#and i take three doses every four hours

[cbk1000]

One thing I hate about taking iron supplements is having to plan what I eat/drink around it, because certain food and drinks will block iron absorption. Mr. Jenn makes me some scrambled eggs for breakfast? No cheese because it's too close to my next supplement, and dairy blocks iron absorption. No morning tea that I love to start off with because the tannins in it will block iron absorption. I want that shit injected directly into my veins and to be free.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Life With Spencer

Part Three

Summary: Living life with Spencer, ups, downs, firsts, and hopefully -- lasts.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, smut (18+)

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+), sooo in love, awkward/real-life scenarios, no real timeline - they been dating for like almost three years…, talks of pregnancy, reader feeling insecure -- having a hard time getting ready, boyband spencer yummm, Ethan (warning in itself), spencer's migraines, spencer snaps at reader, fights, being distant

Word count: 21.2k

a/n: hi…. this has been sitting in my drafts since april ahahahah 🫣 please don’t throw tomatoes at me i got a new job and it’s been A LOT!! this is not proof read by the way,, LOVE YOU ALL

main masterlist part one part two

Fuck.

That was the only word in your brain. Not even a full thought. Just that single syllable, echoing over and over like a heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You sat frozen on the edge of the bathtub, phone in hand, the screen still glowing from the period tracker app that now mocked you with its sterile little message: 4 days late.

You hadn’t missed a dose. Not one. You’d been on birth control for years, religiously punctual. You and Spencer were so careful—condoms every time, plan B once, after a minor scare. But it never came to anything. You were careful. Smart. Responsible.

So why the hell were you late?

You weren’t someone with irregular cycles. Since you’d started birth control, your period came like clockwork, so predictable you could plan around it down to the hour. And now?

Nothing. Not a cramp. Not a twinge. Just… a silence in your body that was starting to feel deafening.

You buried your face in your hands, dragging your palms down your cheeks before letting your head fall back against the tiled wall behind you.

Spencer.

You hadn’t told him yet. You hadn’t even tested yet.

Because if you told Spencer, it would be real. And you weren’t ready for real. You were barely holding it together through hypothetical.

You closed your eyes, trying to breathe through the rising panic.

You imagined his face—how he’d blink a few too many times, how he’d tell you about the statistical failure rate of your specific birth control pill, how his hands might tremble just a little. But you also imagined how quickly he’d steady himself. How he’d run every possible calculation in his head and then choose you anyway.

Still. None of that changed the fact that you were four days late. That your stomach had felt vaguely wrong for days, that your breasts were sore in a way they hadn’t been before, that your body felt foreign and too aware of itself.

Fuck.

You stared down at your phone again. 

4 days late.

The screen blurred as you blinked too hard.

You were going to have to buy a test. You were going to have to take a test. And maybe you were going to have to tell Spencer something that would change both of your lives.

You exhaled, long and shaky.

Okay.

But you didn’t want to do this alone.

Even though you could have. Could have walked to the pharmacy with your hood up and sunglasses on like you were buying contraband. Could have stared at the tiny pink boxes until your eyes blurred. Could have peed on a stick and stared at the result in solitary silence.

But that wasn’t you. And more importantly—this wasn’t something you wanted to keep from him.

You hated secrets. And Spencer? Spencer was the last person in the world you’d ever want to shut out.

So you called him.

“Hello, darling, what’s up?” he answered in that sweet, soft, distracted tone he always had when he was flipping through files or bent over a book.

“Hi, Spence,” you replied, trying to sound casual. You tried to keep your voice steady like your heart wasn’t in your throat, but he clocked it. Instantly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, suddenly more alert. “Are you okay? Is it your period? Do you need anything? I can run to the store right now—”

Your heart clenched in your chest at how quickly he switched into action, how tuned in he was to even the slightest variation in your tone. “No, well… not exactly,” you said, voice soft. “But thank you, baby.”

There was a pause. “Okay…” he said cautiously. “What is it then?”

You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, taking a deep breath. “Can you promise not to freak out?”

“Well, no,” he replied without hesitation. “I can’t promise that.”

“Okay, fair,” you laughed, the sound small but genuine. “Can you promise to keep an open mind until you get to my apartment and we talk?”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “Yes. Can you promise you aren’t going to break up with me?”

Your heart squeezed. You sat up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. “That sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal,” you teased, hoping to lighten the sudden weight in his voice.

“Y/N,” Spencer said firmly, “I’m being serious.”

And in that moment, you matched him. Matched his seriousness. Matched his heart.

“I would rather climb aboard the Death Star than ever break up with you, Spencer Reid.”

A breath. Then a groan. “God,” he huffed. “That’s hot and romantic.”

You burst out laughing—loud and unrestrained.

“So, Spence…” you said, once your giggles died down.

“Yes?”

“Can you stop at the store, actually?”

There was a pause, curious. “Yeah, of course. What do you need?”

You hesitated, but only for a second. “A pregnancy test.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

“…Spencer?”

Another second. Then: “I’ll be there in thirty.”

And he hung up.

You stared at your phone, heart thudding, lips parted in something between a gasp and a smile.

Because he didn’t yell. He didn’t ask a thousand questions. He didn’t panic. He was just… coming.

Spencer Reid was on his way. With a pregnancy test.

…

The lock clicked open in that hurried, unmistakable way that told you Spencer wasn’t bothering with social graces today. You barely had time to lift your head before the door creaked open with purpose.

“Y/N?” he called, voice carrying the weight of a man on a mission.

“In here!” you called back, your voice echoing faintly through the hallway as you lay sprawled on your bed, phone held loosely in one hand, eyes glazed over from doom scrolling through every what-if scenario the internet could provide.

A beat passed. Then footsteps—quick, determined, and absolutely not the shuffle of someone easing into a sensitive conversation.

Spencer burst into the doorway like a man with a PowerPoint and a plan. In one hand, he held a crisp brown pharmacy bag. In the other, he held a plastic-wrapped box aloft like a holy artifact.

“I hope you’re hydrated,” he said without preamble, eyes wide and voice tight, “because you need to pee on a stick right now.”

You blinked at him, one brow raised slowly as you lowered your phone. “Well, hello to you, too, Doctor Reid.”

He was already unboxing the test. “Sorry,” he said, breathless. “Hi. Hello. Love you. I panicked. I bought multiple different brands.”

Your lips twitched. “Multiple?”

“Each with varying levels of sensitivity and accuracy across different testing windows,” he muttered, holding out the first one like he was presenting evidence to a jury. “I figured a data set would be more reliable… and I didn’t have time to do proper research.”

You pushed yourself off the bed, taking the box from his hand gently. “Spencer,” you said, trying not to laugh, “you know you can’t cross-compare at-home pregnancy tests like it’s a peer-reviewed study, right?”

He blinked at you. “But I can try.”

You kissed his cheek and whispered, “You're ridiculous,” before making your way toward the bathroom.

And behind you, Spencer followed. Not quietly, not subtly—he trailed you with all the tense energy of a scientist monitoring a volatile experiment.

He wasn’t breathing properly. You could hear it—those tight little inhales and uneven exhales like his brain was juggling statistics and possible outcomes in real time. You opened the bathroom door, turned to shut it, and there he was—standing in the hallway like he absolutely planned on coming in with you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming?” you asked, somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

Spencer blinked at you. “Yeah?” he replied, wide-eyed and completely earnest, like you’d asked him if he planned on inhaling oxygen today.

“Why?” you asked, stepping back just slightly, toothbrush still sitting in its cup on the counter like it was silently judging both of you.

He blinked again, totally baffled by the question. “Because… we’re doing this together?”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You crossed your arms. “Spencer, I have to pee.”

“I know,” he said, nodding helpfully. “On the stick.”

“Right,” you deadpanned. “The pee stick. The extremely private, slightly undignified part of the pregnancy test process.”

“But I helped select the variables,” he gestured toward the box like this was a lab study and not your actual bladder. “I should be there to observe.”

“Spencer,” you said, struggling not to smile. “This isn’t a longitudinal field study, this is me trying not to pee on my hand.”

He faltered. You could see the flicker of Oh, right, humans have modesty settle in his eyes. Then his shoulders dropped slightly. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll just… I’ll wait outside.”

You softened immediately, stepping forward to brush your hand down his arm. “Thank you for being here, Spence. Truly.” You kissed his cheek gently. “I just draw the line at having an audience while I hover over a stick.”

“Completely fair,” he nodded, still holding the instruction insert like he was preparing to proctor an exam. “I’ll wait right here. I’ll set a timer.”

“Wait!” you exclaimed, pausing with your hand on the bathroom door.

Spencer jolted, eyes wide, already halfway into what looked like a thousand-yard stare. “What? What happened? Are you cramping? Is your bladder okay? Did the test break—”

“I have an idea,” you cut in quickly, raising a hand to calm his spiraling.

He blinked. “Okay. Hit me.”

“I need a cup.”

Spencer stared at you. “What…?”

You nodded, expression completely serious now. “Can you pretty please go get me one of the disposable cups from the last time we had game night here?”

“The Solo cups?”

“Yes.”

“From under the sink?”

“Yes.”

“For… pee?”

“Yes, Spencer. For pee,” you confirmed with a smirk. “You want repeatable data, right? Control of aim, no user error? Let me pee in the damn cup and dip it like a normal, emotionally stable person.”

He looked utterly stunned. Like you’d just solved a riddle he didn’t know was in play. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “That makes so much sense. Why doesn’t everyone do that?”

You shrugged. “Because not everyone lives with a hyper-rational genius who buys five brands of pregnancy tests and wants to take notes on hormone absorption timing.”

Spencer, already halfway down the hallway, called back, “Six brands actually! I bought a digital one too!”

You laughed, shutting the bathroom door behind you. God, you loved him. Even when you were peeing in a Solo cup.

On the other side of the door, Spencer stood perfectly still—extra Solo cup in hand, timer app open on his phone, a box with its unnecessarily convoluted instructions tucked under his arm—and all he could think about was how ridiculously, profoundly, absurdly in love he was with you.

There were nerves, of course. A thousand little flutters in his chest. A low, persistent hum of what if, what now, what next? But underneath it all, grounding him like bedrock, was you.

You, who asked for a Solo cup like it was part of a science fair project. You, who teased him for his obsession with test variables but still made sure to pee with clean aim for accuracy. You, who could be carrying the most life-altering news either of you had ever received—and were still making him laugh.

He leaned his forehead gently against the cool wall beside the door and exhaled slowly, a quiet little smile spreading across his face.

It should have been terrifying. Statistically, biologically, logistically—it was terrifying.

But it wasn’t. Not really. Not with you.

Because somehow—even now, with urine samples and packaging and potential futures swirling all around him—this was fun. This was you.

And that made it beautiful. Maybe even a little sexy, in that weird, brainy, wildly specific way that only Spencer Reid could feel: That his brilliant, hilarious, grounded, radiant girlfriend was helping him conduct the most emotional, chaotic, messy, real-life experiment of his life.

He adjusted the timer. Straightened the box. And whispered to himself, barely audible—“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

“‘Kay, I’m done peeing in a cup,” you called with a laugh, voice echoing off the bathroom tile. “Start the timer!”

Spencer chuckled from the other side of the door, already reaching for his phone. “Three minutes, starting now.” He heard the water running, the soft clink of soap against the sink, and then the squeak of the door hinges as you opened it and peeked out—eyes bright, hands drying on a towel, entirely casual despite the gravity of the moment.

And that’s when it hit him.

Like a slow, warm wave breaking across his chest, flooding every part of him from his ribcage out.

This was it. This was the rest of his life.

You. In the bathroom. Laughing about pee. And somehow still managing to look like the most radiant, grounding thing in the universe.

And no matter what the test said—no matter what came next—Spencer realized he would be over the moon as long as it was with you. He’d known he wanted forever with you for a long time, but this moment… it carved it into his bones. Into his soul.

He was still staring at you when you tilted your head. “What?” you asked with a grin, towel draped over your shoulder as if this were all normal Tuesday.

Spencer blinked, mouth parting slightly. “Um… can I see the tests?”

You arched a brow. “You mean the tests soaking in my urine?”

He flushed instantly, ears pink, hand flapping in half-hearted defense. “Uh, yup. For science.”

You cackled, tossing the towel at him as you turned back toward the bathroom. “You are so weird, Spencer Reid.”

And he just smiled, deeply, hopelessly, because all he could think was: 

God, I hope our kid gets your laugh.

“Wow,” Spencer said, leaning over the sink, peering at the plastic sticks with far too much clinical curiosity.

You stepped in behind him, arms crossed, eyebrow already lifted. “Wow, what?”

He didn’t even look up, still squinting at the control lines. “You’re really hydrated.”

You blinked. “That’s what you’re taking from this moment?”

“Well,” he said, finally glancing at you with the most serious expression imaginable, “the urine is unusually clear. That’s textbook optimal hydration. It’s… honestly kind of impressive.”

You stared at him for a beat before bursting into laughter, covering your face with both hands. “Spencer, I’m possibly pregnant, and you’re out here praising my pee clarity.”

Spencer smiled sheepishly, reaching out to gently touch your elbow. “I’m nervous,” he confessed.

You dropped your hands and leaned into him, letting your forehead rest against his chest. “Me too.”

“Still,” he murmured into your hair, “ten out of ten for urine quality.”

You groaned into his shirt, and he held you closer, both of you laughing—but holding on just a little tighter.

The timer went off with a sharp, chirping beep!—far too loud, far too real—and you screamed. Just a bit. A quick, startled squeak that echoed off the bathroom walls.

Spencer jumped, nearly smacking his elbow on the counter. “Jesus,” he muttered, clutching his chest with wide eyes. “You scared me!”

You blinked rapidly, heart hammering in your ears, and looked at him with a shaky laugh. “You scared me!”

You both froze, still staring at each other, caught in the moment where possibility was still suspended in the air—just for a few seconds longer.

Spencer reached out and steadied the first test with two fingers. “Together?” he asked, voice low, trying to keep it calm, like his pulse wasn’t racing.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “One… two… three.”

You both leaned in. You tilted the test toward the light. Spencer adjusted his glasses. And—

Negative.

You blinked. “Wait. That’s… one line, right?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, eyes already scanning for the legend on the box. “One line. Definitely one. That’s negative.”

Your stomach fluttered, a weird combination of panic and relief and disbelief. “Okay—okay, next one.”

And like scientists on the verge of a breakthrough, the two of you tore through every single test—all six of them—analyzing, comparing, lining them up like a chemistry exhibit.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

Every last one.

You leaned against the bathroom counter, your knees nearly giving out beneath the sheer wave of relief that rolled through you. Not because you didn’t love Spencer. Not because the idea of a family with him wasn’t beautiful in its own right.

But because you weren’t ready. Not financially. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not yet.

You were relieved because you could still breathe.

Spencer looked over at you, brows furrowed, searching your face like he was trying to interpret a result of his own. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice so gentle it made your throat tighten.

You nodded slowly, a hand pressed over your chest. “Yeah. I think so.”

And then—because it needed to be said—you looked up at him and smiled through the haze of adrenaline.

“I want your kids someday, Spencer,” you whispered. “Just… not today.”

He stepped forward, arms wrapping around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “Not today,” he murmured into your hair, kissing the crown of your head. “But when the day comes… I’ll be ready.”

—

The invitation from Penelope had come a week ago—sparkly, pink, and slightly glittery, even though it had been sent via email. She was pulling out all the stops. A home-cooked, themed dinner for her “favorite humans in the galaxy,” complete with handmade place cards and “mood-boosting cocktails.” The kind of night you knew would be warm, heartfelt, and filled with laughter.

And you wanted to be excited—really. You had been looking forward to it all week, but today? Today was not your day.

You stood in front of the mirror with the fourth outfit of the evening clutched in your hands, your shoulders sagging. Everything you put on felt like a betrayal. Too tight, too loose, too bland, too loud. Your reflection stared back at you with tired eyes, frizzy hair that refused to lay flat no matter how many products you threw at it, and makeup that only seemed to exaggerate every flaw you’d tried to cover.

"Jesus Christ," you muttered, tossing the outfit onto the bed like it had offended you.

You sat down at the edge of your mattress, hands in your lap, heart pounding with frustration. 

You (thought you) knew how this looked: dramatic, shallow, selfish. You were already spiraling; now guilt joined the spiral like it paid rent.

Why are you making this about you? Penelope worked so hard. Everyone's going to be in good spirits, and you’re gonna show up like a storm cloud. Maybe don’t go. They’ll understand. You’ll just say you’re sick. Or busy. Or tired. Anything.

But even that idea felt hollow. Because you wanted to be there. You wanted to laugh at Derek’s jokes and listen to JJ’s stories. You wanted to help Penelope in the kitchen and let Spencer go on one of his tangents that no one else would ever interrupt, even if they didn’t fully follow along. You wanted to belong tonight.

You just didn’t feel like you deserved to belong right now.

Your cheeks were flushed, not from blush, but from frustration. You were hot, your eyes glossy with unshed tears, and suddenly everything—your face, your skin, your clothes—felt tight.

You dropped your face into your hands, willing yourself to breathe, to calm down. But your brain wasn’t in logic mode. It wasn’t in anything mode. It was stuck.

You reached for your phone, thumb hovering over Penelope’s name.

Should you cancel?

You stand frozen in the middle of the room, hands gripping the hem of your shirt so tightly that your knuckles have gone white. The soft sound of keys jingling, the gentle creak of the front door, the quiet thud of shoes being taken off—it all hits your ears like warning bells. Spencer is home.

And your heart drops.

You hear him moving around, probably setting down his messenger bag, probably thinking everything is fine. That you’re just down the hall getting ready. That the two of you are going to head to Penelope’s in a few minutes, and everything will go exactly as planned.

But nothing feels okay. You look and feel like a mess. Not in the cute, slightly disheveled way people in rom-coms do, either. No, you feel like some pathetic swamp creature who thought makeup and a curling iron could make her human again and failed spectacularly.

Your stomach churns as you hear him start down the hall, and you backpedal away from the door like he's a ghost, unprepared for a haunting.

"Darling?" his voice is soft, a little curious. "You almost ready?"

You practically shriek the word. “No!”

There’s a pause. Then you hear his footsteps stop right outside the bedroom door. His voice, tentative but calm, filters through. “Is everything okay?”

You want to say yes, pull it together, and say something breezy like, “I just need five more minutes!” But the words won’t come.

So, instead, you crumble.

“No,” you whisper, and suddenly, your knees give way, and you find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, covering your face with shaking hands as the dam finally breaks. “I look horrible. I feel horrible. I’ve tried on like ten different things, and none of them work. My face looks weird, my hair’s being stupid, and I don’t know why I even care so much, but I do, and now I feel guilty for making it all about me, and I just—” your voice cracks—“I just hate everything right now, and I don’t want you to see me like this, and I feel like a horrible, mean, ugly human being.”

The door opens slowly, and Spencer steps inside with that sort of quiet care he reserves for only the most delicate moments—like you might shatter if he makes too much noise.

You don’t look up.

But you feel the bed dip beside you.

And then his hand is sliding across your back in a soft, slow arc. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “we don’t have to go.”

You jerk back slightly, lifting your tear-streaked face with wide, betrayed eyes. “Oh, so you think I look ugly too?”

Spencer blinks, stunned by your sharpness. “What? No, no, that’s not—”

You stand abruptly, pacing like a cornered animal. “Because that’s what it sounds like. Like you looked at me and thought, ‘Yeah, let’s not bring that thing out in public.’”

“Hey!” Spencer rises, hands out like he’s trying to calm a skittish deer. “That is not what I said. That’s not what I meant. You looked upset like you were hurting, and I just—I wanted to give you an out. Not because you look bad. Because I love you, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to perform for anyone tonight.”

You hesitate, arms crossed tightly over your chest, throat tightening.

His voice softens again, his eyes scanning your face with the kind of reverence that makes it almost unbearable to be seen. “I think you’re beautiful. Right now. Right this second. Even if your hair’s not doing what you want it to. Even if your makeup’s a little smudged. Even if you’re crying and blotchy and pacing like you want to throw me out the window.”

That last line earns him a reluctant sniff-laugh.

He takes a cautious step closer.

“I love you when you’re confident and glowing. I love you when you’re a mess in sweatpants. And I love you now when you’re somewhere in between and spiraling a little.” He reaches for your hand, tentative. “Can I love you like this, too?”

You stare at him, eyes glassy, breath trembling in your chest. And somehow—despite everything—you nod.

He tugs you gently into his chest, holding you tightly, anchoring you.

And then, into your hair, he murmurs, “But if you did want to skip the dinner and stay in and eat cereal on the floor with me, I wouldn’t complain.”

You let out a watery giggle, and just like that… something starts to ease.

You might still feel a little like a swamp monster. But at least now, you're his swamp monster.

Your voice is muffled slightly by the fabric of his shirt as you murmur, “I do kind of want to throw you out the window, though.”

Spencer’s chest shakes with laughter, a surprised snort escaping him as he pulls back just enough to look down at you. His mouth curls into that crooked little smile he gets when he’s trying not to laugh too hard, and his eyes crinkle at the corners like they always do when he’s genuinely amused.

“Noted,” he says, pretending to be solemn. “Hostile while emotionally compromised. I’ll avoid standing too close to windows.”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes as you rest your forehead against his collarbone. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the person who just accused me of calling them ugly and compared themselves to a swamp creature.”

You lift your head enough to give him a look. “Still considering the window.”

Spencer leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “Joke's on you. I’m pretty sure Penelope has enchanted our windows, so I bounce back like a cartoon.”

You snicker, and this time it feels real. The kind of laugh that shakes something loose in your chest and makes the storm clouds shift a little.

He cups your face gently with both hands, thumbs brushing softly along your jaw as he studies you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been searching for his whole life. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Even when you want to commit light domestic homicide.”

Your lips twitch upward as you reach up and tug gently on the collar of his shirt. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m very aware.”

You sigh, leaning your forehead against his again. “Okay. I’ll get dressed.”

He arches a brow. “You mean re-re-re-dressed?”

“Don’t push it, Reid.”

He grins, kissing the top of your head. “Never.”

—

Spencer stepped quietly into your apartment, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His bag on the hook in its usual spot, shoes carefully untied and toed off with a bit of weariness in his bones. The case had been long, grueling—the kind that dragged down not just his body but his mind until all he wanted was to slip into the clean silence of your home and wash the world off his skin.

He moved on autopilot, following his usual ritual: drop his satchel, set his badge and keys on the hallway table, roll his shoulders once, twice.

Your office door was closed as he passed it, light leaking from the crack near the floor. No sound filtered out—just the soft glow.

He assumed you were on a Zoom call or deep in focus, so he didn’t knock or call out. Instead, he fished his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick message, thumbs moving with quiet familiarity:

Hello, my love. I just got in—I’m going to shower (& sanitize). I love you.

You didn’t see the message until your meeting ended—your eyes blurry from too many shared screens, your voice tired from too many fake laughs, and professionally polite “mm-hmm”s. But as soon as your gaze landed on your phone and you saw Spencer’s name, everything else faded.

Your heart clenched in the best way. He’s here.

It had been over two weeks since you’d last seen him. Two long weeks of texts, phone calls, voice notes falling asleep to each other, and aching to close the distance. You’d missed him in the quiet ways—like reaching for a second mug without thinking or setting aside the blanket he always stole halfway through the night. The ache had been constant.

And now he was home.

You smiled, heart racing, and quickly wrapped up your last bits of work. You typed your final message, logged off, and pushed away from your desk with a quiet squeal of excitement you didn’t even try to suppress.

You heard the soft click of the shower shutting off from down the hall. You paused for a moment—smiling at the sound—then tiptoed out of your office, not wanting to interrupt.

You knew his process by now. The shower. The sanitizing. The quiet minutes he needed to decompress, to re-enter the world at his own pace after being knee-deep in trauma and adrenaline for days.

So, instead of rushing toward him like you wanted, you turned toward the kitchen, smiling, and began preparing tea—chamomile for him and jasmine for you.

You picked his favorite mug—the one with the periodic table printed in a perfect grid, the lettering slightly faded from years of use—and set it gently on the counter. The kettle purred softly to life beside it, and you stood still for a moment, wrapping your arms around yourself and soaking in the quiet comfort of home.

He was back. Finally, back.

Clean, safe, warm, and about to walk out of the bathroom smelling like cedar and mint and everything that calmed the worst parts of your nervous system.

The second he appeared in the doorway, barefoot and toweling off the ends of his hair, you turned to greet him with a soft smile—

Only for all words to leave your mouth in an offended gasp.

“What the fuck?” you blurted, voice sharp enough to make him pause mid-step.

Spencer froze, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Uh… nice to see you too, my love,” he said, chuckling nervously.

You stared at him, pointing dramatically. “Spencer, what the fuck!”

“What?” he asked, looking down at himself like he’d maybe forgotten to put on pants.

“Your hair!” you cried as if he’d committed a federal offense.

He blinked, then self-consciously reached up to ruffle the back of it. “Oh… yeah,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I got it cut. Since the case was in Vegas, I saw my old barber. Do you—do you like it?”

“Like it?” you repeated, spitting the word like it had personally insulted you. The audacity of this man.

“Yeah…” he hedged, now officially worried. “I know you loved it long, but it was starting to drive me crazy, getting in my eyes all the time, and—”

“Spencer Walter Reid…” you said in a slow, dangerous tone, beginning to cross the kitchen with purpose.

“Yes, darling?” he asked warily, hands raising slightly as you stalked toward him.

You kept walking until he was pressed against the counter, boxed in by your body, your arms on either side of him. His breath hitched as he looked down at you, searching your face.

“I love it so much,” you said slowly, deliberately, eyes raking up and down his freshly shorn frame, “I physically cannot contain myself any longer.”

And with that—before he could stammer out another syllable—you dropped to your knees in one smooth, reverent motion.

Spencer blinked. “Oh.”

His towel slipped out of his hands.

“Ohhh…”

And the kettle shrieked from the stove, but neither of you moved an inch.

Your hands were on him before he could fully register what was happening—gripping the waistband of his lounge pants, tugging them with a kind of desperation that made Spencer's breath hitch audibly.

“W-wait—wait,” he stammered, voice already shaking as he braced his hands on the edge of the counter, staring down at you with wide eyes. “You’re—you’re really doing this right now?”

“Spencer,” you said, voice low and laser-focused as you looked up at him from your knees, “I have been patient. I have been good. I have waited for you to come home. And then you come waltzing in here with this haircut like I wouldn’t lose my mind? I warned you.”

And then, with no more time to waste, you tugged his pants—and boxers—down in one quick motion, leaving them puddled at his ankles. Spencer made a strangled noise in response, already hard, twitching slightly from the abrupt exposure.

His hands gripped the counter tighter. “Jesus—”

But you didn’t give him time to protest, didn’t give him time to retreat into his brain and second-guess your every move. You leaned in, mouth warm and eager, your tongue dragging a slow, purposeful line up his length, just to watch him tremble.

“Oh my god—” he gasped, his head tipping back against the cabinets as you wrapped your lips around him, taking him in with a hungry sort of reverence. He was already panting, already muttering your name under his breath like a prayer, one of his hands reaching down to tangle shakily in your hair.

“You look—” he choked out, voice wrecked, “so pretty like this, you always—God, you always do—”

You moaned softly around him, and the vibration alone nearly made his knees buckle.

Spencer wasn’t composed anymore. He wasn’t calculating or analyzing or trying to keep up appearances. He was flushed and unraveling, his eyes glazed as he looked down at you with a kind of stunned disbelief, his words barely coherent between gasps.

“I—I was just trying to be practical,” he managed. “I didn’t know—you’d like it that much—”

You pulled off him for half a second, stroking him with one hand as you looked up, breathless and grinning.

“I love it, Spence. And I’m gonna show you exactly how much.”

And then you went back down—no teasing this time, just heat and need and your mouth wrapped around him like he was the only thing that could possibly satisfy you.

As Spencer leaned back against the counter, moaning your name, his head tipped up, exposing his throat and making his curls—what was left of them—fall back just slightly. His mouth was slack, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, and his body trembling from the sensation of your mouth on him.

And that was fine. It was good, actually. Great, even. Except—

You couldn’t see his hair.

The whole reason you’d dropped to your knees like a woman possessed, the reason your tea was going cold and the kettle forgotten—the haircut. And now his head was thrown back, and you couldn’t even enjoy the view.

Frustration bubbled up in your chest—hot, petty, and somehow very on brand.

So, mid-suck, with him seconds from completely unraveling, you pulled back just slightly and gently flicked the inside of his thigh.

“Ah!” Spencer jerked, startled, eyes snapping down with a gasp. “W-what—”

You didn’t let him finish. You just grinned wide and smug, then winked at him from your place on the floor like the devil in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He blinked in dazed confusion—still panting, still overwhelmed—until he saw you deliberately lick a slow, noisy stripe up his length, from base to tip, saliva catching the light and your tongue curling with purpose.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, voice cracked and desperate.

And then, before he could say anything else, you wrapped your lips around him again—slow and deep—hollowing your cheeks and drawing a choked moan from his throat.

He watched you now, just as you wanted. Wide-eyed, slack-jawed, completely at your mercy.

You could feel the tension in his thighs, his stomach, the way his hips subtly shifted toward you like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed you more than oxygen.

“You’re so—so good at this,” he babbled helplessly, eyes locked to yours now like they couldn’t stray for even a second.

And you? You were thrilled. Because you had his full attention. You were in control. And Spencer Reid, freshly shorn and entirely wrecked, was yours to ruin.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

With him trembling above you, chest heaving, hair slightly damp at the edges from the shower—and now sweat—you reached one hand up and rubbed slow, teasing circles across the lower part of his stomach. Right where you knew it made him twitch. Right where the tension was coiling.

Spencer let out a punched-out whimper—high, breathless, and almost painful. The sound sent a jolt of satisfaction through your body. Poor thing, you thought, smiling around the tip of him still resting against your lips.

“Close, baby?” you asked, lips brushing against him with every syllable, the slight motion making him flinch with overstimulation.

“Hngh,” was all he could manage—his whole body shuddering, jaw slack, his hand barely managing to stay braced against the counter.

You pulled off entirely then, stroking him with your hand, watching him try so hard to keep his focus through the haze.

“Do you want to come once or twice?” you asked lightly like it was a casual question about takeout. Your voice was soft but wicked, your touch relentless.

“Huh?” Spencer blinked down at you, eyes glassy and unfocused, like he’d forgotten what language was.

You tilted your head and grinned. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

Spencer shook his head, curls bouncing slightly. “N–no, just um—can you elaborate, please?” he asked, voice cracking, and God, he was still trying to be polite. Still trying to keep up, even now.

“So polite, baby,” you purred, pressing a gentle kiss to the space just above his pelvis, your lips soft against the trail of hair leading down. “You’re going to fuck me in front of the mirror.”

Spencer made a soft choking noise.

You smiled. "So, do you want to come now and later?”

You paused, watching his face.

“Or just later?”

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “I—”

You gave him a slow stroke right up the base just to ruin whatever he was about to say.

“Baby,” he whispered, completely undone, “I don’t think I can not come right now.”

“Twice it is,” you grinned, smug and devastating, as you took him back into your mouth like the promise you fully intended to keep.

It only took seconds.

Just a few more hollowed strokes of your cheeks, a well-timed swirl of your tongue, and then Spencer's hands—those long, elegant fingers usually reserved for page corners and coffee mugs—suddenly gripped your hair with urgency. Not rough. Just needy. His hips jerked forward, and his breath hitched like something inside him had finally snapped.

“Oh— God, I—I’m coming,” he gasped, voice hoarse and desperate, words tumbling over themselves as his control gave out entirely.

And then he did.

You moaned around him as the first pulse hit the back of your throat, your hands tightening at his hips, not to hold him back but to keep him close. You loved this part—this version of Spencer. The one who lost his polish, who couldn’t form sentences, who whimpered your name as he spilled into your mouth, utterly undone.

His knees nearly buckled, and his head dropped forward, curls swaying slightly as he looked down at you—looked at you, watching the way you swallowed him, the way your mouth didn’t falter once.

He groaned, something incoherent, his grip loosening as you pulled off him slowly, carefully, licking your lips as if you had all the time in the world.

When you stood, Spencer was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’d just run five miles and solved a puzzle at the same time. His hands reached out instinctively, resting on your waist, eyes wide and still dazed.

You leaned in, nose brushing his, and whispered, “One down.”

And with that, you turned toward the bedroom, swaying your hips as you went—leaving him to catch his breath and follow you.

It took Spencer a moment to move—not just because his legs were still wobbly from the most mind-melting orgasm of his life, but because his brain was still trying to reboot. You had left him completely spent in the kitchen, looking like he'd been hit by a truck driven by a succubus.

When he finally managed to walk to the bedroom, half-dazed and barefoot, he paused in the doorway like he’d just walked into another dimension.

You were at the end of the bed, repositioning the mirror—the standing mirror—the one you always joked you only had so he could adjust his ties with mathematical precision. You were angling it with purpose, adjusting the tilt just right, your sweatpants already low on your hips and your shirt riding up as you stretched to fix the frame.

He blinked. “Jesus.”

You glanced back at him over your shoulder, eyes dark and amused. “Took you long enough,” you teased, running a hand down your side. “Starting to think you passed out in the hallway.”

Spencer’s throat worked as he swallowed, trying to form a coherent thought, but you were already stepping toward him, your smile just this side of dangerous.

“You gonna help me out of my clothes, handsome?” you asked sweetly, standing in front of him now, your hands hanging loosely at your sides—open, inviting, already daring him to touch.

Spencer looked down at you like you were a gift he hadn’t done enough to deserve. His hands reached out almost reverently, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, eyes flickering up to yours.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough, lips parted, finally catching up. "Yeah, I am."

And then he got to work—slow at first, but certain—because if you were going to give him the privilege of watching you come apart in front of that mirror…

He was going to make damn sure you remembered it.

As soon as your clothes hit the floor, Spencer’s breath caught—and something in him shifted.

Whatever had been fogging his mind—the daze, the post-orgasmic haze, the stunned reverence—was gone. Replaced by sharp, focused intent. His eyes raked down your body with a hunger he didn’t even try to mask, and for a second, he just stood there, drinking you in.

Then he tore off his shirt like it was offending him.

And you? You moved like you had choreography in your bones.

You climbed onto the bed, slow and deliberate, the air charged with the promise of what was about to come. You planted your hands firmly at the edge of the mattress, then your knees, shifting until you were arched just right—back curved like a bow, ass up, thighs parted, and your gaze fixed on your reflection in the mirror.

You knew what you looked like. You knew what you were doing to him.

You swayed your hips once—just a little—to emphasize the view, a soft smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. “Well?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, “You just gonna stand there and stare?”

Spencer blinked like you’d pulled him from a trance. His hands flexed at his sides, and he stepped forward like a man possessed, crawling up behind you onto the mattress, his body humming with tension.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing along your spine as he got into position behind you, “how long I’ve wanted to see this.”

His hands slid over your hips, gripping them just tight enough to ground you both, and when you met your own eyes in the mirror and saw his just behind you—dark, intent, full of heat—you knew: This wasn’t going to be soft. It was going to be glorious.

You whined softly, back arching a little more just to urge him closer. To invite him in.

“Gotta start telling me what you want, baby,” you pouted, your voice breathy but coaxing, playful and honest all at once. “I want to give you everything.”

Spencer leaned forward, his chest warm against your back as he wrapped one arm around your middle, his hand splayed across your soft stomach while the other gripped your hip like it was something sacred.

Then he nuzzled his face right behind your ear, his breath hot and steady, his lips brushing your skin as he whispered, “You are everything.”

Your breath hitched, the words hitting deeper than anything else he could’ve said.

Not “you’re giving me everything.” Not “you do everything for me.” Not “you’re mine.”

You are everything.

And the way he said it—like it was fact, like it had always been true, like it would be true in any universe, in any lifetime—made your stomach flutter and your heartache all at once.

“Spencer…” you breathed, trembling just a little, caught somewhere between need and love and complete, delicious surrender.

His grip tightened, adjusting you carefully until he had the perfect angle. You could feel the tension radiating from him—he was holding back, barely, his control hanging by a thread.

“Look in the mirror,” he said lowly, lips pressed to your neck. “I want you to see what everything looks like.”

This time, the sound that escaped you wasn’t a tease—it was a whimper, high and needy, trembling on your breath as your eyes locked with his in the mirror.

There he was—your beautiful, brilliant boyfriend, hair freshly cut, eyes blown wide with want, jaw slack with reverence. So much reverence. You watched the way his hands gripped your hips, possessive but gentle, the way he steadied you, angled you just right like you were something delicate and dangerous.

And then—God—he lined himself up with your entrance, his tip nudging against you, the anticipation thick in the space between your bodies.

“This…” you whispered, your voice hitching as your hips rocked back ever so slightly. “This was one of my best ideas.”

Spencer laughed—soft and wrecked and disbelieving—as he brushed his lips along your shoulder. “I’m not gonna argue with that.”

Because from this angle, you could see everything. The way your back arched so prettily for him. The way his stomach tensed as he held himself there, barely keeping it together. The way his face twisted with wonder when he finally—finally—began to push inside.

You gasped, your mouth falling open, your hands gripping the sheets in front of you as your eyes stayed locked with his in the mirror. He watched you feel him—watched your lips part, your lashes flutter, your shoulders twitch.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, voice shaky like the sensation was pulling the wind out of him. “You look… fuck, baby.”

And then he slid in all the way. Deep. Slow. A brand new angle for both of you.

You both gasped—yours soft and broken, his low and strangled—because it felt like a discovery like something you hadn’t even known was missing.

Your forehead dropped briefly to your arm as your body adjusted, and Spencer stayed perfectly still, just long enough to let you breathe. But his hands never stopped moving—stroking your hips, your waist, your ribs—like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Look at us,” he whispered, voice tight. “Look.”

You did. And what you saw nearly undid you. Him—flush against your back, jaw slack, eyes molten. You—open and trembling and shining with love and desire.

It wasn’t just hot. It was intimate. Deep. Raw.

“Spencer—” you cried out, the word torn from your throat like it was the only one you could remember.

You weren’t just overwhelmed by the feeling of him inside you—it was everything. The mirror, the way he held you, the soft sounds he made behind you, the way his eyes never left yours. You could feel the love radiating from him, threaded through every inch of pressure, every breathy curse under his breath, every reverent touch.

And then—then—he began to move.

His hips pulled back, slow and smooth, only to roll forward again with just enough force to send a jolt straight through your core. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Controlled. Like he was trying to memorize how you felt around him with every thrust.

And then it happened.

On his second stroke, maybe third—he found it. That spot.

That maddening, impossible-to-reach place inside you that no one else had ever quite managed to touch. Not like this. Not so directly. Not so perfectly.

Your mouth dropped open. Your body jerked forward slightly on the bed. Your eyes snapped to the mirror.

Your reflection was flushed, lips parted, spine arched, eyes blown wide with disbelief and sudden, undeniable need.

“Oh my God—” you gasped, your voice ragged and high-pitched as your hands clawed at the sheets. “Spence—Spencer, I—”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence. Your brain had short-circuited. There were no words.

Because for the first time in your life, you weren’t just getting close. You weren’t trying to chase pleasure or grind your hips to make it happen.

No.

It was happening to you.

This need—violent, urgent, absolute—rushed through you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook. Your stomach clenched. Your breath came in short, panicked little gasps.

“I’m gonna—” you whimpered, voice breaking as you looked at him in the mirror, wide-eyed and stunned. “I’m gonna cum. Right now. Spencer, I—I can’t—”

His eyes darkened instantly. One hand flew to your stomach, holding you still, while the other grabbed your hip tighter, anchoring you as he pressed in again with that same perfect angle.

But instead of saying anything even remotely helpful to the fact that you were about to explode—that your body was drawing taut like a bowstring about to snap—Spencer, in true Spencer fashion, didn’t react with encouragement or praise or even a filthy promise to make you scream.

No. He launched into a monologue.

“You know,” he began, breath still stuttering as he thrust into you again—deeper—like he wanted to make sure you felt every syllable, “the anterior wall of the vaginal canal—what’s colloquially known as the g-spot—is composed of erectile tissue. It swells when aroused. That’s why this angle—this one—stimulates it so consistently.”

You gasped—because of the thrust. Because of him. But also—because of him.

“Spencer,” you moaned, but there was no protest in it. Only need.

“And,” he went on, so casually, as if he wasn’t currently making your whole body shake, “researchers used to debate whether the g-spot even existed, but current studies support its presence as part of the clitourethrovaginal complex—which explains why internal and external stimulation together can cause—”

“Spence!” you cried, a sob of arousal breaking through your voice as your arms gave out and your face dropped to the sheets.

He moaned at the sight, one hand sliding from your hip up to your back, pressing gently but firmly between your shoulder blades to keep you arched just right. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” he panted, lips right by your ear now. “Your body’s proving the theory.”

You whimpered something unintelligible.

“Every time I hit it—your legs twitch. Your breathing changes. Your walls get tighter.” He thrust again, deep and devastating. “You want me to tell you what’s happening? What I’m doing to you?”

“Yes—yes, please—” you sobbed, eyes locked on your own wrecked reflection in the mirror.

“You’re about to experience an involuntary contraction of the pelvic floor muscles due to the intensity of pressure on your internal nerve endings,” he whispered, sweet and filthy and so proud of himself. “That’s what your orgasm is, baby. And it’s happening now.”

And with one final, perfect thrust—

It did. You shattered.

Your scream tore through the room like lightning—raw, high, unapologetic. It was the kind of sound you couldn’t hold back even if you tried, your body going rigid as the orgasm slammed into you like a freight train. Your hands fisted in the sheets, your thighs shook uncontrollably, and your mouth stayed open in a soundless cry as waves of pleasure crashed through you again and again.

Behind you, Spencer choked on a gasp.

“Darling—OH!” he blurted, his voice ragged and cracking under the force of it. “Oh my god—shit, that’s so—tight—”

You clenched around him like a vice, the spasms of your climax pulling him deeper, keeping him there, and Spencer—bless his heart—was doing everything in his power to keep his composure. But his hips stuttered, his breath coming in desperate, short bursts, and his hands trembled where they gripped your waist.

“I—I’m really—” he tried, blinking rapidly at the mirror, jaw slack, completely wrecked. “That—oh my god—you feel—fuck, I can’t—”

You whined, your hips twitching back against him instinctively, still in the throes of your own release, oversensitive and overwhelmed and barely capable of forming a single thought.

“Please,” he groaned, almost begging now, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “You’re still—Jesus, you’re still clenching—”

You were. You knew you were. Your body was betraying you in the best way, milking him, holding him in place, and you could feel him falling apart.

And still, through the blur of heat and haze, you had the audacity to whisper, “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.”

That was it.

Spencer snapped, burying himself deep with a low, devastated groan as he came hard, his entire body shuddering against you, hands flexing on your hips like he didn’t know where to hold on. He moaned your name into your skin, soft and wrecked, riding out every last wave of it like he had nothing else left to give.

And then you both collapsed—boneless, breathless, completely undone.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that—collapsed in a tangle of limbs and overstimulated nerves, your chest pressed to the sheets, and Spencer draped over your back like he’d just been hit by divine intervention.

His breathing was still ragged, warm puffs of air against your shoulder as he let out a small, dazed noise that might’ve been a laugh, a whimper, or possibly both.

“Okay,” he finally managed, voice muffled in your hair. “That was… I don’t even have words.”

You smiled lazily into the pillow. “Do I need to get you a thesaurus?”

Spencer let out a huff of a laugh, collapsing fully to the side and rolling off of you with a very dramatic groan, like his soul was trying to reenter his body.

“Not even that would help,” he muttered, his hand reaching out instinctively to find yours, fingers lacing together on the sheets between you. “I think I need a new language.”

You giggled, turning your face toward him. “You sound wrecked.”

“I am wrecked,” he replied, still blinking up at the ceiling like he was trying to remember how to function. 

You laughed harder, your chest shaking as you dragged your fingers lazily over the back of his hand. “You’re welcome.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes soft now, warm and sparkling even through the haze. “Come here,” he murmured, tugging you gently until you rolled into his arms, your leg draped over his and your face tucked into his shoulder.

For a few minutes, it was just that—quiet breathing, tangled sheets, your bodies cooling down slowly, your hearts still beating a little fast. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, then one to your forehead, then another to your temple.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“More than okay,” you whispered, smiling against his skin.

“You were amazing,” he added, voice low and still just a little shaky. “Terrifying. Powerful. A little possessed, maybe.”

“Good possessed or bad possessed?”

“The sexy kind.”

You laughed again, breathless and content. “Your hair looks so good. I had to do something.”

Spencer groaned dramatically. “If this is how you react to my haircut, I’m gonna start getting it trimmed every three weeks.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, fingers pushing his short, soft curls from his forehead. “Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

His smile softened completely. “I love you too.”

And then, because of course he did, he added, “And I’m going to need to hydrate. Like… medically.”

You snorted, burying your face in his chest. “I’ll get the water. You stay here and recover.”

“Please,” he sighed, eyes closing, “and maybe a protein bar. And an ice pack. And—”

You kissed his chest once, grinning. “Don’t push your luck, Doctor.”

—

The first thing you felt was wet.

Too wet. Too warm. Not sweat, not a dream, not anything your sleepy brain could dismiss. You were still half-asleep when you shifted slightly in Spencer’s bed, but then—that feeling. The unmistakable gush.

Your eyes flew open. Wide. Alert.

Shit.

You moved quickly—automatically, like muscle memory. Years of this kind of panic had taught you not to waste time. You slipped out of bed with practiced stealth, careful not to jostle Spencer, who remained peacefully asleep on his side, facing away, one hand tucked under the pillow. His breathing was steady, unbothered.

Yours was not.

You rushed into the bathroom, closed the door gently behind you, and sat down on the toilet to assess the damage—and wow.

It was bad.

Blood was everywhere. Deep red smeared along the inside of your thighs, soaked through your underwear and sweatpants. You leaned forward slightly to confirm what you already knew—yep. This wasn’t a small spot. This was a full-on massacre.

Which meant—Spencer’s sheets.

With a soft, muffled groan, you let your head fall into your hands. Of course this would happen here, of all places. In his crisp, perfectly tucked bed. At his place, where everything had its place, and even the disorganized things were carefully thought out.

Panic prickled up your spine. But then, almost on cue—the cramps hit.

Sharp, low, mean. The kind that started in your lower abdomen and twisted cruelly down into your thighs, your back, your entire soul.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself just to get it together, but it was too late. The frustration, the pain, the embarrassment, the sudden flood of hormones all collapsed onto you at once, and your eyes began to sting.

And then—quietly, shamefully—you started to cry.

Not loud. Not sobbing. Just silent, salty tears sliding down your cheeks as you sat there on the toilet, pants around your ankles, bleeding, cramping, and absolutely done with the universe.

You didn’t want to wake Spencer. You didn’t want him to see this, to see you like this. Not messy and raw and vulnerable, with blood on his sheets and tears in your eyes. You just needed a second to breathe.

To figure out what the hell to do.

But then—behind the door—you heard it.

A soft, sleepy shuffle. And then, “…Baby?”

Double shit.

“Mhm?” you hummed, trying to keep your voice light, unbothered, totally not on the verge of a hormonal breakdown. You blinked furiously, swiping under your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt to catch the tears before they could betray you further.

Luckily, Spencer—sweet, brilliant Spencer—was not much of a profiler when he was sleep-soft and barely conscious. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice thick with drowsiness, muffled by the pillow.

You forced a laugh, the sound catching awkwardly in your throat. “Yeah, Spence, just… peeing.”

There was a pause, “You never pee in the middle of the night.”

You winced. Of course, he noticed.

“What? Ye,s I do,” you countered weakly. “How would you even know that?”

Another pause. A yawn. Then, with a gentle sort of logic only he could muster at 3 a.m., he said, “We’ve been together for almost three years. I’d know if you got up at night for any reason.”

You sighed, shoulders drooping. Damn him and his intimate knowledge of your bladder. “I drank a lot of water.”

“‘Kay…” he mumbled, his voice already fading as he accepted the excuse—sleep claiming him again like it always did. You could picture him now, curled on his side, arm stretched across your empty pillow, eyes closed again.

But the relief didn’t last long.

Because you knew what came next. Either he’d roll over and see the dark stain on the sheets. Or he’d start to wonder why it was taking you ten minutes to pee. Or worse—he’d hear you opening the wrapper of a pad or tampon in the stillness of his quiet apartment, and then he’d know.

There was no getting out of this unnoticed. No clever exit strategy. No plausible deniability.

You looked down at the wreckage between your legs, at the blood smeared on your thighs, and felt the tears spring up again. Not because you were ashamed—not really. Just… overwhelmed. Hormonal. Humiliated, despite yourself.

And so, with a shaky inhale and a wobble in your voice that gave you away immediately, you called out, “Spence…”

You heard the shift of blankets. The weight of him sitting up. “Yeah?” he called back, more awake now, concern threading through the syllable.

You stared at the door like it might disappear if you wished hard enough, heart pounding, cheeks burning hot with embarrassment. You felt small, fragile—not because you were bleeding, not because this had never happened before, but because it had happened here. In his bed. In his perfect little world, and suddenly you were convinced he’d see it as something wrong, something gross, something too much.

You swallowed hard. You didn’t want to cry again, but your throat was already tight. You just… needed him. Needed his eyes. His voice. The quiet steadiness only he could give.

“Can you…” you paused, your voice already cracking. You blinked away fresh tears and tried again, quieter this time. “Can you come in here, please?”

There was a pause—only a second or two—but it felt like a lifetime.

Then the sound of soft shuffling feet across hardwood.

The door creaked open slowly, the warm light from the hallway spilling in and catching Spencer’s sleepy, confused face. His curls were flattened on one side, his t-shirt slightly askew, and his eyes squinted until they landed on you—sitting on the toilet, legs drawn up, eyes wide and glossy.

Immediately, he softened. “Hey,” he said gently, stepping in and closing the door behind him like he could shield you from the rest of the world. “What’s going on?”

You sniffled once, suddenly unsure how to say it now that he was right there. “I, um…”

His eyes dropped to the clothes bunched around your ankles—bloodstained. His expression didn’t change, not in the way you feared. No grimace. No shock. Just a flicker of realization, and then something warm.

You inhaled sharply, trying to get it out. “I think I got blood on your sheets. I—I didn’t mean to. I woke up, and it just—there was so much, and I didn’t notice right away, and I’m so sorry, Spencer, I didn’t mean to make a mess, and I know how clean you like things, and I just—”

Spencer just nodded at first, still waking up, his mind turning over the facts at a slower pace than usual. You watched him, waiting for something—anything—that looked like reassurance. Like relief. Like love. But all you got was that blank, sleepy processing expression, and your chest constricted with a wave of shame so sharp it made your stomach twist.

He wasn't disgusted. But he wasn't saying anything either. And your brain, already loud and hormonal, filled in every awful blank.

You looked away quickly, blinking back tears that had already started to spill. Your lip quivered, and before you could stop it, the sob came. Soft. Gutted. Mortifying.

You turned your face toward the tile, trying to muffle it with your sleeve, but you couldn’t hide it fast enough.

And then—

“Hey.”

His voice cut through your spiral like a lifeline. It was soft, but firm. Awake now. Clear. Anchoring.

“Look at me,” he said again, and this time, it wasn’t a request.

You turned, hesitating, your vision blurry with tears. Spencer was kneeling in front of you now, close and grounded and fully Spencer again, his eyes wide and so full of you that your chest ached.

His hands reached gently for your thighs, grounding you. “I didn’t say anything right away because I’m still waking up,” he said softly, his brows knit with guilt. “Not because I’m mad. Or weirded out. Or upset. I’m just tired. And slow.”

You tried to breathe through your sobs, but one still escaped as you wiped furiously at your cheeks.

Spencer moved closer, cupping your face with both hands now, his thumbs brushing your wet cheeks. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re okay.”

You sniffled, looking up at him. “I bled on your sheets.”

He nodded solemnly, and then, gently—genuinely—said, “Then we’ll wash them.”

You let out a weak, watery laugh, hiding your face in your hands as more tears slipped out—this time not from shame, but from the slow, warm relief that came with being seen and not judged.

“But they’ll be stained, Spence,” you murmured, peeking at him through your fingers.

“Darling,” he said patiently like he was reminding you the sky was still blue, “I know for a fact you know how to get blood out of cloth. You’ve told me about your victory stories—like, detailed accounts. I’m still haunted by that one involving your white skirt and a hotel bathroom sink.”

You sniffed, lips tugging upward. “That was legendary.”

“Exactly. And,” he added with a tiny shrug, “they’re white sheets. You know I have a concerning amount of bleach.”

“But what about your mattress?” you asked, still curled on the toilet like your shame had taken up permanent residence.

Spencer blinked. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t have a mattress cover?”

That did it.

You laughed—really laughed. A wet, sniffling, hiccupping sound that bubbled up unexpectedly and made your shoulders shake. And Spencer smiled like the sun had come up in the middle of his bathroom.

“There it is,” he whispered, leaning in and pressing his forehead gently to yours, his hands cupping your face like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened in this apartment,” he said softly, reverently. “Sheets be damned.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning into his touch, forehead pressed to his, and whispered, “You’re such a dork.”

“And you love me.”

“I do.”

“Even though I own three kinds of bleach?”

You grinned. “Especially because you own three kinds of bleach.”

And with that, you melted into him, his arms wrapping around you, warm and solid and home.

His face was open and soft, with nothing but calm concern in those honey-brown eyes. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You bit your lip hard, tears threatening again as you gave a soft, wet laugh. “I feel like a swamp creature.”

He smiled. “You look like my girlfriend, who’s going to stay put while I handle the cleanup.”

You blinked. “Spencer—”

“Nope,” he said, standing and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You take a warm shower, get a clean pair of sweats, a heating pad, and some water. I get to boss you around this time.”

“But—” you started, eyes widening as he stood up with purpose, clearly about to tackle the entire linen situation like it was a crime scene.

“No buts,” Spencer said immediately, already halfway to the door, waving a hand over his shoulder like he was shooing your protest away.

“But Spencer, really—!”

“Nuh-uh,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “Can’t hear you, my darling, beautiful girlfriend who deserves to stand in the warm water and not worry about anything right now.”

You groaned softly, watching him grab the corner of the sheet through the crack in the bathroom door. “Wear gloves, please!”

Without missing a beat, he called back, chipper as anything, “Already on it!”

You laughed because, of course, he was. Of course, Spencer Reid had a drawer specifically for latex gloves, a plan for this exact scenario, and the sheer determination to act like this was no big deal when, to you, it had felt like the end of the world.

But somehow, because of him, it didn’t anymore.

After your shower—hot water, fresh sweatpants, clean skin—you felt human again. Spencer had already changed the sheets by the time you stepped out. Now, the two of you were nestled back in bed, the world calm again.

You were curled on your side, your back pressed to Spencer’s chest, his arms warm and secure around your middle. One of his hands rested gently over your lower stomach, fingers stroking soft, slow circles as you breathed through another cramp.

It was one of those quiet, sleepy moments that made you feel impossibly close—like the tears in the bathroom belonged to someone else entirely.

Until Spencer snorted.

You groaned, eyes still closed. “What?”

“I just realized something,” he said, the grin already in his voice.

You didn’t have the strength. “Hmm?”

“This just confirms that you’re not pregnant.”

You turned your head just enough to stare at him over your shoulder with the most unimpressed expression you could manage.

And then, without a word, you leaned back further… and bit him.

“Ow!” he yelped, laughing through it, more startled than hurt. “Did you just—did you bite me?!”

“Shut up,” you muttered, burying your face in your pillow. “You ruin everything.”

“I do not! That was a scientific observation!”

“That was a death wish.”

He kissed the spot just beneath your ear with a chuckle, wrapping his arms around you tighter and whispering into your hair, “Worth it.”

You grumbled something incomprehensible, but you didn’t pull away.

Because he might ruin the moment—but he always stayed for it.

—

You hadn’t expected this errand to be sexy.

You were wearing sneakers, your hair in a claw clip, armed with a reusable water bottle and a list of budget-friendly desktop specs you’d scribbled down on a grocery list sticky pad. It was just supposed to be a quick trip to the electronics store so you could finally finish putting together your in-home office.

You were not prepared for Spencer to unleash his full brainpower in public like that.

It started innocently enough—just you and Spencer walking through the glossy aisles, checking out all the little info cards taped to the front of the monitors. You were squinting at acronyms and numbers you didn’t fully understand when Spencer stepped in behind you and said:

“This one’s solid, but the CPU’s clock speed might throttle under long-term workload if you’re running multiple programs at once—what do you usually keep open?”

You blinked at him. “Um… a few tabs. Zoom. Spotify. Sometimes Canva.”

He hummed. “Then we’ll need something with more RAM. Come here—this one has better ventilation anyway.”

And then it happened.

The tech guru from the store spotted you browsing and walked over. Before you could say a single word, Spencer launched into a ten-minute conversation that melted your brain.

They weren’t arguing, exactly—it was more of a debate but spoken in a language you had no fluency in. They talked about chipsets, thermal paste, GPU acceleration, and workstation stability. Spencer's hands moved when he talked, animated and passionate, and he kept pushing his hair out of his face like he didn’t realize how gorgeous he looked doing it. His eyes lit up like a storm every time he referenced a comparison model or corrected the tech guy with some obscure benchmark test result from a research article he’d read for fun.

And you?

You stood there, one aisle over, pretending to inspect a wireless mouse with your legs crossed and your entire body fighting not to squirm.

Because Jesus Christ.

It wasn’t just the brain. It was the way he used it.

The way his confidence never once turned arrogant. The way he explained things with precision, not to show off, but because he cared. Because he wanted you to have the right computer, the right setup, the right everything.

And God, it was hot. So, ridiculously hot.

By the time he walked back over to you, satisfied and smiling, you were barely holding it together.

“I got him to knock 10% off,” Spencer beamed, completely unaware of the fire he’d lit in your bloodstream. “You okay?”

You cleared your throat, trying not to stare at his hands, the curve of his neck where his collar dipped, or how he was breathing just slightly heavier from the excitement. “Mhm. Yep. Totally fine.”

“You sure?” he tilted his head, concerned. “You’re red.”

“Just… warm in here,” you lied, nodding quickly as you reached for your water bottle and took the biggest sip of your life.

And Spencer, bless him, just smiled and looped an arm around your waist like nothing had happened.

Meanwhile, you were already making plans to thank him properly the second you got home.

And you tried. You really did.

You tried to be patient, to make it home, to let the moment pass. You even rolled the window down a little, hoping the breeze would cool your face, your thoughts, or at least the burning in your stomach that had started the moment Spencer said “liquid cooling system” with that tone.

But then he put the car in reverse.

And when he reached back—long fingers braced on the headrest, torso twisting as he craned his neck to back out of the parking spot—his sweater pulled tight across his chest, exposing just a sliver of pale skin above his waistband, and that was it.

Your rational mind just… left the building.

You reached across the console, hand sliding deliberately—dangerously—up his thigh. Not his knee. Not the middle. High up. Just shy of making him stall entirely.

“Y/N…” Spencer’s voice dropped into a whisper, already laced with alarm and heat. “What are you doing??”

You gave him a wide-eyed, perfectly innocent look. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He turned his head to look at you fully now, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, eyes already darkening like storm clouds.

“You can’t do that while I’m driving,” he said, sounding like he was trying to be stern but failing miserably. His voice cracked slightly, betraying how badly he was losing the upper hand.

You leaned in, fingers curling a little tighter where they rested. “Then maybe you shouldn’t reverse like a goddamn movie star.”

Spencer groaned—actually groaned—and his hand on the gearshift visibly tightened. “You are going to be the death of me.”

You just smiled, smug and a little breathless, and whispered, “Then maybe you should pull over.”

And for one heart-stopping second, Spencer looked like he was seriously considering it.

Spencer’s eyes darted to you like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said, like the words "Then maybe you should pull over" had knocked loose the last shred of his reason. He gawked at you, scandalized in the most Spencer Reid way possible—mouth parted, voice caught in his throat, one hand still clenched on the gearshift like it was the only tether holding him to the physical realm.

“W-we’re in public,” he stammered, blinking hard like maybe he’d hallucinated the look in your eyes. “In a parking lot. In a daylight-hour parking lot. W-with pedestrians. And children, probably—”

“Then drive,” you said lowly, your voice dipped in honey and need, all but panting as you slid your hand another inch higher on his thigh. “But hurry.”

Spencer practically squeaked. “Y/N—this isn’t rational. You’re—this is a stress response. You’re likely experiencing elevated hormones from the pregnancy scare—your body is reacting, not thinking—”

“I don’t want to think,” you growled, leaning closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear. “I want to feel. And I want you.”

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he blindly pulled the car out of the parking spot, jerking a little too hard in reverse before shifting into drive. “I’m not—not saying no,” he breathed quickly, blinking down the road, “I’m just saying—I’m not sure I can survive this drive.”

And then, as he finally got the car moving forward, you did it. Your hand left his thigh and slipped under his sweater.

You slid your palm slowly, deliberately, up the soft skin of his stomach. It was warm, smooth, and just a bit tense from how tightly he was holding himself together. Your fingers traced the curve just above his waistband, dragging lightly up to the center of his abdomen and rubbing in slow, tender circles.

Spencer heaved. Actually, visibly gasped. His breath punched out of him like someone had knocked the wind from his lungs.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, chest rising and falling fast. “You’re so mean.”

You smiled, wicked and wanting, your palm never stopping its soft, devastating rhythm. “I’m just in love,” you whispered, kissing his shoulder. “And so fucking turned on.”

Spencer swallowed audibly. And then—his voice wrecked, his eyes laser-focused on the road like it was the only thing keeping him from combusting—he muttered:

“We’re going to my place. It’s closer.”

And you just giggled, victorious. Because you had broken Spencer Reid. And he was loving every second of it.

…

You weren’t even pretending to behave anymore.

The desktop—the whole reason you went out in the first place—was long forgotten in the trunk of Spencer’s car, left to fend for itself like some abandoned prop in a scene that had taken a very different turn. Spencer had practically skidded into the parking spot outside his building, the car still humming as he put it in park with the kind of frantic energy that suggested he was one heavy breath away from losing it completely.

And now? Now you were following him up the stairs. Teasing him.

Relentlessly.

You stayed one step behind him, close enough to keep your hand on his back as he climbed. Occasionally you'd let your fingers slip just under the hem of his sweater, brushing along the warm, smooth skin of his lower back. The first time you did it, he stumbled. Just slightly. You giggled.

“Are you okay?” you asked sweetly, breathless with amusement.

“No,” he muttered, not even pretending otherwise, gripping the railing like it might protect him from you. “This is… so wildly unsafe for public decency standards.”

“I haven’t even touched anything inappropriate yet,” you whispered near his ear, letting your fingers skate higher this time, grazing the small dip in his spine.

Spencer made a noise halfway between a gasp and a whimper. “Yet.”

By the second flight, he was walking faster—clearly trying to outpace your hand, your mouth, your teasing. But it only made you more determined. You bumped your chest into his back at the landing, pressing close.

“You’re really gonna make me wait until we get inside?” you purred, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Spencer turned his head just enough to glance at you. His face was completely flushed, and curls started to stick to his forehead from the effort of moving quickly and not losing it right there on the stairs.

“I am this close to dragging you back down the stairs and into the passenger seat,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But there are cameras in the parking lot.”

You grinned. “And in the hallway?”

Spencer groaned. “You need to stop talking.”

But the key was already in his hand, and the front door was just ahead.

One more hallway. One more breath. And then you'd both stop pretending to be patient.

By the time you reached his front door, you couldn’t take it anymore.

Whatever self-control you had left—what little scraps remained after his parking lot heroics and that breathless spiral up the stairs—snapped.

As soon as Spencer fumbled with the key, you reached for him. Not gently. Not cautiously. Desperately.

You grabbed the fabric of his sweater, yanked him back against you, and smushed your mouth against his before he could even turn the lock. It was all heat and need, wild and unrestrained. Spencer gasped against you, his hands flailing for a moment before settling on your waist, trying to ground himself.

Your hands cupped his jaw, your fingers curling behind his neck, dragging him down into it as if you couldn’t get close enough. And he gave in completely, the key still awkwardly wedged between his fingers as he let you take the lead.

God, his mouth.

The same lips that could rattle off facts about deep-sea bioluminescence and ancient numeral systems and crash test safety ratings were now parted and panting and helpless beneath yours. The same mouth that had once shyly asked if you liked milk in your tea, that whispered book quotes into your skin, that lectured you on the proper way to hold a scalpel if you ever “theoretically needed to perform battlefield surgery”—was now moaning softly as your tongue brushed his.

You pulled back just a fraction, just enough to breathe against his lips. “Spencer…” you whispered, voice thick and shaking. “God, your mouth—do you even know what it does to me?”

He blinked, dazed, eyes unfocused and lips swollen. “I—uh—statistically I should’ve figured it out by now, but—”

You cut him off with another kiss, this one slower, deeper.

“Inside,” you breathed, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan again.

He fumbled with the key, his hands shaking, his breath wrecked—and the second the door opened, you both stumbled inside, tangled and kissing and already forgetting where the rest of the world ended.

Your hand had just curled around him through his pants—finally, after all that teasing, all that build-up, all that delicious, unbearable tension—and Spencer let out a ragged, unfiltered moan, like the sound had been stuck in his chest for the last twenty minutes and could finally escape.

His knees buckled slightly. His hands gripped your hips like he was drowning. “Oh my God, Y/N—”

And then—

Knock knock.

Both of you froze.

Not just stillness—statue still. Like someone had pressed pause on the entire universe.

A beat.

Then again.

Knock knock.

Slightly louder this time.

Spencer looked at you, eyes wild, chest heaving, completely wrecked, and not even remotely recovered from your hand on him. His voice cracked as he whispered, “Who the hell knocks like that?”

You blinked, trying to reattach your soul to your body. “I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, fingers still resting where they definitely shouldn’t be when someone was at the door.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I—I can’t answer the door like this.”

“No shit,” you hissed, already stumbling backward, trying to straighten your shirt and wipe your mouth, feeling the flush crawling all the way down your chest.

Spencer scrambled—actually scrambled—across the apartment like a startled deer, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and covering his lap like it was his only hope.

“Act natural,” he whispered frantically.

“You are holding a pillow to your dick, Spencer.”

“I am trying!”

Another knock.

You took a deep breath, moved toward the door, paused just before unlocking it, and turned back to shoot him a look. “If this is Derek or Penelope, I’m actually going to murder someone.”

Spencer just mouthed, “Same.” And from where he stood, behind the couch, breathless and undone, he looked like he meant it.

“Reid, I saw your car. Are you here?” a muffled voice said from the hallway.

Spencer paled instantly, eyes wide as saucers. “Oh my God,” he panted, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “Oh my God.”

Your stomach clenched, throat tightening. “What? Who is it?” you repeated in a harsh whisper, nerves crawling up your spine. “Spencer?”

He turned toward you slowly, like each step of his thought process was physically painful. He looked pale; lips parted, the pillow now forgotten in his grip. “Um… remember when I told you about Ethan?”

You blinked. “No? Who’s Ethan?”

Spencer let out a sharp exhale through his nose, shoulders slumping. “Right. I didn’t. Uh, well, hold on.”

You watched in stunned silence as he set the pillow down like it weighed twenty pounds, the moment having drained every ounce of blood from his body. The flustered, flushed man from just minutes ago was gone—replaced by the serious, awkward, deeply anxious version of Spencer Reid that emerged only in the wake of ghosts.

He walked stiffly to the door, unlocked it, and opened it to reveal a tall man with soft brown curls, tired eyes, and a familiar, cautious kind of warmth.

“…Ethan,” Spencer said, voice small. “Hi.”

Ethan stepped into the apartment like it was a place he used to live like he was returning to something still his. His bag was slung over one shoulder, frayed at the edges. He looked thinner than Spencer remembered—drawn in the face, shoulders sloped as though he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long.

“Got kicked out,” Ethan said quickly, almost like he was reciting a line he’d had to repeat too many times already. “Landlord said I’d broken the lease. Technically true, I guess. And then work… well. You can’t show up drunk and keep a steady gig teaching music theory to kids, apparently.”

Spencer’s face softened, even as his fingers twitched nervously at his sides. “Ethan, I—I wish you’d called.”

Ethan waved that off like it didn’t matter. “Didn’t want to burden you. Just need somewhere to land. Somewhere to get my head on straight.” His eyes scanned the apartment. “I won’t be here long. I just need someone in my corner again.”

Spencer glanced at you, and something unreadable flickered across his face—some combination of guilt and concern. He stepped slightly to the side and motioned toward you, voice gentle. “This is Y/N. My girlfriend.”

Ethan’s eyes barely flicked toward you. No handshake, no nod, not even a polite smile. He glanced—glanced—and then looked back to Spencer like the words had been noise, not introduction. “You still got that foldout futon in the guest room?”

You blinked, stunned by the complete lack of acknowledgment. Spencer hesitated, his jaw ticking slightly as he registered it too.

You looked at Spencer, brows raised. “Okay… hi to you too, I guess,” you muttered under your breath.

Spencer offered you a helpless look, one that said this is complicated, and please don’t hate me, and I didn’t expect this either, all at once.

And just like that, the warmth of your earlier moments evaporated, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the open door.

Ethan had already dropped his bag by the wall and started toward the hallway like he owned it, like the last five years hadn’t passed, like Spencer hadn’t built a life outside the hazy, fragile world they once shared.

Spencer stepped forward, voice stammering slightly, trying to patch over the growing awkwardness like it was a leaky pipe.

“Uh no, Ethan… this is a one-bedroom,” he said, clearing his throat. “It always has been.”

Ethan paused mid-step, turning with a furrowed brow. “What? No, you had that place with the foldout futon—”

“That was my old apartment,” Spencer interrupted, awkwardness tinged with discomfort now. “In Georgetown. This is… this is a different place. You’ve, um… you’ve never been here.”

Ethan blinked at him like the math wasn’t adding up. Like the timeline of Spencer’s life hadn’t continued after him.

You stood a few feet behind Spencer, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line, watching this strange tension unfold. The air was heavy like a thunderstorm was pressing against the windows, waiting to get in.

Ethan nodded slowly, his gaze trailing away from Spencer again—still not toward you. “Right. Guess I forgot.”

But you didn’t miss it. The way Spencer stepped subtly in front of you. The way Ethan kept talking like you weren’t even here.

Spencer stood frozen for a moment, one hand twitching nervously at his side, the other hovering near the seam of his pants like he couldn’t decide whether to fidget or brace for impact. He shifted his weight, looking like he wanted to disappear into the floor.

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

“Ethan,” he started, his voice gentle, careful, like he was talking someone down from a ledge, “I want to help—I do. But this… this isn’t really a good time. I—I live here. With Y/N. It’s not just my space anymore.”

You heard the lie. Spencer never lied.

But you didn’t jump in to correct him.

Because while the technical truth was that you both had your own apartments, Spencer’s space had slowly become yours too. Your books on the shelves, your fuzzy socks under his bed, your favorite mug drying on the rack beside his. He called it home when you were there. And that had to count for something.

So you let the lie sit. Because it wasn’t really one. Not where it mattered.

Still, Ethan didn’t look at you. Didn’t even glance. He just tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “I said it wouldn’t be for long. I just need a few nights. You used to let me crash for weeks.”

Spencer winced. “That was different. That was… years ago. Things are different now.”

“You mean she’s here now?” Ethan said flatly, voice dipped in something that wasn’t quite bitterness but knew how to get there fast. “That’s what’s different?”

Spencer’s jaw twitched. He inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to hold his ground. “No. What’s different is I’ve built something stable. Something I want to protect.”

Ethan let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Stable. Right. That’s rich coming from you.”

Spencer flinched at that but said nothing.

Ethan’s eyes finally flicked to you—just for a second—before shifting back to Spencer like the look itself had been an inconvenience. “You told me once that I was the only person who really got you. That no one else could make sense of your head. Remember that?”

Spencer closed his eyes for half a second. “Don’t do this.”

Ethan stepped forward, voice low, pointed. “We were more than friends, Spencer. You don’t get to act like I’m just some old college buddy who needs a couch.”

You felt your chest tighten. Spencer’s shoulders tensed, and you could practically see him swallowing everything he wanted to say—needed to say—and trying to replace it with something gentle, something palatable, something that wouldn’t make Ethan shatter.

But the weight of it was written all over his face. Regret. Guilt. Boundaries.

“I’m not that person anymore,” Spencer said softly. “And you’re not either. And I’m sorry, but I can’t be your safety net this time. Not like that. Not here.”

Ethan scoffed, throwing his words like stones. “You’re not that person anymore? Meaning you found yourself a nice little trophy wife to buy a white picket fence someday?”

“Ethan,” Spencer warned, voice still even, but with an edge that trembled beneath it.

“What?” Ethan shot back, eyes hard. “Are you too scared to be who you really are? So scared you’re hiding behind a beard?”

And that was it.

“That’s enough!”

The words cracked through the apartment like a thunderclap.

Silence slammed down in their wake.

Spencer’s chest was heaving, shoulders locked, his fists clenched at his sides like he was still holding onto the echo of the yell that had just torn out of him. It wasn’t just loud—it was jarring. 

Spencer Reid didn’t yell. He didn’t need to yell.

But this—whatever Ethan had just ripped open—had pushed him too far.

Even Ethan looked stunned like the sharpness in Spencer’s voice had knocked the fight clean out of him.

And you? You just stared, wide-eyed, heart pounding, watching the man you loved stand up not just for you—but for himself.

Ethan stood frozen for a breath, maybe two, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe Spencer had actually raised his voice. His mouth opened—then closed. He looked down at the floor, jaw working like he was chewing on words too bitter to swallow.

Then, quietly but sharp enough to cut glass, he muttered, “Second time breaking a heart.”

The words landed heavy—aimed like a dagger but dulled by pity.

Spencer didn’t respond. Not right away. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid, but something in his expression fractured. You saw it. The flicker of pain. Of guilt. Of something mournful—but not regret.

Ethan gave a soft, bitter laugh and shook his head. “Guess the first time wasn’t final enough.”

Then he grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked out the door without another word. No slamming. No dramatics.

Just a final wound on his way out.

And then it was quiet. So quiet it felt like the air had changed.

Spencer stood still, eyes locked on the door long after it had closed. And you, standing behind him, finally took a step forward, reaching gently for his hand.

He let you take it. 

Gratefully.

Desperately.

…

You hadn’t meant to break the peaceful rhythm of dinner. Spencer had cooked for you tonight—something simple and grounding, pasta tossed with garlic and herbs, the kind of thing he could make with his hands while his mind drifted. He was quiet, sure, but he had smiled once or twice. You thought maybe he was pulling out of the fog of earlier.

But curiosity had been tugging at you since the name slipped from his lips when Ethan appeared like a ghost from a past you hadn’t known existed.

So now, here you were. Asking carefully, gently. Like you might scare the memory back into hiding.

“Spencer?”

He looked up from his plate, blinking slowly as if being pulled from somewhere far away. “Yeah?” he murmured, a little distracted still but present enough to meet your eyes.

You hesitated. Then, quietly, “Who, um… who was Ethan?” A pause. You swallowed. “Who was he to you?”

The question settled between you and Spencer like a feather—and yet, somehow, it hit the table with the weight of stone.

Spencer stilled.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—just delicate. He set his fork down slowly, resting his hands in his lap like he needed them to be still while he spoke.

“He was…” Spencer exhaled through his nose, searching for the words. “He was my friend. In college.”

You nodded slightly, waiting.

“We met in a seminar,” he continued, his tone even measured. “He was one of the only people who didn’t look at me like I was a curiosity. He didn’t care that I was a genius or a little weird. He… treated me like a peer. Like a person.”

You could hear the fondness there, buried beneath the ache. But there was more, and you knew it. He saw it in your eyes before you asked.

Spencer offered it willingly, if slowly.

“There was a time I thought maybe it could become more. I wasn’t sure what I wanted. Or what he wanted. There was… one kiss. Maybe two. But it didn’t go further than that. Not really.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes falling back to his plate. “We lost touch. He had his demons. And I had mine.”

You reached out, sliding your fingers gently across the table, brushing his knuckles.

“And now?” you asked softly.

Spencer looked up again, eyes tired but sincere. “Now I just feel sad. For him. And for who we both were then. I think I wanted to save him. I think he wanted me to. But we were just kids trying to feel less alone.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “For telling me.”

He gave you a small, fragile smile.

“Can I ask you something… really personal?” you said softly, your voice hesitant but honest.

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to yours, and for a moment, he looked slightly startled—maybe even nervous—but he nodded anyway. “Yeah. Of course.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself.

“Do you ever wish… you’d had more time to figure out your sexuality? To explore it… without so much pressure, or expectation?”

Spencer blinked at you, his fork pausing midair.

It wasn’t that the question offended him—it didn’t. You knew him well enough by now to tread with care. He could see that you weren’t asking to pry. You were asking because you loved him. Because you wanted to know him.

Still, it took him a second. He set his fork down gently, eyes flicking down to the plate before returning to yours.

“I, um…” he started, then stopped, folding his hands together as he leaned forward slightly. “That’s… a very good question.”

You smiled a little, encouraging but quiet, giving him room to think.

Spencer’s brows furrowed, not with discomfort but with the weight of consideration. “I think… yes. In some ways, I do.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes flickering toward the candlelight dancing on the table. “I didn’t have what most people would call a normal adolescence. I wasn’t allowed the space to explore anything—romance, intimacy, identity—without being either fetishized or ridiculed. I was always the youngest in the room. Always the anomaly.”

You nodded softly, your hand resting atop his on the table.

“I think there are parts of myself I didn’t even let myself question,” he continued, voice low. “Not because I didn’t want to. But because it didn’t feel… safe. There were rules I made for myself. Stay small. Stay quiet. Don’t make things harder than they already are.”

His eyes met yours again—braver this time, vulnerable but steady.

“But you’ve made me think about it more. Not in a pressured way. Just… being with you, and how safe I feel. I think maybe I’m still discovering who I am in that way. And I don’t feel late to it. I just feel—grateful. That I get to figure it out now. With you.”

Your throat tightened, tears burning just a little at the edges.

You reached out and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing gently along the curve of it.

“I’m grateful, too,” you whispered. “For you. All of you. Every part you’re still uncovering.”

Spencer turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm. 

You hesitated, watching him absorb the weight of his own answer, his fingers absently smoothing over the tablecloth like his thoughts were trying to find a soft place to land.

But his honesty had opened a door. And quietly, gently, you stepped through it.

“Can I… ask one more thing?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “And please, please don’t feel like you have to answer. You don’t have to protect my feelings, I just— I want to understand.”

Spencer looked up, eyes meeting yours, already bracing but open.

You took a slow breath. “Do you… want to explore? With men, I mean?”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. Not because he didn’t want to answer—but because he was thinking, the way only Spencer could: carefully, thoughtfully, measuring not just his words, but the honesty they carried.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, quietly. “Sometimes I wonder. Not because I’m unhappy with you—I’m not, not even a little. Being with you feels… right in a way nothing else ever has.”

You nodded, encouraging him to go on, not flinching.

“But I also never really gave myself the chance to ask. Or try. I was so focused on staying safe, fitting in, surviving academia, and then the BAU… it never felt like there was room.”

He looked at you again, his expression soft and a little scared. “But I don’t want that to come between us. I don’t want to lose us because of something I might never even need to act on.”

You reached for his hand.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you said firmly, lacing your fingers through his. “Wanting to understand yourself more doesn’t mean you love me any less.”

He swallowed hard, blinking fast. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

“Because I love you,” you said simply. “And I want all of you—even the parts you’re still figuring out.”

Spencer still couldn’t believe it. No matter how deeply he loved you, no matter how safe you already made him feel, you always found new ways to surprise him with your openness, your trust, and your devotion.

“I love you too,” he breathed, voice trembling slightly as he tried to hold your gaze, to make sure you knew how much this meant to him. “But… what are you saying, exactly?”

You sighed, not out of frustration, but from the sheer weight of trying to express something so delicate. You took a moment, collecting your thoughts, your words.

“I think,” you said slowly, carefully, “if you ever met a man—someone you were attracted to, someone you felt curious about—I’d want you to feel comfortable telling me. And then maybe, if we’d talked about it and if we’d set boundaries… maybe you could explore it. If that’s what you needed.”

Spencer blinked at you, stunned into silence for a few seconds. “Isn’t that… cheating?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“Not if we talk about it first,” you said gently. “Not if we understand each other and agree on what’s okay. Not if it’s something that helps you grow, and we stay honest with each other through it.”

He stared at you like you were a miracle. Because, to him, you kind of were.

“Thank you,” he said finally, voice rough with sincerity. “I appreciate you more than I’ll ever be able to express. But I think I’d need to… do some research. I mean—a lot of research. Before I could give a firm answer.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers along his arm. “I understand, baby. Take all the time you need.”

He nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a beat, and then—tentative, awkward—he added, “And what if… what if I wanted to just experiment… with you?”

You tilted your head, your voice still soft. “Can you elaborate, my love?”

Spencer chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… I guess I mean… I wouldn’t mind if we tried some… new things.”

Your lips curled into a smirk, affection lighting up your face. “Like what?”

He was bright red now, staring at a spot just past your shoulder like it might save him. “Like… like anal.”

You blinked, curiosity in your tone but no judgment. “You want to have anal sex with me?”

Spencer nodded quickly—shyly, but without looking away. “I do. But… I would, um… be on the bottom.”

Tilting your head with a curious, thoughtful expression, you asked, “Do you want to add strap-ons to your research? I’d want to get the best one in that case. And we’d need to know proper preparation, and materials, and—”

Spencer laughed, interrupting gently but with a real smile, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. “I get it,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll look into it all. Thoroughly.”

You beamed at him, proud and warm and deeply endeared, before reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his.

“Thank you for telling me, baby,” you said sincerely, giving his hand a loving squeeze.

He nodded again, his cheeks still flushed, but there was a glow in him now—something almost giddy beneath the vulnerability. Visibly relieved. And maybe even a little bit excited.

Because at that moment, he understood something unshakeable, something that filled every quiet space between your words:

There was nothing he couldn’t say to you. Nothing too strange. Nothing too personal. Nothing too tender.

He had you—and you made him feel safe enough to explore who he was, and loved enough to never question if that exploration would change how you looked at him.

It wouldn’t. Not even a little.

—

The headaches didn’t just start.

But you didn’t know that.

Not really. Not until Hotch called you himself and said Spencer was being sent home early after nearly collapsing during a case consult. Not fainting exactly—just… swaying, disoriented, like the world was too loud, too bright, too much all at once.

You had dropped everything. Your keys were barely off the hook before you were in the car. And by the time you got him home, your entire body was one humming line of worry.

Now, Spencer was curled on the couch, his head resting in your lap, skin pale and clammy with exhaustion. The only light came from a single shaded lamp across the room. Everything else was silent. Still.

You laid the cool towel across his forehead as gently as you could and stroked your fingers through his hair, watching as he exhaled softly under your touch.

“Baby…” you murmured, keeping your voice low, like even sound might hurt him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave the smallest shrug, his temple shifting against your thigh.

You frowned, brushing a curl off his forehead. “Spencer.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said finally, voice quiet and hoarse. “I figured it would pass.”

“Have you seen a doctor?” you asked, already knowing the answer and hoping you were wrong.

He shifted his head slightly. Just enough for a soft, unmistakable no.

You closed your eyes for a second, steadying yourself. Not to snap. Not to scold. But to keep your worry from rising into panic.

“Spencer,” you said again, softly but firmly this time. “This has been happening for how long?”

Another pause. Then: “A couple weeks.”

You were silent for a moment, pressing your lips into a thin line as your hand slowed through his hair. “You’ve been getting headaches for weeks. And didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

He didn’t move, but his voice went even softer like he was trying to shrink away without actually moving. “They weren’t this bad at first. And I thought maybe it was just stress or dehydration. Or—”

You stopped him with your palm against his cheek, not forcefully, just enough to make him look at you.

“Spencer,” you whispered, “if something hurts you—especially your head—you tell me. I don’t care how small it seems. I don’t care if you think it’s nothing.”

His eyes flickered with guilt and something else: shame, fear, and the quiet helplessness of someone who’s used to powering through because stopping means looking at the thing directly.

You kissed his forehead gently, letting the towel fall to the side for a moment.

“We’re going to the doctor as soon as they can get you in,” you said, no room for argument but full of care. “And tonight, we’re resting. Nothing else. Just this. Just me and you and quiet.”

Spencer nodded slowly, eyes fluttering shut again as your fingers moved back into his hair.

He didn’t argue.

Because, for once, it felt good to let someone else take the weight.

…

But the migraines… they didn’t pass.

They didn’t lessen. Didn’t become manageable with water, sleep, and hope.

Instead, they began to chip away at him. Slowly, steadily, like waves against the foundation of a house that had weathered more storms than it ever should have.

Your Spencer—the man you knew and loved in full color—started to fade into a version of himself that felt… hollow.

Still brilliant. Still kind. But dimmed. Distant.

He smiled less. Laughed less. Barely touched the books that once lived in his hands like extensions of his body. He started carrying sunglasses even when it was overcast. Kept earplugs in his coat pocket. You’d come to his apartment to find him sitting on the floor in the dark, palms pressed to his temples, jaw clenched against the sound of his own breath.

And you’d heard of this version before.

You knew him only through fragments—through stories whispered by people who had been there then.

The Spencer who had used.

The one who would do anything, take anything, to quiet the pain.

The man who lived in the aftermath of loss, crawling his way out of the kind of darkness that doesn’t leave easily.

And you knew he was clean. You knew it.

He had told you. The team had told you. He went to meetings. He journaled. He did the work.

But watching him now—watching the way his hands shook when you tried to touch him, the way he flinched when the light from the fridge hit his face, the way he refused to meet your eyes some nights—it terrified you.

Because he wasn’t just in pain. He was shutting down. And he wasn’t letting you in.

You’d wake in the middle of the night and find him sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands, so quiet it broke your heart.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to shake him. You wanted to say Please don’t go away. Please tell me what to do. Please don’t become that ghost again.

But instead, you sat behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to the warmth of his back, whispering, “I’m still here.”

Even when he said nothing. Even when his silence felt like a wall taller than anything you’d ever climbed.

You stayed.

Because you remembered the way he looked at you when he was whole. And you would wait—for as long as it took—to see that look again.

But it took so long.

So long.

Long enough that the days started to feel indistinguishable from one another—an endless loop of dimmed lights, soft steps, whispered concern. You adjusted everything around him. At first, it was natural. A kindness. A compromise.

But over time, it became suffocating.

You stopped going over. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you were scared that the sound of the door clicking shut behind you might wake him—and God forbid you be the one to trigger another migraine.

You didn’t call or text anymore. Not even to say I love you, not even to say I miss you, because the brightness of your phone might hurt him. Because he wouldn’t check it anyway. You told yourself that over and over, he wouldn’t check it anyway.

So you stopped reaching out.

Even when you would go over, you didn’t play music. You didn’t turn on any lights. You started wearing socks around his apartment so your steps wouldn’t echo off the hardwood. You learned the rhythm of his medication alarms better than your own sleep schedule. You brought food and left it untouched on the counter. You came to check in, to switch out towels, to refill water bottles.

And somewhere in the middle of it all…

You forgot how to be his girlfriend.

Because that’s not what it felt like anymore. You were a nurse. A shadow.

An afterthought orbiting quietly around someone you loved more than anything, who couldn’t seem to see you anymore.

And the worst part—the most devastating, gutting part—was that you didn’t even know if he noticed.

If he saw the way your shoulders slumped when he didn’t respond. If he noticed how your voice had grown quieter, your touches more hesitant. If he could feel how hard you were fighting not to break.

Because you were still fighting. Every day. 

But the silence between you was deafening, and love—no matter how deep, no matter how patient—cannot live forever in the dark without being fed.

You didn’t want to leave. But you didn’t know how to stay like this either.

And you were beginning to wonder— If maybe he was already gone.

…

Your fingers slipped off the keyboard the moment you heard the lock click.

You froze. Heart stopped. Because no one—no one—used that lock. No one should be using that lock. You hadn't had someone walk into your apartment unannounced in... weeks. Maybe longer. You lived alone. You lived quietly. That sound—unexpected and metallic and out of place—sent a cold jolt of adrenaline through your chest.

You were halfway out of your chair, breath caught and heart thudding when you heard the door shut gently. No crash. No hurried footsteps. Just soft movement, deliberate. Familiar.

Still, your voice was shaky as you called from your office, “Spencer?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then footsteps padded across your floor with hesitant slowness. And then—he appeared.

He looked... wrecked.

Not bloody or bruised. Not in any visible way. But hollow. Sunken. His curls were tangled. There was stubble on his jaw. His coat was barely buttoned, satchel slipping from one shoulder. And his eyes—those big, expressive, vulnerable eyes—looked up at you with the kind of ache that reached straight into your chest.

“Are you mad at me?” he whispered like the question itself was too heavy to speak out loud.

And your heart just about shattered.

You swallowed hard, stepping into the doorway, grounding yourself. “No.” The word came out as a breath, too light, too soft, but true. Completely and utterly true.

He looked like he didn’t believe you.

So you pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you, slow and measured like he was a wounded animal like you were afraid any sudden movement might send him bolting.

“I was…” your throat tightened, but you pushed forward. “I was scared you stopped needing me.”

Spencer didn’t speak. Just shook his head—hard, like he was trying to dislodge the very idea—and his voice broke on the edges when he finally looked at you again.

“I was scared I stopped being someone you could love.”

That hit hard. Because those weren’t just words. That was Spencer. That was the man who overthought everything, who felt deeper than he admitted, who retreated when the world became too much because he doesn’t want to be a burden to anyone he loves. Especially you.

You didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

You just closed the last few feet between you and reached for him, and he met you in the middle—hands finding your waist, your arms looping around his shoulders, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat like you needed to physically hold him together.

There, in your entryway, with his bag slipping to the floor and your heart pounding in time with his, you stood wrapped in each other.

Not speaking. Not rushing. Just holding on.

Letting the silence breathe between you. Letting the ache be acknowledged. Letting your hands say everything your voices couldn’t.

And that—right there—was where the repair began. Not with an apology. Not with a solution. But with the simple act of staying.

…

Spencer stays the night.

He doesn’t ask. You don’t offer. He just... doesn’t leave.

After the kind of reunion that left both of you too full and too fragile to say anything else, it didn’t need to be discussed. He dropped his coat onto the rack like muscle memory. He put his satchel on the same hook he always did, though it sagged heavier than usual like it knew too.

And then he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, just like he used to.

You followed a few minutes later with your own toothbrush in hand, standing beside him at the sink, pretending—trying—to pretend that nothing felt different.

But it did.

Because Spencer was here, in your space, but it didn’t feel like your Spencer. Not completely. His presence carried a weight you weren’t used to. Not uncomfortable, not unwanted—but heavier, older, a little weathered at the seams. Like he’d been through something he still hadn’t told you. Like you were brushing your teeth next to someone who looked like your boyfriend but who hadn’t touched your hand in nine days.

Your palm hovered for a moment before you rested it on his back, just lightly. You felt the subtle tension there—his body registering your touch before his mind did. He didn’t lean in the way he usually would. But he didn’t move away, either.

It was enough.

Later, he sat on his usual side of your bed; the covers pulled up neatly over his legs, a worn paperback in his hands. The lamplight was dim, golden, soft—just the way you always kept it when winding down for the night. And you curled up beside him, face half-hidden against your pillow, listening as he read aloud from the page in that soothing cadence of his.

It felt familiar. It looked familiar. But it didn’t feel quite right.

Because there was too much air between you. Too much left unsaid.

But still, you closed your eyes and listened to his voice like a lullaby, like its rhythm might stitch something back together.

In the morning, it was… normal.

Almost eerily so.

You sat on the kitchen counter, legs swinging gently as you sip your coffee, and Spencer stood between your knees, his forehead resting softly against your chest. Your arms loosely circled his neck, and his hands settled on your thighs. It was tender, quiet, and domestic.

Everything about it screamed routine, but your heart still beat too fast.

Because this wasn’t casual. This wasn’t easy. This was two people pretending they hadn’t been drifting.

Trying to return to something soft. Trying not to acknowledge that it felt just a hair too tight.

But you held him anyway. Pressed your cheek against his hair. And tried not to think about how long it would take to feel normal again.

Or if it ever would.

…

Spencer doesn't say it all at once. He doesn’t sit you down and unfold his guilt into a perfectly formed apology with bullet points and clear, linear thought. That’s not how this lives inside him.

It spills out in pieces—fragments—little revelations that tumble out when his voice is already low, the night is already quiet, and the space between you is already stretched thin with everything left unspoken.

You're sitting on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket that doesn’t quite reach the edges anymore, and his head is resting on your shoulder, a book forgotten in his lap. You don’t know what triggers it—maybe the way your hand idly combs through his curls or the way you haven’t said anything in minutes, and the silence has grown too tender to ignore—but suddenly, Spencer shifts.

“I didn’t know how to let you in,” he says quietly, voice hoarse, like it’s been caught in his throat for too long. “Not without making you carry it for me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. You just listen. Because you know he needs to say it.

“I was scared,” he continues. “Scared that if I leaned on you too hard, you’d… break. Or get tired. Or realize I’m too much.” He laughs, but it’s dry and hollow. “I thought keeping it in would protect you.”

And there it is.

The heartbreaking, twisted logic of someone who loves too hard and hurts too quietly.

You tilt your head, rest your lips in his hair, and whisper, “You don’t have to protect me from loving you.”

Spencer doesn’t respond at first. But his hand finds yours beneath the blanket. Clumsy. Seeking. He laces his fingers through yours like he’s making a new promise. Maybe he is.

From then on, he tries.

In the smallest ways.

He texts first—even if it’s just a simple thinking of you or a blurry photo of something he saw that reminded him of a joke you once made. You reply warmly every time, no matter what you’re doing. Because you know what that little message cost him. And what it means.

He starts saying, “Want to come over?” again. Not every day. Not even every week. But it starts. And when he does, you go. Even if he’s tired. Even if all you do is sit silently, eat soup, and read on opposite ends of the couch, you go. Because he’s asking. Because he wants you there again.

And one night, while you’re brushing your teeth in his bathroom and trying not to get toothpaste on your shirt, he walks past and lightly rests his hand on your back. Just a press of fingers. No words. No performance.

It makes you tear up.

Because that little touch says: I missed you. I’m trying. I’m still here.

And you let him try.

You show him you want him—not just when he’s dazzling and fast-talking and quoting obscure facts to fill the silence—but when he’s slow. When he stumbles. When he forgets how to let love feel easy.

You hold space for all of it.

Because you’re not just here for the version of him that’s easy to love.

You’re here for all of him. Even the parts that still don’t know how to stay. Especially those.

This part isn’t easy either.

Because silence had become your way of coping—of making space for him, of shrinking yourself so his pain didn’t have to make room. You thought you were being kind. And maybe you were. But kindness without communication turns into quiet resentment. And now it’s time to speak.

Your voice wavers when you begin. Because you're not angry. You're hurt. And that kind of honesty is terrifying when you've spent so long treading carefully around someone else's fragility.

But you do it anyway.

You look at him—really look—and say:

“I don’t need you to be perfect; I just need you to let me in again.”

You see it hit. Right there in his eyes, the way his breath catches like he’s just now realizing how far he pulled away.

So you keep going. Gently. But honestly.

“I missed you,” you whisper, softer this time, “and I need to know you missed me too.”

His hand twitches, like it wants to reach for yours but doesn’t know if it has permission yet. You give it to him, not with words, but with your eyes.

Then, because this is the hardest truth and the one that’s been buried deepest, you let it out:

“I want to feel like your girlfriend again. Not just your support system.”

There’s a pause. A long, heavy one where the silence could crack either way. Where he could shut down or shut you out.

But Spencer doesn’t.

Because he listens.

He always listens.

And more importantly—he responds.

His hand finds yours, finally. His fingers squeeze, just once, but it says everything. And when he speaks, it’s quiet and raw, his voice hoarse from emotion.

“I didn’t know how much I was asking you to carry,” he says. “And I didn’t know how to say I missed you without breaking apart.”

You nod, already tearing up. But you don’t drop his hand. You hold tighter.

Because now it’s out. The words are real. The air between you isn’t full of what-ifs and almosts anymore—it’s full of truth.

And from here, you can finally start again.

…

Rossi notices it first.

The way Spencer walks a little lighter into the bullpen, his satchel slung across one shoulder and a barely concealed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The way he lingers longer in conversations again and doesn’t just nod and disappear into the nearest file. The way his eyes brighten when his phone buzzes, and your name lights up the screen.

He’s back.

Not just showing up. Not just surviving. But present.

And for a team that’s seen him hollowed out by pain—grief, migraines, trauma, silence—it’s everything.

So Rossi, in his infinite paternal wisdom and subtle Italian flair, throws out the idea over coffee one morning like it’s nothing.

“Team night at my place this Friday,” he says, handing Hotch his espresso. “The usual—music, wine, enough pasta to drown a horse. Partners invited.”

Hotch raises a brow. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It always is,” Rossi grins. “And that’s the point.”

The word spreads quickly—Penelope is already planning outfits and playlists, JJ starts texting around to see who’s bringing what, and Spencer?

~

It’s a quiet afternoon when your phone buzzes.

You’re in the middle of some mundane work task, one of those peaceful moments where your brain is finally unoccupied just enough to hum again. You glance down at your phone, expecting some spam notification or a reminder you forgot to cancel.

But it’s him.

Spencer.

Spencer Reid — who still, despite everything you’ve been through together, texts like he’s composing a letter with a fountain pen. The preview on the lock screen reads:

Would you maybe want to come with me to something?

You smile before you’ve even unlocked the phone.

You can practically hear the cadence of his voice in the phrasing. See the way he’d glance away when saying it in person, fingers tugging at the corner of a folder or the hem of his sleeve, his mouth twitching with nerves and hope.

You type back:

Yes. Absolutely. What is it?

There’s a pause—a longer one this time—and then:

Rossi is hosting a team dinner. Just something casual. Partners invited. Everyone will be there. I’d like you to be there too. With me.

Your heart swells. Not because it’s a party, or because you get to be in a mansion, or even because it’s a rare invitation into his work life—but because it’s him.

Of course.

You send it immediately, no second thoughts, no edits. And almost instantly, the three little dots appear. Then a single message comes through:

Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.

But you do. You really do.

You put your phone down, and for a moment, just sit in the warmth of it all.

Because even through the screen, you can feel it—that tiny shift in Spencer’s world. That quiet loosening of his shoulders. That sweet, boyish, barely-there smile you love so much.

~

He asked. You said yes. And something inside him—tight and long-held—finally lets go.

Because he’s not just inviting you to dinner—he’s inviting you into something. Back into his world, where you belong.

The week flies by, and by Friday night, you're practically bouncing in your seat as Spencer drives you through winding roads and tree-lined driveways. He’s wearing that soft sweater you love, the one that clings to his arms just right, and his hair is freshly washed, curls soft and neat, like he tried extra hard.

When you arrive at Rossi’s mansion—stone archways, glowing windows, and the smell of garlic and rosemary floating through the open door—you’re met with warmth. Laughter. Familiar faces.

Penelope squeals when she sees you, immediately wrapping you in a glittery hug. JJ hands you a glass of wine before you’ve even made it past the foyer. Derek grins, claps Spencer on the back, and says, “There’s the man of the hour.”

But the best part— The best part is how natural it feels.

You and Spencer move through the house like you’ve always been a pair. Like the distance, the silence, the months of aching and not knowing how to reach each other are finally, finally behind you.

He keeps a hand on the small of your back as you walk into the kitchen. He leans in to tell you little jokes while you nibble from the charcuterie board. When someone teases him—probably Morgan—you rest a hand on his knee and feel him exhale with laughter instead of flinching like he might have weeks ago.

And later, when the group settles into the living room with glasses of wine and soft music playing in the background, you find yourselves tucked into the corner of Rossi’s oversized sectional, Spencer’s arm around your shoulders, your head against his chest.

You’re back in your groove.

You feel it in the way he laughs again without hesitation. You see it in how he looks at you—like the storm has passed, and you were his shelter the whole time. You feel it in yourself, too—in the quiet calm beneath your ribs, the safety of this, whatever this is becoming again.

And as the team jokes, reminisces, and bickers affectionately around you, you can’t help but close your eyes for a moment, smile into his sweater, and think—

We’re okay. We made it. We’re home.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

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[beatrixst0nehill]

"Please, Master, let me go out and make more money for you today! I want more! I need to please more men, ooo you can take me to that homeless shelter and drop me off for the night so I can satisfy those poor, lonely men! And maybe catch a new bug or two! ❤️"

"Tiffany, I just spent an hour cleaning all that cum and piss off you, you filthy little whore. I can't let you back out, my pet."

"Awww, please! I need cock! I want to make you lots and lots of money, it's my purpose, Master! Please, I beg you!"

"Ughhhh, so bratty. I didn't think you'd turn out this way. I guess a few years of mindless sex and pushing out kids has turned your poor brain to mush. OK, I better let you go."

"Let me go, what do you mean, Master?"

The man snapped his fingers four times in quick succession.

Tiffany blinked a few times, confused, suddenly realizing she's naked. She covered her breasts, completely horrified. "Oh my god, what the fuck is going on!? Huh? My body......? My boobs are huge! Why do I have so many tattoos? I don't under--my belly! No, no, no, no, no! I can't be pregnant, what happened!?" She looked up. "Who are you, why would you.... wait, no...... I know you. You were that magician."

He gestured like he was tipping his hat. "At the county fair. Remember how skeptical you were?"

"Wait, no way. You actually hypnotized me!? I never would've gotten on that stage if any of this was real! You monster, what did you do to me?"

"What day is it? And how old are you?"

"I'm nineteen! It's June 22nd, 2022!"

"Wrong, my pet, you're 22, it's June 16th, 2025."

Tiffany loosened her arms around her engorged breasts. "How could you..... I just thought you'd do some dumb trick, you hypnotized me for three years, into what? Your girlfriend? And did you seriously knock me up? That's disgusting!"

"You aren't my girlfriend, you're my plaything. You were so annoying on stage, not playing along at all, not flirting, not having fun with my show, you just folded your arms and acted so nasty to me and my audience, I simply had to put you in your place. And I didn't get you pregnant, you sleep with hundreds of men every week, there's simply no way of knowing who the father is. Oh, and this is your fourth pregnancy, you've already given birth to fourteen children. Triplets. Quintuplets, and sextuplets. You're actually only five months along right now so you might very well be carrying octuplets for all I know."

Tiffany was devastated, rubbing her thighs together. She felt her big pregnant belly, she looked at her breasts and tattoos. "I feel.... hot."

"Hm? The bath's probably lukewarm at best now."

"No, I--oh......" Tiffany reached between her legs, to her extremely swollen, over-fucked, disease-ridden pussy. "Oh my god! It hurts! It itches so good.... wow!"

"Yeah, you probably have every STD in the book. As my pet you were quite proud of getting them."

"I can see why..... I mean, um, this is so gross! I can't believe you did this to..... mmmmmmm. Oh wow." Tiffany giggled, shamelessly rubbing her sex in the bath, right in front of her captor. "It never used to feel this good! Oh my god, oh fuck. I think...... sir, I really think I need sex. Do I take drugs, too? I think I need some....."

"Indeed, you're quite partial to taking a big dose of heroin, getting so high you're barely conscious, and letting a whole club or bar's worth of men fuck your brains out all night..... You don't seriously want to go back to any of these behaviors, right?"

"Uh-huh!" Tiffany enthusiastically nodded, licking her lips. "Am I still in college? Doesn't matter, ooooo, I can't wait to show my new body to my friends and family and show them what a whore I am! Do you think I can go out after my bath and take my new body out on a test run? I don't know how good I'll be at making money for you anymore, but I'll try, Master!"

"I knew three years was too long....." He sighed. "Poor thing, I really scrambled your independent, clever brain. I guess you're my responsibility now. I was going to do some shows and train a new girl instead...."

"Let's do it! I can be your assistant! Then I can have a slutty sister I teach to whore with me, and we can get pregnant together, and rub our swollen, diseased pussies together! Won't that be wonderful?"

The man drained the water, patting Tiffany's body. "OK, my pet, I'll get you reacclimated to your duties as my whore. And get you a sister or two to have fun with later this week."

"You're the best Master a dumb, cock-obsessed slut like me could ever ask for!"

[thlpp]

Caught her on LizardCam, surreptitiously basking.

Today begins the last 7-day course of her metronidazole treatment, with three courses of 5 days each of fenbendazole and four doses of ponazuril behind us.

She was so not on board with us making her open her mouth with a popsicle stick and squirting the meds into her mouth from a plastic syringe, she'd gone into 24/7 hiding. Her cage is in my office, and while I was present, ShadowChild was nowhere to be seen. She started flinching when I'd move my hand towards her. :(

LizardCam records events when motion is detected, but for days, there were almost no sightings of my poor babe, except for an occasional sneaky drink of water or a run to her bathroom corner.

After the first week, I couldn't see her traumatized like this any longer, and decided to give it a try with f/t m1ce, because that is the only food she hasn't refused a single time. I had a buffer of a couple of doses, so figured I could take a chance. If it works, maybe she'll return to being comfortable with our presence again.

She took the spiked m0use with gusto, and continued doing so for every single dose of meds so far!

She even started to eagerly scrabble out if her hide box to nom on the feeders!

I bought a bag of fuzzies from Layne Labs (our supplier of f/t prey for the whole reptile family), so as not to allow her to become fully spherical, while receiving treatments pretty much daily for a month. Fuzzies seem to excite her even more that fully grown m1ce, and she even lifts up her front body to snap them out from my tongs. Hurrah!

I started holding the food over her basking platform so that she'd get at least some UV, and also get a bit of exercise climbing. Not much, but anything is better than nothing, and she'd spent the majority of her time since the vet visit curled up in her hide

After two or three such medicated feedings, she began stationing on the platform for her treatment! Damn the girl is smart!

I'm not spoiled by intelligence from my snake kiddos, so this is delighting the heck out of me.

Yesterday I wasn't working at my desk, and that's when Miss Shadow came out to bask, all of her own volition, and stayed on the platform for more than half an hour.

Today, she's already hanging out underneath the platform. The fuzzy will be served for lunch.

Her love of them gives me hope for future training and enrichment, as they are small enough that I can give them to her as a reward. Literally, the only thing I've found that she'd eat whenever offered. I've gone up and down the tegu food list, and this so far is it. She's supposed to also like roaches, but the vet says she could have gotten some of her parasites through those, so we're not risking it (plus, insects are a personal ick of mine, so I'm not too sad the vet said no insects).

A week after the last dose, we'll recheck her stool for parasites, and hopefully our life can return to normal. She'll be getting a new cardboard box fort, and a possibly a coconut husk dig box. Will have to bake the compressed brick in the oven to make sure there are no nasties in it.

Always, optimistic long post is long enough. Just wanted to share how we've been doing with treatment.

[gayest-squrrel]

It's because I'm alwjays on that damn cold medicine !!!!

my heart feels minty

[raainberry]

How and When I Fell For You (This is)

« To be attracted to someone and start to love that person. »

Momo x gn!reader

Fluff

synopsis - how would a college romance start out between two equally awkward engineering student and dancer?

wordcount - 3.2K

T/W - Alcohol, Food, Drugs (mentions, allusion)

A/N - took a (long) while but im happy with how it turned out, i hope you enjoy it!

10:26pm.

Four minutes. Four more minutes of looking at that textbook, then you could leave. Question of principle, you weren’t going to finish solving that stupid problem by 10:30pm, but at least you’d have stuck to the schedule.

Hundreds of pen taps against your head, leg bouncing up and down underneath the wooden desk, your whole body itched at the mere thought of leaving this place. The party you were heading to after was much more exciting to think about than this theorem.

The chaotic and carefree atmosphere wasn’t something you particularly liked, but you needed to let your hair down every once in a while, your friends made sure of it.

10:29… 10:30pm sharp. You closed your textbook and laptop shut, shoving them into your bag in one swift motion before leaving the chair you’d been warming up for the past three hours.

Your feet felt heavy, dragging them to that party was going to be a little harder than expected. The all nighters were catching up to you, and it seemed you weren’t the only one.

The girl trailing behind you carried herself the same way. You were far enough ahead to hold the exit doors for her, which allowed you to take in her appearance. Hands in her sleeves, hood over her head as her soles barely left the ground. The sight was nothing extraordinary, it was about the same energy as any other student in that building, but something about her made it captivating enough for your eyes to stay on her longer than deemed normal.

Her eyes met yours for a split second as she walked past you, leaving behind her a small but thankful nod and a surprisingly fresh, fruity smell you’d remember for a moment.

Had you not been to that party, that scent was going to be the only thing you’d remember. The girl wasn’t going to be anything special on your mind, time would have erased the interaction faster than the beloved citrus you’d picked up from around her.

Memories and taste are weirdly linked.

That explained the gag reflex that vodka shot pulled from your throat when your friends waved one in your face. Ironic when you thought about the lack of memory triggering it: a blackout night you emerged from in an unknown living room with barely any knowledge of who you were.

That didn’t stop you from downing it with a lovely orange juice though, earning cheers from your peers. A wall crumbled around your brain, one less keeping you from normal social interactions.

Alcohol was fun for you. Alcohol made you brave. Alcohol made you friends. The lack of inhibitions was liberating at small doses. Devastating at abusive ones. Somewhere in between in moderation.

Somewhere in between… That’s where you were when the citrus scent filled your nose again. Surely you weren’t that far gone yet. This wasn’t something your brain had made up because she stood in front of you, all glamed up and beautiful.

The girl you’d held the door for. Flashes of you making way for her hours ago flooded both your minds, pulling a laugh out of you and a stare out of her.

The fact that you bumped into each other in a doorway was funny enough of an event for you to giggle before the liquid in your veins voiced your thoughts.

“Woah, it’s you!” You yelled over the music with little care for her earsdrums. The latin song was enough pressure on them, she was trying to get away from the blaring speakers while yours enjoyed it as much as the drink in your hand.

Demente. The melody kept singing, describing the way you felt when her eyes met yours and seemed to do so for the first time in her life. Life has a sense of humor.

“Oh, I held the door for you like an hour ago? At the library?” You reminded, or asked, you weren’t sure. You’d seen her already, right? You were drunk, not crazy.

Thankfully she proved you right when her gaze softened. “Right. Well… Thank you.” She mumbled because maybe that’s what you wanted out of this. She knew she hadn’t been the most polite with that nod, but it was better than nothing, which is what followed your brief conversation.

That was it.

She just pushed past you after that, and you were still too shy to follow up on anything. She was already far away by the time you even came up with an obvious “you’re welcome”.

That was your first encounter with Momo.

—

The second was a little less pathetic. Mainly because it didn’t involve you speaking nor actually interacting with her.

Your eyes were pleading for a break from the complex numbers and formulas on your screen, and found sweet relief in your bland surroundings. Beige outdated walls never looked so good until the door girl from a week prior grazed them.

Her stride was a little brighter, still visibly defeated but at least there was a sense of purpose. You wondered where she was heading, your brain too caught up in how cute she looked to make sense of the clothes she wore.

That you could only do on your third encounter: the most pathetic of them all.

Looking back, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but you sure didn’t want to ever see the face you made throughout the whole stage you saw her on.

She turned out to be part of the dance team, something your College was most famous for. The whole arts program was as prestigious as your engineering one, if not more. Aspiring artists all over the country dreamed of making it on, something only the most talented were able to make into their reality.

If you doubted that fact before (which you didn’t), seeing Momo on that stage was enough to make your mind up.

It was only a rehearsal. The very first one that took place months before the real deal, when her performance blew your mind out of the room, transcending through the sound you were supposed to monitor.

Three year-end shows in three years on this campus, you had yet to witness such talent. That wasn’t exactly what piqued your interest though. The girl on stage seemed different from the one you held the door for. Yet similar to the one who grazed the walls with purpose.

Three different versions of one person, all in a week of knowing about her existence. A smile pulled at your lips as your brain grew entertained by the situation.

How many versions were there? Which one was the real one? Were they all real?

The engineering mind is ever so curious. Hopefully you’d be able to satisfy it and see more of her.

—

“Hi.”

That’s all you managed to say to her for weeks after rehearsal. You liked to think you were doing well, earning a little more than a nod after some time: a smile.

You had yet to hear her voice. That time at the party didn’t count, you barely could make out her few words. Their number never increased. She could only return your “hi” a month later, when you caught another version of her at another party.

She was proud of this one. The entertainer. She needed a few drinks in her for it to come out, the pain in her head in the morning was never fun, but the moment was.

The lights, the eyes, the attention on her… Some kind of harmless drug she got high on and never came down from. Purely recreational.

Her heart raced yet she felt at peace. This part of her was undoubtedly hers. You had no reason to look so surprised in the crowd.

“Hi.” She finally spoke when you crossed path in a quieter part of the house. A purple lit corridor on the first floor, near a wooden and trashed staircase.

Everything short of an elegant place to meet your future lover, but quite the memory for the start of a wonderful friendship.

“How are you?”

You smiled as her voice reached your ears for the first time. It was nothing familiar, weird even as you tried to associate it with such a familiar face.

It’s harder to hear new sounds than to see new things. Yet to understand something, you need both. They’re complimentary. Maybe that’s why your mind was only satisfied whenever you spoke with her.

—

The campus library loved to put Momo in your path, and she grew to love being in the way. Glimpses of your nose burried in textbooks that you only lifted to send her a smile as she walked by. A short moment she looked forward to as days passed.

Your demeanor was everything but what she had witnessed so far. You had been the bold one until the purple corridor. A couple weeks had passed since. You’d ended up taking a walk that night, circling the house too many times to count before wrapping it up in the early spring grass of the backyard. Flowers went to sleep around you, lulled by the soft sound of your voices as you opened up to each other.

Had it been too much? Would you rather have kept things as simple and mysterious as they were? But then you wouldn’t smile at her… Why weren’t you saying hi anymore though? Did she make you nervous?

Your behavior was intriguing yet undeniably endearing. She wanted to see more of you.

“Hi.” She smiled, leaning against the sound console you were sitting at.

Another rehearsal, a routine one used to check up on the progress of the show reunited the two of you.

She came up to you first for the second time, surprising and enabling your curious self. She sounded different though. Less confident, but ever so lovely.

You couldn’t help but wonder what made the difference. You’d come up with a theory; one where the confident dancer was everything that shy student wanted to be.

Although she had nothing to be shy about in your eyes, it was funny how she was anyway. Were you the one making her shy?

“Hi. You did amazing.” You smiled back and Momo chuckled as her lips made way for a bright grin.

“Thank you. I mean, I feel like I was all over the place but I really appreciate it.” She confessed, running a hand through her hair.

“If you were, you did an amazing job at covering it.” You joked, silently referring to how charismatic she was on that stage. “So…” You trailed off, trying to navigate the slightly awkward atmosphere. “Have you been doing well?”

“I have, yeah.” She nodded. “What about you?”

“Good. I’ve been good.”

The awkward silence won very easily. You nodded a couple times and glanced over her shoulder, mind wandering in search of a way to ask her about your previous encounter.

She beat you to it.

“Uhm… I wanted to say thank you for listening to me that night.” She spoke, although hesitantly. “That was really nice of you.”

You didn’t need to be familiar with her voice to know it came from the heart. It warmed yours to think about the comfort you might have brought her.

If it were like that all the time she wouldn’t mind having you around.

So the next time you smiled at her from afar, she crossed the distance in between your feet.

Just to say hi.

You answered her every time for the next few weeks, and she smiled back at you whenever you asked about her and how well she was doing.

She nodded along whenever you vented about numbers, coding and theorems. She giggled whenever you joked around and poked fun at your surroundings or yourselves.

She tagged along when you had to make a small impromptu trip to the convenience store a month later.

She laughed for hours with you, sharing stories about herself and thanked you for the food and the joy you’d given her.

She felt she had made a true friend that evening. One she could count and rely on whenever her environment became too big of a distraction.

That evening was the first time your heart skipped a beat for her.

—

Momo was talented. There was no doubt about that, until she faced the mirror with a weakened mind.

The year end show, which served as a final exam for the dance team, was coming up quick. That meant she spent most of her time at the studio. Day and night, skipping a few classes to get a few moves down.

It was fine. You didn’t see a problem with it, until you learned a few meals were skipped too. So you made sure to bring her some food whenever she practiced late, which was nearly everyday.

The sound of her panting reached your ears as soon as you opened the door. You peeked inside, seeing she was alone tonight and stepped in just as she noticed your reflection.

Momo turned to you, the grin on her face genuine and bright as she walked to meet you halfway. She wasn’t sure of the cause behind her increasing heart rate, but she knew your arms would soothe it.

“I brought you a few things.” You smiled, and she nodded before pulling you in for hug, barely sparing a glance at the plastic bag in your hands.

The feeling of your arms around her was better than the smell of her favorite food. She had to seek it out for her own comfort and sanity.

This whole year-end show thing was slowly driving her crazy.

She had been struggling to get some details down, and you watched for weeks as she obsessed over the way her body moved.

Perfection was the standard here. She knew that as much as the next person. She never held herself up to less than that, but for some reason she couldn’t do anything right that night.

The hours she’d been putting were catching up to her, limbs failing on her more often as minutes passed by. The song mashup played over and over, keeping you from dozing off on the familiar leather couch. The food sat untouched at its foot, cold and slowly developing into a digestive threat.

The phone in your hand had long lost your attention, battery on its last leg when the percentage warning popped as a last attempt to get it back.

Your eyes stayed on her though, tired but mesmerized. You couldn’t tell what she thought was so wrong in her execution. She had performed the whole routine perfectly for the tenth time when the loop she was stuck in finally broke.

A sudden groan through her gritted teeth, her body giving out before hitting the ground, the tears in her eyes burning her cheeks red… It all startled you to your feet, running to her side as if it’d keep her from falling even lower.

Her body was fragile in your arms but her priority seemed to be hiding from you. Her hands attempted to conceal her weakness displayed by her treacherous sobs.

As much as your heart urged you to push them away, you helped her hands by looking away, but never let go of her. Your arms tightened around her, bringing her face closer to your neck.

Her tears were warm against her palms, rivaling with the warmth in her chest. The worries on her mind slowly faded, replaced with thoughts of you. Of your arms around her, of your fingers in her hair and the way your own palm rested against her ear as you held her close.

You held your breath as her every cry hit your chest. Your own attempt at soothing the pain it caused within it.

“You’ve been doing a great job, Momo. Don’t beat yourself up.” You tried to reassure her with the truth. “You’re gonna be amazing as always.”

Just in case your words weren’t enough, your hand awkwardly patted the side of her upper arm, though your soul yearned to ease hers in a more traditional manner.

Maybe later. Another time. This one wasn’t right.

—

“Oh my gosh—I did it!”

Coming from Momo, the words weren’t that surprising to hear. In fact, you expected them with a grin as you stood a few feet away from the result board.

It was all a little dramatic, you never understood why they couldn’t just send the exam results through e-mail like everyone else. Then again, this wasn’t your usual College. You were just thankful to have actually passed, happily missing out on the public display of disappointment.

“Y/n, I made it! I’m still gonna be on the team next year!” Momo squealed as she ran towards you.

Welcoming her with arms wide open was a reflex at that point, but it never meant less than the first time you’d done it. You giggled along with her as well, still unsure why but it had become a natural reaction within you.

Maybe it was the way her nose scrunched whenever she was happy. You felt a wave of joy and excitement as you realised just how often you witnessed it.

You made her happy. Or at least, she was happy around you. Maybe that’s why she trusted you enough to catch her when she threw herself in your arms, legs wrapping around your waist.

That wasn’t a habit.

That never happened before.

Yet your arms found themselves around her, holding her tight despite being frozen in place.

That was the second time your heart skipped a beat for her. The third one happened just seconds later, when you felt her lips against your cheeks.

She must be really happy, you thought. You sure were as time seemed to stretch, making her kiss linger on…

Dramatic. Maybe you belonged in this school in more ways than one.

“Sorry, I’m emotional.” She said, pulling away just enough to look at you.

Again, it was the first time she kissed you. So why did it felt like the most natural thing in the world?

“I-It’s fine.” You stuttered, all the way down to your smile.

“Are you sure? What’s that about?” She giggled, cupping your cheeks. Her fingers were soft against your skin, a new feeling that left you breathless though her voice was familiar enough to know she was teasing you about the blush on your cheeks.

“I’m hot— It’s hot.” You pointed out. It wasn’t a lie. Using it as an excuse made it one.

“It is, yeah…” She nodded. “Or am I?”

Your arms nearly gave out and dropped her. Momo felt your limbs falter around her, but it only made her laugh and tighten her own around you.

“You know, I wasn’t lying when I said I’m emotional. I’m feeling a lot of things, and a lot of them…” She trailed off, eyes stuck on yours as her heart picked up the pace once more.

There was no backing out now.

She could feel her throat dry up, her tongue knotting itself as she tried to get the words out of her heart. The air was becoming thicker by the second, making it hard to even as much as breathe them out.

“Momo, I—” You started, and it seemed that’s all she needed. The sound of your voice, of her name coming from you.

It all seemed easier now.

“A lot of them are for you.” She finally finished, eyes closed as anticipation and embarrassment suddenly hit her.

That pulled a soft chuckle out of you, which washed it all away and pulled them back to yours. Just in time to catch them slipping down to her lips.

You saw her smile, the cutest one yet before realizing she was leaning in. Apparently she didn’t need you to say anything. The way you looked and smiled at her was enough.

It had started that way after all.

[benoitp]

My dog has died.

I found out that Gigi had cancer, a lymphoma, three months ago. She was only 9 years old. She was my service dog. I met her in Mexico during my two-year trip through Mexico–Guatemala–Belize in my truck. She followed me everywhere and protected me. I let her roam free at night. She was streetwise, always looked both ways before crossing. She was so deeply loved by so many people—it’s unbelievable. Even people who usually don’t like dogs fell in love with her. When I travel, people are happy to see Gigi again.

I learned about her cancer at the Petit Laurier veterinary hospital in Montreal on March 6, 2024. I was devastated. As soon as Dr. Habib gave me the news, I couldn’t imagine living without a dog. I felt like I would die inside. I knew I needed to get a puppy and do everything I could to keep Gigi alive for a few more months so she could pass on her magic.

We decided on a treatment that could extend her quality of life. The treatment was pretty expensive, and Dr. Habib generously only charged me for the medication—not for the many blood tests and appointments. It gave her four more months, when she would have had only 2–3 weeks max without it.

Two days after the diagnosis, I had already found a new puppy (thanks to my network of contacts). At first, during the first two weeks, she didn’t accept her very well—gave her a few little growls. But after Evelyne came to see Gigi, Mimi came and snuggled up against her, and she accepted her.

Gigi was addicted to cuddles and love. Before going to sleep, she had to go to every person to give them her paw and say goodnight—even if there were 50 people.

When I ended up with a machete to my throat in Mexico and she bit the guy’s ankle until he bled—thank you, Gigi, for defending me.

Last Saturday, she ran off. I thought she had gone off to die alone in the woods. I wanted her to live her last month in the countryside, in Témiscouata, with her dog friends—and to get out of Montreal with the puppy. That was good: now he walks off-leash, takes the metro, rides the bike, barely barks (except at skateboarders), has a great recall. It was time to show him cows.

When she came back, she had a nosebleed and seemed very tired. I was waiting on the last dose of her anti-cancer meds in the mail. I couldn’t stop thinking about the moment of her death, getting closer and closer. She was still walking, still responding, wagging her tail.

I had decided I didn’t want her to die under fluorescent lights in an office. And the closest mobile vet was 200 km away—$$$. We had to make the decision that she would be put down with a .22 bullet, which is the most ethical and painless method if you don’t have access to a vet (Dr. Habib was 700 km away). Not by me—I could never do that. But a hunter friend, who has had to do it for his own dogs, agreed to do it for me after administering a sedative.

Tuesday, June 3, 2025, she seemed weak enough that I started digging her grave next to her dog friend who died last year. When I finished digging, I couldn’t find her anymore. She reappeared 2–3 hours later, lying under a fir tree near her grave, with what looked like black fly “goggles” around her eyes—the poor thing couldn’t fight the flies off anymore. I brought her inside in my arms. Once inside, she came and lay on me, and Mimi came and lay down too, and licked Gigi’s nose. I knew it would be that night or the next morning.

Gigi went to lie down in the middle of the living room. The other dogs came to see her. I went to get the meds from the truck. I was so overwhelmed, crying so hard I could barely breathe. We were all gathered around her: me, Mia, François, and the five kids—Flore, Morgane, Aurore, Ivy, and Soliane...

I had to decide whether we would put her down that night or the next morning. Her saliva was thick, her tongue pale. (All this happened in less than two hours.) When she started bleeding from the nose again, I knew it was the end. I had to choose: tonight or tomorrow. I was sobbing. I went to take a shower to calm down and make the decision.

Ten minutes into my shower, I made the decision. I kept repeating to myself: “Gigi, you have fulfilled your mission. You can go. You’ve passed on your dog wisdom to the puppy. You can go.” Meanwhile, the kids were singing around Gigi with the other dogs: You Are My Sunshine, My Little Sunshine…

Then François came to see me and told me she had just vomited. Fuck. I wouldn’t be able to give her the meds—she’d just throw them up. Five minutes later, he came back and said: “It’s happening.”

I jumped out of the shower in 5 seconds and arrived just in time to see her final breath/spasm. She died at 8:20 PM. She didn’t seem to suffer. She simply stopped breathing, and her heart stopped at the same time.

Mia placed candles around Gigi. We laid her on a blanket and carried her to her grave. Mia and the children picked flowers. I was so moved. I never would have thought to do all that on my own. I am so grateful.

Thank you, Gigi. Thank you, my friends. Thank you to everyone who loved Gigi.

[lover-of-mine]

Okay, I'm still thinking about these graphs, because there's something else that makes season 7 different (explanation on how I got these numbers here). They have a lot of screen time in 2a, but the first 4 episodes mess with the average. Under pressure, the earthquake and stuck are about establishing Buck and Eddie as a friendship. Under pressure alone is over 15 minutes of the almost an hour they have during that half of the season. Most of their earthquake arc scenes involve each other because they are establishing Eddie and their partnership, first in the job, then with Christopher. But then they slow down significantly after that, mostly giving them scenes where they are around each other not with each other, co-workers, except for dosed with madney, but that scene is about madney. And then they have the fountain scene, Shannon comes back and they take the back burner completely, so much they are barely together for 2b and the drop is very drastic in comparison. And they keep that trend from 3a to 6b. They have arcs where they interact a lot, and then they go to the back burner. This makes sense, there are other main characters, other things to focus on, they will just be co-workers in the backdrop of other people's arcs or have separate arcs. The difference with season 7 is the way that every episode has at least one moment to showcase how close they are. It's not just them standing on the frame together at a call adding to the numbers. Even 702, which has the least amount of screen time, has that playful "husband tap" and them justifying the situation to Hen with each other. They spend that scene reacting to each other. Every episode has at least one Moment ™️. Because if they were averaging out with such a high number but they had one or two episodes where they are interacting a lot and then nothing, I wouldn't say something changed in the way they are being handled. Like, 6b has an increase in their screentime, but they interact a LOT during 610-615 and then they barely do for the rest of the season. We feel the lack of buddie in 6a because most of their scenes they are just standing next to each other and we don't feel it as much when it comes to 5b because 5b gave us quality scenes with Buck's part on Eddie's breakdown. But episode one we had the whole partnership/co-parent thing, two we had the thing at the locker room, three we had them finishing each other sentences while moving around each other, four I don't even need to say lol, five also had a lot, with the crashing the date and the coming out scene and the gym, six we had the bachelor party, seven we had the Buckley-Diaz family scene, nine we had the kitchen scene, and ten had all that partnership again. Season 7 gave us quantity and quality. That's the thing that changed. This is why the way this number shoots up has to mean something.

[thanossssss]

Could you write sick little Nam-gyu with caregiver Se-mi? I just feel like he is so cranky and miserable when he's sick. There is literally not a moment where he isn't crying or fussing when hes all stuffy and backed up. Also could you have him call Se-mi mama? I think it would catch her off guard but he's just so sick and out of it he doesn't notice.

Regressor! Nam-gyu w/ Caregiver! Se-mi

Summary: Everyone is sick, besides Se-mi. While everyone else is asleep, Se-mi is only left with a very sick and fussy Nam-gyu to take care of.

Contains: Age regression, bottles, bottle feeding, crying, pacifiers, Nam-gyu refers to Se-mi as “Mama”, thumb sucking.

Not proofread.

All of Se-mi’s roommates were sick today, so she’d been caring for all of them all day. It was currently around 6pm, and Min-su, Thanos, and Gyeong-su were all sleeping. Se-mi was thankful for that, but she still had Nam-gyu to care for now.

Nam-gyu had definitely been the most needy out of the four. That’s just how he was when he was sick, he was extremely fussy and completely dependent on whoever was in charge. Most people would think Nam-gyu was just overly dramatic when sick, but Se-mi knew that wasn’t the case. Anytime Nam-gyu was sick, he’d end up regressing, he couldn’t help the fact that he was so dependent on her.

Se-mi had definitely been around Nam-gyu the most today, having to do things like feed him, clean up after him, bathe him, change his clothes since he was so sweaty, help him blow his nose, dab him with a cool washcloth, give him medicine, etc. The entire time Nam-gyu would just cry, which Se-mi hated hearing. She felt so bad for him.

Nam-gyu was in bed, like he’d been all day, not getting up at all except for when Se-mi would pick him up and bring him to the bathroom so he could take a bath. She had given him three cold baths today already, due to the fact that Nam-gyu kept sweating and would just feel so gross from it.

While he laid in bed, Se-mi held a bottle of water with on hand, using her other to gently rub her fingers through his hair. Nam-gyu was whining and fussing while drinking his water, feeling absolutely miserable. He was so tired, but he was unable to sleep. He was the first to wake up out of everyone, waking up at 5am due to feeling horrible and gross. Meaning, Se-mi had been caring for everyone since five o’clock in the morning.

Nam-gyu drank about half of his water, before whining and weakly pushing it away. “All done?” Se-mi spoke softly as she placed the bottle on the nightstand. Nam-gyu only fussed, kicking his legs against the bedsheets. There was no blankets on the bed, since Nam-gyu had kicked all of them off, due to feeling uncomfortably hot all day. The only blanket he had was his security blanket.

“Oh, I know..” Se-mi said with sympathy. “I know you feel so icky and gross. I wish I could make it all go away.” She wasn’t lying, Se-mi hated seeing any of her roommates in such a condition She wished she could make Nam-gyu feel better.

Nam-gyu only cried, putting his fingers in his mouth for comfort. Poor guy hadn’t been able to use his pacifier much at all today, due to his nose being so stopped up. Se-mi knew that probably made everything so much harder on him, since he couldn’t use one of his main comfort items.

“You’re going to be okay, I promise. You’ll feel better soon.” Se-mi told him, before standing up from the bed. Nam-gyu needed to take medicine every four hours, and it had been four hours since his last dose, so Se-mi needed to get him more.

“Sweet boy, I’ll be right back. I need to get you some more medicine.” Nam-gyu only fussed, being so out of it and little to understand a thing she said. Though, as soon as she turned her back, Nam-gyu started to sob. Se-mi felt horrible hearing his sobs, but she kept going towards the door, knowing she’d only be a minute, if that. However, she paused when she heard Nam-gyu cry out the first word he’d said today.

“Mama!” Nam-gyu weakly put his arms out, reaching out for her. Se-mi was frozen for a moment, being referred to as “Mama” being shocking for her to hear. Nam-gyu had never called her that, nor had he even spoke a single word today, it just came out of nowhere. As she stood there, Nam-gyu’s crying got harsher, due to thinking she was ignoring him.

“Mama!” Nam-gyu wailed, using all of his strength and energy, not wanting to be left alone and only wanting to be comforted. Se-mi snapped out of her shock, quickly turning around and heading over to Nam-gyu. She knew it was probably best to grab the medicine then comfort him, but Nam-gyu sounded so desperate for her attention, she couldn’t keep him waiting.

“I’m right here.” Se-mi sat down, gently wiping the tears off of Nam-gyu’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, baby. I know you’re feeling extra clingy today, I know.” Se-mi pulled Nam-gyu up, bringing him into a hug. Nam-gyu’s bawling stopped as he cuddled with her, now only fussing in her arms as she rocked him a little.

Se-mi rocked him for a few minutes, before laying him back down. Nam-gyu stared up at her, his eyes teary and his face puffy as he kept up with his fussing. He was so fussy, but Se-mi couldn’t blame him. He was just a baby right now, he was obviously going to be fussy over not feeling well.

Se-mi grabbed Nam-gyu’s blanket and handed it to him. She watched as Nam-gyu immediately took it, burying his face in it, the soft fabric and the way it smelled providing him with a little bit of comfort. While he was distracted, Se-mi got up and quickly went to get his medicine.

By the time she got back, Se-mi could see Nam-gyu looking around the room while whimpering, clearly scared and confused on where she had gone. Se-mi frowned as she walked back over to the bed, sitting down beside of him again.

“I’m here, baby. I know you must’ve been so nervous while I was gone, but you were so brave.” Se-mi smiled at him. Nam-gyu looked at her, his whimpering coming to a stop as he listened to Se-mi talk. He didn’t understand a thing she said, but hearing her voice was enough to calm him down a little. “Mama…” Nam-gyu muttered, reaching out for Se-mi.

“Oh, come here, sweetheart.” Se-mi cooed at Nam-gyu, gently pulling him up and holding him on her lap. Nam-gyu quietly fussed, wiggling around on her lap while Se-mi poured the liquid medicine into the tiny, plastic cup.

“Nam-gyu, can you say ‘ahh’? Say ‘ahh’” Se-mi held the cup up to Nam-gyu’s mouth, watching as he took it almost immediately. He was good at taking his medicine when he was this little, though that was only because he couldn’t comprehend what it was until he tasted it.

The second Nam-gyu swallowed the medicine, he started to cry over the foul taste. Se-mi grabbed the bottle of water from the nightstand, giving it to him and having him drink it. Se-mi watched as Nam-gyu drank quickly, trying to get the taste to leave his mouth.

Once Nam-gyu finished with his water, Se-mi put the now empty bottle on the nightstand, then grabbed a tissue. She could hear Nam-gyu’s little sniffles and how stopped up his nose was, so she knew it was time for him to blow his nose now. She held the tissue to his nose, but Nam-gyu instantly whined and pushed it away.

“I know you hate it, but it’ll help. Just try once for me, okay?” Se-mi held the tissue back to his nose, Nam-gyu fussing angrily before beginning to blow. He only knew what to do, since Se-mi had taught him earlier what to do, which did take a while for him to learn.

Se-mi cringed a little, throwing away the tissue in the trash can that had been beside the bed since finding out Nam-gyu was sick. Though, helping Nam-gyu blow his nose and throwing away his used tissues definitely wasn’t the grossest thing she had to do today, but it was probably at least top three.

Nam-gyu curled up against Se-mi, whining and occasionally coughing. Se-mi pressed her wrist against Nam-gyu’s forehead, feeling that he wasn’t as warm as he was earlier. Se-mi smiled as she gently pet Nam-gyu’s hair.

“You should be better by tomorrow. Two days at most.” She told him. Nam-gyu only yawned, before beginning to lazily suck his thumb. “Are you finally starting to get sleepy?” Se-mi asked, being answered by Nam-gyu rubbing his face against her shoulder.

Se-mi softly chuckled, laughing Nam-gyu down in bed. She gently removed his thumb from his mouth, getting him his pacifier since he seemed to be able to breathe through his nose now. Se-mi also gave him his blanket, which he immediately cuddled with.

“Are you cold? Do you want a blanket over you?” Nam-gyu stared at Se-mi, barely able to keep his eyes opened. Nam-gyu was only wearing a black tank top with some shorts, so Se-mi went ahead and put a blanket over him, a thin one just in case he did get hot and so he could push it off of himself easier.

Nam-gyu’s fussing continued as he closed his eyes. Se-mi stayed with him, rubbing his shoulder for a while, until he fell asleep. Se-mi hoped he’d sleep through the night, but it was still early, almost 8pm, so she doubted it.

Once she knew Nam-gyu was asleep, Se-mi got up and quietly left the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She went to go check on the others, who were all still asleep in their rooms, besides from Thanos, who was sleeping on the couch. Se-mi would’ve moved him to his room, but she didn’t want to run the risk of waking him or Nam-gyu up.

Se-mi went back to her room, climbing in bed beside of Min-su and going to bed as well. It was so early for her, but she was exhausted from being the only caregiver in the house today, especially when everyone else was sick. She just hoped tomorrow would be easier. Both for herself and her friends.

[zennihilation]

Truth and Poison

Rook Appreciation Week, Day 2: De Riva | Poison

Characters: Juan de Riva; Nheil de Riva (@so--whoonos); Dhalia de Riva (@thrilmalia); Lucas Laidir (@apothe-cary) Words: 1291 Summary: Three Crows kill time between contracts the way only De Rivas could, with a poisoned drinking game. Notes: Written for @rookappreciationweek!

Juan dropped down at a table at an outside bar that overlooked the canals. It wasn’t as full as it could have been, which meant they could have a moment to drink in peace after the long ride back from the capital. Still, it was a nice enough night. The breeze was refreshing. There was a a soothing strum of a guitar coming from the corner. They leaned up against the stone wall, letting themself relax. 

They were barely able to take a breath before their shoulder was jostled roughly, forcing them to glare at the other elf. 

“Jail Bird,” they grinned. Without waiting for an invitation, they took the seat on the opposite side. “When did you get back?”

“A few hours ago. And I wasn’t in jail. I was doing a courier run. I dropped off my payload at the Diamond and got out of there.”

“This time.” Nheil eyed the glass. “Ooph. How many glasses would I need to catch up.”

“I just sat down, so one.” They gave the other elf a moment to order from a waiter. “I miss anything fun?” 

There was a disgusted noise, “Ugh. No. Same Antaam. Same shit.”

“Boring. I need a vacation.”

“Aren’t you still banned?” 

“That was years ago. I paid it off.”

 They smirked, “Whatever you say, Juan.”

Juan laughed, “Fuck off, Nheil. I’ll get us a bottle.”

“Someone got paid!”

“Say that louder? I don’t feel like I’m going to get mugged yet.”

“I’ll protect you. Oh! Let’s do the thing.”

“What thing?”

Nheil pulled a capsule from their pocket with a grin. “The thing.”

“I regret telling you about that. And we can’t. I keep telling you that you can’t play it with just two people. Otherwise it’s just poisoning each other. And that’s just what we have to do every other morning, so what’s the point?”

“What you have to do,” Nheil corrected. “Besides, you said you were bored.”

“There are other things to do!” 

“Look who it is,” a young woman called as she made her way to their table, already laughing. The bickering was enough to catch her attention over the voices of the bar’s patrons. “What’s going on here?”

“Dhalia.” Juan looked her up and down. The blue shirt and purple scarf about her hips suggested she was already off for the evening. “Nheil and I were arguing over what to do tonight.”

“We were just going to get a bottle. Want to join us?” 

“I don’t mind if I do.”

“And look, more than two people.”

“That’s still shit odds,” they looked between them and sighed. 

“Odds? Odds for what?”

“You haven’t played Juan’s drinking game yet?”

“She hasn’t,” Juan answered for her and finally relented. “Fine. Let’s do it. It’s too late to do anything else tonight. I’ll get the bottle.”

Juan ordered a bottle of house red and four goblets. The waiter returned with the drinks in tow, placing a swivel tray in the center as requested. 

“So how does this work?” Dhalia asked, watching on with curiosity.

“One cup’s poisoned. One has truth serum. The rest are clean. Don’t get poisoned and keep your secrets to yourself. This counts as practical training in Antiva City.”

“Sounds fun!”

“And don’t worry, we’ll only use half-doses of poison. I don’t feel like dragging Nheil to a healer covered in vomit.”

“Hey!”

“Viago would make me pay for it,” Juan continued, slowly spinning the tray, “Now close your eyes already.” 

They gave the goblets a few slow spins and stopped it. “Ladies first. Try not to get poisoned.”

 She looked at the goblets closely before selecting one. Juan and Nheil followed suit. Juan raised their glass, “Salud.” 

The three raised their glasses and took a drink. Juan looked into their glass, then at the eyes of the others. “Mine’s fine.”

“Same here,” Nheil noted.

Dhalia nodded and set her goblet down.

Juan placed his goblet on the tray. “We can go again unless someone feels the need to confess something.” 

“Not today,” Nheil said with a grin. “What about you?”

“I don’t have secrets. Everyone’s in my business anyway.” 

“Let me spin it!”

“I don’t trust you.” 

“And I trust you? Come on… It’ll be fine. You know I won’t add more poisons anyway.” 

Juan narrowed their eyes at them. “Fine. You do it.” 

“Close your eyes,” Nheil teased in a sing-song voice.

Juan growled and closed their eyes, listening to the tray turn. “I’m not doing this with you anymore.”

“So paranoid!” The tray stopped turning and they picked up one of the goblets from the tray. They waited for the other two to pick up their goblets and toasted, a cat like smirk spread over their face, “Salute!”

“Mine is still good,” Dhalia said after a moment.

“Me too.” Juan looked at Nheil. “So what’s that face for?” 

“Confession time.” 

“If you think you got the serum, you can just say so.” 

“I know I do.” 

“Why do you look so happy about that?” Dhalia asked with a tilt of her head. “I thought the point was to avoid it.”

Juan was growling, eyes locked on Nheil. “What did you do?”

“Come on, give me your best shot.”

“Fine. You ever feel like quitting?”

“What?!” Nheil scoffed, “No! And that’s not even a secret.”

They sighed, “Yeah. I guess not.” 

“Why not?” Dhalia asked.

“Because I love Viago.” Nheil heard the words come out and cursed. 

Juan just looked at them incredulously. “Give me a break. That’s not a secret either.”

“But I don’t talk about it!”

“No one talks about it. We all love Viago, or we would have quit already.”

Dhalia was cracking up. “Did you say we?” 

Juan blinked and looked at their drink. “Nheil, what did you do?!” 

“Oh, we’re all in this together, Juan.” 

“Bastard.” 

“I sometimes think about quitting.” She looked down at the glass, “Is that what that feels like?”

“You’ve never done it before? And what do you mean you feel like quitting?”

“Not seriously. I wanted to be a puppeteer.”

“Like.. in the little boxes in the market?” Nheil asked carefully.

“Yes, in the market. That’s where children see it.”

“Nightmare,” Juan choked. 

“Only a little bit,” Nheil added, “Opera’s better.” 

“I can’t believe you dosed both of us to talk about Opera.” 

“Not just for that,” Nheil said, pointing down the canal. “That’s the guy you were following around the market last month, right?” 

“What are you talking about—” Juan said as they turned to look and felt the color drain from their face.

“Oh, he’s pretty,” Dhalia agreed, catching sight of the tall man with face paint and black leathers. “And just your type!”

“You say that about everyone!” 

“What’s his name?” Nheil asked, teasing again.

“Lucas,” Juan answered before cursing him.

“You remembered!” Nheil cackled, “I’ve seen you forget a guy’s name the same night!” 

“I’m going to kill you for real!” 

“I don’t believe that at all.” 

“He’s headed this way! Let’s offer him a drink,” she grinned.

Juan grabbed the still untouched poisoned goblet, draining the entire contents down their throat. 

“Well, that’s the game then,” Dhalia sighed.

“Coward’s way out.”

“I will kill you for real,” Juan repeated as they felt their stomach turn. They folded their arms and put their head down, dry heaving into their sleeves. 

As soon as Lucas was close enough, Dhalia called out, “Lucas! Do you want to share a bottle with us?”

Lucas looked at the table, one person doubled over and two overly mischievous looking elves. He then noticed the bottle on the table, the same vintage he had been warned off of. “I think I’ll pass…” he responded lowly before picking up his pace down the canal. 

[beatrixst0nehill]

Alice rubbed her belly, flaunting her pregnant form eagerly. "Soooo, this is very exciting. H-Hey guys, surprise! I'm pregnant.... My parents basically gave me an ultimatum. Either detransition or start pumping out kids. Like.... I was thinking of just detransing, like what trans girl doesn't pump her cock thinking of that??? But I chickened out and said I wanted to start breeding! Granted, I was bringing home a new guy or three.... or five.... basically every night. And my parents had to listen to me giggle and moan and get my fat, girly ass pounded for hours, all the while having to deal with the walls shaking and hearing their spoiled princess get spanked and smacked around. I think they really regret talking me into transitioning but it's too late now!

I actually received an already-pregnant womb. Allegedly I'm six months along but I've only had this womb for three months. The hospital got it out of some ditzy college girl who was testing experimental fuck machines. A student cranked it up when she was testing it on her ass and it scrambled her guts. Soooo, lucky me? Is this big for six months? I feel like it is. My doctors assured me everything is normal and it's becoming very common for trans girls to become breeders!

There is one teeny tiny problem. So, they gave me a choice when daddy brought me in to get my womb. Either they don't do anything and my belly just gets bigger and bigger with no birth canal until the hospital scoops me off the street to give me a C-section, or they give me a birth canal. I thought the first answer sounded a bit scary. Apparently it's pretty popular and really exciting for the girls to see how long they can last without getting dragged to the ER and having their kids scooped out. I asked for a birth canal. Ummm, let me just show you."

Alice removed her baggy skirt, lifting her cock with great heft, hanging down to her knees. She slapped it onto the table in front of her camera. It was even thicker than her upper arms, totally swollen, with a gorgeous head the size of her fist and the color of her lips, its urethra drooling precum. "Look at this!" Alice stroked her cock, reaching forward, slipping four fingers into it with ease. "Oh fuck, it feels so good! Look, I can fist my cock! I may or may not be encouraging guys to fuck it, too....... My balls are gigantic, too. How am I supposed to stay a girl with balls the size of grapefruits??? Ugh, I swear I must cum a gallon a day at least, it's unbearable how bad my erections get after only an hour or two without sex or masturbating. I'm told it's a similar level of horniness to most cis pregnant girls. Hurray, I guess?

I am also on very high doses of estrogen to keep my hormones in check, but still! My cock used to be like five inches, and my balls were like marbles. My doctor says they're almost finished growing but I'm not sure I believe him. Either way us trans girls with wombs are apparently kept pregnant by the state. I thought I'd have to go out and get fucked but nope! I have no choice. I'll be kept pregnant forever now, forced to push as many kids as possible out of my 'birthing shaft' as they call it. Since technically it's too big to actually fuck girls with. Doesn't stop them from trying. I get soooo many pregnant girls who excitedly approach me, feeling my belly, asking how far along I am, or to see how swollen my pussy looks, only to lift my dress or skirt and they gasp..... Then these girls take it as a challenge, trying to suck it, stroking it, bending over and begging me to 'try my hardest to ram it in their holes'. It's kinda fun getting so much attention from girls all of a sudden but it's exhausting, too. And I'm only six months? How do girls walk with such giant bellies???

Oh well, another four months or so until the big day. I'll definitely be filming it. Hopefully my cock can withstand pushing out so many kids. I can't wait to try! I feel like even at this side my poor cock might burst trying to do this but I promise to put on a good show either way! I love being pregnant, and hopefully this is the first of many more! ❤️"

[a-green-wolf]

Updates and Cool Stuff (Meditation, Curing Aphantasia, Web of Skills)

Alright, it's been awhile since we've updated this blog, and I'd like to talk about a few interesting things we've come across. As well as talk about one part of my plan to change our plural experience for the better.

MEDITATION

First things first, we've been meditating every day for an hour, but we've pumped it up to two hours a day since 2/10. It'll go to three hours starting on MAR10 DAY, then so on until we get to 6 hours a day. I'm not sure what we'll do at that point, the amount of progress this has the potential to yield is motivating. Dullness is something to take into account, fortunately there's four different meditation types we can do (Fire Kasina, Normal Kasina, TMI, using the Kasina Mind Machine we got in 2019...), so it shouldn't be too bad. Plus, we're going for longer on the weekends. Yesterday we went for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. That was an accomplishment for someone who couldn't do even 30 minutes last September. We've moved from Fire Kasina as the main method to non-fire. It's better for prophantasaia/imposition training because you're relying more on the mind rather than a burned in afterimage. And what better object to use as a kasina than our fronting indicators. They have personal meaning, and they're simple: just a solid colored wristband. Maybe I should use the plural rings as another object... Anyways, we've also decided to limit substance use for awhile as well. Cannabis and shrooms aren't as dangerous as some of the other things we take, but they need to be limited as well. I'll still microdose and use kratom since those have pretty big utility, but only for meditation purposes. All cannabis, DXM (probably forever), and large dose shroom trips are over and done with for the time being.

CURING APHANTASIA

I've noticed a substantial amount of plurals have aphantasia. The system I work with at my job also has this. Now, this isn't something everyone would want, but I wanted to talk about a hidden gem on reddit we've found called r/CureAphantasia. These people have, you guessed it, not only "cured" their aphantasia, but are also running a pretty active and informative discord helping others with the condition visualize consistently! There's even other systems in there (though when I introduced myself, they casted skepticism about it, so possible tw for fakeclaiming I guess?) Now, I have hyperphantasia, so I can't speak from a perspective of someone who's aphantasiac, but the exercises they have still strengthened my abilities. One of their methods that really caught my eye was Autogogia. This is boiled down to the ability to lucid dream while fully awake. I can see this method having connections to going to mindscape or reality shifting. I'm not in the shifting community, but it seems like they use the same concepts that we're trying to reproduce. I'll post a link to the mod of the discord's documentation on how they cured their aphantasia below:

WEB OF SKILLS

This is something that we came up with a while ago to help us change our life for the better. It's basically a plan to master many different skills and hobbies, which will improve quality of life for us drastically. Yeah, this isn't a new concept, but it's something I came up with. I took a skill I really want to learn, and tried to find other skills and hobbies that would compliment the main skill. At the center of our web is Prophantasia, with the other skills surrounding it being:

Weightlifting (exercise and bulking up will be good for life in general, as well as helping with mindset.)

Headmate Separation (building dissociative barriers, full switching, concealing thoughts we don't want out)

Art and Animation (I've been wanting to draw ourselves and our mindscape for so long now... I dream of someday making animations of our adventures in there. It's such a beautiful place. There's not enough art of wonderlands out there!!! It'll definitely help with visualization development. The thing is, we have almost ZERO experience with drawing, so it'll be a journey...)

Story writing (helps with generating scenarios in mindscape)

Lucid Dreaming (this is a big one. If we were to start lucid dreaming every night... the possibilities are endless. We've been trying to learn on and off for the past 10 years now. But what's different this time is the meditation compounding efforts, as well as being CONSISTENT. Doing it on and off is not the way to go.)

Nutrition (helps out weightlifting and is a great life skill to learn)

I'll be honest, we started working on a lot of this when Trump took office. That really lit a fire under my ass. This bullshit, fuckass administration is hellbent on not only destroying our rights and America as a whole, but also the world. What they're doing will have serious, serious repercussions for world peace. I can already see China and Russia doing some stupid shit in the coming years. So we decided that it's now or never to proceed with all of this. This whole journey is a marathon, not a sprint, but with every passing day and every new news article, it feels more like a sprint. Hopefully this all makes sense. Until next time, goodbye!

[danifesting]

A birthday present for my dear, beloved friend @nobrakesdown. Cove, I hope you have the wonderful birthday you deserve. Thanks for being my friend, writing buddy, sounding board and everything in between.

*****

Daniel's heat is late. First one week, then two, then three. At four weeks he starts to worry. He's usually like clockwork, has been since his first heat at 15, but now, not even a skin prickle at the back of his neck. He makes an appointment with his gynecologist and goes into the office more anxious than he'd like to admit.

The nurse gets him in the room and takes his temperature, a little high but not a fever. His blood pressure is high too.

"Ha, sorry," he says to the nurse, a pretty beta with long blonde hair. "Just a little anxious."

"That's okay. It's not uncommon and it's not in a danger zone or anything," she assures him. "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?"

Daniel hums. He's been on birth control a long time. "I doubt it."

"Well, either way, we have to have you take a pregnancy test." She hands him a cup. "Just pee in here and leave it on the counter next to the door. When you're done, undress from the waist down and press the button on the wall to let us know you're ready, okay?"

Daniel gives her a thumbs up and does as he's instructed. The wait for the doctor is agonizingly slow. He scrolls through Instagram on his phone but it doesn't do anything to speed up the passage of time. Eventually the doctor knocks.

"Come in," Daniel calls out and Dr. Bernard comes in.

"Well, Daniel," she says, sitting down on the stool next to the table. "I'm just going to start with this. Your pregnancy test came back positive."

"But…" Daniel says, starting to sweat.

"I know you're on birth control but have you missed any doses?" She asks kindly.

"No, never. I take it at the same time every day. I have a special alarm and everything."

"Have you been sick? Taken any antibiotics?"

"I had a sinus infection about a month ago and the doctor gave me something for it."

"Did he warn you that antibiotics can make birth control less effective and that you should use backup contraception until after your next heat?"

"Uh... He did not. Was he supposed to?" Daniel asks with raised eyebrows.

Dr. Bernard sighs. "They never tell people what they should. Well, I'm sorry if it's bad news, and we'll take a blood test to confirm just to be sure, but you're pregnant."

Daniel puts his face in his hands. Fuck, what is he going to do? What is he going to tell Max? They've really only just gotten together. Only a few very happy months and now Daniel's gone and ruined it.

Dr. Bernard pats Daniel on the knee. "I'll give you a moment and then we'll do your pelvic exam."

She steps out of the room and Daniel texts Max.

Daniel: are you busy today?

Max: just finished at the sim

Daniel: can you meet me at mine in like an hour?

Max: i'll be there

Daniel sighs and sets his phone down. They do the pelvic exam, take Daniel's blood, tell him they'll call him with the results tomorrow and to talk about next steps from there.

Max is already in his apartment when Daniel gets home, sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone. He looks up when Daniel comes in and smiles, wide and happy but his face falls when he sees Daniel, turning to concern. Daniel kicks off his shoes and crosses the room.

"Hi Maxy," he says and collapses down onto the couch next to him. "I have some news."

"Good or bad?" Max asks, eyebrows drawing in.

"Um, I haven't really decided yet. Still kind of in shock about it." Daniel rubs a hand over his face. "I'm pregnant." He keeps his face hidden in his hands.

"Daniel," Max says, voice hushed. He pulls Daniel's hands away from his face.

Daniel gives him a wry smile. "Surprise? I'm so sorry. I know we didn't plan for it, but I think I'm keeping the baby," he says, which is a surprise to himself as he says but it's true. He is. Fuck, he's gonna be a dad.

"Daniel," Max says again and his face is broken open into a wide grin, eyes scrunched tight and happy. "This was, of course, not something we have talked about before but if you want this, I want this, yeah?"

"Really?" Daniel asks, feeling his eyes well with tears. Stupid pregnancy hormones.

"Of course, Daniel. Yes. I have always wanted children and…"

"But we've only been dating a few months."

Max laughs. "And I have been in love with you since I was 18. Let's have a baby Daniel."

"You and me, huh?" Daniel asks, matching Max's laughter.

"You and me," Max assures. "I'll be with you the whole way."

And now, now Daniel feels hopeful instead of the terror he felt sitting in that doctor's office listening to his test results. He won't be in this alone. He has Max by his side and maybe they can do this. Maybe it will be okay.

The blood test results come back positive the next morning. Max holds Daniel's hand as they listen to Dr. Bernard lay out their next steps, the ultrasound appointment he'll have next week, the email she'll send with pregnancy nutrition and prenatal vitamins, all of it, and instead of overwhelmed like he thought he'd be, Daniel feels happy, like this is the right choice, like he and Max are starting a life together along with the life inside him.

Max kisses him when the phone call is over. He puts his hand on Daniel's belly and kisses him again, and Daniel knows things are going to be alright, better than even. Things are going to be great.

[clarepreed]

Fade Part Five: Fated End

Story Content and Summary - 9,243 words. On a visit to meet Deirdre's family, someone from her past attempts to take matters into their own hands, potentially extinguishing her light forever. Torsades de Pointes, on-site resuscitation by both humans and fae.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

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“Where are we going?” Archer laughed, eyeing the washed-out dirt road they’d just turned down. “And I’m glad I’m driving; would your hatchback make it down this road?”

“I’m pleased that neither of you asked me to drive my car,” Asa said from the back. “And Fae wishes that we were not in the car at all.”

Deirdre turned to look at the carrier buckled into the empty seat next to Asa. A quiet mew found her ears, and she saw Fae move restlessly behind the mesh of the carrier. “Oh, poor little one. Would you get her out for me, Asa? I’ll hold her.”

A moment later, his long arms reached between the front seats, Fae’s furry gray body caught gently in his hands. Deirdre scooped the kitten from him and brought her against her chest, cooing soothing words into her ear. A few seconds later, Fae started purring, evidently no longer concerned by the harsh rocking of the SUV.

“This road is not maintained on purpose,” Deirdre explained. “There’s another road on the other side of the mountain, with a guardhouse. It adds over two hours to the trip. This is a service road with a gate about halfway down. I will get us in. The road is like this to discourage visitors.”

“Doesn’t deter four-wheelers, it looks like,” Archer noted, his eyes on the road.

“No.” Deirdre laughed. “That’s what the gate is for. Not much has changed… when I left, human teenagers were passing the ‘No Trespassing’ signs with great regularity. Of course, you must remember; we do want some interaction between fae and humans.”

Archer glanced over at her and smiled. His warm eyes held contentment and his posture seemed relaxed despite the rough road.

“So…” Asa spoke from the back, his tone droll. “Forgive me, but could you explain again why your kind wants some of us to know about you? Aside from the part where you fell in love with my brother and fished him out of the lake.”

“Our magic, ánh, is dependent on humans believing magic or fae exist. It’s why we often provide financial backing to publishers of fantasy novels and movies.” Deirdre sighed and scratched Fae between the ears. “Of course, some creators have turned out to be not worth the effort.”

“She’s talking about wizards,” Archer interjected for Asa’s benefit.

“Didn’t that get an entire wing of an amusement park?” Asa asked.

“Yes, but the author has a heavy dose of the human obsession with all of you being the same. Fae don’t limit other fae’s gender identity or expression. Or lack thereof.” Deirdre turned to look back at Asa. “I am appreciative that you two are not so rigid.”

“You can thank our parents,” Archer clarified, his voice soft as he kept his eyes trained on the rough dirt road. “They raised us to believe that differences are beautiful.”

“Our mother was half Egyptian,” Asa continued. “She experienced racism growing up. And our father was Catholic in a Protestant town. They were strong people who chose to be open-minded when they had every reason to be angry and suspicious of others.”

“I wish I could have met them,” Deirdre murmured, her eyes on Archer’s profile.

“They would have liked you,” Asa assured her. “You could have flown in front of them. Dad would have crossed himself and then asked if you were an angel. Honestly, it was the first thing I thought, and I haven’t been to Mass in… twenty years.”

The SUV slowed, and Deirdre turned to hide her blush and spotted the imposing panel that cleaved the road in two.

“We found the gate.” Archer sounded bemused.

“That looks like a wall,” Asa corrected. “A gate is something which can be moved.”

“I can move it,” Deirdre announced, turning again to Asa. “Will you hold Fae while I take care of the gate? Archer will need to drive through and then I’ll close it again.”

She deposited Fae into Asa’s outstretched hands. The kitten stretched her limbs, wiggling and squeaking her displeasure until Asa sat her on his lap and rubbed her ears.

“Okay, you’re opening it and I’m driving through and you’ll close it behind us?” Archer asked. He eyed her with something like awe. “Don’t, uh, pull a muscle.”

She blew him a kiss as he slowed the SUV to a stop, then slid down out of the vehicle, glad she’d dressed for the occasion in leggings and deck shoes. The packed dirt under her feet felt soft in spots, speaking to recent rain. Picking her way carefully through the ruts, Deirdre walked to the sheet of steel and touched it with the palms of her hands. “Pe’erta!”

Light pulsated from her chest and ran down her arms, sinking into the cold metal. She heard the rending shriek of metal on metal and the gate shuddered, sliding to the right on a dirty track. Should have taken the extra time to go around, she thought, her arms shaking and sweat sprinting out over her body as she walked along with the gate. The mechanism fed off of the magic of the town hidden in the forest or she wouldn’t have been able to open it at all. Still, by the time she got the gate open enough for Archer to drive through, she leaned on the gate, winded and shaking.

Deidre heard an SUV door open, and Archer came around the back end. He shoved his hands in his pockets, stopping just in front of her.

“Is there anything I can do to help with that, love?” His posture and face bled concern, taking in her wilted appearance and no doubt feeling her struggle through their bond.

“It is too heavy for even brute strength,” Deirdre stated, wiping her brow on her sleeve. “No offense meant.”

“Oddly enough, I was not offended.” Archer grinned, though she could tell he was still worried. He walked up to her and gently took her arm in hand. “If we left it open, could someone come back and close it behind us? Asa was in there muttering about your heart, and I can feel how much of an effort that was for you. You’re shaking.”

Deirdre dropped her hands from the gate. “I could call someone. Tell them I cannot close it.” Dread settled heavy in her chest. She did not want to tell her family and friends that she could not perform this task. That she was too weak to do so.

“Incoming!” Asa called from within the SUV.

Deirdre looked up. Sure enough, a figure moved in the distance. A fae man, wings pumping powerfully as he flew toward him.

“Looks like someone is coming to help,” Archer said, relieved. 

The fae man drew closer, and Deirdre noticed his hair: long, golden, and unrestrained. A sinking suspicion made her reach for Archer’s hand, gripping it tight.

“What is it?” he asked her, concern replacing his relief. “Or, who is it?”

“Atmos.” Deirdre curled her free hand around the end of the gate until her fingers turned white. “My ex.”

*** Archer held on to Deirdre’s hand and considered the approaching man. Whatever Asa’s descriptions of Deirdre in flight were, this was the avenging angel. Cut straight from the hyperbolic artwork of White Christianity, the man’s face was a study of haughty contempt as he landed, gracefully barefoot, taking in Archer’s SUV, then his person, then his hand around Deirdre’s.

The sculpted pink lips twisted. Then he looked at Deirdre and his features relaxed, longing flaring in his blue eyes before that, too, faded. 

“Atmos,” Deirdre almost drawled, and Archer’s brow twitched. 

Atmos’s mouth pulled into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, exposing white teeth as he folded his wings and stalked toward them. Archer saw the rear passenger door of his SUV pop open, and Asa climbed out, his eyebrows lifted. Tall and broad through the shoulders, Atmos stood in front of them—too close, Archer thought—seeming to attempt to both intimidate Archer and disarm Deirdre, all while accomplishing neither.

Everyone fell silent. Then the man’s face paled and twisted into a dark scowl, and Archer had his first actual misgivings. 

“Deirdre? Ánrhen mit antó?” Atmos’ shock and meaning were clear, even if only half of the words were familiar. 

“Archer, this is Atmos Thoniel Deu O’r Perëndierdők Noordttang. Atmos, meet my bonded mate, Archer James Neal.” Deirdre stared up at the fae man, a challenge in her light eyes. “Behind you is Archer’s brother, Dr. Asa Neal.”

“Oo expothan se yitabib?” Atmos stared at her, his throat working.

“Asa is a cardiologist.”

Atmos’s head jerked back, and Archer felt Deirdre’s discomfort like something he could taste. He squeezed her hand, then cleared his throat to get the fae man’s attention. “So sorry to interrupt. Atmos, it’s nice to meet you. Would you do us a favor and close the gate behind us? I’m sure you’re aware that I can’t.”

The other man, looking as though he sucked on a lemon, gave a curt nod before looking down at Deirdre. His face relaxed again and his voice gentled. “Deirdre, if you had called, I would have come and opened the gate for you. You shouldn’t exert yourself. I’m surprised your human doesn’t know that.”

“Let’s get in the car, Archer,” Deirdre said, before Archer could open his mouth. “Asa. Fae is in her carrier? Atmos can see to the gate.”

Atmos reached out and put his hand on her arm, stilling her. “Fly back with me. How often do you get to—”

“I am tired, Atmos. But thank you for the offer.” Deirdre shrugged her arm free, and Archer walked with her to meet Asa.

“She’s in the carrier,” Asa said. “Do we need to be concerned about—”

“No.” Deirdre shook her head. “Let’s go. Atmos has the gate.”

Archer handed Deirdre up into the SUV and closed the passenger door. As he walked around to the other side, he felt the fae man watching him. He climbed into his vehicle and closed the door, and Deirdre heaved a sigh.

“Atmos is an aggressive, selfish prig.” Her blunt words, so different from her usual demeanor, made Asa snort. 

“Seems like it,” Asa said. Archer started the ignition and popped the emergency brake. In the rearview mirror, he watched Atmos shed golden light as he slid the gate closed.

“Is he going to cause problems?” Archer asked, darting his eyes to Deirdre. She seemed to have recovered, but he couldn’t help but be concerned.

Deirdre sat in silence for a long while until she said, quietly: “I don’t know.”

*** “This is my parents’ home,” Deirdre spoke softly as Archer parked the SUV away from the house, beside a small detached garage. Then she fell silent, her fingers plucking at her seatbelt. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

She couldn’t have said which man spoke, but they were right. Large, built from stone and wood, covered in trailing ivy and surrounded by tall trees. So many trees that the property lay in deep shadow. Her parents’ home looked like a castle and a fairytale cottage combined. She also recalled the series of smaller cottage homes scattered throughout the forest behind their home. One of them had been hers for decades.

“How is it that this entire area is pixelated on Google Maps?” Asa wondered.

“It’s all about who you know.” Deirdre unbuckled the seatbelt and reached for the door. Archer’s hand came over and found hers.

“It will be alright, love.”

Dierdre nodded, afraid to look at him lest she cry. She could feel the telltale tightness in her eyes and upper lip. Opening her mouth to speak, she realized her throat was thick with emotion.

“Take a deep breath, Deirdre.”

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling the catch of her tense muscles as she did so. She released the breath and drew another, her lungs expanding further as the tension released incrementally. A third breath, and she opened her eyes, her fingers relaxing their unknown white-knuckle grip on Archer’s hand.

“It wouldn’t do to have an attack in the car before I manage to see them,” she quipped weakly, her voice shaky.

The front door opened, and light spilled out onto the front walk. A tall woman in long skirts stepped out onto the path, peering out at the SUV. She turned and motioned toward the house, and an equally tall man stepped out behind her.

“They’re eager to see you, Deirdre.” Archer squeezed her hand, then released it. “Go. We’ll be right behind you.”

“I’ve got Fae in her carrier,” Asa said from the back seat.

Deirdre opened the door and slid down, the ground soft where she landed. She closed the door behind her and walked slowly through the leaves, her eyes on the dear, familiar forms of her parents. She felt tenuously tied to her body, watching in surprise as her parents met her halfway.

“Deirdre…” Her mother’s smooth, beloved face suddenly crumpled, but it was her father who reached out, pulling her the last few feet and folding her into a hug. Then he shifted, adding her mother into the circle of his arms. “Oo ti’ahi!” Youcame!

“Oo wilde ni? Ky’ issem?” You wanted me? As I am?

“Ĉia, anak.” Always, daughter.

Deirdre’s tears spilled over, soaking her father’s shirt. He kissed the top of her head, just as he’d done when she was young.

“Who are these human men, Deirdre?” her father asked, switching to English.

She pulled back, eager to introduce them, but her mother beat her to it.

“That one is Deirdre’s ánrhen, Liam. Can you not see it? And this must be his brother; I can see it in their faces.” Her mother dashed tears from her eyes, then reached over and did the same for Deirdre. “Alright, daughter. Please, introduce us.”

Her father rubbed her back and released her, and she reached for Archer, pulling him close. “Am’an, Ap’an, this is Archer James Neal, my ánrhen, and this is his brother, Dr. Asa Neal. Archer and Asa, these are my parents, Tvaris and Liam. I will teach you their full names later, I promise.”

Archer and Asa shook hands with her parents, twin charming grins on their faces. “Sir, ma’am. I’m so happy to meet you.”

“Please,” her mother said. “Call us Tvaris and Liam. You are family, both of you. And please, come inside. You may leave your shoes just inside the door. And please, bring in the creature, too. Who have you brought, Deirdre?”

“That’s Fae, Am’an. My kitten.”

Her parents escorted them to the door, gesturing for them to enter. Deirdre found Archer’s hand again and looked up at him. A genuine smile lit his face, and her chest filled with warmth. “I’m glad you are here,” she whispered.

“So am I. I’m even happier that things seem to be going well.” Archer squeezed her hand.

“And I’m glad you’re here, Asa. I’m glad that my family can meet Archer’s.”

Asa smiled at her before he set Fae’s carrier down and bent to untie his shoes.

“Here comes Foraoise and her family,” her mother said, continuing to speak in English for Archer and Asa’s benefit. They watched Deirdre’s aunt, uncle, and cousins land near Archer’s SUV. Unlike Deirdre’s own mother, Foraoise had several children, ranging from a few years younger than Deirdre down to a toddler clutched gently in her father’s arms. “She’s been eager to have you visit, Deirdre.”

Deirdre stooped to rescue Fae from the carrier, holding the kitten close as she curiously sniffed the air. “She came to see me at my store, Am’an. I… regret that it was tense.” 

Her mother ushered everyone into the open-plan living space, filled with plants and sofas, chairs, stools and other places to sit, many of which were backless. She led Archer to a loveseat and sat Fae on her lap, intending to allow the kitten to explore. Fae crouched there, her tail swishing as she watched unfamiliar people enter the house and move about the room. Asa sat on a stool close by, resting his ankle on the opposing knee. 

As she sat there on the sofa, watching her mother and Foraoise embrace each other and the children spill into the space, ignoring their father’s warning to watch their wings, Deirdre felt a fluttering sensation in her chest. Her next inhalation hitched. Archer turned to her, his lips close to her ear. “Are you okay?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Archer ran his knuckles up and down her arm in a soothing gesture. Another slow breath, reminding herself that this was her family, and they loved her. Static sparked behind her closed eyes. 

“A little overwhelmed, I think,” Archer said, in response to a question she hadn’t heard.

“Böcē!” Foraoise called out to her children. “Oo hawadyra! Hawadyra!”

“Neko!” A tiny someone had spotted Fae. Deirdre opened her eyes, expecting to see the toddler run her way. Her fingers curled protectively around Fae’s soft body.

“Deirdre o kwaneko. Oo hawadyra, Yuima!” Foraoise’s chosen mate called out, reigning in the little girl and directing her outside with a firm grip on her tiny hand. Deirdre watched them regretfully as this unfamiliar cousin toddled back out the front door.

Asa caught her eyes as she sagged against the sofa. One of his dark eyebrows arched and he leaned forward, hands opening in a silent question. Deirdre leaned forward again and Archer immediately started rubbing her back in slow, discreet movements. Sighing, she extended her wrist to Asa, bracing herself against the questions and concern of her family. His fingers touched her gently, finding the place where her pulse fluttered. As Asa counted heartbeats, Deirdre closed her eyes again, giving in to the slow, deep rhythm of her breath.

“Oo mit parigia,” she heard her father say, his voice pitched low. “You are with family.”

Á tereciùin, she thought to herself. Be calm.

Another moment passed, and Asa gave her back her wrist. “Fast, but you’ll do. We should all talk about calm, happy things, I think.”

Archer kissed her temple, and she opened her eyes. Her parents and Foraoise sat on cushions on the floor, gentle concern stamped on their faces. She was relieved that no one looked terrified or upset.

Did I make something out of nothing all these years?

“Would anyone like herbal tea?” her mother asked. “Tisane, rather?”

“Do you still… Do you have blackberry—”

“I do!” her mother said, rising. Her face flushed pink, and she offered Deirdre a gentle smile. Her eyes glistened. “I always k-keep it for you, Deirdre.”

*** Early the next morning, Archer leaned against a doorframe and pulled socks onto his cold feet.

 “No shoes,” Deirdre whispered. “There is moss.”

“Warm moss?” Archer asked, rubbing his eyes. He winked at her, softening his complaint before he regretfully stripped off his socks.

“Come!” Deirdre stood in the doorway of the little cottage she’d called home years ago, the early morning light soft as it dropped in around her. She offered him a wide, beaming smile and extended a hand. “Quick, before Fae decides to join us and we spend our morning trying to catch her!”

“Alright!” Archer hurried after her, her enthusiasm igniting a smile on his own face. “Where are we going?”

“The meadow!” Deirdre tugged on his hand and then released it, hurrying down the path ahead of him. She wore an unfamiliar, ankle-length dress in deep blue, with a low back and bishop sleeves. Archer jogged after her, surprised at her pace as she darted through the trees.

Before long, the trees grew sparse, and the moss crept artificially onward, spreading into a large open meadow before being gradually replaced by tall grass. Deirdre slowed to a stop, her back flexing and her wings erupting from her shoulder blades. His breath caught as they unfurled and she shook them out, stretching them to their full span. She spun toward him and beat her wings; the wind stirring his hair until she lifted off, hovering a couple of feet above the ground. 

“It is safe here,” she said, as he took a few more steps toward her, reaching for her hands. She let him catch her, tipping forward until their lips met. He inhaled through his nose, the crisp outdoor scent melding with her familiar herbal aroma. Her lips were soft and warm against his. 

With a giggle, Deirdre broke free, wings pumping and carrying her higher. The morning light bathed her as she tipped her head toward the sun. She hovered there for a moment before she let her wings flutter and dropped gently to the ground.

“How does it feel?” Archer asked, his fingertips grazing the fringes of one of her gossamer limbs. They felt like insect wings, only stronger; smooth on the edge, slightly textured on the surface. 

“Like stretching out a mild cramp that I’ve had for months,” she confessed, shrugging her shoulders and rolling her head gently from side to side. “And then, once I’m over that, freeing.”

He moved his fingers to the line of her jaw, tracing her soft skin. “I wish you were free to fly all the time, love. Perhaps… If you wanted to come here—”

A zzzt sound distracted him, followed by the quietest thump. Deirdre grunted, then staggered, and he reached out, catching her by the waist as an odd, distant pain lanced through his shoulder. When he looked down, however, he couldn’t see anything wrong. No blood on his shirt, nothing to account for the pain.

“Oh.” Her voice, barely audible. He looked at her, then followed her gaze to her left shoulder, where a fat dart protruded from her exposed skin. She blinked and looked up at the sky, her brow furrowed. “Atmos?”

“Deirdre!” Archer’s hand hovered over the dart, shock making them both dull-witted and slow. Deirdre blinked again and brought her right hand up to wrap around the shaft. She jerked it free, swaying. Archer gasped. “Damn, I don’t think you should have—”

“We need to get to cover,” Deirdre muttered. Her wings folded and folded again, disappearing behind her back. She shook her head, hard, then grabbed his arm. “Archer! We need to get back beneath the trees!”

Archer grasped her by the elbow and turned, breaking into a jog and propelling her in front of him. Her hair whipped in a sudden strong breeze.

“ATMOS!” Her voice sounded different; an amplified roar that he wouldn’t have known it was possible for her to make. “WHAT WAS THAT? INDUV’E OO?”

Silence, but for their harsh breathing. Deirdre slowed as they entered the treeline, her eyes trained up and the dart still clutched in her fist. Archer stepped close behind her, trying to shield her smaller body with his as he, too, scanned the trees for white wings and golden hair. He pitched his voice low. “How do you know it was him?”

“He makes them,” she whispered. Her head bent and she brought the dart up for inspection. His eyes followed the delicate lines of metal, glass, and feathers.

“Deirdre,” Archer said, his concern tightening into fear. “That is a syringe.”

The syringe dart was beautiful, considering what it was. He would have expected something plastic with garish fletching, but this looked like a steampunk contraption from a cosplayer’s dream. Deirdre’s fingers curled tight around the barrel.

“I don’t know what was in it,” she whispered. Her hand trembled.

“We need to get you to Asa,” Archer urged, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Uneasiness swept over him like a wave. “How do you feel? Deirdre?”

“I…” Deirdre’s hand opened, and the dart fell silently to the moss. Archer felt dizzy, then shook his head and realized it was Deirdre whose equilibrium was failing. She wrenched her head back and gasped: “Atmos! What have you done?! Archer, Archer…”

He turned her gently so he could see her face. She’d gone pale, her eyes unfocused. Her breath came in rapid gasps. He could almost feel her shortness of breath, her discomfort, as pain cut through his own chest. “I’m going to carry you back. Just take deep breaths for me, love.”

“Archer…” Deirdre swayed and her palms pressed to the center of her chest. Her voice dropped in volume, raspy and thin. “My chest hurts… I’m… Archer. He’s killed me.”

Her legs folded.

“Christ,” Archer snarled, bending to gather her in his arms. “I’ve got you. I’ll get you help!”

Instead of responding, her body went limp in his arms. Archer started running, trying to stay on the mossy path as he shuffled her in his arms and looked at her face.

“Deirdre? Deirdre!” Her head lolled over his arm, her lips white. Internal klaxons shrieked, and he gasped for air as he ran, wincing as her head bounced. Instinct pricked his scalp and his eyes shot toward the canopy. Atmos hovered flew above, dressed in white linen and trailing motes of gold. “YOU!”

The fae man dove, avoiding a tree branch and then coming alongside Archer. Archer gnashed his teeth, unable to do anything with Deirdre cradled against him. To his surprise, Atmos wept, a trail glistening down his sculpted cheek.

“She has you,” the other man said. “You have to understand; she will survive the surgery now.”

“There won’t be any surgery!” Archer exploded. Atmos’s face pulled into a sneer, but Archer continued. “She needs help, Atmos! Get help! She thinks she’s dying! What was in that syringe?!”

Archer stumbled over a tree root, his arms tightening reflexively on Deirdre. Atmos reached out to steady him, releasing his shoulder before Archer could think to shrug him off. “Amiodarone.”

Asa will know what that is.

“GET HELP!” Pain arced again across his chest. In his arms, Deirdre shifted and took a rattling breath. He slowed to a stop, tipping her so that her face fell back into view. Her eyes were open to slits, only the whites showing. She moved again, the muscles in her legs tensing and her lips parting. Her arms jerked. Archer couldn’t breathe. His lungs wouldn’t move, and black spots drifted across his vision. He couldn’t—

Archer dragged in a lungful of air, his chest heaving. He looked about for Atmos, but the other man was gone. “ASA! HELP!” His scream cracked his voice and sank into the silence of the forest. Archer kneeled with Deirdre, stretching her out on the moss, his hand carefully lowering her head to the ground. The delicate skin of her eyelids and lips had taken on a blue cast.

His fingertips skimmed across that purple skin. “No…” Archer smoothed her hair back and tipped up her chin, leaning close to her lips. She felt distant again, absent despite her body stretched out before him. He relied on that even more than Asa’s previous descriptions of agonal breathing and movements. This time, when he held his ear close to her lips, he could tell she’d stopped breathing.

Anguish made his movements jerky. He snapped up, hands shaking. Deirdre already looked dead; still in a way only the dead were still, her face discolored, body awkwardly positioned on the moss. A panicky sob erupted from his mouth as he patted his pockets, belatedly looking for the cell phone he hadn’t brought with him. Then he gasped and clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers and pressing them between Deirdre’s breasts without remembering to landmark. 

“Please, Deirdre… One!” He pushed down hard, remembering the plastic click of the dummy in Asa’s office. This was not that. This was using his strength on someone he would have never otherwise even bruised voluntarily. His weight in his arms bent her ribcage, forcing her sternum down into her faulty organ, the only part of her he could ever regret. She made a noise, a huffing gurgle that cut through the silence, but he kept going, bobbing over her slight form as his head swam and his eyes blurred with unshed tears. “…nine, ten! ASA! TWO, three, four, five…”

Beneath his hands, her body twitched, shoulders shrugging and her bare feet rocking side to side. Her legs drew up slightly, and her jaw worked, the blue of her eyes briefly visible in the corners before the slits showed only white again. “Uh… uh… uh… uh…”

“…two, three fourfive…” Too fast. He made himself slow down and concentrate. Since he’d met her, he’d reviewed CPR guidelines. Two inches. He’d reviewed them, though if he were telling himself the truth he hadn’t pictured himself actually here, in this forest, beating her heart. “ASA! HELP! PLEASE! No… Ah, one, two, three…”

“ARCHER!” His brother, shouting from just down the path.

“HERE! WE’RE HERE!” Archer’s voice broke, and a tear dropped onto his hands. He kept his hands at their vital task, pumping and pumping, his desperation a dangerous distraction. He looked around wildly, hoping to spot his brother. Then his gaze jerked back down to Deirdre’s darkening face. 

Asa’s heavy breathing and muffled footfalls made Archer lift his head again. His brother sprinted down the path, carrying the medical bag and AED they’d brought with them just in case. “I’m here! I’m here, Archer! Don’t stop! Tell me what happened.” Asa dropped to his knees across from Archer and quickly unzipped his bag.

“Atmos…” His voice came out garbled, and he concentrated on silent chest compressions for a few seconds until he could speak. “He injected her with… amiodarone?”

“Amiodarone.” Asa kept his voice suspiciously even as he snapped nitrile gloves onto his hands. “You’re certain?”

“Yes!” He kept thrusting his hands into her chest, his eyes darting between Asa and Deirdre. Her shoulders shrugged each time he pressed, making her chin nod. “She fainted. Then she started twitching… making noises… She stopped breathing, Asa!”

“Pause compressions, Archer.” Asa’s voice, calm and gentle, broke through his rising panic. Archer lifted his hands just off her chest, watching as his brother pressed two gloved fingers hard into her throat.

“She’s… not here. It’s different from when she’s asleep. I don’t know how to describe—”

“Archer, take a deep breath and start compressions. Can you keep doing them for me while I secure her airway?”

Archer resumed the harsh beat before Asa finished speaking. His eyes trailed wildly up and down her pallid body as her legs twitched again. Her abdomen bulged rhythmically each time his hands descended. Her hands curled like pale, dead things in the moss. Asa brought out a familiar plastic case and plucked out a curved plastic airway. Meanwhile, Archer kept pressing down, nauseated with fear and the sensation of pushing hard on such an important part of her.

“Fae medics are on the way.” Asa tipped Deirdre’s head back and used his thumbs to open her jaw before slipping it between her teeth and turning it one hundred eighty degrees. “Atmos showed up at her parents’ home and said she needed help, though he did not exactly tell them what he did.”

Archer groaned involuntarily, a broken sound that echoed. Deirdre’s eyes were closed again, the blue cast even more noticeable as it tinged her features. The plastic piece between her teeth held her mouth open, and he could see how blue her lips were around it. Asa leaned in again, this time with a mask attached to a large bulb.

“You’ll pause every thirty compressions,” Asa said, his voice steady. “I will give her two breaths and you immediately start compressions again. Pause now.”

Archer’s momentum stuttered, and he ground to a halt as Asa squeezed the bulb. There was the sound of plastic crumpling and the whoosh of air. He felt Deirdre’s chest rise and fall under his hands. Another breath, and then Archer rolled his weight over his hands. He dug his hands into her sternum and—

*** Asa couldn’t be sure what told him to pull back, or why he listened, but he jerked away, dropping the bag-valve mask and breaking contact with Deirdre just before Archer sucked in a pained breath and a flash of light nearly obliterated Asa’s vision. He saw them both as burning silhouettes, her body bowing up slightly from the moss, his back arching and his head falling back.

Then the light vanished, and Archer collapsed onto his back, groaning. Asa lurched forward and pressed his fingertips against Deirdre’s carotid artery.

One one thousand.

Two one thousand.

Three one thousand.

Four…

The seconds ticked by.

Ten one thousand.

His lips pulling into a thin line, Asa bent over Deirdre, wove his fingers together, and pressed the heel of his bottom hand against her sternum. Rolling his shoulders over his hands, he began a series of rapid, deep, professional compressions. Then he spared a glance for his brother, sprawled on his back next to Deirdre. Archer’s chest rose and fell rapidly, fingers digging into the moss. “Archer?”

The younger man groaned again and tried to push himself upright, only to collapse back to the moss. “Deirdre…”

Asa glanced around to see where he’d dropped the mask. His eyes stopped on her cyanotic face and he quickly lifted his hands from her chest and tipped her head back. Pinching off her nostrils, he covered Deirdre’s slack, cool mouth with his own and gave her a breath. He gave her a second to exhale before blowing into her mouth again, rounding out her cheeks. Then he returned to chest compressions. “One, two, three, four…”

“Nellä!” The cracking of small branches overhead masked the crunchy sound and feel of Deirdre’s cartilage under his hands. He looked up, his compressions unfaltering as he searched for the source of the sounds. Then, a fae woman dropped into the moss beside him, followed by a fae man. Their wings whipped up a breeze that stirred hair and Deirdre’s skirt, and he watched as they deposited duffles and cases on the ground. Their wings folded neatly behind them. The man and woman both wore backless tunics, scrub pants, and gloves.

Archer pushed himself onto his hands and knees, panting as he stared up at the newcomers. Then he crawled over to the side and retrieved the bag-valve mask.

“I am Dr. Eḥāyi.” Echeyee. The woman reached took the mask from Archer, pressing it to Deirdre’s face with her fingers lapped over the younger women’s chin. The fae doctor was tall and broad-shouldered, with smooth dark skin and silver-streaked hair braided into a crown.

“…twenty-nine, thirty.”

Dr. Eḥāyi gave the bag two squeezes and then sat it to the side, dragging one duffle closer as Asa resumed chest compressions. “You would call me an emergency physician. This is Nurse Imala.”

“…nine… Dr. Neal, cardiologist. Deirdre has a condition I would call Romano Ward. She was injected with an unknown amount of amiodarone. There has been one… apparent magical defibrillation.”

Nurse Imala laid his hand on Deirdre’s ankle as Dr. Eḥāyi connected the mask to an oxygen canister. A green glow crept up Deirdre’s leg, disappearing beneath Deirdre’s dress. Asa forced himself to keep his focus on the rhythm, depth, and recoil of his compressions. Imala called out: “Dr. Eḥāyi, she needs to be intubated! Tilā suur naysai.”

“I will intubate.” Eḥāyi gave Deirdre two more breaths from the bag. “Dr. Neal, can you continue chest compressions?”

“Yes. One, two, three…”

Imala lifted his hand, and the green light lingered. “I’m going to get her on the monitor and then I will start an IV. I need to see this rhythm.”

“��� eighteen, nineteen, twenty…”

“You are ánrhen?” Eḥāyi asked Archer. His brother sat on his haunches a couple of feet from Deirdre, his face gray with distress.

“Yes,” Archer forced out, his voice hoarse. “Archer.”

Asa finished the round of compressions. Eḥāyi delivered two more breaths with the bag, still speaking to Archer. “You must hold her hand, Archer. You are life support. Do you understand? I will tell you when to let go and when to hold on.”

“One, two, three…” The cartilage in her chest crunches and crackled as he worked. The sounds weren’t anything he hadn’t heard before. Still, he grit his teeth, trying to think of her as a patient and not as family. 

Archer swallowed audibly and moved closer. He sat beside Deirdre, his knees bent and his ankles crossed, and took her hand tenderly in both of his. “It’s alright, love. I’m here.” His voice, tender and loving, barely rose above a whisper.

Asa’s compartmentalization cracked.

*** Archer clutched Deirdre’s cool hand and pushed back the dizziness clutching at him. His mind set out a search in every possible direction, trying to find her. In the short time they’d been bonded, he’d already forgotten what it was like not to know her. If she was at work and he at a café, he sensed her. If one or both slept, they were still there. 

But she wasn’t, not now.

Certainly, her physical body remained. Sprawled on the moss, ghost pale but for the purple mask of her face. Dr. Eḥāyi lay on her side beside him, one hand supporting a metal device she’d wedged into Deirdre’s open mouth. Her other hand delicately clutched a long plastic tube with a cuff on the end. She ran it down the side of the metal scope, seeming unperturbed by the rocking movement of Deirdre’s body. 

Asa still performed chest compressions, his hands making a soft thumping sound as he pushed the heel of his hand into the lower part of her sternum. Deirdre’s chest sank beneath the pressure of his hands, dipping and then popping back up each time he rose over her. The force of his hands sent a puff of air out of her open mouth with each thrust.

As Eḥāyi fed the tube down Deirdre’s throat, Nurse Imala brought over a pair of sheers, intending to cut down the center of her dress. He quickly examined the neckline, then said: “Archer, we’re going to pull her dress down to her hips. You take that sleeve, and I’ll take the other.”

Archer quickly released her hand and slipped his fingers inside the top of her sleeve. Asa lifted his hands as the two of them pulled her dress off her shoulders and down her arms, exposing her breasts and the reddish bruise between them. Archer pulled her hand free from the sleeve and pushed the fabric down to her hips.

“I’m in,” he heard Eḥāyi say.

“Here are the others!” Imala called out. Two more fae medics walked down the path, rolling a gurney. Archer spared them a glance and then returned his attention to Deirdre. The whites of her eyes were still showing, gray set against the lavender of her skin. Eḥāyi slipped a plastic strap beneath and around Deirdre’s head and used it to secure the tube. Then she connected the bag to the tube, squeezing the bag twice before handing the responsibility off to one of the new medics.

“This is Sertse and Shavsan. Our patient is Deirdre. This is her ánrhen, Archer. And this is Dr. Neal.” Eḥāyi continued to talk, but Archer’s attention drifted back to Deirdre.

Without her dress hiding the movements, he could truly see the effect of compressions on her body. The upper left quadrant of her chest, close to the center, sank nearly twice a second as Asa pumped her chest. The skin of his hands looked splotchy from the effort, while hers bloomed with bruises. His fingers inadvertently brushed one of her brown nipples. Her breasts wobbled with each thrust, the force telegraphing down to her abdomen in waves that crested against her puddled dress. 

Imala leaned in and applied a white pad to Deirdre’s upper right chest, quickly smoothing it to her skin. Eḥāyi applied the other, working around Shavsan, who had Deirdre’s other arm extended onto a white cloth he’d spread in his lap. He tied on a tourniquet, cleaned the crook of her elbow, and pressed his thumb just below. He had a cannula inserted by the time Eḥāyi called out: “Pause compressions.”

Asa sat back on his heels, breathing hard. Alarms filled the air, and Archer watched as his brother leaned forward to look at the monitor. 

“Torsades de Pointes,” he said, his hands already back in place before Eḥāyi could speak. Archer looked at the monitor, but he couldn’t make anything out of the wobbly, chaotic lines.

For a few seconds, the only sounds were Asa’s breathing, the thump of his hands, and Sertse squeezing the bag. Deirdre’s lips around the tube still looked blue, and he gripped her hands tight.

“We will shock her now,” Eḥāyi said. “I’m charging to two-hundred.”

“Archer, you must not touch her,” Imala said., detaching the bag. “Please, back away three feet.”

“Imala, you will switch with Asa. Pads are charged, everyone clear.”

Archer laid her hand on the moss and backed away, watching as Asa raised his hands and scooted back and Shavsan lowered her arm to the moss and held an IV bag at shoulder level.

“Administering shock.” Eḥāyi pressed a button on the monitor and Deirdre flinched, her eyes closing and her head lolling to the side. Imala slid in front of Asa and resumed chest compressions. Her stomach popped up as her chest sank. Sertse reconnected the bag.

Asa took the IV bag from Shavsan and held it aloft. 

“Shavsan,” Eḥāyi said. “Administer one milligram epinephrine, and then in two minutes two grams magnesium IV push.”

“Administering epinephrine now.”

“Do you agree, Dr. Neal?” Eḥāyi asked.

“Yes. And, respectfully, you have the lead,” Asa responded. The mask of his features slipped, revealing the grim expression beneath. “Your species, your code.”

Deirdre’s arm moved, pulling against his grip. Archer leaned forward, his eyes darting to her face, then to the monitor, then to Asa. Before either of them could speak, her chest arched and her shoulders jerked. 

“Sit her up!” Eḥāyi commanded, as Sertse disconnected the bag and Imala paused chest compressions. “Her wings are—”

Archer slid his arm beneath her shoulders, heaving Deirdre’s torso from the ground. Her head fell back on his arm, the tube jutting out from her lips. He felt her wings tickle the underside of his arm as they unfurled, flopping and jerking behind her. Sertse took one wing and Eḥāyi the other, stretching them carefully out to either side.

“Lay her flat, quickly!” That came from Asa. Archer complied, easing her limp body down onto the moss. To his shock, he realized that the formerly lush, green moss had died beneath and around Deirdre, turning brown and dry. Imala’s long-fingered hands continued chest compressions, mercilessly pounding into her chest at a rapid rate. Sertse reconnected the bag and forced an oxygenated breath into Deirdre’s lungs. 

Archer reached for her hand again, cupping her small hand in his larger one. Her nail beds were lavender now, like her eyelids. 

Eḥāyi crouched between Sertse and Archer and laid her hand on Deirdre’s forehead. “Naneun a cervein o Deirdre.” Light ran from the doctor’s chest down her left arm, sinking into Deirdre in pulses.

She looked up at Asa. “I seek to protect her brain.”

He nodded, his expression solemn. “Thank you. That is something I would wish to do for all of my patients.”

“Administering two grams magnesium now,” intoned Shavsan.

Deirdre’s arm pulled against his grip again. He held tight, his own heart pounding as her eyes opened to white slits again and her lips sneered around the tube. Her legs moved, drawing up, caught up in her dress. Eḥāyi crouched down at Deirdre’s hips, pulling her dress down a few more inches so she could press her gloved fingers into the crease of Deirdre’s thigh. Archer’s gaze darted back to her face. Her irises were showing now, her eyes staring dully up at the canopy.

Close your eyes, love. I can’t take it.

His eyes burned, and he blinked, dislodging a single hot tear. It ran down the side of his nose before slipping over his lips and dripping from his chin. He massaged her palm with his thumbs, stroking her lifeline as though he could milk more time from her. The pain tugged at his heart, drawing life from the organ and sending it down his arms and into—

“It’s happening again!” he gasped. It was the only warning he could give before lightning struck the top of his head and everything went black.

***

“Archer!” Voices and harsh alarms drew him back from the dark.

“…asystolic. Administer another milligram epi and then I want you on bloodwork. Imala, suction her. Sertse, I want you on compressions…”

“Archer!”

“Confirm her pressure, Imala and then Shavsan, I want you to administer that norepinephrine. Is he breathing, Dr. Neal?”

“Yes, he—Archer, open your eyes!”

The voices all boiled down to one. Asa, sounding worried. He felt the dry rub of gloved fingers beneath his jaw and reached up to swat them away. Asa—he assumed—caught his hand and squeezed it tight.

“Am I sick?” Archer’s voice cracked, his throat so tight it hurt to talk. A chill took him, and he forced his eyes open. The gesture stung, and he squeezed them shut again. “Was there an accident? What’s that sound?” 

His body ached, and his chest felt heavy. He felt as though he’d been bedridden with a bad flu, or perhaps pneumonia. 

“How do you feel, Archer? Just lay there and rest, please.”

“As though I’ve been in an accident,” he said, aware that he sounded peevish. On top of everything else, anxiety seeped in, making his heart race and sending up alarms. More feelings sank in. Loss. Grief. Archer rubbed the grit from his eyes and peeled them open again.

Asa leaned over him, his face tense and ashen. His brother reached out and gently patted Archer on the cheek, a tender gesture that startled him. His eyes shifted past Asa’s face, catching movement up in the blurry tree canopy. Archer blinked several times to clear his vision.

A beautiful man hovered in the canopy, wings beating slowly, creating a breeze that stirred his long, blonde hair. Even from that distance, Archer could see the man’s tortured expression. For his part, Archer felt an uncharacteristic flash of white hot rage that made him push himself up to a seated position and snarl: “What is he doing here?! GO!” Gasping, Archer registered other fae alight near the man, their hands raised warily. 

His brother tried to calm him. “Archer—”

“Silence the alarm, please.” Eḥāyi’s voice cut through his anger.

Deidre.

Archer twisted, forcing himself to look at the scene beside him, ashamed that she hadn’t been his first coherent thought. Asa gripped his shoulder. Deirdre still lay on her back on the dead moss, wings akimbo beneath her. But she looked much worse. Her skin gone dry and waxen, her hair shades lighter and brittle. He could see the veins around her wrists and count her ribs, as though she’d lost weight in the time he’d been unconscious. Her eyes, open and staring, irises muddy and colorless. Lips slack around the tube delivering oxygen to her lungs. Sertse’s hands between her breasts, forcefully pushing her sternum down over and over again, making her slim shoulders jerk and her stomach seesaw in and out of a bloat. 

Archer reached for her hand and that’s when he saw them… bits of insect wings littering the ground. Feathers, of a sort. Crumbled. With each compression, her shoulders shrugged and her wings moved, and opalescent shards flaked off, littering the dry ground.

Archer hunched over her cold hand, agony building as pressure beneath his skin. “Asa, she…”

“I’ll speak to you plainly, Archer. If you wish it.” Asa gripped his shoulder too tight.

“I do.” His words bit into his throat like gravel.

“Deirdre’s heart is in what we call asystole. This is when there is no electrical rhythm. We cannot defibrillate asystole, as the purpose of defibrillation is to disrupt dangerous heart rhythms. What we do instead is provide chest compressions and administer medications to assist the heart in achieving a shockable rhythm.” Asa paused and took a deep breath. Archer’s heart hollowed out. “I cannot account for her change in appearance… I’m not optimistic, Archer. I’m so sorry.”

“Deirdre is not gone!” A woman’s voice, ragged and grief-stricken, broke in at the end of Asa’s explanation. Movement beyond the tableau in front of him dragged his attention away from the resuscitation efforts. Tvaris, Deirdre’s mother, broke through the crowd of fae he hadn’t noticed assembling. Nearly all tall, unlike his Deirdre, though otherwise they were diverse in shape and color. Each with beautiful wings. He wished he could have seen them together in other circumstances.

Liam stepped in front of her and took her by the arms. “Sēs, ánrhen.”

“He doesn’t know how—”

“Her mother’s right,” Nurse Imala interjected. “Your bond is intact, so we will continue our efforts until that changes.”

“Her brain,” Asa blurted, his hand going to his mouth when Archer glanced at him.

“We do not heal like humans, Dr. Neal.” Eḥāyi’s eyes shifted from the cardiac monitor. “If, perhaps, she had been discovered already cardiac arrest instead, with an unknown amount of time having passed, then things would be different.”

Archer hunched forward, Deirdre’s hand pulled against his abdomen. He tried to picture her as she’d been such a short time before. Aloft, glowing with happiness and freedom. And love. All destroyed.

“Why?” The question came out too quiet for anyone to hear. He gripped Deirdre’s hand tight, his eyes squeezing closed. He dragged in a deep breath. “WHY?!”

The forest fell silent aside from the sound of the bag-valve mask and Sertse’s exertions over Deirdre’s still chest.

Then, a voice from above.

“I am a fool, and I did not believe it would kill her.”

***

Atmos pumped his wings, just enough to keep himself aloft. Fae warriors hovered close by, though as of yet they’d made no moves to detain him. Atmos knew what the humans did not; he wasn’t being detained yet because his Intention might be needed to keep Deirdre alive. For similar reasons, a crowd formed below, creating a large semi-circle around the scene of his crime. Family, friends, neighbors, officials. Well-wishers and on-lookers. His own mother stood in the back, white-faced with her fist pressed to her lips. 

Within the semi-circle, the forest was dying; brown moss, trees with brittle branches and falling leaves, bodies of insects that flew unawares into Deirdre’s sucking desire to live. He could see a faint rainbow flowing from the crowd, a channel of involuntary aid drawn from the heart light of everyone there. She’d pulled the most from her ánrhen, knocking the man unconscious to stabilize her heart.

It isn’t working, he thought, his hands curling into fists. His love lay sprawled on her back, a faded shell of herself. Any human would have been long declared dead. Most fae. His cruel, careless miscalculation had shown him something he’d never understood before: Deirdre was strong. 

His mind briefly flashed back to when they’d parted; an argument. Shouting, tears. He’d attempted to restrain her, she’d injured him. Other fae intervened and Deirdre collapsed and had to be cardioverted. After, for years, he’d tried to see her, and she turned him away each time. Atmos tried to move on. Buried himself in his work. Sought pleasure from others. Today, however, when he’d seen her entering their village, something inside him snapped.

First, he found a list of medications contraindicated for Long QT Syndrome. The very first item on the list was amiodarone, and though he’d taken hours to research the other options, he’d decided this would be the easiest to get and the easiest to administer without getting caught before it took effect. He would dose her, then take her to receive medical care once she’d collapsed. He knew her parents would want her to have the surgery; when better for such a thing to occur?

Breaking into the human ambulance had been easy, and he already had his darts at his disposal. He’d bet, correctly, that she would resume her old habit of flying in the meadow in the early mornings. 

But Atmos had not expected her to deteriorate so quickly. Or for him to freeze with panic and remorse as soon as Deirdre retreated into the trees and collapsed in Archer’s arms. And he most certainly had not expected this.

After the discharge of ánh, her heart rate had not gone back to normal. It did not even continue its ineffective beat. Deirdre’s heart stopped. And Atmos made himself watch as the fae medics forced oxygen into her lungs and pumped the oxygenated blood around her body. Harsh and ugly, the procedure left purple marks on her chest. The medic’s gloved hands shoved rhythmically into Deirdre’s naked chest, her sternum sinking deep. The motion displaced air, organs, and tissues, pushing her chalk-white stomach up, rounding it out over and over again, her belly button riding the crest of that artificial wave. Each hard compression bent her shoulders slightly toward her collarbones and made her nipples sway back and forth. Her thighs trembled and her feet rocked side to side. Her hands, fingers curled limply toward her palm, moved incrementally with each thrust.

Even from his position, he could see the discoloration of her face, her lips slack around the endotracheal tube the medics inserted. He could see the way her body grew gaunt and her hair paled and her wings crumbled.

I’ve killed her.

There would be punishment, though he couldn’t imagine it would be anything worse than this.

The human man regained consciousness, his grief telegraphed by the set of his shoulders and the way he pulled her hand into his stomach, as though to soothe the hurt he felt deep inside. Atmos heard the man speak: “WHY?!”

Without thinking, Atmos answered: “I am a fool, and I did not believe it would kill her.”

The answering sound could have been a sob or a laugh; either way, it was ugly.

Before either man could speak again, the tone of the cardiac alarm changed and Dr. Eḥāyi called out: “Pause compressions, ten second analysis!” Her eyes stayed on the monitor as multiple hands pressed to Deirdre’s ravaged skin. Green, white, and pink light spread across Deirdre’s body.

“V-fib!” Dr. Eḥāyi’s voice betrayed her excitement. Sertse and Imala resumed CPR. “Charging the defibrillator to three-hundred sixty…”

The human doctor reached for his brother. “Archer, you can’t touch her while they—”

A bright blue light burst from the center of the semi-circle, cutting off the doctor’s words. Deirdre’s back bowed, arching off the forest floor. Sertse and Imala both jerked and fell back, mouths open in a silent cry. Her ánrhen, Archer, seized up, his head falling back as his arms tensed. Connected to Archer by a hand on his arm, Dr. Neal followed suit, his eyes rolling until the whites of his eyes showed. The light brightened to near-blinding, and then it snapped off as suddenly as it had appeared.

One by one, Sertse, Imala, Archer, and Asa collapsed to the ground beside her.

The forest fell silent.

--

Part Six

[several-geese-in-a-trenchcoat]

Some days, it almost seemed like that relentless rain could be enough to wash away the perpetual layer of grime, coating the streets.

But of course, Andarn never rested. There was always new work to be done, new creation, new waste created out of the pursuit of something greater. Waste sent to the slums to rot.

Io had learned that fact by heart, now. These slate-grey, winding streets were their home; a cage with full view of Andarn's upper levels. Sterile white façades, winding arches, buildings intended to be works of art rather than anything practical. Unfading and eternal, while the runoff collected and festered below. Their crutches struck out a steady 'click-click' against the pavement, the raindrops gliding down the black metal, the same metal that covered their reptilian face and hands in a cold carapace. Their destination? Tenement 4, 21st Road. At least that was what the faded, dented road signs had told Io; to them, the streets had no name.

Their patients would be waiting in their rooms above as they pushed open the creaking door. Stepping into the fortunately-functioning elevator, the hum of its ancient pulleys accompanied them upwards. Yet another taupe-ish grey hallway, yet another door. Five sharp knocks, a distinct lilting rhythm. --------------------------------------- The pale and drawn face that greeted them didn't even bother with pleasantries. "Please! You have to help him-" Io raises a clawed, mechanical hand. "I thought that was what we agreed on." they snap. They practically push past the woman, heading straight for the wrinkled mattress behind her. A slight silhouette laid, a boy of around nine or ten, curled up on its surface; mousy brown hair, half-lidded eyes. It didn't take long for those glowing camera-eyes to find the source of the boy's lethargy. A jagged laceration on his calf, angry red flesh already oozing pus. "Hello? Can you hear me?" No response except for a faint groan. Io presses a frigid hand to the boy's forehead, earning a slight hiss. An almost blistering heat. "How long has he been like this? How did he get injured?" The mother, previously in bated silence hurried to answer.

"Maybe two days, or three...he said he got it from a piece of broken glass." The kneeling figure before her nodded, muttering something to themselves. Then, they shrug the pack off of their uneven shoulders, slender fingers extracting a bottle of antiseptic and a wicked little blade. "What's that for?!" came the now-panicked voice behind them. "Lancing the infection. I will be very quick." Rubbing the antiseptic liberally over their own hands and then the wound, that little blade dove swiftly in and out; with three sharp movements, that angry, festering flesh had been cut away, leaving something raw and bleeding in their wake. They dab at the blood with a piece of gauze, using a little hooked needle to place a neat row of sutures. The boy's quiet groans and hisses of pain were muffled by his lethargy, and now they slowly subside. They slip the dirtied tools inside a plastic bag, setting it aside before cleansing their own hands once more. Two bottles were handed to the mother. "Antibiotics for the infection- one pill per six hours. And... an infusion for his fever. Use the droppers to administer the dose- one drop every four hours until the fever comes down. Monitor him carefully, and let me know if anything goes amiss." "Th-thank you! How much will that be?" Io looked at the woman blankly. "Ten credits." "Ten-?" "I'm a doctor, not an extortionist." they snap, pushing themselves to their feet gingerly. Crutches thudding against the ground as they take one step then another back towards the door. "Hopefully, I won't have to see you again." And the text, thanking Io for making that boy better again, meant more than a wad of cash ever could.

[letstalkaboutfandomsbaby]

Gonna write some angst/comfort based on my chemo days

Bald, weak, constipated. It could be a lot worse. It could be terminal. Of all the cancers she could have gotten, this was one of the best.

Hodgkin's lymphoma, stage IV. It started with swollen bumps above her clavicle. She's glad she listened to Nanami when he insisted she go to the doctor. Who knows how bad things could've gotten if she had ignored it like she wanted to?

So many fucking tests. Bloodwork, bloodwork after starting an antibiotic, an ultrasound, a CT, another CT, a biopsy, a PET scan, another biopsy. The whole process took a couple of months. She was going to the doctor almost every week. She hated missing work for an, at the time, unknown diagnosis. She hated giving an excuse for being gone. She hated not having an explanation.

But now she was here, being treated with Vinblastine, Nivolumab, Dacarbazine, and Doxorubicin. The doxo was supposed to be hard on her heart. That's why the port was implanted in her chest. That's why she needed an echocardiogram before treatment. That's why she developed severe tachycardia and needed a beta blocker.

"It's okay," Sunny told people, told everyone. "I'm doing okay."

Was she really? She was taking it better than Kento, that much was certain. The first time he cried in front of her was when he helped her shave her head. Her hair was so easy to pull out now: she said she couldn't take it. Bald would be better, easier for her. She'd rather hide her illness as best as she could.

It was hard though. It's hard to arrive at work with a shaved head and not get questions about it. She told people, if they asked why. They were all shocked, but supportive. "Are you okay?", "Do you need anything?", "What's the prognosis?" She answered them like clockwork. She reassured everyone that she was fine. She was fine, really, don't worry.

She had to admit, though, she was tired, so so tired. Fatigue was normal with her treatment, but God, it felt unbearable sometimes. She came home early from work sometimes when she was too exhausted. She took naps on her days off. She went to bed before 7pm most days.

The symptoms were to be expected, but knowing that something will happen doesn't always make it easier. The hair loss was easy enough: she'd shaved her head before. But then there was the fatigue, the constipation, the inability to sleep for the first few days after her chemo. There were nights she slept for two hours and spent the rest of the time wide eyed, staring into her phone. Nanami would constantly tell her to wake him up when that happened, but she was stubborn. "It's fine," she'd say. "I want you to get some sleep."

Chemotherapy was always on Fridays, since that was her day off. She didn't want to miss more work than she needed to. They'd arrive at the office, pick up prescriptions for steroids to keep her going after treatment, go to the treatment area. Her nurse was so nice, so kind. Sunny adored her. At the end of it all, she gave her a gift card for treating her, as if the nurse did it out of the kindness of her heart instead of just doing her job. Sunny didn't care. She loved that nurse like another mother.

Find a chair, get comfortable. For the first several appointments, Nanami would bring her a special pillow and blanket to lay with, maybe even a stuffed animal. He was surprisingly upset when she stopped bringing them along with her.

"They have blankets and pillows there. We don't need to bring our own. I'll be fine."

That first appointment was new territory for both of them. Her port was punctured, blood was drawn for labs. Once the results came back, chemo would start. First, a dose of Benadryl IV, to help with any reactions. It always knocked Sunny out. Once that syringe was empty, she was curling up in her chair, ready for a nap.

Saline, so much saline. Sunny could taste every injection in the back of her throat. And then the chemotherapy started. Four different drugs over three to four hours. Sometimes her port was clogged and they needed to inject Activase to break up the clot on her port. "It's because you're so young and healthy," the nurse would tell Sunny, and it always made Sunny laugh. Nanami loved her laugh.

That first treatment was scary. They didn't know what to expect. When the first drug was being injected, Sunny became uncomfortable. "My bones ache," she said, and Nanami panicked, getting the nurse. The side effect subsided, but the fear was still there. Nanami stared at her for the entire treatment, looking for any other reactions.

The next Monday, she went in for a shot. "It helps with your immune system," she was told. It was routine to do it within three days of treatment. She would always go in late to work on the Mondays after chemo because of that. She hated it.

When Nanami got a call from her work the next week and they told him she passed out, he panicked. He rushed to her office without a second thought. An ambulance was there, a firetruck. EMTs were taking her vitals, urging her to go to the hospital. She just wanted to go back to work.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "I'm fine now, I feel fine."

Her coworkers made her take the rest of the week off, to her dismay. Nanami worked from home that week to keep an eye on her.

It wasn't until after the second treatment that she started losing her hair. It was innocent enough at first, more strands being lost in her brush or the shower, but then it turned into handfuls. That's when she wanted to shave it.

"I can't take it. I just want it gone."

So, Nanami pulled out his trimmers. She sat on the toilet seat and he shaved her head, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn't care less that her hair was gone, but now she couldn't pretend she was fine anymore. When the long strands were gone, she was able to rub her head and pull her hand away covered in small hairy stubs. She thought it was so silly. He didn't share her amusement.

Chemotherapy became their routine. He'd bring treats for her, a soda, a pastry, and he'd sit beside her as she went through treatment. Sometimes they would bring soft pretzels or donuts for the staff. Sunny would make sure to include the lab workers who were often forgotten when it came to treats. She loved them just as much as the other staff, and they loved her.

Sunny was a wonder to Nanami. She always remained so positive in the face of adversity. She always looked on the bright side. She always tried to cheer people up. She'd talk to the staff and other patients. "What kind of cancer do you have?" That was always her first line. She was just so curious about others.

Treatment seemed to get better over time. No more strange reactions. She learned how to deal with her symptoms. "I'm fine, I'm okay," she always insisted, and Nanami was starting to believe her. Maybe she was okay. Maybe she would continue to be okay.

Six months later, she was in remission. No more cancer, no more treatment. They threw a party since her last treatment date was just before her birthday. Might as well celebrate both.

And now here they were, back to normal. Her hair was coming in nicely, softer, thicker, curly. Nanami thought it was cute. He thought it suited her.

There was just one thing he couldn't get over.

"I understand if you want to break up with me," she had said at the beginning of her treatments. "The chemotherapy might make me infertile, and I'm more likely to get cancer again in the future. I know you didn't sign up for that, so I get if you want to end things."

"Why would you say that?" he asked, heartbroken. She shrugged.

"I'm just trying to be realistic. What if I can't have kids? What if I get cancer again and it's worse than before? What if next time it's terminal? I don't want to put you through that."

"Don't say things like that." He grabbed her hand, squeezing it. "I'm not going to leave you because of things like that. I love you, and infertility or recurring cancer won't change that."

"But—"

"No. Don't. I would never do such a thing. Don't you dare think like that again."

She quieted, giving him a look as her nurse set up her next chemo drug.

"I think you've got yourself a keeper, hun."

Sunny glanced at her, then back at Nanami, and smiled. She squeezed his hand back.

"I do."