#but it’s a joy if you like piecing things together | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

1chaerry · 3 days ago

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somewhere in the past pt.3

summary: The world moves forward, but ghosts never rest. A familiar ship on the horizon. A name she has not spoken in years. A storm long overdue. Some things were meant to stay buried. Some things refuse to be forgotten.

c.w. : MAJOR SPOILERS for One Piece Film: Red, angst, mentions of violence, plot-centric, mentions of death,

Disclaimer: Reader is called "Saram" meaning "Human/Person"

Part 1 | Part 2

Flour dusted the countertop in a soft cloud, and bowls of ingredients sat neatly on the counter, waiting to be mixed. Gab was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and a bemused smile on his face as he watched the two of them. Saram, barely five years old, perched on the counter with her legs dangling, her bare feet kicking the cabinets beneath her. Her eyes were wide, gleaming with excitement, watching Lucky carefully as he worked.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Saram asked, her voice high-pitched and full of innocence, like she was seeking reassurance.

Lucky chuckled, turning the bowl in his hands and gently stirring the butter and sugar together. "Of course it will. You trust me, don’t you?" His voice was warm, comforting, and there was something soft about his grin that made Saram giggle, even though she had no real reason to doubt him.

Saram nodded eagerly, her small hands gripping the edge of the counter as she leaned forward. "I do! I do! But... how do you know it’s gonna taste like the cookies we always get at the market?" She tilted her head, scrunching her face up with the kind of curiosity that only children have—open, unfiltered, unafraid to ask the same question a hundred times over.

Lucky grinned, his eyes sparkling with a quiet confidence. "Well, kiddo," he said, "there's a secret ingredient. You see, it’s not just the chocolate chips... It’s the love you put into it. And that’s something you can’t find at any market." He winked at her, as if revealing some great mystery.

Saram’s eyes widened, the weight of those words sinking in slowly. Love? She repeated the word to herself, almost tasting it on her tongue. Love. It made her smile without even knowing why, like she had just learned a very important secret.

"And... and we’ll eat them right after they’re baked?" Saram asked, her voice breathless, full of anticipation. She could already feel the warmth of the cookies in her hands, the soft gooey chocolate chips melting against her tongue.

"Of course." Lucky added a bit more flour to the mixture, his hands deftly working. "Warm cookies straight out of the oven, just like we used to."

Gab chuckled softly from the doorway, watching the two of them with a fondness that softened his usually stoic expression. "You know, she’s gonna eat all of them, right?"

Lucky shot a playful glance at Gab. "No problem. We can make more tomorrow."

Saram gasped, her small face lighting up. "Tomorrow? We can make cookies every day?"

Lucky shrugged, an exaggerated shrug that made his shoulders roll up comically. "If you help me, we can make cookies every day."

Saram's laughter rang out like a bell, sweet and clear. "I’ll help! I’ll help!"

Gab shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I’m pretty sure you’re gonna end up eating more than you help, kid."

Saram stuck her tongue out at Gab, but her eyes shone with pure joy. She could barely contain herself as she watched Lucky scoop the dough onto the baking tray, her fingers twitching with excitement. "Can I try? Can I do it?" Her voice was full of eagerness, her little body practically vibrating with energy.

Lucky laughed and handed her a spoonful of dough. "Alright, kiddo. But just one. We don’t want to spoil dinner."

Saram took the spoonful and popped the dough straight into her mouth. The sweetness of the raw dough melted instantly on her tongue, rich and buttery, with just the right amount of chocolatey goodness. She closed her eyes and let out a small sigh, savoring the moment. "This tastes so good, Lucky! I’m gonna be the best cookie maker ever!"

Gab raised an eyebrow, his voice teasing as he said, "Well, then you’ll have to teach us your secret recipe, right?"

Saram blinked at him, her small face scrunching up in deep thought. "My secret recipe... is chocolate chips and sugar and love!" She giggled at her own simplicity, her joy contagious.

Lucky placed the tray in the oven, the soft click of the door closing signaling the start of the wait. He turned back to Saram, his eyes warm. "Now we wait. And when they’re ready, we get to eat every last one of them. Deal?"

"Deal!" Saram said, her voice loud and clear, her excitement radiating out of her like a little sunbeam. She hopped down from the counter, her tiny feet padding across the kitchen floor as she wandered over to the window, peeking outside at the moonlit ocean. The salty air wafted in through the window, mixing with the smell of cookies and making her feel warm all over.

"Can you smell that?" she asked, her voice soft now, as she stared out at the ocean.

Gab stepped up beside her, glancing out at the waves. "Yeah. Smells like the sea."

"No," Saram said, shaking her head. "It smells like... something nice." Her small voice was so sincere, so full of that childlike certainty, that it made Lucky and Gab both pause and look at her. "The sea, and the cookies, and all the things we get to do together..." She twirled around, her arms outstretched as if the entire world could fit inside that simple, perfect moment.

Lucky smiled, his heart swelling with something soft and tender, something he rarely let himself feel. "You’re right," he said quietly. "It smells nice."

"You're a good kid, Saram," Lucky said, his voice gentle but sincere. "You remind me that it’s the little things that make the world feel good." He fixed his goggles, leaning back and glancing at Gab with a small, almost shy smile. "I don’t think we tell you enough."

Gab raised an eyebrow, his arms still crossed. He stood taller, leaning against the doorframe, but there was a softness in his gaze that matched the light in the kitchen. "Takes a lot to remind us, doesn’t it?" His voice was quieter now, more thoughtful. "The way things get crazy out there, it's easy to forget."

Saram stopped spinning for a moment and looked up at them, her face serious and curious all at once. "What do you mean?" Her voice was small, but she still had a way of making the question feel big.

Gab’s expression softened. He stepped closer to the window, staring out at the night for a moment before answering, his tone a little distant. "I mean... sometimes, we forget that moments like these—quiet, peaceful ones—are important. We get caught up in other things. Things that make us forget why we care about what we’re doing, who we’re with."

Lucky nodded, running his hands through the flour-dusted countertop. "Life gets noisy, kiddo. But it’s the quiet moments that let us reset. That let us remember what we’re really working for. And it’s not just for survival, or for fighting the next battle." He gave her a playful wink. "Sometimes, it’s for cookies."

Saram’s eyes brightened. "Cookies are important," she agreed, a tone of seriousness in her voice that only a five-year-old could muster. She turned back to the window, her fingers trailing across the cool glass. She could still taste the sweetness of the dough on her tongue, warm and rich. It made her smile.

The sound of the oven timer suddenly rang through the kitchen, sharp and sudden, breaking the stillness. Saram’s whole body tensed with excitement. "It’s time!" She scrambled over to the oven, jumping up and down as she tried to peer over the counter.

Gab chuckled softly, his hands slipping into his pockets as he watched her. "I think someone’s ready to eat."

Lucky moved past Saram, his large hands reaching for the oven mitts. "Alright, alright, kid, step back. Let me do it so you don’t burn yourself." He slid the tray out, the warm, golden brown cookies now fully formed, each one with a perfect, slightly crinkled top, the chocolate chips melted just enough to glisten.

The smell hit them immediately—chocolate, butter, and a touch of vanilla, mingling with the salty sea breeze. It was the smell of comfort, of home, of simplicity. Lucky placed the tray down on the counter, and Saram bounced up and down, barely able to contain herself.

"They’re perfect!" she squealed, her voice a high pitch of joy as she grabbed a cookie, biting into it before it had even fully cooled.

"Hey, don’t burn your mouth," Lucky said with a laugh, but Saram only shrugged, the warm cookie in her hand already half gone.

"They taste like the best thing ever," she declared, her face lighting up with pure delight.

Gab watched her for a moment, his gaze a little distant, but his lips curled into a faint smile. There was something about the way Saram’s joy filled up the space around them, how she had this ability to make everything feel lighter, even in the quiet of the night. He couldn’t help but feel a quiet ache in his chest, a yearning for these moments to last, for the world outside to just... stay still for a little longer.

Lucky slid a couple more cookies onto the counter, a teasing glint in his eye. "Alright, kid. Now that we’ve got our cookies, what do we do with them?"

Saram, already on her third cookie, looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "We eat them all!" she declared, as if there could be no other answer. Her mouth was full, but she spoke with absolute certainty.

Lucky and Gab exchanged a glance, both shaking their heads in amused disbelief. "Guess we’re in for a cookie feast, then," Lucky said, laughing.

The three of them settled down around the kitchen table, the warm glow from the oven lighting their faces, the sound of the waves outside soothing the quiet of the night. Gab finally uncrossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, his eyes softening as he reached for another cookie.

"Guess we should start making plans for tomorrow’s batch," Lucky said with a grin, as he wiped a little chocolate from the corner of his mouth.

Saram’s eyes sparkled. "And we can eat them right away too?"

"You bet," Lucky said, throwing her a wink. "And this time, we can eat even more."

Saram giggled, the sound filling the kitchen like music. For that brief moment, with the smell of cookies in the air and the sea softly calling them from beyond the windows, everything felt perfect. The worries of the world seemed so far away, lost in the warmth of the kitchen and the love they shared.

For Saram, this—this was what happiness tasted like.

Saram wondered if this is what silence tasted like.

The silence between them felt like a living thing, breathing and shifting with every quiet motion.

Saram tilted her head slightly, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips—a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, the kind that was just a shadow of something long gone. Something lost.

"You tell me, Beckman. You’re the vice, right?" she asked, her voice soft, even. Too even. Too calm. Her hands were tucked into her pockets now, her fingers clenched around the vial there, as if it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. The only thing that kept her from slipping into the storm that churned inside her chest.

Beckman’s eyes never left her. He’d seen that look before. He’d seen that cold calm, the way she moved with an eerie quiet precision, like everything was a calculation and nothing was out of her control. The same way the crew moved when things were serious. When the stakes were high.

Saram was no stranger to battle. She carried the weight of it in her stance, in her eyes. And it was too much like them.

"Vice," Beckman echoed, the word hanging between them. He didn’t need to answer her directly. He already knew what she was asking. But Shanks—Shanks was watching her differently. The weight of his one hand shifting as he shifted his posture, the subtle pull of his body where once there had been two hands. The soft sound of his breath moving in and out, like a man caught between two worlds: the one where he was father and the one where he had abandoned a part of himself.

Shanks swallowed thickly. His eyes burned, not with anger, but with the weariness of twelve long years.

"You think you’ve got me figured out, Saram?" he asked, voice rough, like something scraped raw.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. The smile stayed there, small and bitter, like a piece of old fruit left too long in the sun.

"I think," she said slowly, her voice sliding between them like oil on water, smooth but heavy, "you have more in common with me than you’re willing to admit."

Beckman shifted ever so slightly, catching the faintest glint in Shanks' eyes. He was walking on a tightrope now, balancing between the past and the present. Between the crew he had built and the daughter he had left behind. The wind outside shifted in rhythm with their breaths, the scent of salt and old wood mixing with the faint burning of Beckman’s cigarette. The smoke curling lazily around them like a veil, just thick enough to blur the sharp edges of everything they were saying but not thick enough to hide the truth that lingered in the room.

Shanks opened his mouth to speak again, but Saram interrupted, her tone cutting, sharp as glass.

"You don’t need to say it," she said, almost lazily, as if she were bored with the conversation. "You think you’re so different. You and the crew. You all think you’re so different, but in the end, you're just the same. You run, you hide, you leave your problems behind, until one day—" She paused, her gaze flickering between them, a cold flame that didn’t burn but froze instead. "One day, you come back, and expect everything to be... fixed. To be easy. You want to pick up where you left off, like you never vanished."

The words cut through the air. Beckman could see the flicker in Shanks’ eye, the way it softened despite himself, how he felt it. How they both felt it.

"We’re not the same," Shanks muttered, but the words felt hollow, even to him.

Saram’s smile widened, bitter and soft, like something both broken and sharp. She was a blade hidden in the skin of someone else’s memory, a shadow of what could have been.

"You’re right," she agreed with a mocking tilt of her head. "You’re not the same. You’re worse."

Beckman exhaled sharply, flicking the ash from his cigarette. He could feel the tension building in the room, the pressure of the unspoken things piling up, heavier and heavier with each passing second.

But he stayed silent. He knew how this played out. He had seen it before—in her eyes. The same eyes he had seen on the crew when things had gotten real, when they had been backed into corners, when they were forced to face themselves. The crew had learned to live with that tension, the constant dance between their hearts and the things they had to leave behind. He saw it in her—saw the echo of the same fire in the crew that had once been lit by the same flame.

"Tell me, Shanks," Saram continued, her voice smooth but laced with something darker now. "Do you even know who I am anymore? Or are you just looking for the little girl who used to follow you around, pretending that everything was okay?"

Shanks’ breath hitched. Her words were so sharp, so true, that he almost couldn’t breathe.

"Saram," he whispered, voice raw. "I never—"

She cut him off with a sharp laugh. The sound was empty, like something snapping.

"I don't need your guilt."

Her hands were clenched tightly around the fabric of her coat. Her fingers, pale and tight with restraint, were the only thing holding her together now. The tightness of her grip was the only thing that kept her from falling apart into a thousand pieces.

Shanks took a step forward. His eyes locked with hers, and for the first time in twelve years, Saram let herself feel something.

Something more than the coldness she had worn like armor.

She didn’t back down.

"I didn’t leave you because I thought I was done with you," Shanks said, his voice strained, heavy with the weight of everything he had buried.

Beckman’s eyes softened as he watched Saram, the way she stood there, unwavering, the same way the crew stood when they were serious. When they were facing something they could no longer outrun. He exhaled a long breath, the smoke curling around him like a cloak.

"You still haven’t told me," she said, her voice low now, calm, though there was a quiet rage beneath it. "What now, Beckman? You’re the vice. You lead this ship with Shanks. What now?"

The question hung in the air, but Beckman didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned to Shanks, the weight of the past between them, like two ghosts standing side by side.

Shanks looked back at him, his expression a mixture of regret and something deeper. His hand flexed at his side, as though he was still adjusting to its absence. But he didn’t show it. Not to her. Not now.

The room felt too small. Too thick with the smell of the ocean, the smoke, the salt in the air that carried a thousand things neither of them wanted to face.

Finally, Beckman spoke, his voice low, almost tired.

"It’s not about what’s easy. It’s about what you can live with," he said, flicking the ash from his cigarette, watching the tiny specks float away into the silence.

Saram stared at him for a moment, her eyes flickering with something too complex to name. And then, quietly, her lips curled again.

"You’re all the same."

"You’ve all remained the same," Saram murmured, her voice soft but sharp like a blade concealed beneath velvet. "Older, stronger... but the same." Her gaze flickered between them, cool and detached, yet there was something beneath her calm demeanor—something brittle, hidden deep.

The little girl inside her cried, and for a split second, the warmth of that childhood memory, the innocence of days that should have been, clawed at her heart. It was fleeting, a flicker of light too brief to hold. She could feel it in the space behind her ribs, echoing with her thoughts. Words she had buried long ago: Why didn’t you come back for me?

She could hear it, the cry of that abandoned girl—fragile and lost, begging for someone to pick her up and tell her it would be okay. But Saram smothered it. She had learned to smother things long ago.

Her fingers tightened around the vial in her pocket, a small movement that gave her something to hold onto. Something to anchor herself. The vial was cold, the glass biting against her skin. Her thumb traced its edges absently as she stood there, still as stone, not trusting herself to move too much. Not trusting herself to feel anything too deeply.

Shanks and Beckman exchanged a glance. There was something in their eyes—something unspoken, something they had both recognized in her. Something dangerous.

"You think we’re the same?" Shanks asked, his voice quiet, the weight of his words settling between them. "We’ve changed, Saram. We’ve all changed."

Her lips curled up into something faintly reminiscent of a smile—though it was hollow, nothing but an empty curve.

"Changed," she echoed. "You think I haven’t?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but there was weight in every syllable. "You think I haven’t changed? You think I haven’t learned how to survive without you?"

Beckman stepped forward, his presence filling the room with a quiet intensity. He was older, sharper than he had been when they last met, and he had seen far too much of the world to let Saram slip past him unnoticed. He watched her closely, his gaze steady but not unkind.

"Survival doesn’t make you stronger," Beckman said, his voice steady but lined with something close to sadness. "It makes you... harder."

She let out a small, derisive laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her heart remained a frozen thing, too encased in bitterness to thaw. "Harder," she repeated, like it was a word that didn’t quite fit. "I’m fine with that."

Shanks stepped closer, but this time, his approach wasn’t threatening. His eyes softened, like he was searching for something behind the wall Saram had built around herself. "You’ve always been good at hiding what you feel, haven’t you?" he said quietly. His voice was low, but it carried something deeper—an unspoken understanding, one forged from years of seeing others hide their truths behind masks.

Saram’s expression flickered, just for a moment. A fleeting break in the wall she had so carefully constructed around herself. But it was gone before either of them could reach it. She was calm again, just as cold, just as collected. "It’s not hiding if no one’s looking," she said, her voice a razor.

Shanks’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t push further. Not yet. He could see the walls, the way Saram had built them so high, so thick that no one could break through. She didn’t want anyone to reach her. She didn’t want their pity, their regret, their apologies.

She just wanted... something else. Something she couldn’t put into words.

"And you’re still here," Beckman said, his voice breaking through the quiet tension, an almost imperceptible shift in his stance. "Still aboard this ship. After all this time."

Saram’s fingers curled tighter around the vial, the glass pressing harshly against her palm. She didn’t loosen her grip. Didn’t let go. The cold bite of it was grounding, something tangible amidst the swirl of emotions she refused to acknowledge.

She exhaled slowly, tilting her head slightly, her expression unreadable. “And?”

Beckman’s gaze didn’t waver. “That means something.”

Saram huffed softly, amused in that distant, empty way she always was. “Does it?”

Shanks took another step forward, slow and careful, like he was approaching something fragile. Something breakable.

“You didn’t have to come back,” he said, his voice quiet. “You didn’t have to step onto this ship again.”

Saram lifted her chin, her eyes sharp. “And you think that means I want to be here?”

Shanks studied her. “I think if you really didn’t, you wouldn’t be.”

Her jaw tightened.

Beckman crossed his arms, exhaling through his nose. “Twelve years, and you still can’t be honest with yourself, huh?”

Saram’s lips curled, her teeth flashing in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Honest? About what?”

Shanks watched her closely. “That you’re angry.”

She went still.

A beat of silence passed, thick and suffocating.

Then she laughed—low, quiet, but sharp enough to cut. “Angry?” She shook her head, her fingers flexing at her sides. “Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver. It was steady, sharp, honed like a blade.

“I spent years waiting,” she said, each word deliberate, measured, like she was carefully unraveling a truth she had long since buried. “Years wondering if I had just imagined it all. If I had imagined you. If I had made up every memory, every promise, every stupid, childish hope that one day—one day—you’d come back.”

She took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm in her voice wavered. Cracked.

“But you didn’t.”

Shanks’ throat bobbed, but he didn’t interrupt. He let her speak.

Saram let out a slow breath, shaking her head. “So no, I’m not angry.” Her voice dropped lower, quieter. “I was angry. A long time ago.”

Her fingers curled again, her nails digging into her palm. “Now I just don’t care.”

She saw the way Shanks’ expression shifted, saw the way Beckman inhaled sharply, but she didn’t let it affect her.

Because it was true. Wasn’t it?

She had spent years learning how not to care. How to be untouchable. Unreachable.

Shanks studied her, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t believe that.”

Saram met his gaze, unwavering. “That’s not my problem.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The ship rocked gently beneath them, the lanterns flickering with the movement.

Then Shanks sighed, running a hand over his face.

“I can’t change the past,” he said, and his voice was quieter now, heavier. “I can’t take back what happened. I can’t fix what’s already broken.”

Saram watched him, her expression still carefully composed.

“But,” he continued, looking at her fully now, “that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Saram’s breath hitched.

For just a second—just a second—her grip on the vial faltered.

She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to keep her mask in place.

Shanks took a step closer. “And it doesn’t mean I won’t try to be better now.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re twelve years too late.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“…But I’m still here.”

The room felt smaller than it should have, the scent of aged wood and salt thick in the air. The lanterns swayed gently with the ship’s motion, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Saram stood in the middle of it, her frame steady, her expression unreadable save for the slight curve of her lips—a blank, hollow thing that did not reach her eyes.

Shanks was watching her, his gaze dark, searching. Beckman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his grip was tight, fingers pressing into his sleeves. The weight of her words sat heavy between them, like an anchor sinking into the depths.

“I need you to understand,” Saram said, voice even, quiet, but sharp enough to cut through the thick silence, “that I can't keep chasing after you and the crew.” Her fingers flexed at her sides, her thumb brushing over the edge of the vial again, grounding herself in its cold bite. “I will die your daughter, dad. I will die as the daughter of the Red-Haired Pirates—but I can't live as her. Not anymore.”

Shanks inhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, but he didn’t speak. Not yet. Beckman’s eyes flickered between them, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Saram tilted her head, watching Shanks with something unreadable. “I was nine when you told me you wished I was easier, dad.” The words left her lips like a knife unsheathed, smooth and gleaming, waiting to strike.

Shanks flinched, and it was the first real reaction she had seen from him.

“I was twelve when you left me to burn away in that country,” she continued, her voice calm, measured, but every syllable carried the weight of years lost. “You couldn’t accept me as yours, but you wouldn’t let me go either.”

Shanks’ breath hitched. His fists curled at his sides, and he took a step closer, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor, but she didn’t move. Didn’t give him an inch.

“Saram,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, like he had been trying to find the right words for years and still came up empty.

She smiled then. A small, brittle thing, like a crack running through glass. “Do you understand how cruel you have been?” Her head tilted slightly, her gaze piercing. “How cruel you all have been?”

Beckman’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t look away.

Saram’s fingers twitched. “You all found me a chore and Uta a melody.”

The words settled like a storm rolling in, thick with static, humming with something inevitable.

Shanks inhaled sharply, his entire frame going rigid. “That’s not true.”

Saram let out a soft breath of laughter, but it wasn’t amused. “Isn’t it?”

His jaw tightened. “I never—”

“You never what?” she cut in smoothly, arching a brow. “Never compared us? Never found me difficult? Never left me behind?”

Shanks’ silence was louder than words.

Beckman exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly, the wood creaking beneath his weight. “Saram—”

She turned to him then, eyes sharp. “You, too, Beck.”

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his gaze.

“You told me I was stubborn, that I needed to be more like Uta.” Her voice was quieter now, but no less cutting. “That I needed to stop questioning everything. That I needed to listen more.” She shook her head slightly. “You never realized I was listening.”

Beckman exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. He had no excuses to offer. None that would change anything.

Shanks stepped forward again, close enough that she could see the tension in his shoulders, the regret in his gaze. “Saram,” he said, softer this time. “I never wanted to leave you.”

She smiled again, empty and cold. “But you did.”

His breath caught.

Beckman’s voice was quieter now. “You have every right to hate us.”

Saram huffed, her fingers twitching. “I don’t hate you.”

She saw the brief flicker of relief cross Shanks’ face before she spoke again.

“I did.”

His relief shattered.

“But hate takes too much,” she murmured, voice quieter now, more distant. “It burns you from the inside out.” She tilted her head, the lantern light catching the faint scars along her collar, disappearing beneath the fabric of her hood. “I already burned once. I’m not doing it again.”

Shanks swallowed thickly, his shoulders sinking.

Silence settled again, the kind that stretched and cracked at the seams.

Saram inhaled slowly, steadying herself. “I don’t need your guilt,” she said finally, turning away. “And I don’t need your apologies.”

The creak of the ship beneath them felt distant, like a sound from another world—one Saram no longer belonged to. The scent of aged wood filled her lungs, but it was the weight in the room, the unspoken tension pressing against her ribs, that nearly stole her breath.

She could hear Shanks inhale behind her, the way he shifted his weight, uncertain, like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t know how. Like he thought if he touched her, she might disappear.

“Saram,” his voice was quieter now, cautious, hesitant. He had never spoken to her like that before. Not even when she was a child. “Then what do you need?”

She could feel his gaze on her back, burning, waiting. Beckman hadn’t moved from his place against the wall, but she could sense the way his arms had tightened, the way his breath had slowed, preparing for whatever she might say.

Saram turned back to them then, slowly, her face shadowed by the hood, her expression as unreadable as ever. But when she spoke, her voice was clear. Steady.

“I need you to understand,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her blank smile still in place, “that your daughter—that—that twelve-year-old you left in those ruins—is dead.”

Shanks stiffened, his eyes widening slightly, his breath catching in his throat.

“She is gone, Dad,” Saram continued, voice calm, as if she were stating an irrefutable fact. “She is dead, okay?”

Shanks’ lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Beckman shifted, his expression darkening just slightly.

Saram exhaled softly through her nose, tilting her head. “Did you know the look you all had whenever you looked at me?” She let the words settle between them for a moment, her gaze flickering between them, watching. Waiting. “Do you know, Beckman?”

His jaw clenched, and for the first time that night, Beckman looked away.

“You made one mistake in your youth, and you all punished me a lifetime for it.”

Her words sank into the space between them, reverberating in the quiet air. The salty tang of the sea seemed to thicken, like it, too, absorbing the gravity of her statement. She could feel the faint sting of the wind against her skin, the coldness of the ship's wood beneath her boots, but none of it reached her. She was numb—beyond the reach of any sensation, beyond the reach of them.

Shanks let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. His fingers trembled slightly as they dragged through the red strands. “That’s not—” His voice faltered. “That’s not how it was, Saram.”

She let out a quiet laugh, but it was hollow, empty. “No?”

Shanks’ hands curled into fists at his sides. “You were never a mistake.”

Saram’s smile didn’t falter, but something behind her eyes dimmed. “I wasn’t?”

Shanks exhaled sharply. “I loved you.”

She stared at him for a long moment. And then, finally, she spoke.

“You left me.”

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t angry. They weren’t even accusatory. They were just... there. Sitting between them like an open wound.

Beckman swallowed, his throat tight.

Shanks took a step forward, but Saram didn’t move, didn’t waver.

“Saram—”

“I was twelve when you left me to burn.”

Shanks shook his head, stepping closer, his movements stiff. “I thought you were—”

“Dead?” she finished for him, and for the first time, the smile dropped from her lips. Her face was blank now, colder than it had been before. “Yes. You did.”

Beckman’s grip on his sleeve tightened. The tension in the room was suffocating now, pressing against all of them.

Shanks’ hands trembled. “Saram, I—”

She took a slow step forward, closing the space between them just slightly, tilting her head. “If I had died,” she murmured, “would you have ever known?”

Shanks’ breath caught.

Beckman inhaled sharply, but he said nothing.

Saram’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Would you have even looked?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Shanks swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, but no words came. None that would make a difference. None that would make any of this right.

Saram exhaled, shaking her head slightly. “That’s what I thought.”

Saram's gaze held Shanks’ for a moment longer, the weight of her words settling in the space between them, thick and suffocating. The room seemed to press in on all sides, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the ship’s hull, the faint creak of the floorboards beneath their feet.

She took a step back, her eyes flickering between Shanks and Beckman. Her fingers loosened, the fists at her sides unclenching slowly, but the tension in her body remained. Her smile—blank, empty, distant—never quite reached her eyes.

“I’m gonna go check on Uta,” she said, her voice soft but final.

Shanks opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to say something—anything—that would make this moment easier, something to erase the years of silence, of hurt—but no words came. There was nothing he could say.

Saram turned without another word, the soft rustle of her boots against the floor the only sound as she moved toward the door. Her hand brushed against the cold metal of the doorknob, the faint metallic taste of it lingering on her fingers as she grasped it.

Behind her, Beckman shifted slightly, but remained silent. His gaze never wavered from Saram’s retreating figure, his thoughts a swirling mess of regret and understanding.

Saram paused at the door, her back still turned to them. For a moment, it seemed like she might say something more—some final declaration, some last word—but instead, she simply exhaled, the sound low and barely audible.

She opened the door, the soft creak of it sounding like the final exhale of a long-held breath. She stepped through, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

The room was left in silence, the space between Shanks and Beckman as heavy as the words they had not spoken. Shanks stood still, his hand still reaching out as if trying to pull her back, but knowing—knowing that she was gone. Not physically, but emotionally.

Beckman remained where he was, arms crossed, watching Shanks with a heavy, unreadable expression. The silence lingered, thick and unyielding, until Shanks finally exhaled, the sound full of defeat.

“I didn’t…” His voice faltered, and he stopped, unable to finish. What was there left to say? How could he undo the years that had passed? How could he fix what he had broken?

Beckman glanced at him, his expression softened by years of knowing how this felt. He didn’t speak, but there was understanding in his gaze. He didn’t need to say it—Shanks already knew.

Saram felt like her feet were lead, they felt almost stuck to the wooden floors of the ship’s inner hallways as she walked, mind still reeling from the conversations of a while ago with Shanks and Beckman. Everyone else, she could handle, everyone else she could ward off but not them.

Never them.

They had always been different. No matter how much time passed, no matter how much she hardened herself, no matter how much she told herself that it no longer mattered, they could still shake her. Not because they deserved to—not because she wanted them to—but because there was a part of her, buried deep beneath everything, that had once loved them.

“Well, if you sit here all quiet like that, the sea’s gonna think you’re lonely and try to steal you away.”

“Maybe it should.”

“Nah, we’d steal you right back.”

Shanks was a liar and Saram was the fool who believed him every time. Who believed every sweet lie Shanks said, who believed every bitter condolence that Beckman gave her. A foolish, naive child who had looked up at them with wide, hopeful eyes and had believed—truly believed—that they would always be there.

She had clung to the edges of their world, small hands gripping the fabric of their cloaks, trailing behind them like a shadow, had memorized their voices, the cadence of their laughter, the way their footsteps sounded on deck. She had thought—had known—that she was safe with them.

They were hers. And she was theirs.

Until they were neither.

At times like these she wonders if things were different, could they have been a family? What if she wasn’t Saram? What if she had been someone else—someone easier to love, someone they didn’t have to leave behind? Could they have been a proper father and daughter? She hated that. Hated that even now, a small part of her still wondered—

— if things were different, if she wasn’t Saram, if Shanks wasn’t Shanks, could they have been a family?

Her younger self would have wanted that.

She could see it if she closed her eyes—see that little girl with wild hair and wide eyes, always chasing after Shanks with bare feet against the deck, laughing. A girl who still believed in things like warmth, in things like home. A girl who hadn’t yet learned that love could be conditional.

Could Shanks have loved her? Truly?

She didn’t know.

The twenty-four year slowly, quietly slipped into the infirmary and walked over to the lone figure lying on the second last bed, half covered by the curtains around on top of it. Her boots barely made any sound as she walked over to the bed, pushing the curtain away and standing by the side of the bed, staring down at the young girl lying there, tubes supplying her with medication.

Saram knelt down on the ground, beside the bed, her hands holding onto the hand of Uta which had no tubes or needles. She leaned her cheek against her skin and stared at the younger girl, Saram would never say it verbally but Uta was her sister, her younger sister, despite what Shanks did, despite what the crew did, despite what the world didn't do for her, Uta has and always would be her sister. Not of blood, it's fine, blood meant nothing, Saram had first handed experienced it, blood was nothing, if you loved someone, you would love them.

Saram’s body seemed to fold in on itself as she sat beside Uta’s bed, the quiet hum of the ship’s engines lulling her into an exhausted daze. The weight of the day, of the conversations she had been forced to endure, slowly crushed her, and she let her body lean against the bed. The warmth of Uta’s hand in her grip was a small comfort in the midst of everything else.

“I talked to him.” Saram said quietly, “Beckman was there, too. I couldn't be angry, you know? You'd probably be angry.” She chuckled, “You always did say that you'd give them a piece of your mind if they tried to confront me. How funny, how small you are and how reckless you are.”

Saram had spent years in silence.

Not the kind that came with peace, but the kind that settled like dust in the corners of an empty home, like the one that settled in one's bones and rotted away the structure. Rot, right. Saram had rotted away way before she even burned those flames, her childish dreams trampled in slowness.

Her mind was a wasteland, long stripped of warmth. She barely remembered the last time she had truly felt something—something beyond exhaustion, beyond this dull, quiet emptiness that gnawed at her.

Saram chuckled softly, the sound barely above a whisper. “You always said you’d scream at them for me.” Her voice was distant, as if she were speaking to a ghost. “You always had more fire in you than me, Uta. More rage, more belief that the world could be fair if we just fought hard enough.”

She didn’t have that. Not anymore. Because the fire around her had burned away more than skin, more than her flesh and blood, it had taken her fears, her anger, her pain - it had ruined her. Saram had been ruined for eternity.

Maybe, that was her price to pay for existing; for even being alive, for being born. A child no one wanted in a world that no one reached out for her hand, no one standing as her wall, no one hiding her from hot sunny days, no one there as assurance to save her if she drowned, no one there to willingly love her, and not out of obligation,

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, into the hollow space where memories lay buried, where her soul lay buried.

The sound of burning wood snapping, the heat searing her skin.

The suffocating weight of smoke in her lungs.

The overwhelming silence that followed.

She had cried once after the fall. A long time ago. Alone in Elegia, curled up in an empty room where no one could hear, no one could see. She had cried so hard that her chest ached for days after, silent sobs wracking through her small, fragile frame. But then the tears had dried, and after that—nothing.

No more crying.

No more longing.

No more hoping.

She had built herself up from those ashes, forged herself into something that could not be broken. But sitting here now, beside Uta, she felt the weight of it all pressing down again. Like phantom hands around her throat, like the ghost of a past she thought she had buried beneath steel and silence.

Shanks' voice echoed in her head. “You were never a mistake.”

Wasn't she?

Then why had she spent her life trying to change?

Or had she just hollowed herself out so thoroughly that there was nothing left to change?

Her grip tightened, barely perceptible, around Uta’s hand.

“…I can’t be angry,” she repeated, softer now. The words felt foreign in her mouth, as if she were trying to convince herself more than anything else. “Maybe because I don’t have it in me anymore.”

She blinked for a moment, eyes going over the younger’s face and her eyes closed, too, hand shifting, holding it to her forehead now with both hands, praying, of sorts. She had always been like this with Uta—protective, almost motherly, though neither of them ever said it.

No words needed to be spoken when Uta’s soft breath was the only thing that filled the silence between them. She could hear the quiet beeping of the machines keeping Uta alive, the soft shuffle of footsteps down the hallway outside the infirmary, but it all felt distant. Her heart, heavy with so many things—things she had said and things she had kept silent—felt lighter in this room.

Here, with Uta, there was no pretending. There were no walls to hide behind. No need to put up the mask.

“Wake up already, you troublesome kid.”

Her eyelids felt heavy, the exhaustion of everything from the past days creeping up on her. Saram fell asleep there, hand holding onto Uta’s, head beside her hand as she sat on the ground, eyes closing slowly but surely. She had no idea when her body finally gave in to the need for rest, but by the time the first soft rays of dawn peeked through the small window in the infirmary, Saram was asleep, off to sleep beside Uta—her head resting gently on Uta’s hand, their fingers still intertwined.

Every time I plan to finish this series, the storyline gets longer. I listened to die your daughter on repeat which led to even more angsty dialogues. A one-shot turned into parts, next part in works, lemme know what you think! mwah!

taglist: @thebunnednun @acesdiary @chizu001 @nagislemontea @v1ennie @74zix47 @meerpea @nayshel @whore-of-many-hot-men

#one piece #one piece x reader #akagami no shanks #akagami no shanks x reader #shanks x reader #hongo #lime juice #uta #one piece spoilers #one piece film red #red haired pirates #red haired shanks #Akagami Kaizoku #fic: sitp #benn beckman #shanks #bonk punch #lucky roux #op x reader

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eclipixels · 8 hours ago

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Bitter Sweets

Satoru Gojo x Reader

Content: You and your daughter learn to live without Gojo

Wanings: angst

[2,457 words]

You've been numb for days. The world moves around you in a haze, colors muted, sounds distant, as if you are watching everything unfold from behind a thick veil of glass. The weight in your chest is unbearable, pressing down on you with every breath. It’s not just grief, it’s emptiness, a void that has swallowed you whole.

Your daughter keeps asking when her dad will come back home. Her voice is small, hopeful, full of innocence you wish you could protect forever. But you can’t. You can barely protect yourself from the truth.

You haven't slept in your shared bedroom for days. In fact, you haven't slept much at all. The bed feels too big now, the air too cold, the scent of him still clinging to the sheets like a ghost. You lie awake on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of the night, waiting for a peace that never comes.

"Mommy, you not gonna eat?" Her voice pulls you back to reality. You blink, realizing you've been sitting at the table, untouched food in front of you, lost in thought. Her wide cerulean blue eyes, so much like his, gaze up at you expectantly, full of concern that a child her age shouldn’t have to carry.

You force a smile, shaking your head. "No, sweetie. You eat up, okay? So you can be big and strong."

"Like daddy?" she asks, tilting her head, rosy cheeks puffed out slightly.

Your heart aches, twisting painfully in your chest.

"Yes, baby. Just like daddy."

She beams, shoveling food into her mouth with an enthusiasm you can barely comprehend. She’s too young to understand, too young to grasp the finality of it all. You envy her innocence, her ability to still find joy in the simplest things.

Days blend together, indistinguishable from one another. You go through the motions, tending to your daughter, making sure she’s fed, bathed, and safe. But you? You are running on autopilot, existing but not living. The house feels empty without his presence, the silence deafening.

Then, one morning, you wake up and she is gone.

Panic surges through you, an icy grip around your heart. No. No, where could she be? You stumble to your feet, calling her name, your voice trembling.

She couldn’t have left the house. The doors were locked.

You search frantically, tearing through the rooms, checking the closets, looking under tables, behind furniture. Your breathing becomes ragged, your vision blurring as terror sets in.

And then you find her.

She’s in your bedroom, curled up on the bed, her tiny legs dangling off the side.

She’s holding something in her small hands. A crinkled wrapper.

A piece of candy.

From Gojo’s box of sweets.

You freeze, staring at her. Your heart clenches, a thousand emotions crashing over you at once. Anger, sadness, heartbreak, love, each one more suffocating than the last.

"No–no no no no. Sweetie, what are you—are those—?" Your voice catches, throat tightening.

She looks up at you, wide-eyed, mouth slightly full. "I'm sorry, Mama. Was I no eat?"

Her voice wobbles, her lower lip quivering, and it shatters whatever fragile composure you had left. You swallow down the lump in your throat, forcing a smile through your tears.

"No, baby, no. It’s just… these are Daddy’s, okay? Let’s not touch them."

She frowns, her small fingers gripping the wrapper tighter. "But Daddy always give me him candy."

Her words are a dagger to your already bleeding heart. You close your eyes, trying to steady your breath.

"I know, sweetheart. But just not these. These are… special. Different." You exhale slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, hoping she doesn’t see how much you’re breaking.

She stares at the candy in her hand before looking back at you.

"Mama?" she whispers.

"Yes, baby?"

She hesitates for a moment, then asks the question that you knew would come but never wanted to hear.

"Daddy no coming home?"

The room falls silent.

Your chest tightens, your breath catching as you look at her, so small, so innocent, waiting for an answer you wish you didn’t have to give.

Your throat burns as you try to find the words, try to summon the strength to say what you’ve been avoiding. But there is no easy way to break a heart. No gentle way to explain the permanence of loss to a child who still believes in bedtime stories and magic.

Tears spill down your cheeks before you can stop them, and you pull her close, pressing your lips to the top of her head.

"No, baby," you whisper, the words barely audible. "Daddy’s not coming home."

The sobs come uncontrollably now, wracking your body as you hold her tight, as if she is the only thing anchoring you to this world. And maybe she is.

She sniffles, small arms wrapping around you, her warmth the only thing piercing through the cold emptiness inside you. Tufts of her white hair ruffle against your shoulder. You don’t know how long you sit there, rocking back and forth, mourning not just what you lost, but the future that will never be. The father your daughter will never have. The husband you were robbed of growing old with.

Time passed, though it never truly erased the ache in your chest. The days turned into months, then years, and with them, the weight of loss shifted, not gone, but settled into a part of you, like a scar that no longer bleeds but never fades. You learned, slowly, that grief was not something you conquered. It was something you carried. A shadow that followed you, sometimes silent, sometimes heavy, but always there.

You had to come to terms with the fact that pain would never leave, but neither would the love. You had to live, not just for yourself, but for your daughter, for him. After everything he had fought for, after everything he had believed in, you knew you couldn't let your sorrow consume you. You couldn't let it fester into something dark, something cursed. He wouldn't have wanted that. He had given his life to protect others, to protect you both. The least you could do was honor him by living, by making memories that weren’t just soaked in loss.

And so, you did. You pushed through. You smiled more, even when it hurt. You held your daughter a little tighter at night, whispering stories of her father when she asked, letting his memory be one of warmth instead of only pain. You taught her to laugh, to grow, to fight, not just in battle, but in life.

Now, here you were, years later, sitting among familiar faces, watching the young girl who once clung to you, now standing tall, adorned in Jujutsu Tech’s graduation uniform. She had followed in her father’s footsteps, stepping into the legacy of the Gojo clan, determined, strong, and full of the same spark that made him unforgettable.

The crowd was filled with familiar voices, old students, old friends, those who had known and loved him just as you had. The past and present intertwined in a bittersweet symphony, but today, there was more pride than sorrow.

The doors burst open with a sudden commotion. "Are we late?" Itadori's voice rang out, slightly frantic as he stumbled forward, adjusting his tie with fumbling hands.

You couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking your head. "Nope, right on time."

Megumi let out a sigh, stepping in after him with his usual air of quiet exasperation. He took the seat next to you, nodding in greeting. You met his gaze, offering a small smile. Out of everyone, Megumi had remained the closest to you and your daughter. You remembered raising him alongside Gojo, back when you were barely adults yourselves, navigating a world that demanded too much from those too young. You used to call him your ‘practice baby’ back then, a joke that had stuck even as he grew into a formidable sorcerer in his own right.

And when your daughter came along, he had stepped into the role of an older brother without hesitation, protective, steady, always watching over her.

The moment felt frozen in time. You watched as she stepped forward, accepting her certificate with a graceful bow, her movements poised yet full of excitement. She looked radiant, strong, confident, and breathtakingly beautiful, a reflection of both her heritage and the future she was forging for herself.

As she descended the steps, her cerulean blue eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on you. For a split second, the world around you blurred, and all you could see was her, your little girl, all grown up. Then, with a beaming smile, she took off running, her short white hair swirling in the wind, catching the light like strands of silver silk.

"Aw, look at that little face! She looks just like her pretty mama," Gojo cooed, his voice dripping with adoration as he grinned down at the tiny bundle in his arms. Your daughter’s tiny fingers had wrapped around his much larger one, gripping it with all the strength her little body could muster.

"As if," you scoffed, rolling your eyes with a smirk. "She looks like you gave birth to her instead of me."

Gojo gasped dramatically, feigning offense. "Excuse you, I’m flattered, but last I checked, you were the one in labor for hours while I almost passed out watching."

You snorted, shaking your head as you folded the last of the baby clothes. "Exactly my point. All that effort, and she comes out looking like your tiny twin."

Gojo beamed, leaning in closer to your baby, his snowy white hair nearly brushing her soft skin. "Look, I know she got my eyes and my hair, but if you really look at her, she’s got your face. Your cheeks, your smile, your nose."

You walked over, peering down at the little miracle in his arms. "A perfect mix of us, huh?"

Gojo nodded, his usually playful expression softening as he pressed a gentle kiss to your daughter’s forehead. "Yeah. Can’t believe she’s ours. Our little girl."

She cooed in response, laughing in that pure, uninhibited way that only babies could, her tiny limbs flailing in excitement.

Gojo chuckled, lifting her slightly. "You gonna be a sorcerer like Mama and Dada, huh?"

The baby let out another happy squeal, her tiny hands reaching for him.

You smiled at the sight, at the sheer joy radiating from him, from her, from the life you had built together.

"Can you imagine her going to Jujutsu Tech?" Gojo mused, his tone drifting into something almost wistful. "Watching her graduate? I wonder what she’ll look like when she’s older."

You leaned against him, resting your head on his shoulder as you watched your daughter babble away, completely unaware of the love surrounding her.

"I don’t know," you murmured, smiling softly. "But I bet she’ll be amazing."

And now, years later, standing at her graduation, you realized just how right you had been. If only he knew he wouldn’t make it to see this day.

The thought weighed heavy in your chest as you wiped at your eyes, surprised to find them wet with tears you didn’t remember shedding. It was bittersweet, watching your daughter stand tall, strong, and radiant, everything he had ever dreamed she would be. He should have been here, standing beside you, grinning ear to ear with that boyish excitement he never outgrew.

But he wasn’t.

And yet, in so many ways, he was.

His presence lived on in her, the way she carried herself, the glint of mischief in her eyes, the way she beamed when all eyes were on her. She had inherited so much from him. Including his complete lack of humility.

"So, what’s my gift?" she asked, raising a brow, a smirk playing on her lips.

You scoffed. "Not even five minutes out of graduation, and you’re already expecting rewards?"

She shrugged. "It’s a big day."

Before you could respond, Nobara’s voice cut through the moment. "Congratulations!!"

Your daughter barely had time to react before she was engulfed in a bear hug, Nobara squeezing the life out of her. You laughed as she struggled to breathe, waving dramatically at Itadori and Megumi for help. They ignored her. Instead, Itadori grinned as he handed over a handful of gifts wrapped in bright, clashing colors, undoubtedly chosen by him. Megumi gave a small nod, his own gift tucked into the pile, subtle, but meaningful, just like him.

You stood back for a moment, watching them all laugh and joke, teasing each other the way they always had. The way Gojo used to with them.

It was a beautiful sight.

Finally, when the chaos settled, you stepped forward, holding out a carefully put-together basket, filled with teddy bears, balloons, and a gift bag.

"Here," you said with a smile.

Your daughter grinned, eagerly accepting it. But before she could dig through the contents, you pulled out one last gift, a small, carefully wrapped box.

Her brows furrowed as she took it from your hands. There was something about the weight of it, the way you looked at her, that made her pause. Cautiously, she unwrapped it, fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the lid.

She gasped.

Inside sat a familiar, neatly arranged collection of sweets.

Gojo’s sweets.

She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide as she looked from the box to you. "Mom? Are these…?"

You smiled, warmth filling your chest despite the lump in your throat. "Dad’s? Not exactly. I was able to find the old man who would always make these and sold them out his stall. I asked him to make some in your and your dad’s favorite flavors."

Her lips parted in shock before she let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, thank god. I don’t think I could’ve eaten the ones from all those years ago without getting food poisoning."

You rolled your eyes. So much like her father.

"Smartass," you muttered, but you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

She grinned, cradling the box as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Then, looking up at you, her expression softened. "Thank you, Mom. Really. I love it."

"No problem, baby," you said, voice thick with emotion. You reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like you had so many times when she was little. "I’m so proud of you."

She didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you, holding on tight.

"I love you."

You closed your eyes, holding her just as tightly.

"I love you too."

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sturnsblogs · 10 hours ago

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matt blurb request 😝😍❤️

HEY PRETTY GIRL

—

The first time Matt saw you, it was like time slowed down. The music, the laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses—it all faded into the background as his eyes locked onto you.

You were radiant, spinning around the dance floor with a carefree laugh, the soft glow of the fairy lights making you look even more ethereal. He could only think of one thing: “Hey pretty girl, won’t you look my way?” But you were lost in your own world, taking shots with your friends, swaying to the music, the embodiment of pure joy.

Matt wasn’t the type to approach girls so boldly, but something about you pulled him in. With his heart hammering against his ribs, he finally found the nerve to get up, making his way over to you.

“Hey, pretty girl… won’t you give me this dance?”

You turned to him, eyes glimmering under the dim lights, and smiled slightly before slipping your hand into his. He grinned, pulling you closer as the song slowed down, swaying with you effortlessly.

“And maybe the next one after this,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to your ear.

That night was just the beginning.

—

01:Love That Grows

Months flew by, and Matt had you wrapped up in his world, in his arms, in his life. He adored you. He kissed your cheeks every morning, your nose whenever you pouted, and your neck when he wanted to hear you giggle. He wanted to keep you forever.

When he finally introduced you to his mom, he was nervous—he knew she would love you, but he needed her to.

The moment she met you, her eyes softened with warmth. “So you’re the girl making my son all love-drunk, huh?” she teased, pulling you into a hug before Matt could even introduce you properly.

“Love-drunk?” you laughed, glancing up at him.

Matt’s ears turned red as he groaned, “Mom—”

But she only grinned, holding your hands in hers. “Oh, honey, it’s written all over his face. He looks at you like you hung the stars for him.”

You turned to Matt, who rubbed the back of his neck, bashfully looking away. Your heart melted. Maybe he really did.

—

02:Building Forever

Now, here you were, lying on a picnic blanket with Matt under the night sky, dreaming out loud about the life you were going to build together.

“We can build dreams, baby,” Matt whispered, tracing circles on your hand with his thumb. “A house on a piece of land just for us.”

You smiled, turning to face him. “And we’ll plant roots. A pretty apple tree in the backyard?”

He chuckled, nodding. “Yeah. And a porch swing for us to watch the sunsets. Maybe even a hammock so I can take naps with you after a long day.”

“Sounds perfect,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

And then time did what it always does—it moved faster than you ever thought it would.

—

03:A Life Well-Loved

You were standing in the nursery now, cradling a tiny, sleeping baby in your arms. Her little fingers curled around Matt’s pinky, holding on so tightly like she already knew she had him wrapped around hers.

“Hey, pretty girl, you did so good,” Matt whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he kissed your forehead.

He brushed his knuckles against your daughter’s tiny cheek, in awe of how much of you he saw in her. “She’s got your eyes. And a fighter’s heart, just like I knew she would.”

You smiled at him, exhaustion and love swimming in your gaze.

Matt let out a breath, pressing another kiss to your temple. “I love you so much,” he whispered, holding his little family close.

—

Years passed. Seasons changed. Love never faded.

Now, Matt was older, lines of time gracing his features, but the love in his eyes never dulled. He sat on the porch swing, watching as your daughter played in the backyard, her laughter ringing through the warm air. He reached for your hand, squeezing it gently.

“Hey, pretty girl, when I see the light, and it’s my time to go…” he murmured, voice soft as he looked at you.

Tears welled in your eyes as you squeezed his hand back, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I’m gonna thank the Lord for a real good life…” he continued, pressing a lingering kiss to your hair.

“A pretty little girl… and a beautiful wife.”

—

A/N- see this is really cute.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @jimmasterflashh @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @cass-sturn

#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolos #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturiolo fanfic #sturniolo #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo blurb #matt sturniolo fic #matt sturniolo oneshot #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo au #matt sturniolo one shot #matt sturniolo x reader

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shnashq · 24 hours ago

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The Lego Movie: Bad Ending

I've been thinking about this alternative ending for a while.

What if The Man Upstairs didn't care? If Finn wasn't able to convince him? If Lord Business was successful in his plan?

TW: Child abuse

Let me know what other warnings should be added.

The Kragle hovered inches above Bricksburg, its nozzle aimed with menacing precision. Emmet, bound and gagged beside Wyldstyle, watched with wide, terrified eyes. Lord Business's face contorted in a grim, plastic smile, cackled, "Soon, everything will be perfect! Still. Predictable. Kragled!"

He approached Emmet, the Kragle applicator humming ominously. Wyldstyle lunged forward, but she was easily subdued by a robot henchman. Batman, too, was quickly overwhelmed.

Upstairs, in the real world, Finn watched, heart hammering, tears blurring his vision. "Dad, no! You can't do this! You're ruining everything," he pleaded, his youthful voice cracking with desperation.

The Man Upstairs, a reflection of Lord Business in his own way, just sighed. Finn's words had initially sparked a flicker of understanding, a brief glimpse of color in his monochrome world of spreadsheets and order. But the chaotic energy of the Lego world, the sheer unruliness of Finn's characters, had overwhelmed him.

The Man Upstairs merely shook Finn off, his face hardening. "Finn," he said, his voice tight, "This is my train set. MY LEGOs. I'm just putting things back the way they belong."

"But…but they're my friends too. We built this together."

"Friends? These are plastic bricks, Finn. It's not like they have feelings."

Finn flinched. He knew, logically, that they didn't. But in his heart, in his imagination, they did. He felt their silent anguish, their plastic despair. He stepped back, his voice trembling. "B-but they do! Look at their faces!"

He pointed at the mangled creations, the once-vibrant city now a monochrome monument to his father's control. "They're… they're afraid!"

Down in Bricksburg, the world began to solidify. The bustling city, once a vibrant tapestry of creativity and possibility, was now a rigid, unyielding monument to order. Citizens were glued in place, their terrified expressions morphed and frozen into masks of permanent, terrifying smiles.

The unthinkable was happening. Lord Business, fueled by his father's own rigid adherence to rules, was triumphant. His cackling echoed across the now silent landscape. He had finally defeated the Master Builders and had begun to glue every piece in place, ensuring that nothing would ever change.

"See? Order! Structure! Everything in its place," he declared, gesturing to the glued landscape. "NOW everything is awesome! In its place! Forever!"

The cold, sticky glue engulfed Emmet, freezing him in place, silencing his thoughts forever. Memories faded. Seeing Wyldstyle's vibrant colours, hearing Batman's gruff pronouncements, experiencing the joy of building something new… All gone.

As the Kragle's fumes cleared, Lord Business felt a disorienting tug. He looked down in horror to see a giant hand, his hand, reaching for him.

"What… what's happening?" he thought, his plastic brain struggling to process.

Then, it dawned on him. He was being subjected to the same fate he had planned for everyone else. Eternal, unchanging form.

"Wait, NO! Let me go! I command you!!"

The Man Upstairs, almost completing the Kragglification of Bricksburg, plucked Lord Business from his tower, holding him aloft.

He could sense other LEGOs being disassembled and reconfigured alongside him. He heard muffled voices, the sounds of not only his creator at work, but also a child's pleas for forgiveness.

He was placed on a shelf, next to a collection of other "perfect" creations, each glued immovably in place. He was no longer in control; he was just another piece, a silent, horrified witness to his own failure.

"This can't be happening," he cried, trying in vain to pry them apart. "My own weapon… used against me! I… I can't move…"

Finn, watching from the sidelines, realized what was happening. He knew that if he didn't do something, the Lego world would be lost forever.

"But Dad," Finn persisted, "it's not just yours! It's supposed to be fun! Aren't you proud of me for being creative?"

He tried to explain, to make his father understand the intricate narratives he'd woven, the characters he'd breathed life into. He spoke of Emmet's optimism, Wyldstyle's bravery, Benny's unwavering love of spaceships. He spoke of the joy of creation, the power of imagination, the shared experience of building something magnificent.

But his father wasn't listening. His eyes were cold, his jaw tight.

The pent-up frustration of a day filled with monotonous work and a feeling of general inadequacy boiled over. And the Man Upstairs finally snapped. "Enough, Finn! You're being ridiculous! It's just toys!"

Finn, shocked by the sudden surge of anger, flinched. The words stung more than the Kragle itself. Finn shrank under the weight of them, his shoulders slumping.

"…Just go to your room."

Finn stood his ground, tears streaming down his face. "But Dad…"

The Man Upstairs grabbed him roughly by the arm, his grip surprisingly painful. "I said go to your room!"

Finn, completely defeated, couldn't hold back a sob. "I hate you!"

A slap echoed through the silence. Finn, stunned, stared at his father, the red mark blossoming on his cheek.

He shoved Finn towards his room. "GO!! And don't come out until you've learned some respect!"

Finn could smell the sickly sweet superglue filling the air, and a sense of utter hopelessness washed over him.

He retreated to his room, the image of the Kragled Bricksburg seared into his mind. But more than that, the look on his father's face haunted him. It wasn't a look of love, or even understanding. It was a look of control, of anger.

Finn was heartbroken. He had always looked up to his father and had always thought of him as a kind and loving parent. But now, he was seeing a different side of him, one that was cruel and uncaring.

He knew, with a chilling certainty, that this wasn't just about Legos anymore. It was about him. It was about his father wanting to control not just his toys, but his imagination, his joy, his very being.

He slammed the door shut behind him. He then looked around his room, at the posters on the wall, the books on his shelf, the scattered drawings on his desk. Everything felt tainted, shadowed by fear. He collapsed on his bed, tears streaming down his face.

The LEGOs outside, now permanently frozen in their desperate struggle, mocked him. It was all his fault. He had failed them. He hadn't been able to convince his father to see the joy in creativity, the beauty of imperfection.

He was now too scared to keep fighting for Bricksburg's freedom. He knew, with a sinking feeling, that it wasn't the only one that had been Kragilized. In his father's pursuit of order, something else had been glued into place: his own imagination. And now, Finn feared, so was his.

Emmet, now plastered into a permanent, lopsided grin alongside Wyldstyle, stared blankly ahead. Benny, glued to the floor of his spaceship, looked like a trapped insect. Even Batman, the epitome of dark and brooding stubbornness, was now cemented in a pose of bewildered annoyance.

The joy of infinite possibilities was now replaced by a chilling sense of order. The Master Builders were gone, their creations destroyed. Creativity was dead.

Lord Business watched from above as his master plan became his eternal torment. He tried calling out for help…

But no one came. It was too late. The glue had hardened. The damage has been done.

Everything wasn't awesome anymore. Now it just stuck.

#the lego movie #lego movie

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velvetjune · 7 months ago

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I’ve replayed enough Control to not be surprised, but I’ll never forget how magical it was to first uncover small details like the previous director, Northmoor, being in the power plant, all the security cameras following wherever you go, Ahti responding to Jesse’s thoughts, or the book club papers corresponding to deaths you come across in the game

#control 2019 #control remedy #everything is so wonderfully weird and sci-fi #and it doesn’t outright tell you what’s happening #apart from the Main Plot conversations with Jesse everything is to uncovered by the player #let’s you play at your own pace and makes the entire game very replayable #I could see how this wouldn’t be for everyone—and you WOULD miss 90% of Jesse’s backstory if you skip collectibles—#but it’s a joy if you like piecing things together #and most supernatural things are Just underexplained enough as to make it creepy and let imaginations run wild #I hope control 2 keeps this level of mystery and explorations—while expanding on the main story and characters we already know

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ratatatastic · 5 months ago

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the sauna robe era: a beautiful saga unfolding before us. we really have gone from "it was matthew's idea to wear them for pregame fits" to "sasha texted them team to make them wear the robes for the preds game"

nashville predators @ florida panthers postgame interview | 11.7.24 (x)(x)(x)(x)(x)

DO YOU KNOW HOW FUNNY IT IS THAT BOTH RODDY AND MAFFHEW WENT oh the whole team all thought it was a prank but we still wore them anyways which somehow makes the robe walkin an exercise in trust and love that everyone passed with flying colours god this team is filled with lobe and friemdship

also happy mackie did in fact get ribbed for taking the shirt option his team uncles sure are giving him the rookie experience and also "i wasn't sure if i was showing too much skin or not" on a team

THAT WALKED IN LIKE THIS WITHOUT ANY SHAME. YEAH BUD I DONT THINK THATS A PROBLEM HERE.

the robes are truly a hit amongst the team aka we dont have to use our brains and we just put on a robe its fantastic, mackie maffhew and nosey are on absolutely onboard unsurprisingly

and if you wondering oh what about paul when will we see him-

the answer is a firm NO on both accounts so to those (me) who wanted to see an old man in a skimpy robe our dreams have to be crushed from the getgo but maybe if the streak goes long enough-

#aleksander barkov #matthew tkachuk #gustav forsling #evan rodrigues #mackie samoskevich #tomáš nosek #paul maurice #2425 #the sauna robe saga™#beautiful and needs to be archived #also paul says that the boys didnt tell him they would come in robes for the preds game after finland #just that he “heard a rumour” about it #so sasha texted the team and our staff was out of the loop so i cant imagine the utter joy at seeing your players in their robes again #i also was talking to my friend and went “how likely is it that theyve washed those things? like between sauna i can see it”#“but the minute they exclusively wore it for walkins how likely are those things building up funk for the superstition”#and then i completely ruined it for myself because yeah i do think they dont wash em #i love the utter confusion on who started this #maffhew and sasha are one entity #sasha taking initiative to make the boys keep wearing the robes as if maffhew (superstitious man) didnt whisper it in his ear #“you gotta be some kind of superstitious at one point” ←i like seeing my teammates half naked. and also my husband told me to do so.#captain's privilege indeed #but also the whole “whos idea it was” does that particularly change on why some boys thought it was a joke #like if maffhew said it right theyd be more likely to think it was a prank but if sasha said it theyd be more likely to believe-#sorry im still on whos on team maffhews idea and team sashas idea #i will piece this together bit by bit by the power of my own delusion #sauna robes as an exercise in trust and love #but boooo old man join in the fun!!!!!#“nobody needs to see it-” WELL I DO #florida panthers

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snobgoblin · 7 days ago

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"if Lucio is The Fool, why is he associated with The Devil in merch and in the art book" grisps you. I'm telling you, it's a fakeout. and they don't want to outright tell you which one he is outside of his route because it is INTEGRAL to the murder. you cannot solve the murder fully without this information, of course they wouldn't want to spoil it, that ruins the fun. you're supposed to believe he's The Devil *at first*

#arcana spam #WAY too much in favor of him being the fool #the realization. I'm telling you. FEVERISH #not to be dramatic but my blood was running cold when i first pieced it together #'why do you talk about it so much' SO THEY CAN SHARE IN THE JOY OF REALIZATION #only two others in the fandom i have found have come close to the same conclusion as me. that is not enough #even then they didnt apply it to the murder or the Apprentice like i did #and thats a shame! its such a fun thing to run with!

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regicidal-defenestration · 7 months ago

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These instructions need far more photos than they have

#and by that I mean there is one artsy type photo of the finished thing at an angle where you can't see most of it #'just sew together the fabric pieces!' Joy Gammon you and I both know that's now how fabric works. it can't bend like that

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shewhoeatssand · 1 year ago

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GALE IS GONE

#I LOVE GALE #HOW COULD WALT MAKE HIM DO THIS WHY #GALE WAS MY FAVOURITE AFTER MIKE AND GUS #WHYYYYYY #HE WAS SO NICE?????#GALE WAS KIND AND SMART AND EVERYTHING THE WORLD COULD WANT #HE WAS PURE AND TOOK JOY IN THE LITTLE THINGS #HE WAS A CUTIEPIE #he would’ve been friends with Kaneki. they could’ve talked nerd business together.#and poor Jesse oh my god #Jesse ☹️#why does everything bad always happen to him #never fully appreciated and always deemed useless #maybe if you gave him the chance to do something he really liked his talent could actually show #he was good at woodwork. why can’t he get a job as a carpenter #he seems fairly artistic #he could make some wonderful pieces and live a good life building furniture and maybe making his own workshop #have good woodwork friends. find a girl he really likes idk #if it weren’t for Walt’s stinky ass he’d be in New Zealand with Jane anyway and probably living his best life #he could make little bird houses and Jane could draw the birds 🥺🥺#this whole thing is just awful everyone could’ve had a good time if Walt gave up after season 1 #sand watches brb

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paulorlac · 1 month ago

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well now I look like booboo the fool because I heard about green vs red when I was first getting into lupin iii and I said that sounds stupid I'm never watching that. well I watched it the other day and it kind of fucks like hell is the thing

#thinking out loud #i understand why a lot of fans dont like it #but if you can let go of canon and accept that the movie is playing in a beautiful sandbox where nothing is real then its actually awespme #i might have to watch it again soon just because its a little difficult to piece together on first watch #but the vibes are so good. the last shot is just pure joy #also i wanna watch again to figure out how ceo mike logan and his fucked up child thing relates to the themes of self iteration/creation

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luveline · 4 months ago

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𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

You begin to have intimate dreams about your roommate, Spencer. [9k]

c: pining roommates, dreams, tipsy non-confessions, spencer being a sweetheart. fem!reader. this fic was requested!

｡𖦹°‧⭑.

i. a dreamt bruise

“What are you doing?”

Your chest lists slightly forward as a body warms your back. Arms wrap around you, solid but gentle, arms you’ve been held by a thousand times.

You cover them with one of your own. “What does it look like I’m doing?” you feel yourself ask.

The room is golden, gaussian, better now he’s behind you.

“I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.” His voice is soft in your ear. His hair presses to the side of your face as he hugs you —you’ve never felt love like this. It’s palpable. It’s in his hands.

Nobody’s called you dove before, but he is, he has. It might feel strange if it weren’t for how softly he said it, affection in the very marrow of the word, warmth of it kissing your cheek as he holds you. He says ‘dove’, and it feels like he loves you. Feels like you’ve done something beautiful to earn it, but that’s the beauty of it: you didn’t do anything.

The room turns narrow, sunlight on the dining room table of your apartment. A table usually crowded thickly with books, or your work. A space has been cleared away and filled with pieces of a jigsaw.

“I thought you were going to do this with me,” you say, dragging a piece across the table with your fingertip.

“Maybe later.”

“You can’t stand there all night.”

Are you sure? you think he says, but things are hazy, and he’s turning you toward him suddenly, you’re standing, the puzzle forgotten. “How’s your bruise?”

“What?” you ask, almost sleeping as a big, kind hand drags up the front of your shirt, holding it to the underside of your breast.

“Does it still hurt?”

His thumb brushes over your contusion, skin on your side, your back. It’s tender. Any breath is lost, any sense of breathing at all. You’re not a girl so much as something being touched with care, warm joy and love and a contrasting ache wedged under your heart as he draws a circles into your skin.

He hums sympathetically, the weight of him ebbing as he leans away, letting your shirt fall back into place.

The dream stretches on for a lifetime, the two of you standing in your living room, dining table behind you, couch and TV opposite. Your life in one room, his life, his books, his furniture, but your home. You know it all well, just, in the light, you can’t see the stitching.

He takes your face into his hand. Nobody’s ever touched you like, turned your face up like they were moving through honey, staring at you with eyes that shade of brown. Brown, brown… so big. So melting.

Spencer holds your face gently.

His nose touches yours. He tips his forehead into yours, his breath skimming lips he’d just warmed as he says, “Don’t worry, alright? You’ll be okay. Just take it easy,” he says, the last of his pleading lost to your mouth.

You wake up with a caught breath.

Your eyes are glued together, eyelashes threaded, gummy. You turn into the pillow beside you, slightly deflated and cold where you’d turned away in the night.

The room is dark when you manage to pry your eyes open. You close them just as quickly, begging your body to sleep, to plunge back into the dream. Just five more minutes of golden colour, hugging your pillow, love in somebody’s hand, in Spencer’s hand… five more minutes…

Your eyes open again.

Spencer’s hand on your cheek, guiding you carefully upwards for a kiss.

You raise your hand, feeling along the swell of your bottom lip with your thumb and index finger. They tremble with the weakness of having just woken up. With having something torn away from you.

What was that? you think, the hook of sleep lodged in your throat as you struggle to sit up. Your face tips forwards heavily, but your back doesn’t hurt like it tends to in the early mornings before work. There’s no ache there —your body slept well. You use your hands as anchors and drag yourself foot first from the bed. Your sheets fall to the floor with a quiet shush.

It felt so real that for a moment you’re wondering where Spencer went.

He was touching you, he was caressing your waist. You rush to the door of your room, every night left ajar, pushing it open and beelining for the bathroom. You flick on the light and stop in front of the mirror, staring at yourself, wondering if you’re foolish enough to do this, before peeling your shirt from your stomach to analyse your bruise.

It’s not there.

You turn and contort yourself to catch the light. Maybe it was further back? But no… there’s no bruise, nothing for Spencer to check. Your torso is a stretch of unharmed skin to run your hand down without pain.

Your head whirs.

From somewhere in the apartment, Spencer puts down a mug. You flush with heat at the realisation that he’s home, and panic flares when his footsteps move in your direction. Your bedrooms are on opposite sides of the apartment, and there are two bathrooms —the bath and toilet near your room, and the en-suite to his room— meaning Spencer’s coming to see you specifically.

“Hey, Y/N?” he says.

It’s been a few days since he was home, and you aren’t just roommates, Spencer’s your friend. He sounds happy that you’re awake, pausing at your bedroom door.

“I’m in the bathroom!” you say, your dry throat turning your voice to fractures.

“I just wanted you to know I’m home. Are you working?”

“It’s Saturday.”

He laughs. “Oh. I know, I forgot. Well, can I make you breakfast? I was gonna have oats and sliced bananas and stuff.”

“Okay.” You clear your throat. “I’ll be right there.”

“Sorry,” he says, like he’s just remembered where you are. “This is harassment. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

You wash your face and brush your teeth. You head back into your room to change from your pyjamas into loungewear that’s just as soft. The flavour of your dream follows you around, you’d like to call it sweetness, saccharinity, but it doesn’t fit the bill. The feeling you’d woken with wasn’t a sugar high but contentedness, like a warm evening meal. You’d felt utterly sated, your arms reaching out for a body that wasn’t there.

A heaviness takes your heart. Suffocating longing, you carry it to the kitchen with you to find Spencer’s already made you a cup of your tea. He’s warming oatmeal on the stove, blueberries and bananas on the countertop. You sit at the island. You should hug him. If you hadn’t dreamt of his hands on your waist what felt like mere moments ago, you would’ve.

“Did you go shopping?”

“I did, I went to Leaven last night. You were already sleeping at ten.” He peeks at you from over his shoulder. “Long day yesterday?”

“I get too tired by Friday,” you say, averting your gaze to stare down into your mug, steam twirling up to kiss your chin.

“No, I get it. Me too. Are you feeling any better today?”

You were sick when he left. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, good. I’m gonna put the blueberries in with the oatmeal, is that okay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” Spencer’s gaze lingers on you. He turns back to the counter.

He cuts two bananas. You realise he has strawberries, too, watching as he cuts them, wetness leaking from their punnets where he must’ve rinsed them in the sink. He slices out the stems and cuts the strawberries in clean halves like hearts.

“I missed you,” he says.

You can’t read his tone, but you aren’t cruel, even feeling shy as you are. “I missed you too. How was the case? Everyone made it home in one piece, right?”

“Everyone’s fine. Emily got into a car accident and it was pretty bad, but she’s okay now. Recovering from her concussion at home with Sergei.”

That’s good. You’re glad to hear they’re all okay, because they’re good people, and they risk a lot to keep others safe. You forget sometimes how much Spencer puts on the line whenever he leaves.

You poke at him for details of the case, though legally there are things he has to keep from you, and you don’t mind either way. Nothing personal can crop up while talking of murder, and for now you’d like the conversation to stay far away from you and your bed and your sudden dream.

You assume you’re safe, but then Spencer mentions the bruise one of the sergeants got from their weapon’s kickback and you’re flushing nervously all over again.

Spencer grabs two bowls from the cabinet, dark brown ceramics he got from Koreatown, the perfect size for each helping of oatmeal. The purple from the insides of the blueberries bleed into the oats as he pours.

He lays each bowl with a curve of banana slices, strawberries, and covers half with a drizzle of dark fudge sauce. “Salt?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

Spencer grabs two spoons from the cutlery drawer. He grins when he finally turns, bowls held aloft, making his way to the stool beside you. He puts his own down first, then the cutlery, standing ever so slightly behind you as he lays your breakfast down in front of you. “What have you been doing while I was away?” he asks softly.

You can’t look at him. Can’t think.

What are you doing?

What does it look like I’m doing?

I don’t know, dove. That’s why I asked.

You lean away from his presence, desperate to have him follow, and ashamed. Spencer’s a friend, a good one, he’s kind and loving and handsome beyond description, but you’ve never thought of him like that. Each time your mind slips wondering what he might be like in love, you’ve let the thought go. But now...

You shrug, grabbing your spoon. “Not much, Spencer. This looks amazing, it’s really pretty. Thank you for cooking.”

“No problem. Are you sure you’re feeling better? You don’t look so good.”

You take a quick bite of oatmeal, the spoon scalding your tongue, “Ah,” you say, breathing harshly around it, “I’m fine. Woke up a little wrong, that’s all.”

Spencer sits in the seat next to you with a soft smile. “Good. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

Oh, no, you think, reading way too much into how he says it. No, no, no.

—

ii facts

We should explore the city, Spencer declares after breakfast, before we forget what it’s like to be outside!

You were outside yesterday before you got home, and everything sucked as much as it usually did —it’s the weekend, and the point of it is to stay home resting and or lazing, but you wouldn’t usually say no to Spencer so you can’t now. He can’t ever know about your dream, so he can’t know how you’re feeling, so you have to be the friends you’ve always been.

Spencer analyses people for a reason, but you have practice. You’ve successfully hidden what it was that morning that made you feel cagey and tender. He knows something is wrong regardless. He attempts to fix it the best way he knows how: Spencer talks.

“Cheese production globally outshadows coffee, tea, tobacco, and chocolate, over twenty two million metric tons of it every year, with almost half of that made in Europe alone, which is only a half million metric ton more than what’s being eaten. The average American eats forty two pounds of cheese a year, but I don’t really like cheese that much? So I’m bringing the average down. Besides, every time I eat cheese I get strange dreams. There’s actually a chemical in cheese called tyramine which is linked to nightmares. Hey, you okay?”

“Cheese gives you weird dreams?”

“Why, have you been eating a lot of it lately?”

“No,” you say resolutely. “I hate cheese. I’ve never eaten cheese before.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Let’s get donuts.”

Spencer is easily swayed. You glance around the square for the McDonald’s and follow that to the street with the bakery, landmark to landmark, until the smell of sugar and oil is strong enough to follow. “Do you wanna know something about donuts?” he asks, crushing in behind you as you pass through the heavy wooden door of the bakery and join the line.

“Sure.”

“They were first called oily cakes.”

“I knew that,” you say, “you’ve told me that, Spencer. That’s the first fact anybody thinks of.”

“Okay, don’t be rude,” he says, giving you a playful poke in the ribs, right into the bruise that isn’t a bruise.

You look over your shoulder at him, catching his eye. You share a long look that’s daunted on your part and confused on his, brown eyelashes tangling in the corners the longer he looks at you. “What?” he asks, squinting.

”Nothing.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice lowering, quiet to match the hush of the bakery and its humming fridges, “don’t tell me. I’ll work it out eventually.”

“Dude!”

“What?” he asks with a laugh.

“Boundaries!” you laugh back. “Stop trying to figure me out.”

“But there’s something to figure out?”

He’s evil when he smiles like that. His pride is adorable, giving his sweet face an even fresher look. You’d pinch his cheeks if they weren’t already pinking in the October cold. His scarf hasn’t saved him, his coat buttoned tightly no match for the winds. Not to say it’s a bad day. The weather is fine if you keep your fingers in your pockets and your nose in the depths of your coat.

“What do we want?” you ask rather than answer.

They have white icing, chocolate with sprinkles, jelly middles, smiley faces. They have donut holes by the bag. “Hazelnut spread,” you say, pointing at the side of the case. “That looks good.”

He enters in conspiratorial whispers with you. “Apple cider doughnuts with cinnamon sugar,” he says, pointing at the row below. “What about a double chocolate chunk cookie? They look good. Hey, there’s cake in the fridge.”

You let him lean into your side. His hair kisses your cheek.

“Pick whatever you want, okay?” he asks, offering a smaller smile than before. “I’m buying.”

“You can’t, Spencer Reid, I want so many things.”

“It’s fine, I missed you, I dragged you out when you wanted to stay in bed.” He stares at you. “Let me,” he mouths.

You ignore the hot twist of your stomach and nod. Okay.

Spencer buys the baked goods you’d admitted to wanting and the three others you’d eyed, as well as a cookie and two fat slices of red velvet cake. He asks you to carry the box while he pays. The woman behind the counter gives you a knowing look and a flick of her head, as if to say, Lucky you. You can’t quite smile back, distracted by the insinuation. You haven’t thought of it before, but you and Spencer, naturally, look like a couple. You could easily be one. And the idea that she thinks so fills you with a shocking amount of smugness.

You and Spencer head home before dinner. On the walk back, he pulls the cookie apart and offers you half.

—

What if, when you fall asleep tonight, you dream of Spencer again?

You lay on your back with your hand on your chest, drawing circles. The cold of the evening is explained by the rain lashing your window, distant winds coming forceful now. A thunderstorm. You tap the middle of your chest in an attempt to be idle, rather than restless.

It isn’t a dream you’d like to have again, you decide. Spencer had been soft. You’d been familiar with each other.

What would it really feel like to have him touch you like that? Is Spencer confident, when he’s comfortable? Is he imposing?

My stomach, you think slowly, is never going to stop spinning.

“Y/N?” Spencer asks.

You can hear him all the way from the kitchen.

“Yeah?” you ask, raising your voice so it carries.

“Can I come and sit with you?”

It’s an odd request. You know Spencer’s like you, no social butterfly, quiet and content to spend time by oneself because being with others hasn’t always been an option. He isn’t timid, however, and his asking shouldn’t shock you, but it does. “Sure,” you say, shifting onto one side of the bed.

Spencer arrives at the ajar door and lets himself in. He carries two bottles of water and a heat pack, which he likes to use when the weather allows it. A creature comfort, you assume. Something soothing and constant, like the sound of a fan at night, or rain on a window.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, “which doesn’t make much sense.” Spencer sits on the empty side of the bed, his lips pulled into a grimace. “I like the rain.”

He’s more handsome when he’s smiling, but there’s a charm to him as he passes you a bottle of water and crosses his legs. The plaid slacks he’s wearing are rough with age, dark blues that seem black in the low lighting.

“Maybe it’s because of work,” you say.

“Maybe, but I’m pretty used to getting woken up.”

“Right. It’s not easy, though, the stuff you do. It would keep me up at night if I did your job.”

“I think sometimes doing my job is the only reason I can sleep.”

“It's hard. Sounds hard, Spence.” You relax into your pillow, turning to see him. Spencer’s eyes run along your hip for a millisecond, just long enough to remind you that he’s a boy, that he could see you in a different light.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“Was it hard, this time?” you ask.

“No,” he whispers. “I don’t know, it was bad when Emily got hurt, but she’s so stubborn. If Morgan didn’t strap her down she would’ve kept going like nothing happened.”

You and Spencer have lived together for so long that you remember a time before he even knew Emily. You answered his ad in the paper —you hadn’t realised people still put ads in the paper— looking for a roommate. His apartment was already furnished and he didn’t want to change much, but the second bedroom was spacious and the bathroom could be monopolised. As a girl, you’d been a little dubious reading about a single male looking for any gender, but his self-description was inviting. Twenty-two, just finished a doctorate, working for the FBI and expected to be away from the state at least once a month.

You’d met Spencer and felt even less intimidated. He was awkward and dorky but friendly, too, with his glasses he apparently didn’t want to wear, but would eventually give in (before choosing contacts), and his big red sweater fit for a grandpa. “I can make more room for you but I can’t get rid of the books,” he said, “so I don’t expect you to pay a neat half.”

How could you pass it up?

“I can’t believe I’ve never met them,” you say.

“Do you want to?”

He sounds so surprised. “They’re your friends. I’m your… friend.”

“You’re my best friend. I’ll arrange something, or try to. It’s hard to get us all in one room when that room isn’t the conference room,” he says.

“You look nice in a t-shirt,” you say, not thinking as the words come out.

Spencer leans in to whisper, “Thanks. You like this one?”

His t-shirt says, I may be NErDy, but only periodically. The NErDy is made up of elements from the periodic table. It’s a bad pun.

“I love it.”

He reaches for you. Tentative, he squeezes your elbow. “Is there something wrong? All day it’s like… I don’t know, did something happen when I was gone?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But…”

“Please,” you say, as he catches the last bit of light from the hallway, every eyelash illuminated for the counting. “I don’t wanna talk about it, Spencer. But thank you.”

He, in a move that’s almost uncharacteristic, pushes your arm into the mattress and leans over you. “I wanna be the first one to know when you do wanna talk,” he says firmly, holding your gaze.

How’s your bruise?

You nod mechanically. Spencer recedes. “Okay, good,” he says, grinning.

“Good,” you echo, thinking of Spencer in the dream, his hand on your hip and climbing up your sore ribs. “Let’s watch TV.”

—

iii. scared of snow

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not,” you refute.

“You are.”

Spencer frowns at you, a show full downturn of the lips. A dusting of snow lands in his hair and you both look up to catch it, a drift of it from the marquee as you pass. You don’t remember when it started snowing, but it feels like it’s been coming down for days. It’s in his eyelashes. Your sleeves are wet with it.

“The snow’s making you strange.”

You hold out your hand with fingers parted, feeling his laugh travelling down his arm and into yours as he takes it, intertwining your fingers tightly. He doesn’t feel cold.

“It’s making you strange,” you mumble.

You and Spencer walk down a cobbled road. Snow crunches under your shoes, turned to slush in the high traffic spots by vendors booths left curiously empty of shopkeepers, though their festive wares still line the insides, carved cuckoo birds and metal ornaments, glass balls made to be personalised for mantles. You can smell orange oil and chocolate fudge, crepe carts and churros and cinnamon, and then suddenly any hint of your olfactory sense is gone.

“It’s so quiet.”

“It’s the snow,” he says, pulling your arm against his chest as you walk and walk, your footsteps the only sound. “It acts as a sound absorber when it’s fluffy like this. The sound waves get caught.”

Caught. You think, or say, not sure if it makes it out of your mouth.

“Like you,” he says, stopping in the middle of the road.

“What?” you ask.

Snow lands in his eyelashes. “You’re caught,” he says.

You wake up thinking his hand is on your cheek. Like a nightmare, you start, still picturing his lips moving around the words. Caught, you think again, heart a hummingbird in your chest. Your mouth is dry. The heat is up —Spencer must be home again.

You suck in a deep breath and sit up, curling over yourself protectively.

You dream about Spencer more often than ever, and half the time they’re normal dreams, which is to say, they follow no rhyme or reason, with no discernible plot. Spencer loses all his teeth, or he takes you to the movies to see one of his long Swedish films, or he’s an afterthought, a bystander. The main plot of your dream doesn’t involve him at all.

But the other half of the time is ruining your life. You dream of Spencer holding your hand like you had been, or touching your shoulder. Never again do you dream of that tender bruise, but Spencer lifts your shirt in other scenarios. He pulls your pyjamas off, his hand inching between your legs but never touching, or he helps you out of your bra. And every time you think, why is this happening to me? Perhaps a sex dream could be explained away by want and Spencer’s proximity, but all these constant intimacies weigh heavy in your head.

You head to the shower and picture Spencer helping you out of your bra, and all of you goes hot, so you turn the water to lukewarm and stand until you’re cold to the point of misery. You clamber out and shiver into a towel, then your robe.

Spencer’s humming in the kitchen.

You honestly wish that the dreams made you like him less, that the sound of him might send you running back into your room, but you poke your head out of the bathroom and wait until he enters the living room. He sees you waiting, his face splitting into a smile. “Hey, good morning, did you sleep better?”

You can’t explain the discombobulation of your dreams. Spencer had become convinced you have insomnia. You may have let him assume.

“Slept fine,” you croak.

“Okay, well get dressed and I’ll make you some coffee.”

“‘Kay.” Your stomach pangs with nerves seeing him, reminded of tonight’s big event. “Are we still, uh, on, for tonight?”

“Nervous?” he asks.

You feel like you're about to be a fish in a pool of sharks. “Of course not.”

“Yeah, still on, even JJ.”

Awesome. Spencer turns around to make you your cup of coffee and you go to your room, dressing quickly, two pairs of socks. You tone your face and moisturise, fanning yourself slowly. You don’t hurry to the living room, but you aren’t slow, and it’s not Spencer, you tell yourself. Not Spencer. You’re just craving the warmth of a cup of coffee.

You spend the morning together on the couch. Spencer reads and occasionally chats to you about whatever tome it is that specific half an hour. You make sandwiches at lunch time, he showers in the early evening. You get dressed and primped while he’s gone, and at 6PM, Spencer knocks your bedroom door to ask if you’re ready to go.

“Could I fake an illness?” you joke nervously.

Spencer’s hand falls on your handle. The door is ajar as usual, but he doesn’t tread any further inside.

“Come in,” you say.

Spencer takes a single step inside before stopping. He looks you up and down without the hunger you crave from him, a more clement, familiar appreciation to him as he says, “You look pretty.” He traces your arm, leaving the skin tingly in his wake. “Really pretty.”

“Thank you. I didn’t want to overdress.”

“It’s perfect, don’t worry. And no, you couldn’t fake an illness. They all know when I’m lying, especially Hotch. And Emily, actually.”

You squeeze your hands together tightly at your stomach. “I don’t know why I’m sooo nervous.” You lick your lips. “I feel like I can’t stop fidgeting.”

“They’re used to it, I promise. They know that they’re gonna make you nervous, but they’ve sworn to be on their best behaviour, and besides, you’re not the only plus one. JJ’s bringing Will, and Morgan’s bringing his sister, I’ve only met her once. The focus won’t be all on you.” He lowers his voice. “After two drinks they forget they’re supposed to be scary.”

“What if I say something extremely stupid to your boss and get you in trouble?”

“What are you going to get me in trouble for?”

“I don’t know. What if I accidentally tell him that that sick day you took a few weeks ago was to help me make brownies?”

“Everyone lies about sick days.” He deliberates. “Maybe not Hotch. But I’m pretty sure he knew I was lying, and it’s explainable. I felt… irate.”

You raise your eyebrows. “What?”

“Staying home with you made me feel better. Which made me a better worker the next day, it’s fine.” His phone rings from somewhere in the apartment. “That’ll be JJ. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay. You’re wearing a coat, right? It’s cold. The forecast says snow. It’s thirty degrees out.”

You layer a coat onto your jacket and a scarf to make him happy. You and Spencer get a taxi, black leather gritless under your hands, though you squeeze the seat like it’s gonna stop the car the whole time. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he looks at you unapologetically, and he smiles, and the quiet is as severe as it was in your dream that morning. If this were a dream he’d be leaning over to cradle your ear. He’d ask in whispers if you were alright, and he’d let his hand rest kindly on your knee.

“What?” you whisper.

His lips part like he might answer. The car comes to a crunching stop outside the bar, and whatever it was he was going to say is kept for later. “I’ll tell you after,” he says.

He pays for the taxi before you can work it out and you say thank you to the driver. The sidewalk is clean, broad, and glowing with the last bit of light. The sun sets behind you. The bar beckons in front.

Your fear is daunting.

You have years of practice fooling Spencer. You know that he knows your tells, so you’ve changed them, and Spencer cares about you enough to ignore obvious truths if he thinks you might not want to share. His colleagues, FBI agents trained to detect deception, are going to take one good look at you and know you’re lying about… this.

You’re plagued by dreams of Spencer, but nothing can touch the real thing.

You feel the space between you like it’s aflame. Spencer checks you’re with him and opens the door.

The bar is busy even for a Saturday. You aren’t expecting the volume, the boisterousness of the patrons already slumped together over tables and waiting at the bar to get their drinks. It’s smaller than you’d pictured too, but its size is made up for with a patio at the back, smokers haunting the door, wary of the cold.

You know what his friends look like already, yet seeing them in person is odd. Hotch is taller than you’d thought, Emily more startlingly pretty. JJ’s frowning, and her partner Will looks like he’s about to fall asleep despite a lazy grin.

Hotch notices you first. He taps Emily on the elbow, who pauses in a thought to follow his gaze. Her face breaks into a smile, and if you weren’t in love with Spencer Reid, you might take a tumble for his pale coworker.

“Hello,” Spencer says, ushering you to the table with an arm behind your back.

“Hi,” you say.

“He-llo,” Emily says, leaning into the table, a strand of her hair dangerously close to a short glass of juice. “I can’t believe we’re finally seeing you in person. I’m Emily.”

“Y/N,” you say.

“Aaron,” Hotch adds. (Aaron! He’s far more intimidating casually than as a boss, it seems.)

“Derek was just here,” JJ says in way of greeting, while Will drawls from over her shoulder, “I’m Will, it’s nice to meet you.”

Spencer pulls out a chair for you and promptly sits in the one beside Emily. “Sorry we’re late. I forgot my wallet and we had to go back up to the apartment and the cab I called got so angry about it that he left.”

You slide between the table and your chair, looking to Spencer for guidance, but he’s distracted taking his coat off and you have to look at Aaron instead.

His smile is immediately knowing. Read for filth in seconds. “We don't bite.”

“Not so early in the evening,” Emily says.

You take a shuddering breath, thankful they can’t hear it over the sounds of the bar.

—

“I’m caught!” you exclaim.

Spencer hugs you under the arms. “I know,” he says gently.

“Caught!”

He holds back a laugh as your arms react, practically flung behind his head in a hug that threatens to cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. “I think you’ve caught me, instead,” he says.

You laugh in his ear. There’s gin on your breath and the sweeter smell of orange juice. It’s not bad, but weird to know it’s from your mouth. Or not weird. It gives Spencer a feeling like seeing the soft curve of your hip when you’re lying on your side. Like watching you bite your bottom lip when you’re distracted by the TV and worrying to yourself, which you do more often than not lately. They’re private things that Spencer shouldn’t know about.

“I’m not trying to,” you say, and Spencer can smell the shot of vodka you did too, which is less pleasant. “Not trying to catch you. Not… I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Over your shoulder, Spencer spots Hotch’s entertained gaze. All the team has done since you sat down together was pick on Spencer and his obviousness. Boyfriend? they’d asked you. Looking? Sights set on someone? All while JJ nudged him under the table.

Things are falling apart now. JJ’d departed to hold Emily’s hair back, and Will with her. Hotch caught the eye of a woman across the way, and they sit chatting amicably at the bar with more peanuts than drinks. Derek, when he did appear, stayed for an hour with Desiree, recounting to you his most embarrassing stories of which Spencer had taken care to shield you from, and laughed at his subsequent blush.

He never wanted you to know about his run in with anthrax, and he especially didn’t want you to know he’d been stripped nude afterwards and hosed off like a muddy dog.

You’d turned to him with wide, worried eyes. “You were poisoned?” you’d asked.

It’s stuff like that that makes this difficult.

“I don’t know if you know this,” he says now, rubbing your back, “but I’m good with difficult concepts.”

“I did not mean to be like this.”

“You didn’t eat much.” Spencer helps you stand on your own two feet. “They kitchen’s still open. I can get you food, how about a burger? Or we can go find you something.“

“What kind of burger?” you ask, poorly concealing your excitement.

Spencer gets you back to the table. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait, don’t go.”

“I’m gonna get food. Do you want fries?”

“Spencer, what if I throw up?”

Spencer shrugs. “I can rub your back?”

“I don’t want to throw up.”

“Then drink that,” he says, sliding his glass of coke toward you. “Alcohol irritates the lining of your stomach and increases the production of stomach acid. If you drink,” —he flinches as you knock the cup back— “slowly you can dilute your stomach contents without upsetting it. Slowly,” he says, squeezing your hand, “I’ll order food.”

“No, wait.” You drop the glass and grab him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want to throw up by myself.”

“You won’t throw up.”

“Please,” you say, holding his wrist in both hands, your eyes shiny. “Spencer, don’t go.”

“I won’t.” He doesn’t know how true it is and then suddenly he’s sat down. He won’t go. He wouldn’t leave your side ever again if that’s what you asked of him.

He puts your chairs together, entertaining your tipsy thoughts with light conversation and the occasional slight of hand. You have an aura about you, like Spencer’s doing more than close-up magic, hanging on his every word. Your nervousness had you gasping like a fish, not so subtly downing one drink, then another, but now that you’re feeling the effects of them (and a few extras), the tightness you’d held in your fingers is gone. You’re leaning against the back of the chair with all the ease of you on the couch at home, but the easy fondness you’d usually wear while he speaks is replaced by a bright and shining awe. A sweetness like he’s remarkable. The soft line of your lips and your widened eyes.

You’re not the sort of drunk that leaves you listless and ready for bed. This is giggly and fun, and so long as you don’t push it you’ll be alright. It wasn’t enough alcohol to leave you inebriated all night, anyhow. In a few hours the giddiness will wear away, leaving you with a headache and a deep longing for your missed dinner.

“I’m glad you didn’t let me fake food poisoning,” you say.

“Is that what you were thinking? That’s a terrible excuse. You need something with sudden onset symptoms, like an asthma attack, or pneumonia. An acute illness.”

You take his hand. “I love that you know that stuff.”

Feeling as in love with you as ever, and sorry for you drunken state —he could’ve stopped you, he just didn’t think— he folds your hands together, both of his, rubbing the hills of your knuckles with his thumb. Your hands look right together.

That’s what Spencer likes to think, anyway.

You slow like you’re tired, hand lax in his grips. Your mouth opens but nothing follows, no sigh or gripe or conversation.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

“I think I’m having one of those dreams again.”

“You’re awake,” he says.

“I don’t know about that. They’re all like this.”

He hums, smoothing his thumb down the back of your hand. “If this were a dream, you wouldn't have control over what you’re doing. Why don’t you do something you wouldn’t do in a dream?”

“Like what?” you ask.

“There’s a ton of stuff you can’t do in dreams. People find they have a poor memory, but I can’t ask you to recall anything. You might not remember regardless. How about temperature?” he suggests. “Most people can’t feel warm or cold in their dreams. Do you want to feel something cold?”

You watch him for a few seconds, your eyebrows pulled together unhappily. “Your hands are warm,” you say.

“Right.” He suspects they’ll feel warmer in just a few seconds when the hot flush in his face manages to work its way down. “I’m warm. So are you.”

“Sometimes I feel like you’re warm in the dream, though. You make me feel warm.”

“It’s remembered, maybe.”

You don’t look any happier. “Sometimes I wish I could stop having them, but…” You duck your head. “Sorry, Spencer.”

“What are you sorry for?”

Your head ducks lower. With a start to his chest, your shoulders shake, like you're inhaling the first half of a sob.

“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching for your cheek, ducking his own head to see you, “what’s wrong? It’s okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry for!” he whispers emphatically. “You have nothing to be sorry for, why would you think that?”

“I keep having these dreams, all the time, and– and I– I’ll mess everything up. Everything we have, I’m going to–” You hiccup, eyes turned glassy, imploring him to forgive you for something you haven’t done. “I don’t feel good.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he says, his hand sliding back to your ear, down to your neck, “you’re just drunk. You’re confused.”

“But the dreams–”

“What dreams?” he asks gently.

You blow out a daunted breath. “Where you love me.”

“I do love you.”

“But more than this. You love me more than this,” you say, shaking your head. “I really don’t feel okay… Do you think we could go home?”

You’re so sorry and frowny that Spencer would attempt, in all his unfitness, to climb Mount Everest for you should you ask. “Yeah, we can go home,” he says, rubbing your arm up and down and up again, a line of affection from shoulder to wrist. “I’ll take you home. It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to be upset, I shouldn’t have asked.”

He’s not sure what he asked, really, but the answer upset you. His heart’s racing like he just sprinted the length of the bar and you’re close to tears, this strange weepy sullenness about you as you say, “It’s okay. Let’s just go.”

—

It’s cold to be sitting out by yourself, though the snow stayed its hand another night while the temperature fell again. Your coat poses a weak defence against the chill, nipping at your nose, burning the insides of every breath, and your feet are stiff like ice in your shoes. Yet, the idea of returning to the apartment is a leaden stone in your stomach.

Spencer could barely look at you that morning. You hadn’t given him much of a chance, slipping out of the apartment with little more than a call to say you’d be back later. Your groceries freeze in a paper bag by your feet.

You’re not too embarrassed about getting tipsy. It was drinks with Spencer and his friends, not dinner. Emily had been twice as drunk, and Derek had encouraged you to drink with a round on him. You’re mortified, however, by what you’d said. Your memory is clear enough to know you’d told Spencer about your dreams.

He’d been confused at the time, but he’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out.

“This headache,” you mumble, tipping your head into your hand morosely. You rub your brow, fingers against the ache, the cold getting worse.

Why did it take a dream for you to realise you had feelings for Spencer? And why did you have to realise at all? If you’d never had that dream, never had that phantom bruise, his hands careful and caring and touching up to the band of your bra, you wouldn’t know now what it is to want him. The dream gave you a bruise, and Spencer presses against it real or otherwise every time he looks at you. You were wrong thinking that it never happened; it’s still there, a purple lash against your ribs.

Every time he makes you breakfast, or he texts you from a different state, or he sits down on the couch just to talk to you. Every time he says something smart, or he tilts his head back as he laughs, or he draws a smiley face on the mirror by the door–

“About those dreams?”

You rub your eyes hard. Of course he’d come to find you. “Please don’t.”

“Please,” he says. You see him through your fingers. His thick scarf is unravelled at his neck, his hair ragged around his face like he’s been raking it repeatedly behind his ears.

You straighten.

“I don’t get it,” he says, “you’ve been dreaming about me? Why is that such a big deal?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I dream about you all the time,” he says. “We’re in each other's lives, we live together, it makes sense that your hippocampus would use me. You have a lot of memories with me.” Spencer crosses his arms in front of you. “It’s freezing.”

“I’ll be home in a bit.”

“I’m not gonna go back without you,” he says, like that’s a given.

You move across the bench to make room for him. Spencer sits.

You settle. The occasional bus trundles past, a limited rota for an early Sunday morning. Spencer shoves his hands into his pockets. His lips are already turning blue.

“I know you know what I mean,” you say.

Spencer presses his knees together. “Even romantic dreams where I’m… where we’re together, it’s all easily explained away by brain science. You can’t control what you dream, and I’m not going to hold you to it.”

Silence, silence. You tip your head back to see a horrible grey cloud closing in on you both, the sun a white and gauzy memory behind it. Spencer’s right about control, but he doesn’t get that you like them. It’s not fair to him that you’ve somehow rallied a second life when you’re sleeping, where he’s your mind’s puppet, hugging and holding you, pressing his cheek to the side of your face. Saying things you wish he’d tell you now.

“Well, I like you.”

“What?” you ask, coughing.

“Not to make things awkward or anything, but I like you. Romantically.” Spencer’s voice takes a sharp veer into high-pitched freneticism. “Does that help at all?”

“What?”

“It’s far more embarrassing that I like you on purpose than your accidental dreams, right?” He thumbs at the inside of his wrist. “You don’t have to say anything, or think anything, and I’m not going to change, but I have feelings for you.”

You feel like you’re standing at the top of a very tall building. “Oh?”

“I kind of thought you knew.”

“How could I know that?” you ask, cringing as a cold gust of air bites at your face.

Spencer takes his scarf off and pushes it into your hands. “I don’t know. I guess we know less about each other than we thought.”

The way he says it.

Spencer wraps his scarf around you when it’s clear you aren’t going to do it yourself, and he touches your cheek briefly, a brush of his fingers like he thinks he’s doing something he shouldn’t be allowed to.

“I dream about you all the time,” he says quietly.

A bus passes by and shines headlights at your feet. The wind blows, your ears roar, and just above you, in a cold front to mark the season, snow begins to fall.

You look up simultaneously. A snowflake gets caught in Spencer’s eyelashes.

Just one.

“This is so weird,” you mumble.

Spencer wipes at his eye. “Could you tell me why?”

“I had a dream just like this.”

He laughs warmly. “Of course you did. Forget all reason, then. You’re prophetic.”

“I don’t think I could’ve predicted this.”

“Why? It’s only snow. Virginia gets an inch of snow most Decembers.”

You laugh. In a dream, this is where you and Spencer would kiss or hold hands, or rest your cheek on the other’s shoulder, but neither of you are brave enough. And, as the snow turns to a sleet below freezing, you can’t ignore the cold.

—

iv. the end

The longest anyone has ever slept in recorded human history is eleven days. Two hundred and sixty four hours, or nearly sixteen thousand minutes, just shy of one million seconds of sleep.

The first pillow was invented in Mesopotamia more than nine thousand years ago, in a time where the amount of pillows a person had directly correlated their personal riches. The history of pillows is tumultuous and eclectic. Headrests made of wood, stone, or jade. Curved neck holders worn soft with use.

And, of all Spencer’s gifted facts, you find yourself circling back to the same one as you wait for him to wake: most dreams are no longer than twenty minutes. However, it’s important to note that the longest dream ever officially observed was in 1994, when a man managed to be in REM for just over three hours. You’ve had dreams that felt like they lasted for hours, but likely took place for just twenty minutes. If you could dream for three hours a night, you could live an entire life of longing in a pocket of time.

Thankfully, you have no need to hide from reality anymore. Spencer sleeps beside you and you don’t want to sleep, you just want him to wake up.

“Good morning,” you whisper, drawing your fingertip across his cheek to encourage the hair that’s fallen there back in line.

He doesn’t stir. It’s alright, you hadn’t meant to wake him.

“I love you,” you whisper, shuffling across the sheets to feel the heat and weight of his body against your own. He doesn’t move for a while, snoring gently, his breath kissing the top of your head as you burrow into the slip of space under his chin. Then, as if he were awake, he wraps his arm around you and drags you in further. His face angles down and his nose finds your forehead, and a hum of what you’d personally say is content kisses your brow.

You tuck your hand behind his back and rub a circle.

Spencer didn’t last long after the initial realisation of requited feelings. In a day he’d asked if you wanted to be his girlfriend (vaguely apologetic, still worried about scaring you, though you’d already come clean about wanting him as you’d warmed your cold hands by the stove). A week later he kissed you on a date outside of the cosiest Indian restaurant in Washington, D.C, and things have been nothing but smooth sailing from there.

Now, when he’s feeling romantic, he brings home butter chicken and turns your face up for kissing, fork in hand. Every night before bed, he tells you to have good dreams, a self-satisfaction in his eyes that you dearly love.

You knew he was a dork and you liked him because of it, but the sheer increase in him is amazing. Yesterday he sent you Close to You by Carpenters over text claiming they wrote it about you. When he got home, he tried to make you dance with him in the living room. After two or three kisses, you’d let him pull you to your feet.

Spencer has turned loving one another into an everyday spectacularity, and not some mystical dream you ached for.

He squeezes the skin of your shoulder as he wakes. Heavy in the hands of sleep, Spencer rubs the tip of his nose to yours, nudging your face up, and waiting there with your lips a few millimetres apart as he finds his bearings. You don’t open your eyes. There’s no need.

“Time?” he mumbles.

“I don’t,” —you clear your hoarse voice, his hand flattening protectively behind you— “know, um. Maybe seven. The sun was rising…”

“You could have woken me up,” he says, and kisses you slowly. It’s almost gluttonous, how he does it. Not chaste at all. His hair falls into your face and tickles your cheeks, his nose smushes your own with his easy depth.

You hold his face and kiss him twice, following a line under his chin, where you pause, smelling yesterday's cologne on his skin. “I was hoping I’d fall asleep again,” you confess.

“Oh, no, don’t do that.” He scoops you against him and turns onto his back as you laugh. “Angel. Let’s stay up now. Let’s just… stay here.”

If you stay here he’s going to waylay you with a smattering of his voracious kisses, and he’s going to turn you on your back and kiss your neck. He’ll touch that place on your ribs where you’d once dreamt a bruise. It’s a secret you couldn’t keep. He likes to kiss you there when he remembers, but most of the time his hands run along it without mention. A slow caressing.

You push your face against his shoulder and sigh as his arms close in around you. With a little effort, you get your arms around him in turn, and you hug him for as long as you can stand the pins and needles in your fingers.

“You smell so good,” you mumble.

He pats your back absentmindedly.

Today, you’re going to make Spencer oatmeal with banana and chocolate. You’re going to shower, maybe together if the small space can handle it, laughing at the soap in his eyebrows and the way he squeals when you touch his hips. You’re going to drape yourself across his lap as he reads, and he’ll lean down to kiss the tip of your nose or some other strange part of you unused to affection. The top of your ear, the palm of your hand, maybe the crook of your elbow. He’ll ramble through dinner or creep up behind you to sniff your shoulder, and it’ll all be choices you’ve made. Nothing left to want or wanting, but being in love while wide awake.

“Are you tired?” you ask him.

He takes a deep breath of your hair. “No,” he says, drawing a light line up your side, “I’m okay. There are worse faces to wake up to.”

You try not to fluster noticeably. He’s always been a good roommate. You’re still getting used to the boyfriend part, the intimacy of being complimented, but Spencer seems to have slipped into the part easily.

“Sorry, that was mean. There’s nothing I’d rather wake up to.”

“Thanks,” you mumble.

You’re tired, suddenly. The minutes pass in heavy blinks —you don’t want to sleep now that he’s awake, but being here with him is warming you from the inside out. You doze and wake and Spencer doesn’t say a word. His breaths come evenly against your cheek.

Eventually, he clears his throat, asksing, “Did you dream at all?” His voice is hewn. He rubs your chest, right over your heart.

”I’m not so sure that this isn’t one,” you say, your heartbeat a crawl under his touch.

“That’s corny.”

“Mm, the Spencer in my dreams is usually kinder.”

“Does he ever get to hold you like this?” he asks, letting his hand fall from your chest to wrap it back around you again.

You take a sleepy breath in. “No,” you say slowly, “he doesn’t.”

｡𖦹°‧⭑.

thank youuuu for reading!! please like comment or reblog if you enjoyed!! thank you❤️

this fic was requested! I usually link to the request I was sent at the top, but I lost the post for this one, but this is what the request said:

“hi angel! i have a request for roommate!spencer where r has a very romantic dream about him and starts avoiding him because she's really embarrassed but spencer is so confused as to why his roommate suddenly can't even look him in the eye. maybe one of them realizes their feelings aren't entirely platonic in the end? love you!!!”

thank you original requester!

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