#and this was very much a coping mechanism

[l-in-the-light]

This cultural mechanism of denying humanity of certain individuals (most often villains) has a name. Rene Girard wrote about it in his book called The Scapegoat. I tried finding ANY reblog of this post which actually mentions this, but despite scrolling through at least half of reblogs, I couldn't find it, which means even if someone did point it out then it still went pretty much unnoticed.

We all know who or what a scapegoat is. It's that thing or that person, the root of evil, the source of chaos, the troublemaker, the trickster disrupting the long established safety and order (which is, ofc, the ultimate good). If you only get rid of the problematic individual, everything will be okay again. That's how it works. But there's a problem with it. There's never one scapegoat. After one comes another, and another, and another, till you get hundreds and thousands of them and you can't fit them in one neat grave or prison anymore. They keep coming and there will be more and more of them, this will never stop, because it's a cycle. A cycle of violence. If you really want for "things to be okay", you need to break that cycle, instead of finding YET another scapegoat, yet another villain to bury for all of our sins. By sacrficing another villain, another victim, another scapegoat on the altar of society, you only support the cycle to keep on going.

Yes, you heard me right. Villains are scapegoats. But victims ARE scapegoats as well. Anyone we forcefully silence and refuse to give agency to is the scapegoat. The homeless, the LGBT, the mentally different, any disabled people etc. Anyone who fits into a very broad category of "otherness". But here's the catch. Because this category is so broad it's very easy to become that "other". That's why people are willing to go to extreme lengths just to make sure no one sees them as "other". They will deny their disabilities, they will deny they're not like those "others", they will even deny their own struggles, just to fit into the safe mold of "normal". And if you silence yourself just because you're afraid you might be the next one victimized or villainized, you're also a scapegoat, btw. Your inner life and self-consistency is the sacrifice on the altar of society that doesn't care if you actually have a heart. All it cares about is for you to make sure you're "normal", which has a very murky definition too. Who's normal? The one who acts like the majority of others? The one who has the applause? (applause can be shortlived and depends on trends, it's dangerous, you're dancing on the edge). Every time we see someone as the "other" we judge, we're scapegoating them. Yes, all of us, by succumbing to our fear of being judged, contribute to this mechanism. Otherwise the seams of the society might fall apart and we can all turn against each other, we can rip apart the system, they warn us of anarchy, you might get killed in the middle of the street, there will be no police to guard the order, no prisons to keep the bad eggs away from you. Stay quiet, endure, it's for the safety of all of us.

No one should have to carry that weight of the whole world on their own shoulders. Not like this. But we do, every single day.

We're all capable of being bad people and often are. But we also all want to believe we're good. People think if someone didn't get love there's a reason of why they didn't receive it. That belief didn't come out of nowhere. It's internalized violence and judgemental mentality. You prefer to doom someone else as long as it saves yourself from being doomed. You're not only hurting others with it, but YOURSELF as well in the process. You get rid of your true empathy for others, you decide whose pain or suffering is the one "worthy" of acceptance and which is not and needs to be condemned. You can't afford that empathy for anyone else than you after a while, after all you live in constant, silent fear of "being next" if you just stop for a moment and look too long at the scapegoats buried around you. And what you fail to see is that you're also a scapegoat. If we all accept each other and ourselves as "others", if we're all just different people and no one is normal anymore, will this finally break the cycle?

You want to feel like a good person? Of course, we all do. But you can't achieve that if you're too afraid to look into the abyss/mirror and realize you also do bad things. You also need to redeem yourself. You can do better, but it's not easy. You know what's easy instead? Finding a scapegoat and blaming them for their own misery. Literally requires no work, the world will applause you and all you need to do is repeat same words after others. The mechanism works like a perpetuum mobile at this point, it will mostly do this job for you. Just take a stand, deem the villains, blame the victims, ignore the struggles and pain of others.

But here's the catch. If you're too cold, you're also gonna be judged and called a psychopath. That's also a no-no, you're becoming the unacceptable "other" again. You have to show, in specific, allowed circumenstances, that you feel sorry for others. That you know how to choose the "right" side. That you understand "good" needs sacrfices and sometimes you're even expected to cry for them. And if you see those sacrfices as not-human "others", it's easier to accept it all.

Many people claim how scary it is to face certain truths, like "victims can turn into villains too", but the real truth no one wants to face is actually this: we allowed this to happen. We allowed the villains to be formed, all of us. Every time we engage in judgemental actions, every time we police someone dealing with their pain "in wrong way", every time we call someone "born evil". Every time we point a finger and call someone a villain, a victim, a barbarian, the other. By doing that we trap them in endless world of pain and suffering and abuse. They also want to be out of that cycle, but we keep trapping them, by silencing them and adding our own narrative on top. They suffer for our sins. Because they're our scapegoat, the sacrifice we made to keep on going, thinking how good this world is and how much worse it could have been, just look in the right places. Just don't look at the scapegoats too long. They corrupt. Maybe their otherness is even contagious, so stay as far away from them as possible.

You're allowed to be mad about this, btw. Anger is a neccessary emotion, it points at injustice done to you. But the society wants you to throw that emotion away and supress it, so you're tamed and silenced. It might even create a "safe space" to vent it out, by encouragig you into physical activities or taking part in some entertainment, so you can lose your steam in a way that doesn't challenge the system. It's a distraction. (the point here isn't to condemn sport or popculture btw, it just serves as an example, ok?)

All communities work like this. We're all trapped in endless cycle of violence. We bury endless scapegoats under our communities, they become our foundations. After all, nothing unites different people better than finding a common villain, it's us (the good) vs them (the evil). Wait, did I just say "different people"? But we're supposed to be all the same! No, that's a myth. We were all always different. We just have to choose who is "more different than others", so we can unite ourselves against them.

You know what that reminds me of? "We're all equal. But some are more equal than others". Animal farm was about power structures. By accepting easy scapegoats, by abiding to this mechanism, we support the power system that oppresses us. Think about it. Our civilisation is build on this and it would not thrive the way it did without the scapegoats.

And all of you blaming christianity for this instead, you need to understand one thing. What Jesus taught was actually the reverse of scapegoating. “Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her”. This is literally Jesus telling people "you all have sinned, so why are you judging them if you don't judge yourself?". What you all mean by christian/puritanist beliefs is how christianity got distorted and institutionalized into a power abusing system called religion. Swallowed up by what it tried to fight against. Always identify the actual source of abuse, instead of doing more scapegoating. I'm in no way inclined to defend christianity (not in the form it exists now), but also if we keep on muddling the truth we will always make the same mistake, so, always dig deeper to avoid it. Thank you.

not to post even more Villains Discourse on main but it really bugs me how people read giving villains tragic backstories as inherently excusing their actions and/or demonizing trauma survivors.

the actual message of Tragic Villains is (almost) always “people who are never taught or given any healthy, constructive outlets for their emotions will often find unhealthy, destructive outlets.” it’s that people who are traumatized and never learn how to cope with that trauma can become a danger to themselves and others. the message isn’t “trauma makes you evil!!!!” or “genocide is okay if you’ve been sad before!!!!” it’s “people need compassion and help to recover from trauma instead of becoming increasingly angry and harming themselves and others in the process.”

this site takes an alarmingly behaviorist and punitive approach to everything and it’s literally the most annoying thing. y’all have this concept that “if we just punish people hard enough, if we just scare them enough, if we just make them feel guilty enough.” that people just Do Bad Things Because They Do Bad Things, I Guess, and Because We Didn’t Threaten Them And Shame Them Enough. but humans are an innately social species. at our very core, we need compassion and kindness. we need healthy relationships with other humans.

you can keep looking at traumatized villains and being like “haha this dumb pathetic sadboi thinks murder is okay because his parents died” but as a survivor myself, unaddressed/untreated trauma absolutely can make you ragey and destructive. i was lucky enough to have support and eventually get the treatment i needed. but it’s not hard at all for me to imagine how, if that hadn’t been the case, that could’ve been me. obviously not on a movie-villain scale like murder or war crimes, but it’s so irritating as someone whose trauma has always manifested as anger to watch people on this site be like “this is just bad writing!!! real survivors/good survivors don’t end up like that the writers just hate survivors and want the audience to condone murder!”

[8thhousekat]

struggles of having a 8h dominant chart

From an 8th houser ✌️

Tw: SA, abuse, neglect

🕷️we have resting bitch faces and look mad all of the time

🕷️we had to raise ourselves and it caused us to have unhealthy coping mechanisms

🕷️we don’t trust easily

🕷️the paranormal is drawn to us (a little too much)

🕷️we experience losing the people we love most way to often

🕷️people come into our lives as lessons or vice versa

🕷️we have a sexual aura about us when we aren’t even sexual at all

🕷️again the sexualization 😐

🕷️people randomly tell us their deepest darkest secrets 😭

🕷️we are always find out if people are lying to us

🕷️personally I really struggle with letting items go??

🕷️grudge holding and vengeance until I die✌️

🕷️we will read you like a book

🕷️experiencing a lot of near death experiences

🕷️attracting animals they just feel safe with us

🕷️being treated like an adult way to young

🕷️our mothers are very cold towards us or older woman in general

🕷️Scorpio placements 😭 are attracted to me like flies ( I love them tho they make me feel safe)

🕷️ the emotional repression for 5 yrs comes out on a random Tuesday

🕷️loving people on the line of hate

🕷️as a child seeing spirits everywhere

🕷️we are really loyal people especially in relationships/friendships ❤️

🕷️random haters out of nowhere

🕷️people make up rumors about us really easily (this one time I moved schools suddenly and people started saying I died?? Like wtf)

🕷️we have intense stares we deadpan people

🕷️a lot of us were neglected really bad growing up and abused 😔

🕷️being hard to get to know🕷️

🕷️issues sleeping

🕷️intense anger 😭

🕷️the BETRAYAL really gets outta hand people gotta do better

🕷️experiencing awful jealousy from others

🕷️being hard to manipulate ❤️

🕷️no one really knows us but they know us if that makes sense

🕷️we are paranoid 100%

🕷️we have horrible intrusive thoughts

🕷️We love scary stuff

🕷️there’s stuff that has happened to us that if we said it out loud no one would understand the severity

🕷️mental health is either amazing or horrible no in between

🕷️randomly wanting to change your appearance? We always have urges to go through transformations because we constantly are 😭

I hope you guys liked this it’s just from my experience and what I’ve noticed 🙏

[aropride]

fascinated and distressed by chase's disordered relationship with sexuality + his emotions abt his own trauma & abuse

thru the beginning of the show he doesn't even realize he's hot despite being objectively attractive. when he finds out he's hot he then realizes people pretend to be interested in him as a person in order to have sex with him and gets super upset about it

he starts having a bunch of meaningless sex as a coping mechanism when cameron leaves him. and also a lot of other times. whenever something bad happens, basically, he starts going out with a bunch of women, just to feel something, presumably

^to the extent where hes known within the hospital as a slut. and has had sex with an insane amount of nurses. as well as presumably women who are not at his place of work.

he says doing this made him hate himself so he stopped. it's the b-plot for an episode and then he's back having meaningless sex again by the end of the episode

even his coworkers know this about him. and have called it out, masters even says she thinks he doesn't respect women bc, in her words, he's with a different one every few days or maybe he finds comfort in meaningless relationships

goes back to having meaningless sex within weeks of getting stabbed. which is really bad for wound healing reasons too. genuinely it seems like such compulsive behavior for him considering he keeps doing it even when its objectively not only a bad idea but actively dangerous

house even directly says he's "a serial slut" because he's "terrified of intimacy." incredibly accurate assessment

his relationship with his sexuality reads so heavily as someone who thinks they're not good for anything else

see also: dissociation & avoidance

we know he has a lot of trauma especially in childhood- he never really gets into it let alone into how he Feels about it but what we know is already bad & that's just the stuff he's okay with sharing with his coworkers or patients

in general he's very avoidant of his own trauma- when he gets stabbed he says he "can't change what happened, can only make better choices from here" as if it was his own fault, and refuses thru the whole episode to acknowledge that being traumatized by this would be a really normal reaction that he is definitely having. instead he just blames himself

also, he dissociates from traumatic things that happen to him - says "there was a stabbing" rather than "i was stabbed" for instance

when he's talking abt his childhood trauma he does it in a very similar way - he talks about it very bluntly and doesn't ever get into how he actually feels about it.

see also: dr. fawn response

general passive willingness to go along with anything- when cameron says they should have sex in s3 he's surprised and then he just kinda goes along with it. not bc he didn't want to bc he obviously did, but he's just generally very much someone who does whatever other people want him to do. i feel like he and cameron both tend to seek validation thru sex in an unhealthy way that i'm still gnawing on like a dog with a bone i have to go rewatch s3 to really articulate it though

he has a sort of desperation for praise and approval especially from anyone he views as an authority figure. he does whatever authority figures tell him out of this idea that it'll bring him approval and therefore safety

like no matter what house does or says to him he doesn't argue or retaliate or anything. even when house punches him he collapses on the ground in pain and then just keeps talking about the patient like nothing happened.

the scene in 3.10 after house punches him where he's in the ddx room and house walks in and throws the file at him and chase is startled and tries to pretend he's not. and he looks up with this huge fuck ass bruise on his jaw swallows heavily and pretends not to be upset. and house asks if he got that looked at as if he wasn't the one to give it to him and chase just swallows and says he's fine. dr fawn response :(

[push-the-heartbrake]

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

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

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

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

Word count: 14.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you by any chance from Russia?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captivating, right?” you quipped. 

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

You didn’t look like either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” he replied shortly. 

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin. 

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

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

“A few.” 

“More than one?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too crude of a word for you?” 

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

“I listened to The Kick Inside.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t necessarily lie—” 

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

He waited, silent and expectant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kidnapped in his own home?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duty calling?” you asked. 

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?” 

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

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

You held your breath as he gathered himself. 

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Restless and impossible, the situation was. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look very pretty.” 

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

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

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

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

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

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

“Drugs and that?” you filled in. 

“Yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, that could work.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rude?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly. 

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

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

[k9emote]

"Commonly" Is something said all the time with medical claims due to the fact that the brain really is a mystery, and there are always exceptions. (Very very far and few between. Not thousands upon thousands.) It is also commonly said so that doctors can stay out of trouble if they claim something to be 100% and then by some way they are proven wrong. They want to stay away from being offensive to avoid repercussions. It's seen in a lot of disorder or symptom explanations, even when exceptions aren't prevalent at all.

It is simply the way that the symptom works. Endos have never presented me with a medical reason their mind could split into two just because they wanted it to (as most endos claim.) Or during adulthood when their identity has already formed. It is possible however to not be aware of your system until you are an adult, but that would mean it formed by trauma as a child.

The human brain develops an ego/identity between ages 5-8(ish). If there is intense or repeated trauma occurring, the brain may divide and dissociate to protect the child's mind from complete destruction. There are MRI charts backing this up. See them here

Literal physical evidence of the system reacting inside of the brain, caused by trauma.

Yes, there are religious beliefs that involve pluralism; and that is not my right to speak about it, but if you are apart of the many endos who has watered down "tulpa" to separation from religion entirely, you don't get to speak on it either. It is not my right to decide if religious pluralism is valid or not, but I will say that it is not at all comparable to the OSDID system's functioning that endos mimic.

There are always exceptions. However; that does not mean that anyone has the right to fake a symptom related to a disorder and claim it is seperate.

Let's use this as an example. (My tone is not meant to be patronizing, I just communicate my thoughts better in metaphors.)

June has PTSD, and experiences horrible flashbacks daily. Molly sees this, and decides it would get her attention or would be fun to copy. Molly says you can have flashbacks without any trauma at all. While this COULD be possible in very FEW cases, it's definitely way too unlikely for many to experience it. Molly chooses to say she has flashbacks just because she wants to. This makes June upset, but then everyone starts doing what Molly does. Some say they have flashbacks because of trauma they made up. Some say they have all the symptoms of PTSD, but don't have PTSD at all. June becomes angry because her life and disorder has been watered down so much, that other kids with PTSD are also believing what Molly says, and get hurt or misled in the process. June is called the bad guy.

Endos describe to have systems in the way those with OSDID have it. They claim to have alters with roles, switches (caused by dissociation. A coping mechanism formed due to trauma.), triggers and more. They are directly copying every symptom of DID while claiming not to have it. Alters form to protect. Switches are caused by dissociation and amnesia. The amount of dissociation needed to form separate identities is intense, and cannot be willed upon you just because you want it to. They have invaded our spaces and terms, and have used medical phrases out of context to defend themselves.

Dissociation in itself is a coping mechanism. It is not something that happens just because. If you claim to be a system, that means you experience dissociation and amnesia between alters, which can only be caused by trauma. There is no loophole out of this. It does not happen easily.

If you truly believe you are a system comparable to OSDID with no trauma, you are in a delusion or your mind has hidden your trauma from you.

Delusions happen. Trauma Amnesia happens. I am not saying every Endo is evil. I would have no problem with them if they were not such an invasive, abusive, and misinformed community.

Even if they aren't trying to mock or harm us, they are. Purposefully staying uneducated doesn't make it okay. You have obviously shown that you as well as a claimed endo system cannot respect simple boundaries, seeing as you have interacted despite me saying many times that I want nothing to do with any of you. Endos seek out blogs like mine to belittle and berate. I will be blocking you now as I'm not here to argue. I know what I'm talking about, as I've given my all to be completely educated, and I firmly believe you will either cherry pick and ignore my points, or attempt to prove me wrong with things that do not apply. That is what all of you do.

This about endo supporters.

[mrchaosman]

Three years of madness inside the palace is over now.

Howdy, happy new year everyone, I hope you're doing great today.

Welp, I just wanted to thank y'all for everything that you gave to me in 2024. It was a good times (and a bad times lol) so, I decided to do something for y'all for the love and happiness that you gave me, but first, let me tell you my story with this community.

Ahem.

In 2021, I was doing, like nothing, just being here, in existence, feeling a little depressed because I had, suddenly and out of blue, my little brother came to me and said: :DUDE, DELTARUNE CHAPTER 2 GOT RELEASED" and I was "Really???!?!??!?!" I opened up YouTube, Typed DELTARUNE chapter 2 and... it really released, like Damn, I never expected that. Later on, I got it on my cousin's phone (his phone is Glitchy is hell) and managed to finish it with him, and it was AWSAOME, and I really enjoyed it and loved it.

In 2022, it was the year that "secret bosses" would be a thing, and the first one that I saw was Lumia. If I remember correctly, I liked them, but not that much, like, they look decent, but still, I still like them.

Then I saw the immortal hydrangea, i believe that immortal hydrangea was the thing that made me believe that the Ch3 secret boss is a flower thing (or a flowey-like fella), I personally loved the it so much.

I also saw Huecycles's deltarune chapter 3 and her secret boss, Halojack, I really loved it a lot. back in the day when I was believing that Mike would be the main antagonist of Chapter 3 (not in a toxic way, I kept that opinion to myself, not telling anyone about).

Zet's Deltarune take was also so cool, i was a big fan of Helal, Occazio, and Billy Chance.

Then I discovered one of the coolest aus that ever existed, DELTARUNE: CHAPTER REWRITTEN, by the amazing and talented Winterer, which we got bangers like BIG BANG and BATTLE AGAINST THE WORLD, and honestly I find it very amazing and well-made, till, Y'know, some terrible has happened, like, The Winterer leaving the au and some other sucky shit, I don't want to go on details, you got the picture.

2023 came, and with it, more and more cooler stuff, and I can't mention anything related to the community without talking about Local h00ligan's DELTARUNE Take that with it, and it bunch of cool guys, Brandal C, Screepto and Fakres, and boy did I loved them, yup, I did, they are so cool, I personally liked Brandal more.

We also got one of the coolest deltarune chapter 3-7 takes, Vision Crew's Deltarune, by the coolest R.V Pine (who has blocked me on Tumblr), we got goobers like Tenna, Anne, Camellia, Hycrisik, Mentle Keeper, and Gonner and they all are amazing.

This year also marked the birth of the monster that we all know as "Woody Theory" by Spookydood on YouTube, which also leads of the Birth of thousands of "Friend Inside Me" images.

Deltarune: The Chapter in Sans and Papyrus' House, Sockswald, and other things dropped this year

While scrolling in Twitter, I found L1zardart1stre, who helped with some ideas in Deltarune: TCISAPH like Commander Dash, Friendo, and others, I also liked her secret bosses, and she is one of my main inspirations.

Sonic Theory also came out this year, and I really loved it a lot.

One day, while scrolling in Twitter, I found something, a fanart by L1zardart1stre, for a cowgirl holding a gun, I didn't know who she was and who was the made her.

Now I know who...

Tapes, Flowery, Petaly, Rosey the Revenger, and others, they all look very awesome.

However, I wasn't that happy at all. In 2023, I was actually suffering with some sort of mental illness that made me feel miserable in late 2023, and my cope mechanism was to talk to someone, I got tumblr like from long but didn't use it at all, the first person I talked in tumblr was Creepa, then Bluetheartblog (he also blocked me lamo) then I tried to talk to Emihead and Axniety but they also blocked me (I don't blame them at all, tho) and Mercair, Petra, Glitch and Grimm, and others.

And was the end of my merciless DMing spree and my stroy with this community, now, let's move on to the thanking part (I didn't draw anything for some of you, sorry).

Thanks, @creepa-b0t-inc . I'm really grateful for you and being an inspiration for me, I do love your work, and hopefully, one day, I can impress you

Thanks, @mercair . For being an awesome and cool friend and being there for me, and I really hope that you feel better and be happy

Thanks, @glitch-the-artist . I gotta be honest, one of the coolest artists I meet and befriended, and I really enjoy your work (especially Raily Roundup), and I hope you got the respect that you truly deserve.

Thanks, @petra-creat0r . A talented artist and a creative person, I enjoyed your little Fankids and your work. They all are amazing, and I wish you a very pleasant year.

Thanks, @imaginary-regret-608 . I really love your work, they all amazing, your Au are so good and very awesome, and i feel sad for that you don't get much likes, even the fact that your works are so good and well-done, and I hope people see how talented you are.

Thanks, @lostcausegeneralart . Another person who greeted me in this community, Grimm, is like one of the coolest people and friends I have ever known.

Thanks, Static. One of my earlier followers and friends, and despite acting very... immature and other things, but I still grateful for you and everything.

Thanks, @theauking . Despite that we didn't have many interactions, but I am still going to thank you.

Thanks, @sbtorms . I really enjoyed your Aus, and I am looking forward to seeing more of what you are cooking.

Thanks, @dinosaurstirfry . The fact that I saw one of your secret bosses long before i joined the community, you are so cool and amazing.

Thanks, R.v pine. Despite we have some bad interactions and that I was very much annoying, I still like your works.

Thanks, @quevod . Thanks for being an overall support and helpful.

Thanks, @bamthefox , I really don't have much to say, but I really love your goobers (especially the octopus girl)

Thanks, Bob, the coolest, awesome, and greatest friend ever. Sure, our first encounter wasn't that great (especially when I was still whining about it), but I still grateful for your advice and help.

And finally, thanks for @howlnessandresisaak3551 @roxroxtbm @shazos @kittblush @science2048 scrunchbug, Krispi, @huecycles @cheesyjester Boing @sepsis-tank @shrewdoodle @retropobor @marshiemonarch @jazminthegamer @missowo @temfling @cinnamonswirlsshadow Celtuft @uwacat @followerex funnyskelly, @ralk-is-peeved @leewayslounge LocalH00ligan

I love y'all

Now, time for the fanart.

[saoirseyun]

━━━━FIGURE IT OUT, MY BAD HABIT.

⸝⸝ x fem!secretary!reader

IN WHICH━━ beast!dazai can't seem to find himself to love you back any further than what you two currently have.

CONTENT WARNING━━ angst, emotional hurt no comfort, arguements, fear of commitment, lack of proper communication, manipulative behaviors where both parties may be at fault*, sick and or twisted narrations, unhealthy coping mechanisms, sexual imagery, proceed with caution.

AUTHOR'S NOTE━━ written for a fantastic writer, @moomuzan. definitely check out ella's works every now and then if you got the time to—swear on my life, you wouldn't get hurt :]

WORD COUNT━━ 1.7k words, proofread

—He's implicitly tense tonight.

Maybe much more tense than normal, you'd eventually notice. After how he's hardly safekeeping those stiff emotions in check, his face in itself was becoming all too transparent for the eye's witness; your boss—the leader of Port Mafia himself—Dazai unable to stabilize his own nerves.

Why can't he; why must it have to be now, of all times? A begrudge—horrible look to his expression that blur between such nervous eyebrows and lips, the more you stared, and the longer he hesitates. It dishearten you, of rigid sensations from Dazai's skin in itself despite coming to be used to such sweet specks from those fingers, his hands... Eyes were barely ever on yours either tonight—anxious. And knowing Dazai he isn't a man to subject the tenderness of the heart.... It's inevitable to say that it's foreign to observe, closely, he's failing breaths and tearing his own body apart in that brain. You loosen your own grasp of his hand, the way it trembles shyly little by little.

He pulls away last second from your kiss, the thumb lazing on your delicious lips strokes itself away as Dazai took a step back and stares downward to your pretty face. He's not so confident, where as taking the move without drawled backs or even regretting to take it as his own, sort of confidence. Especially the sudden pause in Dazai's maple eyes and just knowing you'll be too intoxicating for him, he'd think. Was all he ever thinks inching away from you. "Do you still know what you're getting yourself into?" Dazai ensures,

And this? Far too often has this happen, for god's sake. A damn hassle just to get Dazai convinced enough that he does maybe loves you the fullest of his heart.

"...Dazai-san, please, it's obvious enough." Bathed breath evaporates from those shaky, tired lips. Frustration felt against the once comforting closure with Dazai... your brows knit together. "I've already told you about it time after time, why are you reacting this way?"

"I only desire to make sure so."

"...You're my secretary, are you not? I don't know much about you yet."

When you've lean your head to the side and take a couple moments blindly admire his brown eyes. Only, to some degree frizzled with the liberal strands of his brunet hair in the way—oh naturally so, you'd take the sweet time fixing Dazai's unkempt front bangs. He, in himself, maybe can only do very much less as he fixates his watch on you.

"It can't be."

You say, softly, rather defensively. Touch for touch, you felt his body beneath your hand. "You weren't one to act so hesitant." Which can be said towards anything he does. You've come to learn his sweet little mannerisms and etiquette regarding anything. "So what is it, 'samu? What's gotten into your head?"

But asking that is the worst possible thing you could've done imaginable right now. Watch attentively now—the click of his tongue and slipping those fine digits off from yours.

"Listen, we..."Dazai stops himself. A flick of his slim hand off the delicate skin that is your cheeks, a shift to his demeanor. "We've brought this up a couple of times. I'm still sure of that... However, I—"

"—can't have myself falling in love like this. Nor could I even let you."

He'd reminded—ramble on how it's too dangerous for you to be this close this life more than only being his secretary. Strictly. You weren't going to stand right there and listen, were you? You two—you two can make it out! Have it work, it's proven. Time after time, you and Dazai only seems natural to become a couple. How could he say those kinds of words so casually? What kind of sick freak. Frantic to think for some sort of explanation before—

"And why not? It's as difficult enough to make myself come to admit all of... this! My love!" You weren't even anticipating those same insults to blurt out your lips. To the palpable air and terrible, terrible vibe. "Now you're right here in front of me, telling that you're not allowed?" A scoff, "You've kissed my mouth several other times before, held this hand of mine into yours and just keeping each other as close as possible..." ...It scares you to think. To think that, perhaps, nonetheless the times he had mutter delectable, sweet words to your ear in times of need—private rendezvous underneath rain's cover or the safety of his locked office space—Dazai's an all-talk attitude. Albeit having the kind of demeanor of a sicken, lonely freak who's quite the gentleman regardless in reality. You've come to know him deeper by now, delicate, close, genuine, raw. Yet here you stand in the moment—doubting your own head.

...Guessing that it could potentially even be what Dazai wants all along—playing, foolish through your head and loosen the guard of your own senses. And him? He was disappointed with the ignorant faces you're making, unaware. "Please, now, my precious bella. Don't think of me so lowly. I'm not like myself as... much as I would like today. Trust me, have a little faith in me?" For your beloved? Yes, yes. A thousand times—without second thoughts or barely some times to think it thoroughly more. Definitely. Now? What about now? You'd think, not at all. "...Osamu, you're not sugarcoating me into believing that. I hate it when you try sweet talk on me too, y'know!?"

"I'm not trying anything." He'd raise his hands in defense. Headlock a terrifying shiver to the ear and falling to his spine as Dazai frowns at your reaction.

And then, you're tense. Tenser than ever.

Now, he'll ask himself, what has he done wrong? Can't you get it? You agreed to make it casual too, nothing serious—thus nothing more. It harms the heart nevertheless of such nonchalant words and mentally damaging, that's the jist. For some reason you've felt truer affection for the Port Mafia boss.

He's right on the money. You never wanted committment either from the start.

"Just take a look at us! I mean, it's been some time since we've began to privately date one another and I'm coming to realize that maybe I belong with you." It was exactly... naïve-esque much to Dazai's expectations. That desperate almost glint in the reflection of your darling eyes and such insistence. Kind of blissfully unaware which makes it all come crashing down in a major offense. Sorry if it hurts you in a way, surely he would've thought too alongside that in his head.

"That right there... That is one major problem."

A direct slap to your face, is what it all felt him muttering those words coldly with the bare minimum to pause and... Think. Think about you. Of certain love. "You're only getting it in your head! Don't act so cowardly to it."

"...[name], what I'm doing is for your benefit to be safe and sound—out of every fucking mess I get into with Mafia work. Now it won't even be smart and get with me... What's it to you, stubborn woman? You're a mere assistant to me; You shouldn't be explicitly involved."

Must he mistaken you to a underling? Working for a year under the organization's belt, you stood by Dazai's side for more than a single 12 months... You've felt the heart gone to hell and return between conflict after conflict, an unending cycle of relentless violence, blood smudge to the floors and grounds until the building themself stink of death and rotten flesh.

It's vile.

You can't help the words your mouth involuntarily spoke out in rebel to Dazai's repetitive rejection. Perhaps you did, or even not— "We can still be together and have that same level of security!" Is what you argue. Maybe double—or triple is what an unrealistic dream seems to be, but it can't hurt and imagine sometimes towards on that.

It was in the heat of the moment specifically why you won't back down, however.

As much as temptation touches the heart of his in sound of that ideal life, the two of you knew that deep down, it remains as nothing more as an ideal for another life instead. It's dangerous, life-threatening. If he falls for you now, it'll all collapse under a swift gaze of brute enemies dying of bloodthirst. That's all, all he ever knew. Ponder longer and for once the mafioso might be able to snap out of frustration, agony. Pain to what can't be have in his bandaged hands or held even a fraction near his bruised wrists. In shock, Dazai didn't notice the insult your lips blurt out, failure to comprehend after thought. Better yet, why must Dazai wonder about the whole ordeal now—his problematic worries and indescribable hyperbole fears. The man would've overthink and handle the situation at hand with ease... Thus maybe resting another couple of bottles last night was not the brightest.

Without a second to talk back you take in the irritation. "...Actually, y'know what? I don't even know why I agreed to this relationship." But fine, it was fun and scandalous to mess around oh so unprofessional with the man who's status much stands higher than you, wasn't it? Don't lie. Enter the office and share a brief kiss, exchange little gifts every now and then but often suggest a quickie or two on the chair—maybe his desk that you just so happen to enjoy ruining out of pleasure and sadism.

You turn from Dazai. Facing the flat exit in view, only the heel of your feet readying to walk away.

"I'll spell it out, though. I won't get sick for who you are but instead for what."

"I know I'll be in your heart until the end." Dazai observes how furious you would've been, rushing out of the office at once. "...You'll miss me, but don't beg me, babe."

...It is what it is. After that very last time of an encounter holding him as if Dazai was truly nothing but your own, you'll quit; first thing in the morning, and that settles it. Regardless of Dazai's disapproval.

You can't help but wonder if he really did meant well.

postscript: i knew that writing this kind of dynamic could be delicate, complex, and or even complicated to write in a way the [narrator] can't stand on either side; a losing battle where neither are satisfied and feels unhealthy. i guess that's the appeal to stubborn, rehashed arguements particularly anyway. id want the reader make up their own conclusion.

~from south korea with love, 수빈

[creampuffqueen]

Hiii! I love your content and in my opinion you're such a funny and such a cool person!

I wanted to ask you if you plan on doing more yangvik headcanons? They are so funny to read and I absolutely love them!!

And I also just wanted to tell you how cool you are, Have a nice day!

oh my goodness thank you so much!! i'm glad you enjoy my content!

so, just for you, a few more yangvik headcanons i've been holding onto lately :3

kavik is a pretty average cook, but his real talent is baking

this is because he actually has a pretty big sweet tooth. yangchen prefers savories, but she's always willing to be a test subject for whatever new sweet concoction kavik is putting together in the kitchen

despite her terrible sleep schedule, yangchen's internal clock is almost scarily accurate. she's always up at the crack of dawn. might be the firebender in her

continuing talking about yangchen's sleep habits, she is the world's biggest blanket thief. she also drools in her sleep. kavik is of course her preferred source of heat, but she's also going to pile every available blanket on top of her as well

kavik's hair is very naturally soft, and yangchen really loves to play with it. she finds it quite soothing

this one has been alluded to in some of my writing but i like to think that yangchen smells like citrus fruits

yangchen actually sucks at playing sparrowbones. she doesn't understand it and cannot get the rules down for the life of her. this of course pisses her off to no end, and consequently provides endless amusement for kavik because he's finally found something she's not perfect at

yangchen has a habit of talking to herself. it's a coping mechanism she developed for her issues with her past lives, as a way to keep herself calm when she felt herself starting to dissociate. even when she's doing okay with her past lives, the habit still persists, and it's not uncommon to hear her muttering under her breath about anything and everything

kavik is a very sad drunk. yangchen is a very flirty and honest drunk. they have discovered they can't drink at the same time or else neither of them enjoys it whatsoever

yangchen and kavik love to spend as much time possible cuddling. they don't like PDA, so when they finally have privacy they pretty much spend the entire time touching in some form or fashion. they're basically glued together lol

and last but not least, i need to convert more people to the Glasses Kavik agenda. kavik gets some little brass reading glasses a few years down the line since he spends so much time reading small numbers. yangchen finds these glasses far more attractive than she's willing to admit

thank you so much for the ask! i hope you enjoy these!

[billiesbossanovas]

Letters

High school au

Warnings: angst angst angst, death, su!cide mentions, self harm mentions, relapse mentions. Please read at your discretion.

If anyone reading this, or reading any of my work, or just so happens to even read just the warnings, know that I’m always open for you to talk to me if needed, please take care of yourself and know that you are loved and cared for. <3

This fic is kinda me projecting 🙂‍↕️ (extreme exaggeration for some parts)

Natasha Romanoff x gn!reader

Not proof read

—

You, y/n l/n, are part of the popular group in school, just from being long time friends with Tony stark, he was in the football team, mvp every game, best player in the whole school, you grew up with him, went through all levels or school with him, though you are the very contrast of him, nerdy, you would rather be reading than running around getting all sweaty and dirty.

One of his friends had caught your eye almost immediately, Natasha romanoff, a charming, tall redhead, at first she had struck you as kind, she smiled at you in the halls, even stood and had a conversation with you one time, that soon fizzled out, you had no idea why, she just started getting rude, giving you off handed comments or just flat out ignoring you. But you shrugged it off, it wasn’t anything major, just enough to make you slightly uncomfortable around her.

You sat on the bleachers watching as Tony was practicing with his team, him being your ride home meant waiting.. and waiting.. and waiting. It was annoying but also got you out of the house for longer. It was hard at home, your dad being ill and your mom being.. well your mom, so being out of the house was the best thing for your mental state, Tony knew that, he was the only person who knew how much you’d been struggling, how much you hated being at home. Hated being anywhere. So he offered to take you to school and drop you back at home after practices. He didn’t know everything, not about your plans or how you’d relapsed a week ago and feel back into your self harm as a coping mechanism, but some things are best kept secret, even from your best friend, especially from your best friend.

Natasha came and sat next to you, knocking you back into reality and huffed, she rested her chin in her hands and looked over at you. “What are you writing?” She snorts and laughs as you scramble to close your journal. “You’re such a dork” she grumbles before leaning back and watching as the team practices. You shove your journal into your bag and move it onto your other side, Natasha watches it and scoffs “I’m not gunna look in your precious journal” it’s said in a mocking way, but you know she means it, she’s not invasive, never has been.

Tony runs over to the two of you and gives a confused look before tapping you in the leg with his foot. “Ready to go?” He’s out of breathe and extremely sweaty to the point his hair was sticking to his forehead.

“Yeah- yeah let’s go. See you later Natasha” you stand up and put your bag on your back, she gives you half a wave and waits for Clint, he runs over and sits next to her as you and Tony walk away.

“So.. you doing okay?” He asks as the two of you get to the parking lot, you hum in response as he slings his football boots and jersey into the back seat of his car. “I’m here for you, you know that right?” He looks at you over the car, you give him a tight smile and sigh.

“I know.” Is all you give him, he stares at you, its intimidating like he’s trying to get information out of you with a stare, he lets it go after a second and climbs into the drivers seat. “Hey do you know my Natasha suddenly hates me?” You get into the car and out your seatbelt on, Tony takes a second to answer and looks over at you.

He opens his mouth and goes to speak a few times before smirking. “Tasha probably just likes you” he starts driving, he’s going the long way home, he always does. You just nod and think about it, if she liked you why would she be mean, acting as if it was a chore to speak to you without insulting you.

“Nah. I don’t think so.” You respond, the rest of the ride is quiet, the only sound being the hum of the radio, Tony focused on the road and you just watching as the houses and trees blur into one big mess, your demeanour shifts as soon as the corner turns onto your street.

Tony notices the shift in your energy, and the miserable look on your face. “You could sleep over at my house, my dad wouldn’t care.” He offers, trying to ease you a little, the offers nice, it would be great to even have a single night away from home, but you couldn’t, it wouldn’t be fair. You need to do chores, make sure everything is okay in the house.

“I-I’m okay, I’ll be fine.” He pats you on the shoulder, and watches as you drag yourself into the house. The moment you step in, you hear your parents arguing, you don’t what it’s over, but they’re loud and now only really shouting insults at each other, it had been going for a while now by the sounds of it, all you can do is sigh before walking up to your bedroom.

Dinner is silent, your dad eating what he can manage from his plate and your mom glaring at you while you eat. You look up at her, she scoffs and takes her plate to the kitchen sink. “You know you could help out once in a while.” She starts, aiming the statement at you. “I’m sick of doing everything around here. You could at least wash the dishes- or do the laundry.” You Finnish your food and take the plate over to where she is. “But even then you’d probably fuck it up- why don’t you just go study- or talk about me to your friends. Seeing as that’s all you do.” She takes your plate from you and starts washing it, you turn around to walk away from her. “I never get any help in this house.” She gritts out through her teeth, making a pang of guilt filter through your body as you make your way upstairs to your bedroom.

A sigh of relief leaves your mouth as you close your bedroom door, you pick up your bag and take out your journal, sitting at your desk to finish writing your letters, the one addressed to you parents being the first one you finished, you had one for everyone you were close with, just for if anything where to happen to you, the one you struggled with the most was Tony’s. What would you even write to him, all you could write was ‘I’m sorry’ you’d work on it more later. Flicking forward a few pages you write a name down to start a new letter.

Natasha, you also didn’t know what to say to her, how would you write a letter for someone to read after your death, when they don’t like you, and you’re basically in love with them? You sighed and layed your head in your desk onto of your journal trying to think, you closed your eyes, maybe it would help. In the end you fell asleep ontop of your notebook, being woke up to your mother pounding on your bedroom door announcing Tony was here, and you needed to get of your ass and go to school.

Over the course of the next week, everything had gotten worse, Natasha constantly ribbing on you for writing all the time, To y started slowly pulling away as things with pepper started to get more serious, you were left to deal with your thoughts, and your parents on your own. Your dad had gotten worse, he’d been admitted into hospital which made home life basically hell as your mother raved and screamed about how useless you were, how you could do so much more with your life’s yet you spent it locked away in your room. While you agreed on the latter, you could be doing normal teenage things, going to parties, getting into a relationship. But you spent your time locking yourself in your bedroom, crying yourself to sleep after making yourself bleed, because that’s what you deserved, to feel pain. You were a shitty friend and child, so why not make yourself suffer even more.

The day your mother burst into your room and shouted “you’re so fucking useless, you can’t even wash the dishes correctly. If you’re weren’t here my life would be so much easier.” There was more to the rant, but that’s the part that stuck to you, that was your breaking point. When night time rolled around you finished the letters off, and packed them insulate into envelopes with people’s names on them. They’re out into your bag, and you leave the house at four in the morning, leaving the letter for your parents on your desk ready for whenever they decide they want to speak to you.

It’s cold out, the only thing keeping you even remotely warm being a thin zip up jacket, the walk to Tony’s house is weirdly relaxing, crickets chirping, wind rustling through the leaves, making you wonder if you actually wanted to leave this all behind, before you knew it you were at Tony’s door posting the letter. ‘This is the right decision’ was all you could tell yourself, justifying your plan.

Now it was Natasha’s place, you walk up to her house, to your suprise she’s sat on the door step with a cigarette in her hand as she takes a drag. “Oh I didn’t know you smoked.” You mutter out as you stand at the edge of her porch.

Natasha laughed and blew out smoke, she looked at you confused then patted the spot next to her, you gladly took it and sat down. “I didn’t know dorks snuck out at night” she smirks at you and flicks her cigarette out onto the grass. “What are you doing here anyway?” She asks with a sigh leaning back and looking off at the still dark, early morning sky, it’s clear, the stars are out it’s beautiful.

“The night is so calm..” you mumble softly as you look at her, “beautiful..” you don’t know if it’s about Natasha or the stars, she looks over at you. “Right.. here” you hand the letter over to her. “Just don’t open it until I’m gone.”

Natasha watches as you walk away from her, she looks at the letter, her name written in your unkempt hand writing. She opened the envelope with care and unfolds the lined paper.

‘Natasha,

Where do I start? Well for one I’m sorry if I’ve done something wrong to make making you pissed off at me. Quite honestly I took a liking to you i really like you, a lot. And maybe in another universe we could have happened, I would’ve been easier for you to love, for anyone to love for that matter.

I love you, I’m sorry. ‘

As she read the letter, you were already climbing over the edge of a bridge, your shoes off sitting next to your bag. You stood there for a while, watching the water, maybe someone would see you and pull you down. Maybe deep down you didn’t actually want this. No, you knew this is what had to happen, what would make everything right, make everything okay.

Your jacket blows in the wind, the sun just rising over the water, giving you a sense of peace, clarity even, the wind blows in your hair, a rush coldness shivers its way down your body, for a moment you stop and think, are you just being dramatic? What if this makes everything worse?

There’s running the distance, Natasha comes sprinting towards you. “What are you doing!?” She shouts as she gets closer, she stops behind you, you don’t turn around, but you don’t step off the ledge either. “Come back on this side- you don’t have to do this” she whispers watching incase you make a move.

“I don’t have to do anything.” You mutter in response. “I don’t have to stay or go. But this is my choice to make, and I’ve already made it..” you look back for a second, Natasha looks frantic, her eyes wide, her breathing heavy and fast paced, she takes a step forward.

Natasha spends thirty minutes trying to get you to come down, talk you out of it, anything. You always thought it would Tony in this situation, maybe in the back of your head, you decide this time because you knew he’d be asleep, wouldn’t get a chance to read your letter before you’d get to the bridge, you listen quietly as she pleads for you to come down.

You take your jacket off and hand it to her, she looks at you confused. “A-are you coming down?” She asks softly, she takes your jacket and holds onto it.

“Put it on” you mumble, now looking at the risen sun, the way the it’s making the sky purple and pink, it’s gorgeous, reminding of Natasha. She doesn’t bother pulling the zipper down. “I love you” you sigh out as you hear her fumble with the jacket, when it’s over her face, that’s when you take the step, Natasha’s scream is over run by the rush of the wind in your ears, your arms extend, for a second, it feels like your flying, like your dad is holding you up in the air when you were two, a smile makes its way across your face, it’s only lasts a second, nothing more or less.

Then you hit the water, you close your eyes, there’s no pain, no cold washing over you, no warmth, no tears, and for a moment, you’re happy, really happy, truly at peace.

And there was nobody to take it away.

[autisticfaun420]

I opened up to my mom about age regression

(if you are reading this and are new to my blog I am high support needs autistic and I already have childish interests please don’t say I’m infantilizing autism)

So first of all she kind of knew something was up with me, I brought my plushie with me to my disability day program. I showed her my blog, she said she hadn’t logged into my account to check yet so it was a surprise to her. First of all she was very proud and said I was brave for opening about some of my struggles and being so candid about it, I don’t know if it’s bravery or just autism making it so I don’t know what’s appropriate to share haha. Then I showed her my posts about age regression and how I learned about it here and was like, instant hyper fixation for me. I told her about how I never felt negatively infantilized by her and my dad almost never compared to people at school or strangers and I enjoy the connection we have when my parents kind of “baby” me the right way when they take care of my support needs. Like I need to have physical touch to calm me down and being cradled and my diaper changes are met with nick names, hugs and tickles, yeah very embarrassing I’m sure but whatever. I told her about “little space” and how I already enter it when she takes care of me sometimes and she said she always knew something like was going on but never pushed me or into it and made sure I was enjoying myself in those moments. She said if it would make me happy she and my dad would for sure be willing to help me out with little space. I told her that I want to take the power back from people who infantilized me negatively and assume I can’t think for myself by doing this and that surprised her but she said it made sense. I mentioned that I want to keep what independences and adult privileges I do have and I don’t want them to think I want this 24/7 and they said of coarse they will and I trust them. She had a talk with my dad real fast and they agreed to let me spend some of the money I saved up doing internet surveys, like a hundred dollars for an age regression starting pack essentially, my dad asked if this is really what I want and I guess the way I looked at him after and nodded made him believe me. My dad talked to me about how it’s important to keep my regression inside so others don’t get the wrong idea and I said of coarse and I shouldn’t do more then take my plushie with me in public and I agree. However I’m getting an adult sized bottle and pacifier, a mobile for my special needs cubby bed and a few fisher price toys. I am over the moon ecstatic and my mom said she’ll throw in the money for overnight shipping cause I earned it for using coping mechanisms when meltdowns could of gone worse lately.

I told them about pet regression too and they were still supportive of me being interested in it, they said they would feel uncomfortable with treating their disabled child like a pet personally and I can see where they’re coming from on that. They told me that one day I can find someone special to do that stuff with. As you can imagine dating is really hard with my level of needs but I’m not completely discouraged I’ll find somebody but that’s a post for another day. We did have a talk about how much I enjoyed being on an anti elopement harness and how I would pretend play as a puppy when out on walks with her, she said she knew had a feeling that’s what I was doing. Also I had my pacifier till 4 or 5 years and she said me giving it up was one of the hardest things she saw me go through and joked about it like I’m a drug addict about to relapse on it. I still have so many oral stims and use chewerly throughout the day so I think she has a point. Imagining what a paci would feel like in my mouth makes me feel so happy. I am just excited all around and can’t wait till tomorrow. For now my mom asked if I wanted some “little time” tonight and of course she said yes. We watched In the Night Garden on the big TV while she stroked my hair and cuddled when I normally only watch shows like that on my tablet as a form of stimming I guess. It was nice watching it where I could relax. I felt extra giggly at all the dumb stuff in the show, my friends describe it as an “acid trip” if that gives you an idea about what it’s like. My mom after the episode tickles me down and played games with me like I did when I was a little kid and I loved it. I started crying tears of happiness because I felt so loved I guess you could say. She teared a little bit too and told me every mother secretly wishes they could still baby their grown children so she said she had fun, I don’t know if it’s true or not but it’s a funny thought.

I feel so happy I wanted to write this out and share with you guys. I don’t know what else to say I think I wrote out enough. Now my mom wants me to get into my pajamas early I think she’s having too much fun with this but so am I and my dad is gonna run to get some of my favorite ice cream when I was a kid. I feel so lucky to have parents who can support my physical and emotional and disability support needs.

[sandraharissa]

Another thing that I like about the Silco and Jinx dynamic as I see it in s1 is how we see how Powder in act I was already very troubled but despite that it didn’t show much. Sure she sulked and messed stuff up but Vander seemed like he was not interacting with Powder enough to know anything bad was going on inside her head or that it even was a problem that she messed stuff up, like he’s never told it was specifically Powder who lost the loot or that it caused issues within the group, Vi handles the matter completely on her own. Vi seemed oblivious to the possibility of Powder having a meltdown, Mylo clearly doesn’t think his complaining does any damage to her mind or he'd stop/tone it down, if Claggor thought it was that bad you’d think he’d protect Powder more too. We get all these close-ups to her face and some quiet moments like when she separates from the group in the apartment or when she’s cornered at the docks or when she eavesdrops on Mylo and Vi and of course when she has her meltdown. We the audience have a way better understanding of just in how much distress she is non-stop and how isolated and helpless she is and how everything scares/hurts her. Just like it often is the case with ppl who are struggling, bcos most times she’s shy and polite and so ppl around her are unaware of how bad it is.

And then Silco’s treatment of her, spoiling her, lack of discipline or boundaries or consequences etc. in the long run exacerbated certain issues but I’d argue that it primarily just created an environment where she’s showing her issues way more than she did beforehand. Before there was an attempt to fit into society/her environment and act properly, like a normal person. Living with Silco, neither of these matter cos they don’t matter to him, he himself is an evil weirdo who doesn’t care if ppl like him. Combine the understanding/safe space with a new parent who encourages self-isolation/self-acceptance to the point of embracing your bad traits/maladaptive coping mechanisms and with her own overwhelming experiences and it’s not hard to imagine her early on while living with Silco simply changing her attitude and self-expression to be more honest and open and unapologetic to how she acted before. years later resulting in her outwardly exhibiting unhinged behaviors and even intentionally playing into her ‘crazy’ reputation for strength/advantage when before she was hiding/suppressing her issues.

It's heart-warming that she feels safe and understood with Silco and trusts him more than anyone else and is more confident than before. However her displaying her issues more than ever only to be enabled no matter how bad it gets would of course only result in the further deterioration of her behavioral/social issues. But it’s also not like Silco has the external means (psychiatrists on runeterra) or internal means (healthy mind, knowledge of mental illnesses) to actually do anything about her issues anyway. just like Vi/Vander didn’t have the means to help her in any way, they could never 1)figure out what’s wrong and 2)be able to fix it.

[all-pacas]

I’ve seen a lot of House MD 2024 headcannons and most of them always have Chase running like a social media account and posting thirst traps lol. What do you think about this ahaha

my first thought is literally “man is not smart enough for that” lmaoo (like don’t get me wrong chase is very Intelligent. but he’s also a dumbass. you can’t convince me he knows anything about the internet. EVEN in 2024)

more seriously… eh. i don’t actually think he’d… be that interested? for all that chase is a huge flirt who later evolves into a huge slut… we see him flirt with women. there's a whole episode about chase feeling genuinely hurt and re-evaluating himself after speed dating: he thinks he is connecting with the women he sleeps with, he is upset to learn this isn't the case.

that isn't to say that chase isn't still a huge slut who wouldn't have an opportunistic threesome, for example. but even in the wedding episode, we later learn that — although he's pointedly only searching for a hookup — he and his doxxer bonded and had a genuine conversation about john hughes movies; once again he keeps defaulting to actually wanting to connect with people, not just sleep around. (pointedly, chase also always calls it dating, not sleeping around, and we see him going on actual dates quite a lot.)

house says as much. a few times. my favorite is early in s7, because it sums it up:

HOUSE: […] Yes, [Chase has] been dating at a near-Clooney pace recently, but at this point, the only hole he's trying to fill is the one in his soul, which means it's the emotional connection with Cameron that he misses.

he wants to connect with people. he wants to have genuine relationships. let's not forget that he and cameron were together for three of the show's eight years, that chase's whoring around only happened after the divorce, that he misses being in that relationship, wanted very badly to get married and have kids and do all that. chase admits he doesn't like whoring around, doesn't actually enjoy it much (he uses the words "i was hating myself"), and the worst of it is confined to s7: he tapers off by the end of the season, doesn't seem to be sleeping around in s8… and then gets stabbed, sluts around town for a few weeks, and by his own admission stops entirely once he's no longer feeling quite so raw. chase's sleeping around is a coping mechanism, a symptom of being lonely.

now, would he still go for easy hookups if one presented itself? absolutely. would he in a modern au have tinder and use it frequently? you bet. but he wants the connection, not anonymous sex. he doesn't like speed dating, he doesn't like being wanted just for his looks, he wants to be loved like the big sopping idiot he is. he might try a thirst trap, but he'd hate himself for it (because it means anyone who responded was just interested in his looks and not his personality). but on the other hand… he'd still have sex with them, lmao. i think he'd try social media, have about a week of manic thrill and a ton of sex, then realize no one actually cared about him and grow disgruntled with the whole process. he just wants to talk about john hughes movies and sharks and parties <3

[lungsandlips]

"Cookies, cakes, full blown meals - don't put it past him. It's how he shows people he cares but it also doubles as a coping mechanism when he's sad or stressed. It's a whole thing." Izzy shrugged. It had become very normal very quickly once he was part of the waking world. "He's your great, great grandfather. Please call him old. He doesn't look it, but he is." Now he was just trying to cause trouble, but that was pretty typical for Izzy when it came to Silas or Dimitri though one was clearly more playful in spirit than the other. "He's also a twin, like you two, only we don't talk about that."

"Twenty minutes is a hefty amount of time for twins sometimes though, isn't it? Sorry, man. She's definitely the older sibling. But isn't being the younger brother more fun? It is for me." Actually, Izzy's relationship with Abi was pretty mature and she respected times when he didn't want to be treated like the typical 'little brother' so he couldn't say his experience was the same.

"I'll be right back with that - but I do want to hear more about Fox's poor choices. I've missed out on so much I need to know what's bad." He chuckled before heading back to put in their order, returning some time later when it was all ready to go.

He settled each burger and shake in front of each twin and sat back down. "Took my break, needed to anyway. So, like I said, I'm back to annoy you."

"He's the one who keeps makin' all those cookies that keep ending up at our place, right?" Fox inquired, already knowing the answer, but it was pretty funny that it had basically become Dimitri's calling card with most of the extended family.

"Being a twin's overrated, honestly."

Vivienne shot her brother a glare at the comment, but it was entirely for show, the twins clearly having grown up with the kind of close relationship that meant they had a tendency toward healthy banter.

"He's just jealous because I'm the older one," she shot back, hopping down from her seat at the counter and joining her brother and Izzy at the table.

"By, like, twenty minutes, so hardly," Fox retorted with a pout, his tone a little childish, which was met by Vivienne giving an equally childish yeah, yeah kind of gesture in return.

"I'll have the same as Fox," she replied to Izzy's question. "Can't really argue with him on what sounds good there. His taste in movies and video games, however..."

[mrvelocipede]

My old tea cozy was falling apart, so I have knitted a new one out of cotton yarn. The glass vase used to belong to one of my great-aunts. I wish my dropcloth was less hideously wrinkled, but I do not currently have the means to iron it.

[juniemunie]

[Abandoned by the Lightners, his heart became cracked with hatred.]

Hitting a lil' too close to home?

[kitamars]

oh no! more ginhiji