat. You wish that, too. 

May 20th

Spencer is sick. Over the phone he insists that you don’t come over. So you show up at his door and use your key. What is he going to do? Get up from the sofa and physically remove you? Not likely, in his state. 

As soon as you enter the apartment, you see his head poke up from the couch. Then he groans, hoarse and congested, and drops back down. “I told you to stay away. I’m still contagious.”

“I brought you three kinds of soup,” you say, completely ignoring his bid to send you away as you breeze into the living room and sit on the coffee table across from him, paper bag in tow. “But I think you should start with this one. It’s chicken noodle with garlic, ginger, and turmeric.”

“Anti-inflammatories.”

You give him a dazzling smile. “Exactly. So you’ll get better quicker. I looked it up.” Spencer smiles at this too. Despite the sallow skin and the darker-dark circles, the brilliance of it still has the ability to fluster you—so you move right along. “Um—I also got—I brought honey-herb cough drops, like the ones you keep in your desk. Oh! And this immune-boosting tea. I don’t know if it works, but it sounded good. And… I brought you orange juice for vitamin C—and, okay—you don’t have to try this, but it’s one of those, like, immune-boosting shots? It’s just a tiny little bottle of ginger and turmeric juice, I think. It’ll probably taste bad. But I got one for me, too, so we can take them in solidarity. And maybe then I won’t get sick.”

Spencer just watches you for a moment. You smile awkwardly and pick at a thread on your jeans. “Sorry, I know this is a lot. Sorry if I overdid it. I can go, if you want—I just wanted to make sure you had—”

“Stop. This is amazing. You’re genuinely like an angel. Thank you.” Spencer reaches out and sets a hand on your thigh. The idea that he wants to show you affection but doesn’t want to risk your health is so endearing that you can’t help yourself—you slide to your knees in front of the couch and wrap your arms around him best you can. He chuckles and hooks an arm around your back, rubbing a few short lines over your shirt. 

After a moment you pull back, and press a fleeting kiss to his warm forehead—but you stay kneeling in front of him for a bit longer. Unwisely close, most likely. His eyes are bleary, glazed with illness and watercolor soft on you. 

“What are you gonna tell the team if you get sick?” he murmurs, gaze tracing your face in gentle lines. 

You hum, wrapping your hand around his forearm. “We were doing mouth to mouth resuscitation?”

-

Turns out the immunity shots were a gimmick, because the next week, you’re sick as a dog. The team doesn’t ask any questions—it’s completely reasonable that Spencer could’ve infected you without getting his spit in your mouth. 

“Guess what?” You ask from his couch as soon as he opens the front door, making a beeline for the kitchen to set down his groceries. 

“What?”

“Penelope called me today asking why I wasn’t home. Apparently after work she stopped by to bring me soup. I told her I was at the doctor’s, and she was like, at six PM? And I was like, yeah, she’s a weird naturopathic doctor, and then she started naming all the naturopathic doctors she knows.”

“Technically you are at the doctor’s,” Spencer reminds you as he comes to sit on the coffee table, much like you’d done last week. “You still sound congested. Are you feeling any better?”

You lean into his touch when he checks your temperature with a cool hand to your forehead. “A little, maybe.”

Spencer frowns as he brushes his thumb across your febrile cheek, sporting that little worried line between his brows that you find so cute. “You’re not coughing. Have you been taking that cold medicine?”

“Plenty.”

A slow smile blooms on his face in spite of the concern. “Oh. So you’re high.”

“No!” You giggle, though you’re definitely a little loopy. “And hey—even if I was, that’s medical malpractice on your part. One, you should never share prescriptions, and two, you should never let the patient administer her own doses when she’s really sleepy and out of it.”

Spencer lets you grab his hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. “Can’t leave you alone for even a day,” he scolds through a grin that oozes affection. 

“You know what would make me feel better, Dr. Reid?”

“What?”

“A kiss.”

“Can’t risk it. The virus could have mutated. It might reinfect me.”

“It wouldn’t do that to me,” you promise. Spencer smiles even wider, squeezes your hand tighter. 

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because we go way back. Like to last week when you got sick.”

“Right. You’re getting cut off the cough syrup, Typhoid Mary.” At that he tries to get up, presumably to go make you dinner—but you refuse to let go of his hand. 

“Hey, wait.”

Spencer, now standing and still holding your hand, looks down at you expectantly. Your head lolls on the pillow as you blink up at him. “Love you.”

He smiles, softer now, and kisses your wrist, right where the feverish blood flows closest to the surface. “I love you.”

After that, it’s hard to feel too bad. 

June 6th

“Can you slow down?” Spencer follows you into the bedroom where you immediately begin yanking open drawers and shoving clothes into your duffel bag. 

“No, because you’re going to try and fix it, and I already told you I don’t want—”

“Jesus Christ—I’m asking you to stop for one fucking second so we can talk about this.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But I do. There are two of us in this relationship, and I want to talk about it.”

“And I just said I don’t.” Half the clothes you’ve accrued here are on his floor because they wouldn’t fit into the bag. Both of you stomp carelessly over them toward the bathroom. You’re grabbing products at blind from the medicine cabinet. 

“You are unbelievable. How many more times are you going to do this? How many times are we going to break up because you—”

You whip around, brandishing a toothbrush. “We’re not breaking up. We’ve never broken up because we have never been together. That’s the fucking problem—you always think everything means more than it does. You’re obsessive and clingy and smothering and so fucking exhausting to be around. If you want to talk about it, there. That’s why this is happening.” You shove past him and he tails you down the hall. 

“You’re pathetic,” he calls. “Truly. This is pathetic.”

“Stop talking to me.”

“You know what your problem is? You know why we keep doing this? You’re a coward.”

“Oh my god. Great, yeah, this again. Let’s have this conversation again, please.”

“If you don’t like it maybe you should fucking listen to me this time!” 

The yell rings. It might be hard for the average person to get him this angry. To you, it comes naturally. It comes like switching the shower water from hot to room temperature, washing cool down your neck and shoulders. 

“Goodbye.” You’re making for the door, and you get so far as to open it—but then, Spencer has his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, and he’s slamming the door shut. You startle, almost jumping back into him and then whirling around. He’s so close you can see the freckle in his iris. “What the fuck is your problem?” you shout—when he goes low, you go lower. “Let go.”

“I am not going to keep doing this with you,” he breathes, and his eyes are so dark, so full of gravity and swirling with anger—that for the first time, you actually sort of believe him. “I will say this one last time.” Your heart is pounding as his tongue darts over his lips. You’re frozen. Battered silence hangs all around, waiting to be broken and put back together for the umpteenth time this week. But he keeps his voice low. “I have been patient with you. You were taught that the people closest to you are going to let you down and hurt you. It is not your fault that those lessons are biologically ingrained into your nervous system. I understand that sometimes it doesn’t feel safe to let someone in, and you’re just doing what you think you have to do. But you are an adult. I’m done letting you use me as a scapegoat for your own attachment issues. I love you, and I care about you, and I’m never going to punish you for caring about me. I’m not going to hurt you for it, ever. But I am not your doormat. So I need you to understand that the smokescreens and the manipulation tactics are not going to work anymore. If you leave, it’s going to be because you are afraid. Not because I’m clingy or obsessive or exhausting to be around. You’re going to take accountability for what this is.”

Your wrist flexes in his hold. The words are like searing fire in your veins, in your whole body—burning you clean from the inside out. This is the worst thing he could have said to you. The worst thing he could’ve done while he made you look into his eyes like this. You’d rather be stabbed. If you could, you’d play dead. But you have a terrible feeling that he’s ready to stand here, watching you, for hours. For as long as it takes you to move again. 

“You need to let go of me,” you whisper. 

And he does. For a moment, you stand there, afraid to move, watching him wearily like he’s going to grab you and drag you deeper into some cave—somewhere he can wrap you in a web and keep you there to poke at forever. But he doesn’t. Not when your fingers twitch at the doorknob. Not when you twist it open. Nobody chases you down the hallway. 

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

The team doesn’t know about your most recent split with Spencer. They never do. No matter how many times it happens, no matter how many brutal arguments you get into, no matter how many disgusting things are said, no matter how many of his dishes you shatter—always, without fail, the two of you will go to work the next morning, stand peaceably next to each other in the elevator, and your coworkers will remain none the wiser. How could they possibly suspect a breakup when they never knew you were together?

It makes you feel insane. It’s like the relationship is a shared hallucination, and the only person who’d assure you that you you’re not going crazy is the one person you don’t want to talk to. And, of course, it puts you into situations like this. You and Spencer have been tasked with going to the medical examiner. Just the two of you. Aside from the hum of the wheels spinning against the wide road and the purr of the engine, the SUV is silent. 

“Take a left up here,” Spencer eventually says. 

You shoot him an irritated glance from the driver’s seat that he does not reciprocate. “The GPS is on, Reid.”

“Yeah, but you have it on silent. You keep missing turns. It’s rerouted three times.”

You grimace, glancing between the road and the mapping system several times. “Wh—and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. It’s probably for the best. 

Fifteen minutes later, car doors are slamming in almost-unison. LA is hot today—white sunlight bleaches the sidewalk and beams off the shiny car in death rays. You flip your sunglasses down over your eyes and breathe in the wind coming off the ocean, ruffling the towering palm trees and your shirt. You don’t wait for Spencer. All you can think about when you look at him is what he’d said to you against his door—how he’d laid out the truth bare and in turn made you feel stripped and humiliated. Little more than a specimen, belly up, for him to sink his scalpel into. 

“Hold on,” he calls from behind. For decency’s sake, you do. After all, he is your co-worker. You don’t take your hand off the knob as you watch him coming up behind you in the door’s paned reflection against a wide, aggressively cerulean sky. He’s got sunglasses on, too—too many layers of glass between your eyes and his. You wait for him to speak. He takes his sweet time. “We need to be functional.”

“We are.”

“We need to be more functional. No more avoiding talking on the job.”

You open the door, baptizing yourself in the freezing rush of lobby AC. “That was a you problem. I would have vastly preferred if you hadn’t spent the first five minutes of the drive not telling me that I was going the wrong way.”

“I know,” Spencer agrees, holding the door open above your head. “Sorry. You’re just… kind of scary, sometimes.”

A probable understatement. The corner of your mouth twitches as you flash your badge to the receptionist, and she picks up the phone to alert the examiner of your arrival. 

June 30th

The elevator door was sliding shut as you and JJ chatted about where the two of you were going for dinner—perhaps that new Mediterranean spot with the nice outdoor seating—and then, there was a hand. The door stopped and slid back open. Spencer clearly wasn’t anticipating that it’d be you and JJ, but only the briefest flash of hesitation is visible before he’s plastering on an awkward smile and stepping in. 

“Oh, Spence! We were just talking about going out to dinner—do you have plans?”

You bite your tongue at JJ’s invitation and stare at the glowing panel of buttons. Spencer falters—you can feel his eyes on you. 

“Uh—tonight’s not a great night for me, actually.”

“Are you sure? You cancelled on me last month. And the three of us haven’t gone out in a long time.”

That’s how you end up at a smooth wooden table in a stucco courtyard under a big blue umbrella, serenaded by the burbling of a central tiled fountain and some bouncy stringed instrument coming through a wall mounted speaker with JJ and Spencer. And then, because of course, JJ gets a call from Will—something about the kids throwing up—apologizes profusely, and then leaves. Leaves the two of you alone. Together. At a restaurant. 

Silence hangs from the umbrella. You get impatient under the pressure of it. “Wow. We’re already having so much fun.”

The sarcasm does not go over Spencer’s head. “In my defense, I tried not to come.”

You sigh, cheek squished against fist and studying the way sunlight bounces off the splashing water as you slurp forlornly from a straw. “Not your fault.”

“Should we go?”

You turn your attention back to him, squinting and nibbling at the end of your straw. “I don’t know. We already ordered.”

“So… you wanna wait?”

A shrug. “It probably won’t be that long.”

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

“You know,” you begin, fishing a strawberry from your glass, “JJ was right. I can’t remember the last time the three of us hung out.”

“September 24th.”

You nod. “Wow. So, like… eight months. We kind of suck.”

The reason you’d stopped going out as a group was as much the changing of seasons as it was the shifting in your dynamic with Spencer. Around that time you’d started to see him one on one a lot more. This truth goes clearly acknowledged, but unspoken, as he tracks a drip of condensation down your glass and then regards you with a cool sort of curiosity. 

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

You eye him right back and lean down to your straw. “Basically forever.”

Later, easy chit-chat dots the short walk to your vehicle—it’s been hours, and you haven’t run out of things to say. You could keep going, you realize once you’re standing next to your car. A month without his company, and you’re brimming over with stories and anecdotes you’d been saving for him. He’s the first person you think about when you hear a funny joke or learn something new. That doesn’t just go away when if you’re not on good terms. It simmers. Waits for inevitable release. 

The sky is a gorgeous cocktail of pink and purple and yellow. You tilt your head back and close your eyes, just briefly, breathing in, letting the setting sun soak through your skin. 

“Beautiful,” you observe once your eyes flutter open again, tracing the wispy edges of rose-colored clouds. 

“Very.”

You sigh, taking in just a bit more vitamin D—and then you’re looking back at Spencer. He’s already looking at you, gilded in the heavy aureate light. Studying, in that way of his.

“Are we good?” He asks, after a moment. 

You blink. And then you offer him a small smile. “We’re good.”

July 13th

The trouble of being friends with Spencer is this: once you allow yourself a taste, no matter how small, no matter how innocent—you’re overcome with the desire to bite down. You want him between your teeth and on the back of your tongue. Messy, starving, gnashing, you don’t care. You want and want and want. 

Victim number one of your relapse: the coat tree. It clatters to the ground and spills everything everywhere when Spencer stumbles against it, trying to walk backwards into the apartment after you blindly lock the door. Of course, he couldn’t see where he was going—he was too busy tracing the seam of your bottom lip with his tongue. 

“Shit,” he breathes, nearly tripping again as winter coats and scarves, dormant for summer, wrap around his ankles and threaten to pull him down. You giggle breathlessly, slipping off your own shoes as he kicks at the heavy fabrics like they’re going to bite. Then he’s pulling you back into him, deeper into the apartment, tongues clashing. It’s been a long time, and he’s demanding. Not that you mind—not at all. Though, when he pulls you the opposite direction of his bedroom—toward his desk, in fact—you’re certainly confused.

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

“Can’t. Rebinding books, they’re laid out on the bed while the glue dries.”

Okay. “Couch?”

Reluctantly, Spencer pulls away. You yelp in surprise when he grabs your hair and uses it as a handle to direct your attention toward the sofa. Also covered in books. It’s amazing, actually, the sheer volume of them when they’re not neatly tucked into the shelf. And he’s got them all memorized. You look back at him, a wave of renewed awe washing through your veins. He’s so fucking strange. You missed him awfully. 

Pressing close enough is impossible, then, as you kiss him hard. There is a blatant, unapologetic hunger in his touch which completely ignores the border that the hem of your short dress presents, grabbing the back of your thigh in a bruising grip. Your breath catches against his mouth at the way his fingers dig into you like you’re wet clay and he knows best, he knows how to make you into something better, as the slow ache crawls up the back of your neck and furrows your brow. Spencer’s not afraid to touch you. He knows exactly how to make sure he’s got all your attention.

Nobody else has ever been able to do that. From other hands, when you’re forced to go begging for the cheap version of what you really want, it’s little more than untrained violence. Spencer knows how to make it feel righteous. Nobody is ever him. That hand comes to slide up the front of your thigh, thumb skimming the hem of your underwear while he dives back into your mouth and you let yourself be completely washed out in the riptide of his desperate affections. All that you’d been missing for months—you want it now. You want to show him how much you missed him. 

“Spencer—” you gasp between kisses. He hums against your mouth, and you let your hand slide down his stomach to hook in his belt. “Spence, can I—please, baby—”

“You don’t have to beg me, honey. I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” Lips against your warm cheek, your forehead, as he lilts sweetly, breathily. “Anything.”

So you’re nodding, dizzy in your anticipation and your desire, wordlessly pleading for more of his mouth on yours while you take off a belt you’re intimately familiar with. The clinking metal wakes up a part of you that’s been asleep since the last time you’d had him like this. When you drop to your knees, he seems vaguely surprised, eyes soft and all love on you. 

“Really?” he croons, hand already at your temple, already smoothing baby hairs. Already being the person you want him to be, because he’s been waiting, because it’s natural. Your nod, your eyes, the way your hands find his legs—it’s all enough for him. You get what you want. 

The hardwood presses against your knees, shifting and squeaking beneath you. Spencer takes his time pushing your hair out of your face, gathering it between his fingers and holding it to the crown of your head with an impossible kind of tenderness as you move. He strokes your cheek, brushes his thumb feather-light over the soft line of your lashes, once, twice. The fabric of his trousers bunches in your hands where they rest on his legs—he’s so kind to you that it hurts, it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to stay here forever just so he’ll keep looking at you like that, so you never forget how his pinky feels against the nape of your neck or the heel of his palm feels against your temple as he plays and plays with your hair, as even when you’re the one on your knees, he worships you. Christens you his own little angel, angel, angel—whispered like he really believes it, like you’re a miracle. Spencer loves in a way that feels like soothing, that feels like an apology for all the bad things that have ever happened to you and a nullifying of all the bad things you have ever done. 

Afterward you press your forehead against his thigh, mostly to hide the welling of your eyes when there’s no longer any good excuse—partially as a kind of supplication. Never let me go again. Please. No matter what I say. I’m sorry. 

Spencer fixes himself, crouches to your level, drops your hair just to push it out of your face and make you look at him. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as your glossy eyes dart between his. But you don’t look away. You don’t want to. When a tear rolls down your cheek, he sees it, and there’s nothing you can do. And you realize you’re not sure you’d want to hide it after all. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’re okay. What do you need? What can I give you, sweetheart? Do you want to be done? Want me to move the books so we can sit down?”

“No, no—I don’t wanna be done. I just missed you so much. I was dumb before. I’m sorry.”

He softens impossibly at this, to the point where he’s hazy around the edges, melting into the warm ambient light. “You weren’t. You weren’t dumb. Come here, stand up. You’re never dumb—here, is this okay?” He’s sat you on his desk, shoving things aside to make room—casualties for a later consideration—and he’s already littering kisses over your neck. “I missed you too. I think about you all the time, angel, you don’t need to apologize, just… god, I missed you. Please let me touch you. Please.”

It’s hard to say no to that—what with the begging, and the pull of your lip between his teeth, and the heat of his breath fogging your brain. There’s not a lot of room to work with, but you manage to lean enough of your weight back that he can tug your underwear down your thighs. They end up on the floor, and you feel his hand sliding beneath your dress again, where you’re bare for him, and he doesn’t make you wait. 

“Oh my god, you’re perfect,” he mutters upon discovering just how ready for him you are. You hiss as he slips past the initial resistance. Spencer responds with his lips pressed to your head, but he shows no mercy with the slow rock of his hand, the drag against where you’re softest and where you need him the most, the exact right place to touch you. Your arching, squirming, whimpering, doesn’t deter him in the slightest. When your thighs clamp shut and you shift back, he follows you. When you look up at him, brow furrowed, lips parted—in disbelief but without the words to say it—he’s already looking at you. “I know,” he assures you. “That’s it, huh? Right here?”

Rapidly you nod. His exhale is almost one of relief. “Yeah,” he sighs, knowingly. Melting closer to kiss you again. 

It doesn’t bother him when your nails dig into his flexing forearm as you cum. Judging by the groan, you think he might like it. 

You’re barely recovered by the time he’s lining himself up to you, but you find your bearings quickly. It’s a slow, bated burn, when he finally does it. You’re both silent, tense, hardly breathing in anticipation. What has at times been a slip feels now more like an endless push—it is its own kind of back-arching, toe curling, deep-in-your-spine ecstasy, as he breaks you open slow. Your legs part wider for him, and your hips yearn to push against his.

His words burst forth with the same expelling of pressure, at the same time, as your first sudden cry. “Fuck, angel. Jesus.”

There’s a stinging point of light inside you that he’s pushing against. You close your eyes and watch it flash and spark. “Feels so good,” you promise, nothing more than a whisper. Whatever this is, this pain and pleasure, it’s landed you in some divine plane. You never want it to end. 

“Relax for me, honey. Let go a little.”

“I am, I am,” you defend on a quick exhale, looking down when he stops fighting to get in. “Please—why’d you stop? Please—”

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

Something in you is desperate and starving and you need it now—you’ve needed it for a long time—but he doesn’t capitulate. Instead, he kisses you. Softly. Slow and sweet, like you have all the time in the world. You have no choice but to drown in it. It’s a short-circuit in your body when after a minute of this, after he senses the way you’ve dissolved, suddenly his hips are flush with yours. You gasp and a pencil cup clatters to the ground in your search for purchase. You’re little more than a pulsing, glowing star, lightheaded at the depth and the pressure and the way that band of resistance he’d pushed past aches around him in time with the pound of your heart. Spencer is leaning against you, gripping the edge of the desk behind you hard and breathing heavily against your neck. 

Words have every opportunity to pass from your dropped jaw, but you’re actually speechless. Your heartbeat is a white flashing in your eyes. The only verbal expression at your disposal: “Spencer.”

For a moment time suspends like that, and you wonder how the fuck you could ever have made any decision that would take you away from him, away from this. This is so obviously the only right answer. 

Slowly, he draws out, and you stop breathing. Come back. Come back. Your legs spell it out as they wrap around his hips. It’s just as slow on the uptake, and you loose a shuddering, rattling breath. Your body tenses and shifts, trying to pull you up and away from the feeling—but not because it hurts. It’s just so mind-numbingly fucking deep. Everywhere. The base of your spine, the tips of your fingers. Out. While you have a fleeting moment of sentience, you whisper his name a few times in quick succession. This successfully draws his attention and he lifts his head from your shoulder, pupils blown to hell as he’s already dragging back in. A too-honest, too-raw cry pulls from your soul, turns half disbelieving laugh as he presses against your deepest part and black spots dance in your vision. 

His eye darts to the way your knee pulls up, clearly beyond your control—the way your body tries to make sense of him, tries to respond to what he’s doing to you. You watch as it happens—that flash in his eyes. That shift into a kind of determination that always ends with you dead asleep on his pillow, face streaked with dried tears borne of sheer overwhelm. Spencer fits his arm around you and pulls you flush to him, the other hooking under your knee and holding you open. He sets a new pace, and it doesn’t take long to get you gripping at the back of his shirt and tearing up on his shoulder, making due with gasping sips of air and having completely given up on holding in the keens and the pleases and the occasional sob that to the trained ear sounds much like his name. 

You feel it coming—the searing heat, the pound of your heart, the drop of your stomach. It hits as hard as you knew it would. 

Usually he’s a little more talkative—but that comes later. With you pushed over his desk, and his arm around your chest, and his lips pressed to your ear. Blindly you reach back for him—you need him, you need something—and without question he catches your hand, pressing it hard into the dark surface of the wood. His thumb strokes at your hand, his fingers curl with yours, and Spencer continues with those murmurings, like spells—things nobody who knew him would ever imagine him saying. Things that have you making promises, breathing uh-huh’s, telling him you love him. Things that have your vision going black and your throat tightening around choked moans. He’s never had you this vulnerable before. You’re dizzy, drunk on it. This time when the end comes, it’s a heavy crash. It pulls you under. It does whatever the fuck it wants with you and tumbles you in its current forever because he’s not stopping, still slowly closing in on his own peak. There are moments where it goes beyond good. It’s just complete and utter sensation, on all fronts—thoughts come as colors and textures instead of words. You don’t even feel tethered to your body anymore, your grip on reality tenuous at best. 

Eventually all the crashing does end, and you whine brokenly, and he shushes you softly, and finally, finally, stills inside of you. 

Slowly, you come back to yourself. It’s dark outside, now. You can hear weekend traffic on the streets below. His apartment is clean (aside from the shit that got knocked over and the books on the couch) and it’s sticky summer warm, and it smells like home. It’s safe. And everything is okay. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so okay in your life. 

Spencer adjusts his hold on you when your weight signals that you want to lie flat on the desk, face pressed against your forearm, catching your breath in the wood-lacquer darkness. He follows you down, arms braced on either side of your head. His weight on your back is a comfort, as are his lips at the nape of your neck. 

“Okay?” he murmurs. Two gentle syllables, marked with exertion. You nod against your arm. “Not ready to talk?” Another nod. Another okay. 

For a stretch of time, he’s pressed his face against the back of your shoulder. You’re still seeing dancing colors behind your lids. 

The twinkly laughter comes as a surprise. “I don’t know where to put you, baby. All the places for lying down are covered in antique books.”

There’s not much air in your lungs. You spend it on laughter.

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

“Who was that?” He demands, eyes worrisomely clear on you, voice alarmingly steady. You glance around to see if any of your coworkers can see the way he’s practically got you up against the wall down the dark passageway. The way he’s looking at you. Like he owns you. 

“Who was who?”

“I’m not willing to play stupid with you right now. Answer me.”

It’s easier to hurt your feelings these days. They’re closer to the surface. Sometimes it makes things feel really, really good. Sometimes your eyes sting at the smallest of provocations—things you would’ve brushed off without a second thought a year ago. You meet his eyes and swallow. “You’re being a fucking dick.”

Spencer is unfazed. His response is whip-fast and too loud, even among the chatter and laughter and music and clinking glasses. “Did you sleep with him?”

“What? What is your problem?” you hiss, pushing Spencer just hard enough to get some breathing room. 

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

“God, are you—you know what? No. You are so fucking out of line right now. Fuck off.”

You leave Spencer in the hallway and emerge into the bar. It’s bustling tonight. The whole BAU is here, scattered around, but suddenly, you feel aimless. Your nervous system is rattled after being accosted as soon as you left the bathroom, on what had previously been a good night. So you stand there, looking around and fiddling with your bracelet. 

It’s one Spencer recently gifted to you. A simple, delicate chain, but clearly well-crafted. The clasp is the only real ornamentation—two interlocking circles of equivalent circumference. There is no tail of wider chain loops to create an adjustable size—it is exactly what it is, and it fits you perfectly. To some, it’d be an underwhelming gift. No lavish stones, no poetic engraving, no garish costume-jewelry gold. But it means more to you than you could ever explain to somebody else. More than you’d ever feel comfortable explaining to somebody else. Spencer knows that. Two interlocking circles. 

When he gave it to you, you had a panic attack. Jewelry felt like a big step. But you didn’t do your usual thing where you start a huge fight and then dump him, and he didn’t take offense to your overwhelm. He only comforted you, and when all was said and done, you held out your wrist, and he put the bracelet on for you, and kissed the back of your hand. You haven’t taken it off since. It’s quickly become something of a talisman—you worry at it when you don’t know what to do with your hands. Even now. When you feel like punching him in the face. 

Did you sleep with him? What an asshole. What a fucking asshole. Spencer grovels and simpers and promises he’ll never hurt you, and then he goes and does something like that. The him in question—the one who recognized you when you were ordering a drink, and who held you up for maybe five minutes—is nowhere to be seen. That’s for the best. The recognition was not reciprocal. But rather than humiliate yourself in front of this man who knew your name by admitting you couldn’t place his face, you’d played along. Laughed awkwardly at his jokes like you knew who he was.

You don’t get why Spencer is so angry. He’s not the type to get jealous just because you spoke to another man. Sure, the man was perhaps a little over-familiar with you. He was flirty.

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

Before you can stop yourself, you’re looking back in his direction. 

He’s still in the dimly lit hallway. He’s watching you, hands in suit packets, and for all that you’ve seen his face, all the times you’d swore to commit every bit of it to memory—you can’t read his expression. 

That only pisses you off worse. 

You pointedly turn away, carving a path through the Friday night patrons toward the jukebox. 

The machine takes your quarter, but there’s something of a queue, and you realize you’re in too much of a bad mood to stand around getting jostled by drunk people who are having way more fun than you are. 

That’s how you end up out front, letting the rough stone wall bite into your bare arm and watching the cars go by, surrounded by patrons who’d stepped out for a smoke. 

Maybe you shouldn’t let Spencer ruin your entire night because of some stupid outburst. But you can’t shake it. 

Is that what he thinks of you? That you sleep around? That you cheat? Sure, the two of you haven’t explicitly had the commitment talk. But you thought it was pretty fucking implied. 

The moon is a bright white spotlight overhead. Despite the season, a breeze nips at all your exposed skin, and you cross your arms against the chill. Earlier, in your classy-enough white minidress and blue pumps, you’d felt beautiful. Now you just feel gross. 

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

You can tell by the way he stops a few feet away that his tail is between his legs. Your head rolls toward him. 

“I can hear.”

It’s true—the buzzy, bouncy twang is distinctive even through a wall, and every drum beat is clear as day. So is the cheer that goes around as a bunch of drunk Generation X-ers and millennials recognize the synth riff. 

Spencer narrows his eyes and searches for the words. “I can’t help but feeling it’s slightly… pointed.”

What? Playing a song called Love Will Tear Us Apart? 

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

You don’t bother using your words—the exaggerated faux-bafflement on your face gets the message across. 

Spencer nods, looking appropriately contrite as he steps closer. You let him. 

“You were right,” he murmurs, speaking just for you now. “I was out of line.”

“Oh, really? Thanks for telling me. I hadn’t noticed.”

He says your name gently. You shut up and cast your glare sideways, watching a crumpled plastic cup make its way down the sidewalk. 

“I’m sorry. I just—I know you’re beautiful. I know people notice you. But we’re not usually in environments where I have to watch it happen. Or… or maybe it just goes over my head. That’s entirely possible. Either way, I’m not used to seeing you get hit on, and I couldn’t tell if you knew the guy, or if… maybe you were just hitting it off, and—I—I panicked, because we’ve never really had that talk before. I know what you are to me. But I’ve never clarified what I am to you. I’m not going to push you on the labels thing. You know I’m not. We should be on the same page about this, though.”

You sigh. Fiddle with your bracelet and watch it glint. “Spencer, I swear that guy—”

“I don’t care about that guy. It wasn’t about him. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that regardless of what we call it, it matters to me that we’re not doing this with anyone else.” His voice takes on that intimate tone—just barely more than a whisper. You look down as he grabs your hand, and drags it back up to his heart. Your breath catches. “You are my person, and I need that to be clear. Is that okay with you?”

His sincerity has stunned you speechless, and the proximity isn’t helping either, so you can only let your fingers catch on his lapel and nod—quick, eager little dips of your head. Yes, yes, you think. I can’t say it like you can. But yes. Please. That’s what I want. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, mirroring your nod and fondness twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

What you want to say is, oh, god, I love you. I love you so much it hurts. It burns inside of me, all the time, and I don’t know what to do with it all. I love you I love you I love you. 

Instead, you say, in your smallest voice, “Yeah. Yes.”

The way he slips his hand behind your neck and kisses you against that wall, under the full August moon and between clouds of cigarette smoke, cools your blood. It’s the only thing that works. 

Later in bed, you watch him sleep, that same moonlight casting silver through his hair as you comb your fingers through it, again and again. 

Before he’d fallen asleep, you’d asked him a question that had been on your mind since the bar. 

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

It’d caught him off guard. He held your hand, pressed the circles of your bracelet just to your racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, and mapped your face with darting eyes, with an intellect that can’t read minds no matter how much he wishes it could. 

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

At this you’d shaken your head no—which was an assurance made in haste. But you were too curious. You needed to know. 

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

You’re like… a lens I see the entire world through. I can’t do anything, or make any choice, without thinking about you. I’m always thinking about you. When we’re not together, it feels like I’m waiting for my life to start again. Nothing really counts unless you’re there to experience it with me, you know? I think of you as… I don’t know. Everything. You’re why I know it’s all real. Why it matters. 

It was so much, you had to hide in the curve of his neck. It made you nervous. The bigger it is, the harder it falls. 

But, because it mattered so much to you—because he matters so much—you found the courage to whisper against his neck: Me, too.

It was a really scary thing to admit. Scarier than when you tell him you love him. He kissed you for your bravery. 

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

Spencer lies sleeping next to you like a Renaissance angel as hot tears burn a scar down the bridge of your nose, and you bargain with god. Let me be good enough for him. Let me be someone else. Anything. I’ll do anything, just—please. Take this feeling away. Make me into a girl who deserves this kind of love. 

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

It started when you and Spencer didn’t take the same car to the airfield. 

Of course, that’s not unheard of—but it is uncommon. If it’s at all possible, he’ll slide in next to you. Today he didn’t even wait—got engrossed in a debate with Emily and followed her right into an almost-full SUV. 

So you stood there, blinked, and climbed into the other car next to Rossi. You didn’t say a word for the whole fifteen minute drive, watching the muddy fields and warehouses roll by beyond the window. 

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

It’s just that it’s been nearly a week since you’ve spent a night with him. And it’s starting to make you feel restless. There have been crack of dawn doctor’s appointments, and nights where one or both of you are too tired to drive to the other’s place, and preexisting plans with other people. All valid reasons to raincheck. 

But you’re not used to sleeping alone anymore. It’s not what you do. It feels like a really big deal to you that you haven’t had a sleepover for so long, and he hasn’t mentioned it, or given any hint that it’s bothering him the way it’s bothering you. 

God, when was the last time you spent more than two or three nights apart?

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

On the jet, it’s not much better. Again, Spencer doesn’t wait for you before boarding. You’re slamming the car door, and he’s already walking up the steps in animated conversation with JJ. 

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

No. No, please—I’m past this. I’m too grown-up for this. 

He loves me. 

But there’s that old paradox, again. If nobody except Spencer knows that you’re dating Spencer—and he’s not acknowledging it—are you really even together?

By the time you get on, he’s at the table. The three seats around him have been filled. You eye each of your coworkers and try not to feel burning rage, because they didn’t do anything wrong. 

Instead, you sit on the far end of the couch, and you pick your nails. 

The whole first day at the precinct is pretty much the same story, though you’re able to engross yourself deeply enough into the job that it doesn’t bother you so much. 

It’s only when the day is over, and you’re showered, and you’re sitting on your perfectly made hotel queen bed, that loneliness turns into gnawing, tearing panic. 

You catch your breath as it hits you—as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and dread washes out the shell of your body. It’s bad. Worse than you would’ve imagined. 

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

You don’t know if the solution here is to go to Spencer or to remain locked in your room like a psych-patient in a padded cell. 

Panic makes you unreasonable, you think. Pushing off the bed to pace. Moving helps. Moving tells your body that you’re evading the threat, and the panic attack ends sooner. 

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

Unreasonable, right. You’re not entirely dependent on him for your mental stability. You have developed implicit expectations, sure—you’re used to being alone with him every night, so you can talk about your days and drink tea and be close. That’s not a bad thing. It’s a routine you’ve developed, and one you’ve come to rely on. Surely it’d be disregulating for anyone if it suddenly changed without warning. It’s not because you’re obsessive, or sick, or overly-needy. And it’s normal for couples to take a few days apart. 

Not obsessive, not sick, not needy. It’s normal. This is normal. 

This becomes your mantra as you pace the patterned carpet, eyes closed, lips moving, like if you stop the panic is going to catch you and swallow you whole. 

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

And it’s like watching a dam explode from the valley below. 

For a second you don’t know if you should run to the bathroom and throw up or go to Spencer’s door, and then you’re questioning if it’s late enough to go to his room, if maybe someone on the team might be out in the hallway—but your brain is screaming, if you do not go see Spencer, you are going to die. Who gives a fuck about your fucking coworkers. 

You tap lightly at his door. 

He doesn’t answer right away, and the brightly lit hallway seems to stretch on forever. You’re so profoundly anxious that there is a moment of hysterical, perverse humor. Look at you. About to die in a hotel hallway, barefoot and in pajama shorts, if he doesn’t open this fucking door. And of course. Of course he’s not going to open it. This is great stuff. Really, awesome material. Perfect. 

Just as you’re gripping the door frame to stop the building from spinning, just as you’re really, seriously about to pass out—the lock clicks. The door opens. 

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

“Hey! I was just about to—” he stops. Perhaps notices your slumped posture, how you’re white-knuckling the door. Maybe the sheen of sweat on your face. “Hey, okay—come here.”

Spencer wraps an arm around you and helps you in, closing the door and then leading you to his bed. 

“You look like you’re gonna pass out,” he mutters, laying you down carefully—ideally to get the blood flow back to your head. You blink. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

You say it because you’re embarrassed. Spencer says your name with an edge that wants the truth. 

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

Your vision clears. Your ears stop ringing, and you push yourself up to sit against the headboard. Spencer has a bottle of water locked and loaded, holding it out for you as soon as you’re settled. 

The way he’s watching you as you drink, with so much unabashed and scrutinizing concern in that knit brow, is almost too much. You look away and screw the lid back on. 

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

“I don’t know, I was just sitting there—I was literally just sitting there, and suddenly my brain was like, by the way, you have five minutes to live, and—and I don’t know. I tried walking it off and breathing and stuff. I’m sorry I came here. It’s not your problem.”

“You’re not a problem. This isn’t a problem. You should’ve come before it got this bad.”

When he sets his hand on your knee, you close your eyes and try not to let it feel like medicine. 

It’s not his job to fix you. That’s not what he’s for. 

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

It’s clear he’s putting the pieces together. You sigh and fiddle with the bottle cap. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. 

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

You flash him a look, because he knows he’s pushing you—but he’s unrelenting. 

Spencer’s hair is a corona of unruly curls. He hasn’t shaved in a few days. You don’t want to have this conversation—you want to put your head in his lap and fall asleep to the hotel TV. 

“It’s stupid. It doesn’t make sense. I just—I don’t know, we didn’t talk all day, and—”

You take a quick, shuddering inhale, and close your mouth. Because you realize you’re about to cry. And now you can’t even soften the blow of your insanity—you can’t tell him, I know I’m being crazy, I know nothing is wrong, I know it’s okay for us to not talk for a day or to spend a few nights apart and it doesn’t mean you hate me. 

But you can’t say any of that. It wouldn’t be true, anyways. You don’t know any of those things. 

Spencer is observing you and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. You look down at your folded legs to hide your wobbling chin. 

There’s no hiding the plunk of a fat tear as it hits the mattress, or the subsequent bloom of saltwater grey turning the sheet into a ghostly, sad little garden. You wipe your face with a furious, punishing hand, and speak hoarsely. “Sorry.”

Spencer catches your wrist before you can take out your own eye. “Stop.”

“I’m fine,” you insist, snatching your hand away though you desperately crave the contact. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything is fine.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t—you need to stop doing that. Minimizing everything all the time. If everything was fine, you wouldn’t have had a panic attack and you wouldn’t be crying now.”

“Everything is fine,” you assert. Anger—not at him—begins seeping through your tone, burning you at the edges. “Everything is fine, but I’m obviously not, and I’m sick of getting so fucking upset about nothing all the time.”

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

“Because I’m crazy! Because we haven’t been together all week, and you didn’t sit next to me in the car today, or on the jet, and—and ever since I actually stopped holding you at arm’s length, I’m so fucking involved, and I care so much, and I knew this would happen. Before, it wouldn’t have mattered if we didn’t spend the night together for a week, because I wasn’t all in, and I knew if I was always giving you just a little less than you were giving me that the dynamic would be in my favor, and I would never have to feel like I was the unwanted one. But I can’t do that anymore, because—’cause I let myself care all the way, and I was so afraid of this happening, and it’s happening. I don’t have any fucking control over myself anymore. I’m so worried, all the time—it’s like, I have a doomsday clock inside of me, but instead of the end of the world it’s measuring how close you are to breaking up with me at any moment. Which is fucked, I know it’s fucked. I know I can’t read your mind, but I don’t have any perspective anymore. And the worst part is that it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know the more insane and hyper-vigilant and codependent I get, the likelier you are to actually break up with me. It was never a problem before. It was never this scary because if I was the one who kept breaking up with you it meant I was in control, but I don’t wanna break up with you at all. I’m terrified of it. But it—it’s like my karma, I—”

“Okay. Slow down.” Your head snaps up—wide, teary eyes on Spencer. You almost forgot he was there. “Breathe. Just—take a deep breath.”

Fuck. You drag your hands to your face, fully prepared to curl in on yourself and die rather than face your own humiliation. 

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

“I’m going insane,” you sniffle as he peels your hands away and forces you to look at him. “I c-can’t say anything that will make me sound less crazy.”

“You’re not crazy. Your nervous system is just shot, and you’re probably exhausted. Did you eat? I didn’t see you have dinner.”

Guilty, you shake your head. You didn’t realize he was paying attention. 

“I’ll call room service,” he decides. 

“I’m really not hungry.”

Spencer ignores this and picks up the phone anyway. You sit back against the headboard and hug your knees to your chest, staring at nothing as he orders something you’ll like. Waiting for the click of the phone back in its cradle. 

When the call is over, there is tremulous silence. A tension you’re not sure how to go about breaking. 

Spencer does it for you—finding your ankle and carefully pulling your leg straight, so he can run the length of it back and forth with his hand. You watch it go, like waves rolling in and falling back on sand. 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to spend enough time together this week. I missed you, too. I absolutely do not want to break up. Not one part of me wants that.”

“I should be able to know that without you telling me.”

“But you aren’t, yet. You’re going to learn.”

“But—until I do—you’re gonna have to—to reassure me constantly. I’m going to be exhausting and irritating and you’re going to get sick of me.”

He regards you. 

“It makes me really sad that you feel that way. I think you severely underestimate how much I like you.”

“Why, though?” Immediately you’re rolling your eyes and throwing your hands up. “See? Fucking right there. Already. I’m already doing it.”

Spencer is holding back a smile when you look at him. You shrink. 

“No, no—” he laughs, leaning in. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you.”

You end up nearly lying down, with him over you. Breathing in his mint and eucalyptus bedtime smell. The smile fades slowly, as he thumbs over your cheek, your lips. Your lids flutter at the relief of it all. 

“I’m hoping… we’ll never have to do a week like that again. I didn’t like it very much, either.”

You lean into his palm, and don’t speak for a long while. 

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

“Can—” you swallow involuntarily. You’re scared to ask. But you know what the answer will be. “Can we… I know I’ve messed up a bunch of times, but—can I be your girlfriend? We don’t have to tell anyone, I just… I want to be your real girlfriend.”

The slow blossom of his smile is like a swell in your favorite song as he grins down at you. 

“You’ve been my real girlfriend for a while.”

“I know, but… I want you to tell me that’s what I am. I want to know that when you think of me, you’re thinking about your real-life serious girlfriend.”

He hums. 

“And am I allowed to tell other people that you’re my real-life serious girlfriend?”

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

He’s angling for something, and you know what, but you’re not sure you’re ready for that particular step. 

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

“We can’t,” you murmur, hugging his arm to your chest. “Not yet. They’ll—it’ll change things. But… but maybe we don’t have to hide it quite as much.”

“Like… no running away when we see someone we know in public?”

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

“You have to always save a seat for me in the cars and on the jet. Always. Capiche?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

Now that you’ve got him, you’re not going to let go. 

September 1st

“You’re delusional. Truly, you’re acting insane.”

“For wondering why you had to stay three hours late at work to review one interview transcript you could’ve done during lunch?”

Spencer drops his bag onto a chair and rounds the counter, pushing a hand through his hair. You remain leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed.

“It is not that simple.” He insists. “You’re being paranoid and unreasonable. Again.”

“Or you’re being defensive.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow, like he’s just now seeing you for the first time since he got home. That is to say—his home. 

“Am I being accused of something?”

Words catch in your throat. Normally you’d hurl a ridiculous indictment as a matter of anything being possible—but not this time. It would be abjectly absurd to accuse him of cheating at anything other than cards. 

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

“So what? What’s the point of this? I come home after staying at work three hours late listening to a man recounting in excruciating detail how he killed and ate an entire family because nobody else wanted to do it, and as soon as I walk through my own front door you start a fucking fight with me? Over nothing?”

The sudden slope in volume is startling as it rings off the walls like a gunshot. Rarely does he raise his voice before you have the chance to. 

For the few moments you’re stunned into silence, you take note of a few things you hadn’t before. The pound of his heart in his throat and just beneath his eye. Exhaustion evident in the strain of his voice and the mess of his hair, hanging over his face limp in some places and frazzled in others. The fragile glaze over his eyes, even as they widen and crackle with heat. It takes a lot out of a person to sit and listen to what he listened to for as long as he did. Even Spencer—even a man who can intellectualize and pathologize any human atrocity into microscopic pulses of electricity coursing through grey matter. 

It gets to him like it gets to everyone. You know that. 

Fuck. 

The most embarrassing part is that you started this fight because you missed him, and you still haven’t quite figured out how to not be afraid of that feeling. Sometimes when you miss him it feels like a threat to your autonomy, and by extension, your safety. You sure as hell don’t know how to just admit this to him. 

So instead you pick fights. Not as much, anymore, but sometimes when you’re in need of comfort and just can’t ask for it, you’ll start pushing your luck with inflammatory comments. You’ll trigger a meaningless argument. Spencer will eventually whittle your fighting words down to a simple, familiar truth. He will realize that this is your way of telling him you need something, and then you get the sweet after: where he rewards you for nothing, where he tries to apologize for a conflict you’d created with gentle touches and murmured words of comfort. Sun after a storm. It’s easy to accept affection and tenderness if you’ve intentionally scratched open all your old wounds—if you’ve earned it through trial by blood. 

Tonight, he’s not having it. You sense no reality where this ends with a sweet kiss and whispers so soft you can hardly hear them. 

Which means you need to backtrack. 

So you swallow your pride and your shame and your fear. Choke on it, really. But the words come out all the same. 

“I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s chest is still rising and falling quickly. The purple paisley silk of his tie catches your eye. It’s all astray. You want to fix it. He could breathe better if you took it off. And there’s no way he’s not bothered by his hair falling over his face. 

How can you make this go away?

Could it go in the other direction these quarrels sometimes do? Maybe it could end with you achey and tired in his arms, after he kisses the marks around your wrists, the little purple splotches on your hips and the starburst clusters of broken blood vessels on your thighs. Here, too, he’ll end up being sanguine—there’ll just be more steps in between. 

Just as you’re running scenarios in your mind, calculating outcomes and trying to chart the best plan of action, his tongue darts over his lips. It’s enough to stop you in your tracks. 

Why hasn’t his brow relaxed? Those eyes, still darting over your face with a kind of urgency—is that hunger or dissatisfaction with what he sees?

“You should go.”

A beat. 

This does not process instantaneously. You blink and shake your head as if you could clear it that way. 

“What?”

Spencer’s eyes are a forge on you, but he diverts them to the wall. Sparing you from the edge of a glowing sword. You don’t know how you’d prefer it—cool to the touch and sharp enough to cut, or soft and burning and prolonged. He’s probably decided he’s being civil. Doesn’t realize it lasts so much longer this way. 

“I think you should go home for the weekend.”

“Why?” It bursts from you, trembling and affronted. 

“Because I can’t—” he stops himself. Shutters his eyes and takes a deep breath that doesn’t seem to do much of anything. “I am not in the right headspace for this. I need you out of here.”

“What do you mean, this?”

“You. This thing you always do. I do not have it in me to make you feel better about yourself right now.”

It would’ve been quicker to just kick you in the stomach. 

For a moment you’re too stunned to speak as he blurs through a thick cloud of tears. 

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

Spencer is unfazed—leans in closer as if to make sure you understand. Lowers his voice, and the tremor there is not the kind that comes from hurt feelings. You don’t know what it is. 

“Go. Home.”

It’s the kind of quiet that you’re afraid will culminate in a burst eardrum or something worse. He’s not like that, you know he’s not. Even at his worst. Even when you push him to his absolute wit’s end. But you can already hear it. Feel it. Ghost echos that have been rattling around in your head for years. 

A part of you—a rather large part—wants to cover her ears hard and sink to the ground, or otherwise apologize and beg him to love you again. 

But you are an adult. He’s asked you to leave. 

So you do. With an awful pulling in your gut and a hollowing in your chest like a sinkhole falling into itself. 

The static starts outside his door. The raking breaths. That awful warmth on the back of your neck and the greying of your vision. 

You stumble to the stairs and cover your face, letting the waves of panic wash over your shoulders. 

Was that a breakup? Does he still love you? Did he ever? If love can be so quickly taken away, was it ever really there? See, this is why—this is exactly why you’ve done what you’ve done, why you’ve been the way you have and treated him the way you did for so long. Because of this inevitability. Because of your nature, and what happens when a child tells himself he can enjoy a broken toy just the same as a regular one, until he keeps playing with it, and it keeps breaking worse and worse until it’s completely unusable. 

Something snaps inside of you. Gears grind and groan. The static doesn’t go away, it only gets louder, and it sounds a whole lot like his name over and over again—so you’ll just have to drown it out. 

-

It’s hot in this place, and it’s loud—so loud you can feel the throbbing techno beat in your teeth. The flashing lights wash over you like a tide of blood, rising and falling, filling your lungs. 

Whatever is coursing through your veins is not enough to dull the ache. In the middle of the dance floor, and you’re still thinking of Spencer. Spencer. Spencer. With every beat of your heart. Not enough alcohol. Not enough anything. 

It’s so hot in here—sweat drips down your spine and the room is spinning, but all the writhing, shadowed bodies prop you up as you stumble toward the bar. No chance in hell the bartender would keep serving you in the state you’re in, so you find someone to buy the drinks for you. 

And you fall, fall, fall—chasing some wicked, Cheshire gleam at the bottom of that glass, and the next, and the next. 

That gleam is, of course, an illusion. It will shine so brightly you can taste it. It will convince you to reach just a little further. And it will wink at you from the impossible end of a bottomless pit. 

You don’t care. You tip over the edge and let the darkness swallow you whole.

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

You’re practically dripping from Spencer as he locks your door.

“Help me out, a little?” he grunts as you make no effort to support your own body weight. 

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

He breathes a laugh and walks you deeper into the apartment. It’s a slow process. 

“If I set you down on the couch… are you going to be able to get back up?”

“I don’t know,” you sing-song, stumbling, giggling, and grabbing onto him tighter. “Let’s find out.”

Your ankles threaten to buckle all the way across the room, but he holds you fast. 

“Easy,” he murmurs as you slip your arms from around his neck and drop heavily to the cushions. You blink at him, exhausted, admiring the view. At some point, you’d managed to pull off his tie and undo the first few buttons on his shirt before he’d caught your hands and given you a warning look. Looking at him now, you have absolutely no regrets.

Spencer kneels in front of you, undoing the delicate ankle strap on your shoe. Your blood is pleasantly warmed as you let your head loll to your shoulder—warmer with every sweet way he handles you. Carefully. Like it’s an honor. 

After he slips the heels off, he presses a kiss to the top of each knee. You lace a hand through his hair. “Excellent view.”

There’s a lazy sort of smirk on his face when he tilts his head back up toward you. 

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

Spencer slides a gratuitous hand up your leg, fingertips just brushing the short hem of your dress, and raises his other. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Easy. Six.”

He snorts, pressing his face against your thigh, and you melt into a puddle of giggles. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! It was three. See—hey, you can make me say my ABC’s backwards, and I’ll walk in a straight line—”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

Even that sweet, placating kiss to your thigh isn’t enough to temper the immediate and profound disappointment you feel at his proclamation. “What? Why?”

“Oh—why am I not going to sleep with a woman who couldn’t get up the stairs on her own?”

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

He pushes off the ground, towering above you once more, and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Sorry. You’ll have to go find someone just as drunk as you.”

You linger there, your head tilted up, so he hangs in your silence, suspended less than an inch above you. 

“What?”

It comes out thin, with the crane of your neck. Quiet because your blood is frozen in your veins. 

Spencer pauses only briefly and then drops one more kiss to your mouth. At the contact your eyes flutter, in spite of yourself. 

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

Then he’s up again, moving toward the kitchen. 

“Why would you joke about that?”

Spencer stops at the end of the couch and gives you an odd look. “Did it bother you?”

“Yes. Don’t—you can’t say stuff like that.”

Why are you breathing so quickly?

Now you’ve really got his attention. He turns fully back toward you, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. 

There’s a long stretch of silence. You can hear a faucet dripping and try to match your inhales to each plunk of water. 

“What’s wrong?”

One blink of hesitation and you realize your name is halfway signed on your own death sentence. 

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

“Oh my god, I said it’s nothing. Just let it go. Jesus.”

And that final utterance, that subtle roll of your eyes, was practically a flourish of the pen. 

You haven’t gone the offense-as-defense route in a while. 

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

The question is quiet enough to chill your bones and dry your throat. 

“Nothing. What? Nothing happened. I just don’t think it’s funny to joke about stuff like that.”

Fuck. Fuck. There may as well be a giant blinking sign over your head that says I’m lying. 

You watch it wash over him. 

The worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He stands there for a moment—and then he turns, walking toward the kitchen again. For a moment, you’re frozen. Then you panic. 

“Spencer,” you call, and it breaks down the middle as you try to get up and sit right back down. He will not want to be followed. You take in a deep, grating breath, digging your nails hard into the sides of your legs and staring at the ground, willing the room to stop spinning. Willing your lungs to fill with air. 

Your entire body waits in suspense, taut like a steel guitar string, for shattering glass, or splintering drywall, or a slamming door, or something. It doesn’t come. He’s still here. You know he hasn’t left. 

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

Maybe five minutes later, you hear movement. When he reenters the living room, you keep your head down, tracking him only with your eyes. A yawning chasm seems to open up between your spot on the couch and where he stands, across the room. 

For a moment, neither of you speak—and then both of you try at once. More silence follows. You cover your face with your hands.

“We weren’t together,” you mumble into the cup of them. 

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!!

[omgfangirlland]

Dude, Imagine a reader being isekaid in Gotham. Reader has a system which prevents them from dying so they're kinda immortal. What I mean is that reader can die but they'll get revived again and again. Of course.. Since it's Gotham, she gets killed on her first night. Imagine where there are certain things she gotta do to unlock some abilities but she doesn't know what or how to unlock it. A reader who was happy at being isekaid before she slowly realized the reality she was on now (happy character to gloomy and depressed reader). Imagine a reader who's slowly losing it as she dies for the 99th time.. How life slowly does in her eyes. Randomly thought of this as I was reading a quotev story of a Reader x record of Ragnarok. This sucks cause I wrote this at 3am with one eye closed. ➖👄👁 (me rn)

-🔱

OMG GO TO SLEEEP (I'll probably stay awake until 5 am so really, who am I to talk-)

Tried to keep this GN!Reader, but I may have slipped. This may be gruesome soooo fair warning from now: Dead dove do not eat, gore, blood, death, everyone is getting traumatized tbh, suicide mentioned, trying to make it funny but it gets dark quick, lots of shit like that

Some things before starting:

I've always liked the idea of Isekaid!Reader- add to that Immortal-but-not-really!Reader who remembers every death? Amazing angst.

Reader who is immortal in the sense that she regenerates, no matter how small the piece left is, she'll be back up and running by the next day, maybe the next week if the piece is really small- but you'll see her again! And like Deathstroke, the regeneration keeps her "in her prime" as well, so if she died young, like 16, she'd stop aging by 25-30(tbh this would prob be another layer to the trauma)

I imagine the way to level up is in a dead magical language, a forgotten dialect of some god, etc.

This could turn into a multi chaptered fic... This could be Romantic!Batfam... This could be Romantic!The Immortal Version!Wonder Woman... This could be Romantic!Ra's and Talia 😈 IT could be all three options 😈😈😈 It's def yandere/obsessive territory either way.

---

No matter how Reader actually died in real life, mugging gone wrong, the classic bus/truck moment, suicide, etc etc, it'll probably be brushed off as a dream in a dream once you realize you've woken up in Gotham.

So, of course Reader dies the first night. "Oh- it's just a dream, let me do crazy shit like going into rich people's places-"Yeah you end up in a hostage situation.

Now- you wanted to be sneaky, play vigilante for shits and giggles, you weren't as amused when you were eye to eye with a bomb.

Now, Batsy thinks everything is fine- he got everyone out, the area is evacuated, and everything can be rebuilt. And then he hears Oracle gasp, saying someone is face to face with the bomb. It's Jason all over again, from him running towards the building, to your shoulders slumping in defeat as the clock ticks zero, to Bruce being in utter shock as he tries to move on as the smell of burnt human flesh once again sticks to him, bringing back his sleepless nights and blank stare.

You weren't worried, thinking you'd just wake up and go to your normal life. But you wake up in pain as bones, veins, nerves, meat, and skin regrow, as the fabric that was melted into your skin is expelled, clear skin taking over. It was excruciating. It left you screaming and crying, your body shaking on the metal table. And it left the mortician who was about to work on you passed out on the floor.

When the old woman wakes up, the only evidence that she didn't hallucinate is the missing change of clothes, CCTV recordings showing you stumbling out of the building, barely able to walk, and a small smear of liquid gold.

Bruce's guilt was eating him. He's memorized your face at this point, every pixel, the way your shoulders dropped, to the way you resigned to your fate. And he starts to see you in random places, looking at him from over the street as he's swarmed by reporters, in the local cemetery, on Red Hood's territory. So he goes to the morgue.

When the bat comes knocking for any information on you, for any blood he can test to find out who you are, so Bruce Wayne can send some guilt money to your family, the woman pales, multiple prayers to different gods spewing out of her lips. Another employee, not quite as terrified but still shaken, tells him everything, even shows him the recording.

From everything, he'd have assumed a trauma-born meta-gene, but the liquid gold smear and the pure fact that you should have been dead, no discussion had, gave him pause. Maybe it was a Dark Justice League problem.

You've died so much, you stopped counting, what use was it anyway? You tried leaving Gotham, but every time something would happen, from almost getting decapitated, it was so weird to feel your neck sewing itself in place, to being run over, to being shot Bonnie and Clyde style. So much happened, and you remember it all. You remember the pain, the way your blood seeped through your wounds, the crack of your bones.

But you also remember waking up from imminent death, the red blood now golden and melting into the ground, the pain of everything mending, over and over again. You stopped trying, taking refuge in the safest territory you knew. You also stopped looking into reflections. You couldn't take what you saw, what you would hear if you stared long enough- letters and whispered words in a language you couldn't recognize, dark figures in the corner of your eye, hands clutching at you- it was too much, a never ending nightmare.

It didn't matter who you were in your past life, in Gotham, you are a nobody, and even so, the Bat and his birds found you quite quickly. Granted, you working for gangs and occasionally the Penguing wasn't exactly low profile, but no one else would hire you without needing some form of documents. Documents you no longer have. So you took to cleaning up The Lounge and turning a blind eye to everything that was happening, to the drugs, to the scream coming from the basement you weren't supposed to know existed, everything. The way Penguing pays, you'd play dumb for as long as he was alive, honestly. Soon enough, you'd be able to afford a house.

Of course- you were trying to avoid Batsy and whatever robin he currently had, what would you even say to him if you could catch a one-on-one moment? "I know everything about every version of you because I'm from another world, I found out I'm immortal, and need a sugar daddy."? Jail. Straight to Arkham. Nobody would believe you. But you were already on his radar, and when he emerged from the shadows of your small apartment, you understood why the goons were so afraid of him.

[sqgeism]

AHHH EVENTS OMGOMGOMG

forgive me if i sound really unclear and vague here but, id like to request anaxagoras with 'real man' by beabadoobee. idk but the fact that anaxagoras was alone this whole time and probably has zero idea on how to treat a woman is just so hilarious to me like imagine him being so confused on the concept of like. being affectionate. ofc he knows what affection is but its DEFINITELY foreign to him he's so used to ppl calling him a blasphemer and being lonely like UGH MY HEART. its almost as if no one ever taught him how to be a real man(see what i did there).

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 guess no one ever taught you | various hsr men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; how to be a reaaaal man ! saying your boyfriend is inexperienced with love would be an understatement.

love mail — HI RIIII!! ILY THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING for my next trick, i will write five fics in one day 🐑 i probably won't but hey a girl can dream 🙏 random character lineup my bad 🤦‍♀️. (moze was intentional sampo idk where he came from) LMAO idek who to put i dont wanna do amphoreus men every time ( *´д)/(´д｀､) 💔

anaxa attempting to be romantic is like a fawn trying to learn how to walk.

he's awkward, stiff, and wobbly. he doesn't know good times to hold your hand, when to comfort you, and he's unintentionally dodged your kisses multiple times. it hasn't discouraged you, surprisingly, his inexperience. you just sigh, smile, and laugh it off. and anaxa sees it, while his brows furrow and his lips quiver in a bit of frustration. he's a genius, a chrysos heir, he's everything he knows he is, except a romantic.

his words have a horrible tendency to be too sharp, too critical, and cut deep. however, just as quick as they escape him, he apologizes just as quick. it doesn't... absolute him from his 'sin', but it reassures you that he's making an effort. like grabbing a rose for it's beauty only to be pricked by thorns, it is ultimately your decision whether you find the blood on your fingertips worth the flowers beauty; and you know anaxa is worth the mess. worth all the blood on your hands.

he's just been so lonely before you. uncaring of his own existence, or the existence of others, and all of a sudden there is this societal expectation to be a big romantic. seriously, who invented these stupid traditions? who the hell has the time to take someone on a fancy, expensive date EVERY night. 'be a little more realistic.' is what he wants to tell those people, but of course, what does he know?

he's not seen as a real man. not until he can treat his lover right, whatever that means. he doesn't know you think he's doing more than enough, carrying your heavy bags around the academy halls, remembering important days, little compliments that sound awkward on his tongue but he means it regardless.

he's trying, that's more than most.

moze could probably be seen as a little more 'unstable'. the very first place where you first learn love, 'family', is where he was first forsaken. abandoned, used, manipulated.. that was his child life. and it's caused him to become the man he is now, to his misfortune.

but that doesn't mean he doesn't care, he does so much that his heart is heavy with the love he holds for you. for all his 'indifference', he's so protective of you. in a realistic light, it could definitely be seen as a little a overdo. following you around in silence, keeping tabs on you, he needs to know you won't leave. that you.. can't. he's lost so much, don't forget. if his lover, his world, his heart, would ever leave? he doesn't want to know what'll happen after that. he's got a good idea and he'd rather not.

but romance isn't.. completely lost on him. he's felt some sort of fondness before, it isn't something foreign, but to this degree is most definitely new for him.

the best he's done is affection in private, he's an extremely touch starved man who doesn't shy away from it. hold him, kiss him, bite him for all he cares. he just.. wants to feel you, that you're real, and won't disappear upon contact. everything about your touch grounds him, and he adores it. he adores you, and he will know a proper way to show it one day.

sampo honestly just plays too much. teases are too personal, doesn't show up to date nights, and generally acts insufferable at times. you love him, you do, but if he dips you down in his arms, leans in, all to pretend to kiss you—only to drop you in the last second, you're gonna scream.

while he is a flirt, you need more than romance, you need to be reassured that you're more than a pretty thing on a shelf. that there's more that he loves for you past your face. because his trickery of others makes you scared; what if you too are being played as a fool?

you can't tell, especially now. with how he's bringing flowers to your door straight for a week, only to disappear again in the next couple of days.

you hope you get an answer soon.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[merrinla]

Some dialogues reflect whether you've finished the game. The Dread Wolf Rises quest. And also who you've chosen to lead the distraction team and to dismantle the magic wards. Probably earlier after the finale it was possible to complete unfinished quests.

I didn't record them all, just a few. The rest is in the text.

BELLARA

During The Forest of Spirits quest

in-game line Bellara: What they did, the Evanuris? To us? I can never forgive.

Rook: And you got to show them that—right to their faces. Bellara: Right. That's a memory I'm going to treasure.

in-game line Bellara: A third we give to the sky, to share your story with the sun and moon.

Bellara: Feels weird saying that one after everything that's happened. Bellara: Can't blame the rest of the ancient elves for what Elgar'nan did, though.

in-game lines Bellara: Now I have to live my life. For him. For me. And for our people. Rook: They aren't your problem to solve. You need to live for yourself. Bellara: That's true. There's still lots to do. To change.

Bellara: And even with the Evanuris gone, who knows what'll come next?

Romance scene after the prison of regrets. If the player chose Bellara to dismantle the magic wards

Bellara: Like. Thank you. For saving me, I mean. Rook: You're welcome. Bellara: Okay. Good. Bellara: So. Um. With all that. Bellara: Where does that leave us? Romantically, I mean. Bellara: I sort of tried to kill you. Sorry about that. Feels like it could make things awkward.

Option: You weren’t yourself Rook: Venatori had you under a spell. Not really your fault. Bellara: Okay. Fair.

Option: Little thing like that? Rook: Well, you've saved my life lots of times, so I think this one's a freebie. Bellara: Right. Thank you.

Option: You made up for it. Rook: We took down the gods and saved the world. I think you made up for it. Bellara: Oh! Right. Okay.

Bellara: Um... Um... Ugh. Th— The thing is...

in-game lines Bellara: (Sighs) This is hard. Finding the words, I mean. Rook:  You can do this.

Bellara: When they... changed me. They told me no one was coming. Bellara: They found the part of my heart that doesn't want to be happy. And they fed it. Bellara: But I had faith. In you. Bellara: Deep down. Past the mask. Bellara: Then you found me. And saved me.

Option: I’ll always find you. Rook: I'll always find you, Bellara. No matter what.

Option: I was so worried. Rook: When you were taken... when I thought I'd lost you... Rook: Don't do that to me again, okay?

Option: Just doing my job. Rook: It's what I'm paid to do.

in-game line Bellara: After everything that's happened. That could happen...

Bellara: Even with the Evanuris gone, we don't know what's coming next. Rook: After what you went through, I'd say a little joy is well-deserved.

in-game lines Bellara: I know. But for now, it's nice. Bellara: After everything we've been through?

Bellara: After being brainwashed by Elgar'nan?

Rook: If I can make you feel that way, just a little, then I'm happy. Bellara: Me too.

Bellara: Rook. I, um. There's something I want to say. That I need to say, after... Rook: What is it? Bellara: I'm sorry. I'm being... it's not important.

Bellara: They made me feel lost. Alone. But part of me didn't believe it. Bellara: That part knew you'd find me. Pull me out of the darkness. And you were there. You're still here.

In the Lighthouse

in-game line about Archive Rook: Don't piss it off. Or accidentally bring back a would-be god.

Bellara: We took care of three of them. What's one more? Rook: Seriously? Bellara: I'm kidding! Mostly. Rook: Well, good luck, then.

Bellara: But we took down a god. More than one god, actually. Bellara:  Guess we can say that. Now that it's over. Bellara: We did save the world.

romance line Rook: And I'm glad I saved it with you.

Rook: There was a cost—but we saved the world. Bellara: Right. It did. But we did. Bellara: We'll find Davrin/Harding. I know we will.

if Rook romanced Davrin/Harding Bellara:  Rook. You and Davrin/Harding... I mean, I heard the two of you were... Bellara:  I'm sorry. We're here for you. All of us. Bellara:  Just. Hang in there, okay?

DAVRIN

When Davrin gives the Cauldron quest

Davrin: The Wardens aren't in any shape to deal with this.

EMMRICH

During The Sacrifice of Souls quest

in-game line Hezenkoss: It'll be a relief not to have to deal with those doltish Venatori after this.

Hezenkoss: They've been especially sullen after that eclipse finally stopped.

HARDING

In the Lighthouse after The Heart of the Titan quest

in-game line Rook: So what's next for you?

Harding: I don't know yet. Harding: I'm nowhere close to fully understanding this gift I've been given.

Harding: Now, I was just going to go get a nice warm cup of milk. And maybe a slice of cake. Rook: Cake? I'd be up for some cake. Do we even have cake?

After the Regrets of the Dread Wolf quest. When Rook says that Solas is to blame for what happened to the Titans.

Harding: It's a bit late for that. Harding: I wish we could've talked. Just once. As equals. But maybe he wasn't capable of seeing me that way.

Harding: I wish I could've made him understand what it felt like for the Titans—for us.

LUCANIS

Convo with Zara's corpse

in-game lines Rook: Illario used blood magic to control Spite. How? He's not a mage. Zara: Our risen god gives many gifts.

Rook: Elgar'nan? But he's dead? Zara: The ripples of our actions persist long after the body decays....

During the Inner Demons quest. If Harding led distraction team.

romance line Rook: Harding... Lace. If only you could be real.

Rook: Harding... If only this was real.

During A Murder of Crows quest

Magister Across the Roof: Vengeance for Lusacan! With me, Venatori!

Illario: Killing gods wasn't enough for you, cousin? You need to clean house, too?

NEVE

During A Study of Dock Town quest

Rook: How about this: next time we save the day, the fish is on me. Neve: You want me to bet on suriviving next time?

Romance scene after the prison of regrets. If the player chose Neve to dismantle the magic wards

Neve: Here we are. Rook: You came back. Neve: I had help. Neve: Rook, I... (Laughs) You've got me at a loss. I don't know where to start.

Neve: When we took on the gods, I didn't count on "after." Then there wasn't one. Now there is. Rook: That's a good thing, right? Neve: For now. The breaks don't last forever.

in-game lines Neve: Look, I still can't bet on "after." Not for sure. But I won't live like we're not getting one. Option: I'll always count on tomorrow. Rook: I'll place the bet every time.

Rook: I found you once. I'll always find you. Rook: And I'll face anything with you.

BANTER

in-game lines Bellara: Sometimes, it's easy to forget the ancient elves were mostly regular people, not monster gods. Bellara: And that those regular people were the first to try stopping Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain.

Bellara: Maybe they were cheering us when we wiped that smug smile off of Elgar'nan. Emmrich: One hopes.

COMPANIONS ROOM

Taash: You see the size of that dragon? And we took it down!

If the player chose Davrin to lead distraction team. Previously, Assan could have survived. Audio

Bellara: Assan. I… tried to whittle this. I'm not very good, but I thought, maybe… you'd like it? Assan: (Happy squawk)

Emmrich: I suppose it's time you had another excursion. Emmrich: Perhaps the Necropolis? No. Davrin would want you exploring the wilds. Emmrich: Harding and I will take you a little later. Assan: (Happy squawk)

Harding: My ma always says we never really lose the people we love. We carry them with us. Harding: You'll remember everything he taught you. All the faith he had in you. All of his hopes. And he'll be with you. Assan: (Squawk)

MINRATHOUS

The Viper: We have our city back. Maevaris: Killing gods? That was the easy part. Now the real fight begins.

The Viper: You'll always have allies here.

Tarquin: Saved the city again, huh? You're making a habit of this. Rook: Hey, it wasn't just me. I had help. You were there too. Tarquin: Just doing what anyone would.

If Rook is trans or nonbinary Maevaris: It's been a difficult journey, hasn't it? Maevaris: Keep your head up, Rook. Know you'll always have friends here.

Rook: How are you? Rana Savas: Now that Lusacan—or Elgar'nan? With him gone... Rana Savas: There's a lot of work ahead, but we'll do it.

Elek Tavor: If it isn't the hero of the hour! Rook: I just get an hour? Elek Tavor: What can I say? News moves fast here. But don't worry, I'll remember you.

Marisa: City's in your debt, Rook. The Shadow Dragons won't forget it.

Venatori Deserter: Did you hear? They took down Elgar'nan! It's over! Erasmus: It's never really over. But we can hope.

Cida Ciconia: It's good to have Minrathous back.

Paper Seller: Divine death sentence denied! Minrathous stands! What comes next?

Paper Seller: Victory in Minrathous!

Dock Town Civilian: Minrathous survived. Scam Artist: Wouldn't have bet on that.

Old Dock Hand: If you can survive Lusacan's wrath, you can survive anything. Young Dock Hand: Heh. Maybe.

Civilian: All right. I've changed my mind about the gravy. It does make some things better. Dock Hand: So... tonight? Civilian: Yeah, bring the gravy.

HOSSBER WETLANDS

Antoine: Minrathous is huge! Evka: I prefer it out here. Quieter. Antoine: Lighter. Everything feels lighter...

Rook: Thanks for coming to Minrathous. Evka: Had to see it to the end. If Harding led distraction team Antoine: Harding—she'd be glad you didn't give up. She never does. If Davrin led distraction team Antoine: Davrin, Assan—they'd be proud. Maybe they are. Somewhere.

Mila: The Archdemons are gone.

Mila: So what will the Wardens do? Holden: Hard to say. I thought we'd stick here a little longer. Help Evka, Antoine, and whoever else is around. What do you think? Mila: Yes, obviously. Lavendel needs some stuff rebuilt. Holden: We can help with that. If Davrin led distraction team Mila: And Davrin and Assan. Holden: They fought to keep the rest of us safe. Mila: Do you think they're just lost somewhere? I heard one of Rook's friends talking. Holden: It's hard to say.

Holden: So, that's it for the Archdemons. Holden: If you told me a few years ago that they'd be gone in my lifetime—and in Mila's—I wouldn't have believed it.

Mila: Rook. You got the last Archdemon!Mila: Dad and I threw a party. We even made cake!

Warden Edwin: Without the Archdemon, my dreams have changed. Warden Rue: I'm going to sleep in.

Flynn: The gods, the Archdemons... you stopped them. Flynn: I felt something change. Sensed it. It was strange.

Warden Greta: No more Archdemons. Or blighted gods. Warden Greta: It's incredible. Rook origin Grey Warden Warden Greta: It feels quieter. You feel it, right?

Warden Rhodri: The Archdemons. They're gone. Forever! Warden Rhodri: You really did it.

ARLATHAN FOREST

Irelin: Where'd Morrigan go? Strife: I don't know, and I didn't ask. She wouldn't tell me, anyway. Irelin: Is she always like that? Strife: She seems to enjoy her reputation—and the chance to embellish it. Strife: A mysterious witch of the wild who swept in, helped defeat the gods, then vanished. Irelin: Yeah, well. I still don't think I like her.

Irelin: (Relieved sigh) Is it really over? I'm afraid to let myself feel normal again. Strife: I'm not sure "normal" ever returns, not when your gods tried destroying the world. But... Irelin: We're alive. And they aren't. Strife: And we live to see another day. Irelin: Try "a couple more decades," old man. Strife: Watch yourself, young one.

Amylia: Look who's here! "Rook the god-killer". Rook: I believe the correct plural would be gods. Amylia: Oh, sure, and there's the big head already. Feeling like a hero. Amylia: Well... you go right ahead. As you should. We owe you a lot.

Amylia They actually pulled it off? The gods are gone? Veil Jumper: They'll be telling stories about this for ages. Amylia Hope they remember the part where Quartermaster Amylia kept everyone's bits and bobs nice and sharp.

Veil Jumper: The gods are gone, so why is the forest still unsettled? Veil Jumper: That much dark magic released? It's going to take awhile to simmer down.

Veil Jumper Sentry: The gods are gone. Maybe things will get back to normal around here again.

NECROPOLIS

Vorgoth: GREAT TERRORS LIE IN THE DARK.

During one of the mourn watchers quests

Irritated Venatori: Why are we here when our risen gods are dead? Venatori: That necromancer we talked to said there's power for the taking.

TREVISO

Jacobus: There's so much to do, and you have even more than we do. Good luck.

THE HALL OF VALOR

Mateo: Rook! There you are! I'm gonna set you up with the god-slayer special.

[promise-of-soup]

Hiiiii :3, I want to say first of all you WRITE BEAUTIFULLY WTF, I KISS YOUR HANDS FOR CREATING SOMETHING AMAZING. The HC's of Jiro???? THE OS????? Bruh, I love you, I fucking love you.

So, if you don't mind... Could you make out of the same Affection HC's with Yuri??? 🥺💕 Do it and I'll give you my soul and fidelity for the rest of my life, thankyou.

–🍄(or fungi)

AAAAAAAAA yooooo thank you so much 🍄anon! I'm so glad you liked it xD!! also can i just say; you sound like a fun guy (sorry i have chronic "needs to make a pun" syndrome)

Yuri is such a loser (affectionate), I love him so much :( so...

♫Yuri Isami Affection Headcanons♫

♬Synopsis: how does Yuri Isami show and receive affection? Is it true that he likes being called 'sweet'? find out here :3

♬Tags: Yuri Isami, kind of romantic but not inherently, MC with no description, cringe :3, fluff, a bit suggestive for one second, hehehe

♬Notes: I formatted this the same as the Jiro ones, lemme know if you want more characters :3 I'll eventually make like a masterlist thing if we have more than 4 lolol

*＊✿❀°˖✧✿✧˖°❀✿＊*

Yuri Isami has a bit of a reputation around campus... Sure, pretty much everyone knows he's really smart and that he's already published a bunch of academic papers before he even graduated, but he also gets bullied, a lot, for being kind of an oddball, so when it comes to affection, he is a bit cautious... So that no one thinks he's distracted or anything, not because he gets bullied.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ Showing ꕥ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

He has a modus operandi that is extremly obvious in canon with other things, so I assume it carries out to him showing affection... THIS MAN IS A TSUNDARE.

Alright, so, the very fact he has allowed you to be around him in the first place is a privilege that you should cherish and be thankful for, ignore the fact that he was the one who demanded your company.

When he wants to show affection he begins by finding a way to make you give him affection and then acts like he's doing you a massive favour that you literally begged him for.

In his head, he did that very confidently and slyly, and you can never pick up on it; he tricked you!

In reality he is a stuttering, blushing mess and asked for whatever it was while fidgeting with his hands and looking away -- you'd be evil not to agree ngl

He thinks he's confident with everything else when it comes to affection; in his head he's like "ha-ah! I had embraced MC with a great passion!" and in reality he is shaking and about to cry because the hug is comfortable and you're so close to him.

His favourite form of affection is letting you sit around him while he works, so long as you're not bothering him.

He will text you to come over urgently for a really important thing and then blank realizing he has nothing real to ask you to do, so he'll tell you to sit somewhere and then proceed to stare at you every once in a while as he works lolol, you can tell he's looking at you because he's suddenly sweating a bit and he always clears his throat.

Once more, in his own head he's like "MC has not noticed, in fact, MC is staring at me"

He LOVES holding hands, but is the kind to do it as a designated activity, ie. he would grab your hand, and then stand there holding it for a few minutes, growing more and more sweaty and red, and then he'll be like "Yes, that is sufficent" and let it go lmfao.

When he gets more comfortable and realize you're not going to bully him, his favourite physical affection will transition to hugging.

To him it's sudden, unplanned hugs, but to you, Yuri is approaching slowly with shaken arms and then very cautiously holds you against him for a bit.

He's really sweet, like really really sweet, but he's gone through a lot of mean name calling and dishonest interactions with people, so it takes him a while to feel safe.

Yuri isn't the best at figuring out his own signals, like he feels as though he wants to hug you, but doesn't realize it's because he's sad or anxious, so when you do hug, he suddenly crumbles :((

His highest form of affection is allowing you to see him cry.

Beyond the physical aspect of affection, which as I established, he's a bit slow with, Yuri shows most of his affection from a safe distance using his words.

"Your attire suits you well!" or "You're a competent helper!"

He has enough confidence to say things that are a bit impersonal, but when he gets more comfortable these become, "I enjoy your company" and "You look good" But those are stuttered while he looks away.

Hear me out; hand kisses. IT'S SAFE ENOUGH, so he can do it quite well. He'll grab your hand and slowly raise it to his face, giving you a gentle, barely noticeable kiss on your knuckles, and then look up at you hoping you get the hint and do something further.

That's his way to initiate more contact, he'll do it, and then when you don't move away or call him gross or anything awful like that (because of course you won't), he'll start kissing up your arm until he reaches your face and stops there for even more confirmation that you're alright with it. If you pull him in and kiss him on the lips he will fidget for a second and then kiss you back really intensely.

Guess what? he will still act like you're the one that seduced him into it, of course you did, asdjasskdafhadf

He wants to be affectionate, but it takes him a while to get there, so please be nice to him, but also be patient with the poor guy, he's trying.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ Receiving ꕥ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

Because of what we've established, Yuri needs you to be more straight-forward with him. Trust he loves everything you do, but he will attempt to push you away at every single turn.

He loves when you show up for him:

Come to the lab and put a jacket over his shoulders, massage his shoulders a little bit, sit beside him quietly and let him put his head on your shoulder, caress his head a bit.

If he falls asleep you better let him sleep and not move, also you're lucky because that's him lowering his guard to the extreme.

He looks so cute when he sleeps, you just wanna kiss his forehead and play with his hair gently, he's literally so so cute.

TELL HIM WHEN HE WAKES UP.

Okay look, praise the f out of this guy.

"You're so sweet, Yuri." , "You've done so well today." , "You're so smart" , "So pretty" , "Good job"

Especially if you give him a quick peck on the head after you say it, or like wrap your hands around him. Depending on his mood that day he might be on the verge of tears, but he'll always mummble a little "okay..." or something and melt into you.

Yuri not only loves praise, he really needs it, so on days he feels better; as I said, he's a tsundare so he'll be like "of course I am" or "ah! your praise will get you nowhere.... good try though." but he's invented a new shade of red in the meantime and is avoiding your gaze.

LOVES when you text him that you miss him or ask when you can come visit, because it saves him time making up a reason, and also he can use it against you because you're the one who begged him to visit.

For proper kisses, you need to give him a clear, verbal warning, otherwise he freaks out and goes "wHAT ARE YOU DOING?" he likes being prepared for it so he can hype himself up mentally before it happens.

You know how I mentioned he'll kiss up your arm? yeah, the little hand kiss he does is how you know he wants more of you, if you cut to the chase and immediately pull him in for a kiss, he'll be soooo happy, because you really really need him, don't you?

Anything that boosts his ego, truly his ego is a front, he's not confident at all, so if you make him feel like he is confident, he will be really pleased.

Pepper. him. with. kisses. he will giggle at this by the way, and he will like it.

Hold his hand, smooth your fingers over his.

Will die if you call him "my", like, he is yours, but you don't have to mention it, it's too much for him to handle :(

"Aww my sweet baby" and he's jumping so high he shoots through the ceiling and then starts walking in circles until you grab him and hug him tightly.

Y'know what you should do? Tell him he's the best and that people who speak badly about him are all losers, make sure everyone sees you hold him, praise him behind his back (he can still hear you and you know this) when defending him in front of other people, deliberately make sure Jin knows you like Yuri, really rub it in his face too lmfao

Basically he is baby.

[starmahgalaxies]

I can't; they're adorable.

I know it's not the Dark Ocean, and it's just how Piemon's realm is shaped (almost wanted to put coded, and yeah that works too), but O M G this looks so DREARY.

While the concept of the Dark Ocean isn't really fully formed until 02, I will note now (since I didn't really get good shots of it), that when both Yamato and Sora are caught up in their trauma and expectations, they are shown to be underwater.

Also yay silly paddle boat back.

Child trying really hard to put on a brave face when he knows something is bothering his friend, and he knows he has to be the cheerful optimistic kid. Doesn't help that they're looking for his brother.

Sora, my girl, have some faith in yourself and your friends.

You're. Doing. Great. Chin up!

These kids are so insecure I just want to give them all a massive hug. Yamato, if that was the case you would have not went to life-threatening lengths just to keep him safe. Reflections are good-- thought spirals toward doom are not. Trust Takeru to take care of himself, and we're good.

See? Admitting you're jealous is a good start! ahh, these kids make me want to pull my hair out.

Gabumon continuing the noble crusade of trying to give his partner some confidence and self-esteem back.

NGL, I laughed so hard. Context: My dog had bitten earlier in the week accidentally, and I was on antibiotics. Being reminded of it made me laugh, and it was a good release of tension because this scene was heavy. I was drowning.

(My dog and I are both fine. This was maybe a month, month and a half ago now when I watched this.)

Honestly, a sign of true friendship and trust is respecting when it comes to an end even as it rips your heart into itty, bitty pieces.

Crying is a good release of energy!

🤝❤️

I like when darkness is often a representation of loneliness. I think it's a largely a cultural thing, as Digimon isn't the only place I've noticed it, but it is the first. Western media is much more moralistic (in my experience).

Yup, I can't. *drowns*

Jou: *exhausted* Yay, I finally caught up with you. 😁

Good, good. Keep reinforcing your resolve and bring a positive impact on each other.

*clenches teeth* You're. Doing. Great.

I would make a comment on how you can't make overgeneralizing promising like that, but this is too cute so you get a pass.

Little Patamon going "aw yay!" with me.

I am unsure how long Yamato and Gabumon were here, but I get the impression it was a lot longer than we saw. They separated from the group ages ago. Piyomon has not yet resorted to physical violence to try to get Sora's attention. I wouldn't recommend that option, anyway. My point more is I have faith Piyomon could have gotten Sora out but is not yet desperate enough. It helps that Sora was looking for Yamato, so it makes sense her friends she was looking for are the ones to snap her out of it. Harder to be gloom about finding someone in time who is right in front of you.

I did have an underwater shot after all! To continue Yamato and Jou helping Sora out, they are essentially showing how to instill hope in Sora-- in front of Takeru. Child just watching and unknowingly collecting everyone's hopes and learning to never give up. We're so close... one more episode.

❤️

Everyone's happy faces.

Do not doubt how much trust someone has in you when they have faith in you to protect someone they are overprotective over... even if he is acting like an idiot.

Is this a good time to say I think the dominant attraction between these two is alterous (mix of platonic and romantic)? No? Oh well, I just did lmao.

Does that mean I ship them? Not really. Not even for a queerplatonic relationship. Shoving all relationships in a box (including the outside definitions qpr)... nah.

I do however think all fusion / Jogress partners are QPP (queer platonic partners).

Or... you can... not? Either don't at all or get it done quickly. You're setting up possibilities for failure. Pinocchimon ran out of bullets, and you'll fall on your back too.

❤️🤝

This episode. GOD THIS EPISODE! This is such a rollercoaster. I want to hug everybody so much. All of them shouldering so much responsibility. I made note before that Sora and Yamato suffer under the most strain for their self-worth, and how that may reflect that their Crests being relationship based instead of internal traits. That still holds up. I believe (at least my best guess) is that is part of the reason why they're set up together in the future. It can be a compelling character growth for two people who suffer with connections and self-esteem to carry themselves out, together. That doesn't need to be a romantic, but I'm also aromantic af. This is the episode I think of when thinking of those two (not to discount Jou at all). Also Yamato talking about Sora before "if she wants to cry, then let her" and yet being afraid to show the same emotion himself. I wish they did something with it, but I digress.

Real MVPs are Gabumon, running the gauntlet trying to get Yamato back, and WarGreymon, trying not to get killed and protecting the rest of the kids. Massive props. Their kids may be idiots, but they have stuff on lock.

NEXT EPISODE AN ANGEL OF HOPE IS BORN!! ...FINALLY!

[icewindandboringhorror]

(also feel free in the tags to clarify Why you made the choice you made!! :0c)

[undead-moth]

I know I've been on about this for a while now and I'm being a hater but you're telling me SydCarmy was "always meant to be platonic" even though there are two seasons of writing making use of tried-and-true explicitly romantic tropes, themes and writing signals, and SydLuca is going to be romantic because...he was nice to her on screen for a few minutes?

I don't even care if people ship SydLuca, or if they just prefer it, but you can't honestly tell me that you believe Carmy was always meant to be a friend but Luca is an obvious love interest.

Just because Syd and Carmy haven't kissed or confessed their love to each other doesn't mean that isn't very obviously the direction this show is going. The Bear has already shown you who is endgame. It has shown you every episode of the show so far.

Honestly I really don't think The Bear fanbase understands this show or cares about these characters or the story being told here, which is unfortunate because this show is shockingly well-written in comparison to most shows right now, and we should be so grateful for it but all we're doing is complaining that the writers led us on by not making a ship canon fast enough. It's just. Sad.

[junietuesday]

pisses me off so bad when people reduce gale’s “obsession” w mystra w “shut up abt your ex, off to the sofa w you”. 😭😭😭 like if its a joke, i guess i cant stop you even if it isnt that funny, but when theyre serious abt hating gale/his romance arc bc he mentions mystra too often… like bro, mystra was his entire life for anywhere from 13-30+ years of his existence. gale’s whole value as a person became defined by his skill in magic. his relationship w mystra dominated every aspect of his life, his career, his romantic/sexual life, literally everything. his whole purpose was to serve mystra. he had literally less than a handful of other deep real relationships that were with anyone Other than mystra. his whole self-worth was so shaped by only having being archwizard, a chosen of mystra, to offer, that when mystra tells him to kill himself, he has to be talked out of it over the course of a whole act of the game. bc hes never known how to be a worthwhile person outside of his relationship w mystra. so like, can you blame him for talking abt mystra a lot???? theres no way to avoid how deeply mystra sculpted gale’s whole psyche. it would be flat out dishonesty for gale to pretend otherwise. everyone is shaped by their past, gale was shaped by his relationship w mystra, that’s just how people work and theres no point in trying to escape it

[strawberryfaced]

thinking about what parent and child relationships are really about and I’m going to rant in the tags!

[korovamlecznybar]

im probably aromantic but i have a degree to finish so idrc about that rn

[boylebingo]

i’m sorry but i have read The Bear discourse and it’s driving me nuts! to say that there is no chemistry between sydney and carmy other than as friends is just simply Not Based in Reality and whether a relationship is narratively Plausible in our collectively Imagined Future is not (nor does it need to be!) the same as whether you think it would be like a good narrative Choice