#but like i feel like it makes sense?? sort of??

[nanamiscocksleeve]

Razor's Caress

Warnings: MDNI, depilation, piv sex, oral (fem receiving), creampie A/n: Just felt kinky and needed to write Zayne. Also, it is my firm belief that Zayne is a clit kisser after he performs oral. Hope everyone's New Year is going well and that the pull gods have been generous to you in the latest banner!

You giggle as Zayne’s large hands wander over your body, softly squeezing your curves as he nuzzles his face into your neck, inhaling the sweet scent of your skin. His tongue traces a warm line up the column of your throat and a contented sigh leaves your lips as you cling to him. Zayne takes his time, always keeping his touches light and teasing as he samples and savors every inch of your body that falls prey to his mouth. 

As he starts slipping his smooth hands under your top, cupping your breasts, you can feel desire pouring into your veins as you take in his appearance; those mesmerizing eyes that were starting to darken at the periphery, his hot breath as it tickled your ear, and the unmistakable hardening bulge that was pressing against your thigh. Longing falls heavily on your senses but you hesitate, remembering that this little rendezvous wasn’t planned, and as such, you were completely and utterly unprepared down there. 

It never failed to surprise you, how quickly the bush grew back like it was being treated with an extra strength hair growth formula, the coarse locks covering your mound and creeping onto your thighs. With a sigh, you knew you wouldn’t go any further tonight. You fully intended to make it up to him tomorrow, once you could groom down there and look presentable. Part of you knows that body hair is natural and you shouldn’t be fussing over it so much but considering this was a new relationship, you simply weren’t confident enough yet to bare yourself in your native state. It was the beginning of a relationship that was starting to solidify, and you wanted to stretch it out a little longer. After all, keeping the area free of hair was something that you did for yourself; it made you feel confident and well-kempt. 

You place a hand on Zayne’s shoulder to grab his attention and he gazes at you, fire in his amber-green eyes. It almost makes you want to forget your hesitancy but you simply couldn’t bring yourself to do it. “Yes?” Zayne’s voice is a low growl as he waits for you to speak.

You clear your throat before speaking. “I-I’m sorry but, I don’t think we can go further tonight.” The disappointment is subtle but it makes your heart clench as you see it in his face, the slight droop in his mouth, and the change of warmth in his eyes. He sighs, then composing himself, rolls off you and you feel the loss keenly. You knew he could be balls deep inside you and if you said stop he’d pull out immediately, and you ached because right now you wanted just that; to feel his tongue all over you, to have his hot, velvety, flesh invade the part of you that throbbed and radiated with heat. But you remember what you looked like down there and try to curb your impulses. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, reaching out to stroke his shoulder.

“Don’t be. It’s all right.” Zayne cups your cheek and strokes it tenderly, and it almost breaks your already paper-thin resolve. “Was I going too fast?”

“No. It was perfect.” You lean over and card your fingers through his silky hair, leaning towards him till your foreheads touch. “And believe me, you have no idea how much I want to.”

“Then why stop?” Zayne presses a kiss to the tip of your nose and you almost groan in frustration. 

“It’s…it’s just a thing I have to deal with.”

“What sort of thing?” Zayne pulls away to look at you and you feel yourself blushing under his gaze. How could you possibly tell him the reason?

“It’s kind of personal. I just need to take care of it before we can do anything.”

Zayne’s eyebrows knit together in puzzlement. “You know you can tell me whatever it is right?” There’s a pause and you look away, feeling strangely shallow about your reasoning for not wanting to have sex tonight. You shake your head.

“It’s nothing. Can we let it go?”

Observing the flustered way you’re avoiding him, Zayne frowns. “Are you sure you’re all right?” Embarrassment creeps into your being and you turn to hide your face in your pillow and hear Zayne make a noise of amusement. He lays down beside, you, reassuringly patting your head. “You can tell me if you want to. No pressure. But I can’t see your face now.”

His words carry a light, teasing tone making you feel like you’re about to combust spontaneously. You feel him continue to pat your head and finally give in and admit the reason. Your voice is muffled by the pillow as you say it.

“I haven’t shaved.” 

A moment of silence follows your words before Zayne lets out a huff. “Is that all?” His tone sounds relieved. “I thought I did something.”

“No! It’s not you at all.” You raise your face from the pillow and give him an earnest look. “I haven’t had time to do maintenance and don’t want you to see me like that.”

“Why not?” There’s a quirk in Zayne’s lips. “I think I’d very much like to see it no matter how it looks.”

“No!” you squeak the word and shake your head. “Trust me, you don’t.” Bemused at his reaction, you allow him to pull you into a tight embrace, his chest shaking with laughter, which did little to quell your insecurity. “Stop! This isn’t funny!” you pout, making him grip you harder. 

“Of course it’s funny. Darling, do you really think I’m unaware that women have pubic hair? Or that it’s impossible to keep it neat all the time?” His breath tickles the back of your neck and you squirm. 

“I’m not ready for you to see me like that! If we’re at that stage it means-” you stop abruptly before you could spill the beans. 

“Hmm? What does it mean?” Zayne rolls you onto your other side so that he can look at you. Instead, you bury your face in his chest, listening to the barely contained rumble of his mirth. 

“It means we’re in an actual relationship. Where you see me all gross and untidy and I’m not sure we’re there yet.”

You hear his breath hitch, and when there’s no response you boldly glance up at him. There’s a depth of softness there that you hadn’t seen before and your heart skips a beat as you see it; his gaze is making you melt and sends tingles through your body.

“Oh my god. You think we’re there.” There’s a moment of tense quiet as your heart hammers in your chest before he gathers you close to him. 

“Yes. I think we’re there. Is that bad?” Zayne murmurs into your ear and you feel like your being might burst from the tenderness of his embrace. 

“No. It’s not bad.” You play with his hands, letting your palms lay flat on each other, intertwining your fingers with his. “I wasn’t sure is all.”

“Then let me remove any doubts you may have.” Zayne kisses your forehead. “We are together. It is serious. And I’m honestly not bothered if you haven’t had time to shave.”

You swallow and look up at him. “Thank you for telling me. I like that. Us being serious.”

A calm atmosphere replaces the previous tension, and you relax in his arms as he strokes your back. “Would you like to go to sleep?” he asks quietly. You consider it, then shake your head.

“No. I want to pick up where we stopped.” You take a deep breath then say, “Can you give me a little time? I’ll shave right now and we can get back into it.”

“Oh? You’re ok to tell me you want to shave now?” There’s humor in his tone. 

“Yeah now that we’re serious. I think I can openly tell you that now.”

“Do you want any help?” The deep, sultry way he murmurs the question has your stomach doing flips. Wetting your lips you let out an awkward laugh.

“No! I mean why would you want to help me with that anyway?” Your pulse quickens as you realize he’s completely serious, based on the new intensity that forms in his eyes. 

“Why not? I have a clear vantage point. I can see all of it, but I’m sure it must be challenging for you. Not to mention…I have a very delicate touch. Surgeon’s hands and all.” Zayne flourishingly flexes his fingers and you lay down on the bed as a fit of giggles captures you.

“Zayne stop it! I can do it on my own, really!” You shake your head at the image of him kneeling between your legs with a razor in hand. “Why are you so keen on this anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because a certain someone once told me I’m not allowed to do anything and then helped herself to a variety of my personal toiletries. Including my shaving cream and razor.”

You blink as his words slowly settle over you and blush as you recall the day when you’d helped shave his morning stubble, watching his demeanor become increasingly aroused until he’d snapped and you’d rode him on the rocking chair until you’d milked his cock dry. Unsure how to reply you give him a sheepish smile, receiving a smirk in return. 

“So that’s it? Revenge?” You ask as he rolls off the bed. You squeak as he pulls you towards him then scoops you up in his arms, holding you securely against his chest. 

“Not at all, darling.” He nuzzles your hair as he walks towards the bathroom. “Think of it as me returning the favor.” He switches on the light and deposits you on the large counter next to the sink. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch him open one of the drawers and take out his shaving cream, and an unopened razor head which he replaces onto the handle of his razor after discarding the old blade. 

“Must be sanitary after all. Don’t want to bring any bacteria to such a sensitive area. Now…I believe it’s time to disrobe my patient.” Your mouth goes dry as he stands between your legs, running his hands along your bare calves before flirting with the waistband of your shorts, hooking his finger into it and tugging it down, slowly revealing your abdomen and belly button. You shiver as the elastic lowers onto your hips and brace yourself on your hands to raise your lower body, assisting him in slipping off the garment. Once it’s been discarded, his eyes fixate between your legs, and you feel the unmistakable sensation of wetness. Could anyone blame you? Zayne’s foreplay was always intense and effective, it wasn’t much of a surprise that you had a stain of moisture on your panties. 

Zayne runs a finger over the patch and you suck in a breath at the contact. A small huff of satisfaction falls from his mouth as he looks back at your face. “Were you honestly planning on staying like this all night? Aroused and denying yourself relief?” 

“I would have calmed down after a while,” you murmur defensively, letting out a hum as he leans closer to you to lick and nip your earlobe.

“What a disservice that would have been to both of us.” Transfixed, all you can do is watch as he starts to remove your panties, the small strip of fabric clearing your legs in no time and falling to the floor. Chills race down your spine as your bare ass settles on the marble counter. You avert your gaze as Zayne takes a look at your hairy mound, the coarse, curly hair fully visible on your sex. He gently pats your knee.

“Open.” The word is a gentle command and despite the heat rushing to your face, you obey and part your legs, letting him have an unfiltered view of your unshaven pussy. You feel moisture gather in your core under his gaze, a familiar throbbing feeling returning to your clit, and your nipples start to perk up under your pajama top. A strangled gasp falls from your lips as his fingers softly pet the tatch of hair, running a finger down the crease of your thigh before he takes your ankles and sets them up at an angle on the edge of the counter.

Your sex was now fully on display to his probing vision and, heat and need gathering in your lower belly as he ran his fingertip down the partition that separated the labia from the inner membranes, then running it superficially over the length of your slit, and you can’t help but make a quick bucking motion at the touch. 

“Soon. I promise.” Zayne reaches for the shaving cream, pressing down on the nozzle until the foamy substance falls onto his fingers. He carefully spreads the cream all over your mound, the edges of your labia, and the creases of your inner thighs. Every small stroke only stokes the fire inside you, the unexpected eroticism of the act making you wetter and eager to feel his fingers on a more intimate spot. Your breath catches as the cold, metal edge of the razor is felt on your skin, and then with a smooth dragging motion, you feel your hair part company with your skin. The quiet noise of the blade removing your hair fills the bathroom, punctuated with the sound of both your breathing and the soft taps of the razor as Zayne clears the head into the sink. 

He’s meticulous and patient, slanting the instrument delicately to get into the small nooks and using a firm but delicate touch to hold apart your lips as he works the razor near the delicate spots, then going lower to the back ends of the labia near your core. Time seems to move slower under his ministrations, and when he’s finally satisfied with his work, he takes a small hand towel which he runs under warm water from the sink before cleaning off the excess shaving cream. You peek down to admire his handiwork, seeing how smooth your skin looked, at how tidy and tamed it now was. 

Your clit was conspicuously visible now, unconcealed from the hair that was hiding it from view. You can feel it throb from the attention and your calves quiver from holding yourself apart for so long on the counter. You’re about to drop them down when Zayne firmly puts his hands on your knees. “Just a little longer.” 

You don’t dare move as he bends, his breath ghosting your sensitive skin which feels even more naked than usual with the missing hair. You sensed what he was about to do before it happened. A soft moan of wantonness leaves your lips and echoes off the tiles of the bathroom as Zayne’s clever tongue delves into your folds, lapping at the gathering honey that’s been accumulating all night. He leisurely dives into your hole, letting the watery nectar flow into his mouth. Your cunt was ripe with the scent of desire and it takes all his strength to not senselessly fuck you on the counter at this very moment. 

His tongue drags upwards sinfully, stimulating every nook and cranny of your delicate sex before teasingly flicking against the base of your clit, upsetting your balance as your hips arch forward in need. Your heels almost slide off the counter but Zayne reassuringly has you in a tight hold that keeps you in place. The little moans turn into mewls of pleasure as he sets up a rhythm, letting saliva dribble onto his tongue and slowly tracing short lines on your clit, patient little strokes from the bottom of the little bud to the top that have you squeezing your eyes closed as you try not to scream out from insanity. His spit combines with your arousal and pools down at the base of your cunt, a little messy puddle forming on the counter. 

Your hands keep flexing before finally finding purchase on his shoulders, squeezing them tight, and you hear a low noise from Zayne as your fingernails dig into his skin. You’d never felt so exposed, so utterly defenseless, all of you display for him to toy with as he pleased. You can feel your walls spasming in expectation and let out a quavering whine as you feel his fingers probing your entrance, pushing into you and scissoring inside to stretch you out. As he begins to stroke that spongy patch of nerves inside you, you feel the control snapping away from your body like a curtain being ripped off its hooks. Unashamedly, you moan, your hips undulating on his face as Zayne pushes you to the point of ecstasy.

You cry out sharply as you orgasm, the delicious spasm of ripples from within bubbling into your core and sending a heady rush into your system. The aftershocks continued to trickle through you, and Zayne slowly pulled his fingers out, covered in your essence. He places a soft kiss on your clit, a tender gesture that has your heartwarming despite the carnal act that had just taken place. He licks his fingers clean, then cups your cheek lovingly, taking in the sight of your flushed face and bright eyes, the way your hardened nipples showed up through your sleep top. He rests his forehead against yours.

“Darling…What am I supposed to do with you looking so delightfully sweet right now?” His thumbs brush the sides of your breasts you’re acutely aware of how close he is to losing control. You can feel the rock-hard push of his cock against your legs and his breath mingling with yours as he leans down for a hot kiss. You taste the salty tang of your arousal coating his lips and greedily suck his tongue, reveling in the flavor and the muffled gasp of desire that bubbles from Zayne’s chest. His strong arms hook around you and you feel your bottom part contact with the counter and wrap your legs around him instinctively. Not breaking the kiss and positive he was taking you back to bed, you fumble with the elastic of his pajama bottoms, sliding them down with your feet and teasingly pressing against the heated flesh. 

Zayne’s body tenses at the feeling of your toes strolling along the length of his cock and he feels something primal unleash in his belly. Thoughts of a soft bed and taking it slowly are driven from his mind barely a few steps out of the bathroom door. He turns and you feel your back come in contact with the wall, eyes opening hazily as a string of saliva connects your tongue to his. 

“You make me insatiable you little minx.” Zayne growls in your ear and supports you against the wall as he tries to free himself from the confines of his pajamas. “Didn’t think shaving your cunt would get me this hard.” Swaying in his arms and seeing his struggle, you carefully unwrap a leg from around his waist and use it to push down the pajama pants all the way, hearing them swish to the floor as they pool around his ankles. 

You pull your leg back up and resume your position, purring in his ear. “Maybe we’ll make that a permanent arrangement then.” A growl of approval rumbles from within him as he holds you firmly in the air against the firmness of the wall. You slide your body ever so slightly, reaching down to help position him as he pushes upwards and notches his thick, weeping, cockhead at your entrance. You let your body slide further, moaning as he instinctively closes the gap between your bodies. The eroticism of the moment is heightened by the sensation of your pajama tops brushing against each other while your bare lower halves worked in harmony to seek and provide each other with the intimate pleasure you’d been craving all night.

Zayne’s hot, velvety, length glides into your wetness, each thrust pressing you back against the wall. Helpless to anything else but cling to him you moan sexily in his ear, holding onto him for dear life. Each stroke sent bursts of euphoria through you, your pants growing heavier and more broken as your nails dig into his back. You feel tension in his body, finally realizing how badly he’d been craving you all night and your body completely surrenders to his movements, content to let him have you anyway he pleased. 

Wet noises fill the air as Zayne ruts into you, his tip kissing your cervix and brushing against your gspot, his hips deliciously thrusting against yours. The stretch and fill of him felt undeniably satisfying. You stroke his hair, whispering endearments to him as he chases his orgasm. The soft feel of your lips near his ear encouraging him to let go have Zayne’s vision growing fuzzy at the edges, his fingers digging into your flesh as though you’re an anchor. His abdomen is taut with anticipation, balls heavy and ready to unload themselves.

His eyes squeeze shut as he feels every little contraction of your pussy on him, then finally gives in to the demanding needs of his body. The coil snaps in his belly and the ecstatic contractions of gratification grip his body as he thrusts into you as high as he can, sheathing himself fully into your wetness, thick jets of his seed rushing forward to paint your womb. He moans as he waits for the contractions to subside, then gently caresses your cheek, easing his body out of yours as he helps you off the wall. Your legs quiver and burn from the position they’d been in and you lean on him for support, clenching your walls as you feel the naughty liquidy slip of his seed about to fall from your channel. 

He tenderly runs his hands over your body, pressing kisses to your hair, then cradles you against him. “How are your legs?” he inquires and you chuckle weakly, feeling a sheen of sweat coating his chest.

“They hurt. But I think I’ll survive,” you say jokingly. Zayne huffs and starts leading you back to bed. You lie down on the cool sheets, eyes heavy with fatigue, and snuggle into Zayne’s body. 

Gentle moonlight falls across both of you as he strokes your back soothingly, bringing an uncontrollable wave of sleep across your body. As you settle down for the night, there’s a deep sense of comfort in knowing that Zayne was now going to be a constant in your life and you smile sleepily into his neck before succumbing to your dreams.

© nanamiscocksleeve original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

@theimmortalbuns @ladyparamount @otomegamesforlife @sweets-kozume

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

When I was younger, I suffered what I've long considered an identity crisis. Along with cultural identity issues, I struggled with gender stuff. Around six years old, during kindergarten, I started getting the sense that I wasn't a girl. I didn't have language or even any sort of understanding for what that could mean, and so it was this sort of confusion without any way to relieve it. I leaned heavily into hyper-femininity, but that wasn't working for multiple reasons. I remember being desperate to be considered feminine, but my body type isn't a traditionally beautiful one, nor are my features. I *could* have been pretty, in a way that some marble *could* make a beautiful statue, but I never learned the art of sculpting. I could make my face pretty, but couldn't make the rest of me so.

Being in adolescence and considered ugly is hard for anyone, but while struggling with unresolved and unnamed gender feelings? God, it was the WORST. My behaviors in trying to access womanhood and traditional femininity were toxic at best, despite me being a feminist (I was feminist to other people, but not to myself, if that makes sense?), and as a whole, going through life up to my mid 20s was probably the worst part of my life. (I mean, who doesn't feel more secure in their 30s than 20s, but this is a very Specific kind of feeling, is what I mean.)

I'd been exploring gender a bit more in my 20s. I grew up in a very queer positive household (my grandpa was as gay as a jaybird, three of my mom's aunt and uncles were lesbian and gays, some of my extended/bonus family was queer, etc.), so when I came out as firmly bi in my teens, that was great! Except I was still struggling and couldn't figure out why until I began getting introduced to trans spaces, people, and cultures.

I came out as nonbinary at 24, legally changed my name six months later, and while I still was having issues, it was much better. I'd suffered from identity crises basically since I was born, and admitting to myself that I wasn't A Woman gave me a lot of relief. I struggled with the idea of masculinity, though (yay internalized androphobia), because of trauma and the cultural issues around toxic masculinity, and it wasn't until I was in my 30s that I accepted that my identity does include (what I try to make) healthy masculinity in my gender fluidity. It took me lashing out at a trans man doctor during the grippy sock vacation I took in 2021 to get it through my skull that, you know, being masc doesn't automatically make someone a piece of shit (which I was honestly, genuinely afraid of for so long, I later realized), but Doctor Dude was really gracious and non-reactive about it, and just let me burn myself out and then told me that maybe it could be good to be curious about things in my own time, and get to examining why I was afraid. "If anything, it might help with the fear," he said, and when I began that journey of introspection with the help of LOTS of therapy, I began to see it as part of my whole being.

I'm trans masc, and consider myself to be nonbinary and gender fluid. I wouldn't say that being A Man is one of my gender identity poles, but it does feel close, like maybe 85% Man at any masc moment. I leaned hard against being A Woman for a while, but have worked through a lot of issues with my concepts of womanhood and femininity, and while I wouldn't say Woman is on the axis of my gender fluid uhhh range, femme kinda is, alongside other things.

Being trans and learning about myself has allowed me to reconcile A LOT of shit and baggage and harm that I had been carrying for as long as I could remember. Being able to live authentically has brought me so much joy, and has allowed me to cultivate richer and more varied relationships, because I'm able to know myself better and allow myself to be fully present. Being trans has been a joy, honestly, as much as it's been difficult to get there. Living in my body has been made so much easier since being able to understand and claim my identity.

I've experienced trans joy, trans love, trans happiness, trans-formation, and so much more. I continue to cultivate those things, in spite of the political and social atmosphere of my nation and state trying to fuck that all up to hell. Being trans and being able to outwardly identify as such has been amazing, and has enriched my life. It's been wonderful. (The politics, not so much, but the work needs to be done, and I do my best.)

Sometimes I feel we do a disservice to trans people by framing their journey as some esoteric battle to escape their gender assigned at birth, rather than a very profound story of self-love and self-actualization. Many people feel they can’t relate to the desire to “become another gender” and thus don’t really “get” transgenderism.. but almost everyone can relate to the thrill and fulfillment of letting yourself be true.

[erosastro]

Your future spouse/partner: Pick a pile Tarot reading

*************

Pile one - Amethyst

Who are they?

This seems like someone who likes to be in control. There’s certain structure and order to things that they like to maintain and anything that happens that they didn’t anticipate they tend to panic but they also don’t like to show it. This need for control and power and staying stuck in a very masculine energy is from a need to work on their self-esteem. I think deep down they know they don’t “fit in” which is what makes them overcompensate in other areas of their life. They could mirror your energy a lot as well. Deep down they’re emotional beings and all they need is love and comfort, though again they might not say it out loud. they’re sensitive too but cover it up with a hard exterior. They may not like to show their emotions easily to others. They’re probably very creative and intelligent as well, though they may be hesitant to take any risks. They also value their solo time or are in desperate need for it. They probably have a lot to unleash creatively and may be working on it. Their feminine energy is begging to be released, to create some sort of balance and again they may be working on that right now. They’re very protective over people they love and might share a very close relationship with their mother or a maternal figure in their lives. In a relationship they’re receptive and nurturing and there’s a quiet tenderness to them that draws people in.

* Capricorn, Pisces and Virgo or Taurus might be significant placements

What the relationship will be like?

I think that this person might be used to surface level relationships because they’re so scared of opening up but with you there’s a sense of familiarity and it forces them the reckon with their old ways of thinking and communicating and overall how they go about their relationships. There might be some time for them to open up and share their feelings candidly with you but once they do, the flow of communication between you two will be loving and understanding. You’ll slowly bring them out of their shell. You’ll bring about a sense of balance in their lives and they probably will be able to show a lot more of their creative and sensitive side to you eventually because of the trust that’s been built between you two. They might initially want something casual or not that serious at first but because of the connection they feel with you, they’re going to be forced to face things they’ve been pushing away for a long time. It’s very tender and sweet between you two and your love language might be words of affirmation or acts of service

Pile two - Rose Quartz

Who are they?

They’re hard workers and very loyal but there’s a playful and passionate side to them as well. They’re the type of person that everyone is happy to be around and there’s a sense of childlike wonder to them that makes them intriguing. They could lowkey be players but they are very loyal once they’re in a relationship. They love to have fun and they could also be weird in an endearing way. I heard “match my freak” lol. They could be sensitive to other people’s energies and they don’t like seeing or making other people upset. They’re unconventional in a lot of ways. They’re intelligent and open minded though they could be moody sometimes. Especially if they get burnt out from work. They don’t get pissed off easily but once they do … they could be quite harsh with their words especially. The energy is delightful and quirky. They could be geeky as well.

* Gemini, Aries, Sagittarius and Libra energy coming through strongly.

What the relationship will be like?

Okay firstly words of affirmation might be a bit love language between the two of you. They value you. They could put you on a bit of a pedestal actually, lol. They’re very thoughtful as well and I heard that things are easy between you two right off the bat. Like conversations flow easily and banter. They’re soooo loving. Like they love to express their love to you and they find you hella attractive. They may think you’re out of their league. I’m picturing Leonard and penny from big bang theory. That might be a show you both love as well. You love to make each other laugh and the intimacy between you is otherworldly. They notice the small things about you and you both value each other. They may the first ones to say “I love you”

Pile three - opalite

Who are they?

They’re fiercely loyal and protective and they’ve been through a lot in the past. Lots of heartbreak that may have caused a sense of insecurity within them. But they love like no other. They’re protective and trustworthy and are big on building trust in a relationship first, no matter what kind of relationship it is. I sense that they might be spiritual as well.hard to grasp too much about them so they might be mysterious too. Their souls are beautiful and they might have gone through a major spiritual transformation or awakening recently. They might be working on healing their heart chakra due to the trauma from previous relationships that they’ve faced. But I get such a strong energy from them either way. Like when they love someone they love HARD.

*Leo energy is super strong in this reading as well as Libra and Gemini

What the relationship is like?

There’s so much of Leo energy here id be surprised if they didn’t have Leo placements of fifth house placements. This relationship is sooo supportive. You guys are each others biggest cheerleaders. I said “aww” so many times for this part of the reading. You make each other super happy and you’re both willing to work hard on the relationship. Like there’s mutual effort here and understanding. You might have manifested this person into your life. I heard “long time coming”. You may already feel this persons energy strongly. You have a way of helping each other through any anxieties or doubts easily. For some of you** there could be babies that come in very early and the relationship might move quite quickly. But it’s because there’s like no doubt about each at all. You both know you’re each others person right off the bat.

Pile four - Aquamarine

Who are they?

They’re very blunt lol. But they have a way with words. They’re extremely charming and intelligent. And they value family a lot. They’re highly intuitive too. They’re very self assured and they’re loyal too, to everyone they love. They’re very direct to people about how they feel and they may come across strange to some. But there’s still something super intriguing about them because their energy is very high vibrational. They might not like beating around the bush and are good at observing others. I feel like it would be hard to lie to this person too. Like they immediately pick up that you’re speaking shit lol. They’re very spiritual and creative. They could be big on being very healthy and like fitness freaks too. They’re the types to love studying even if they don’t always need it. They love learning about new things all the time and the way to their heart is probably through their minds first. They could have psychic abilities as well and can be hypersensitive. They’re very sure about what they want in their lives too.

Strong Gemini, Aquarius, Libra and Leo

What is the relationship like?

Pile four this might be your divine counterpart. The energy is very strong and this relationship is extremely important in your lives. They might have taken a while to come into your life and vice versa but patience is virtue! And trust me it’ll be worth it. They feel very lucky to have you in their life. They love you so unconditionally and you guys get a long like a house on fire. There’s beautiful energy flow between you two and you’re very supportive of each other. You accept each other wholeheartedly and I hear that it’s not something you’re used to. You might have been in very difficult relationships before. You two have a lot in common and can relate to each other in a lot of different ways. They expose you to new ways of loving and spirituality and sexuality. It might be scary to go into this relationship heart first but something about them makes both of you embrace the unfamiliar. Beautiful energy again. Air signs coming through strongly again.

[ultravi0lence14]

WELCOME TO THE BUNKER

dean winchester x angel!reader

1.5k | angst, enemies to lovers, szn nine

summary: waking up inside of the winchester’s bunker, you quickly start to realize that only one of the brother’s want you around their home.

WHEN ANGEL FALLS IN LOVE

“damn, she sleeps like a log.”

your mind was starting to wake up, the faint sounds of a gruff voice piercing through your veil of sleep. your eyes peeled open like worn out book pages, taking their time as you brought your hand up to shield your retina’s from the blinding lights.

how long you’d been asleep was a mystery to you. your body felt well rested, but it also felt like your bones had been dormant for years. the plush material beneath your body felt like a cloud, having you realize that the winchester’s had probably laid you to rest in a bed of sorts.

“dean!” you heard another voice exclaim softly in shock, a thud being heard from an unknown source. “she fell from heaven for christ’s sake, i’d also be asleep for a week.”

a week? was that how long you’d been asleep for? yeah, you fell from the sky at an inhuman speed, but you didn’t expect to be out for seven days.

when your eyes finally decided to peel open, a cream and industrial space was there to greet you. the winchester’s bunker is where you expected to be, but you didn’t plan on it being this nice. from this room alone, it seemed massive, and you were starting to already get overwhelmed.

it didn’t help that two large bodies loomed over you. as the clutches of sleep let go of your weak body, it didn’t allow you to realize that it was sam and dean who were hovering over you. so in a fit of fear, you leapt up in bed, shocking the brother’s to jump backwards as you scooted towards the headboard.

your eyes were widened in fear; even as your brain registered that it was sam and dean in the room with you. wether it be the aftershocks of the fall or adjusting to being awake after seven days you didn’t know, but your body couldn’t help but cower back as sam reached out towards you.

“hey, it’s okay.” sam spoke softly, coming to stand by the bedside while kneeling to be close to your frame. “we aren’t going to hurt you.”

the wide eyed fearful stare you gave sam softened as his reassurance sunk in your bones. all you could do was nod, looking from sam to his brother who didn’t share as soft as a reaction as sam did. “where am i?”your voice was soft, yet the gruffness of dean’s impending response hardened any of your feathery words that remained.

“our bunker,” his arms were crossed across his chest as he stood at the foot of your bed, looking down at you from his nose as he silently judged your presence. “in kansas. not a lot of supernatural creatures know about it, so don’t go flapping your gums and telling everyone.”

“dean!” it was like sam was conditioned to say his brothers name like that; shocked and full of distaste for how his brother was acting. “the poor girl just fell from the freakin sky, she’s probably confused. why would that be something she’d plan on doing?”

sam’s reprimanding had you shrinking back into the bed, making you realize how unwanted you were here. it wasn’t that sam didn’t want you around, it was just dean clearly didn’t want you there. if sam had to scold him so much, his animosity towards you was probably very high.

wringing your fingers together, you looked down at your bandaged hands as you attempted to pick at the skin around your fingers. “i don’t have to stay if that’s what you want, dean.” you mumbled, looking up at him as he stared you down. “i can go like cas, figure out how to live in this world alone.”

sam’s hand grasping yours had your head turning sideways, neck stiff as you tried to look him in the eyes. “no, you are welcomed here.” his words were steady, assured, like what he was saying was a fact. “we want to help you, that’s what cas wanted. so stay in bed for a little while, and when you’re ready, i’ll show you your room.”

you couldn’t help but feel a sense of something wondrous flow through your body. you weren’t too keen on emotions yet, but castiel had explained to you what some of them were and what they meant; and you were pretty sure you were feeling a sense of gratitude towards sam winchester.

he didn’t stay for much longer, briefly mentioning how he was going to find a room close to him or dean’s for you to stay in before he departed. with a blanket of silence falling over the room, you could finally take a moment to really sink into your mind and understand your emotions.

this was a new experience, and honestly, you were rightfully nervous. it was going to be hard, adjusting to having no grace and no angelic powers. you couldn’t fly, and you couldn’t heel people. you also felt a strange rumbling sensation in your stomach, and you were faintly sure that meant you were hungry.

everything was so new, and you realized that you had to figure out how you were as a person. all you’ve ever known is being an angel, how to be apart of a team and how to serve heaven. but now, you were your own person, and you could figure out whatever you wanted to be or who you were.

the world was still new to you, and you didn’t understand most of the things sam or dean talked about, but you were willing to try. you’ve been alive for millennia, yet you never truly lived.

falling was truly a blessing in disguise; because now, you could really enjoy life, and understand what it’s like to be alive.

“sam is the nice one y’know.” dean’s voice coming from the rooms entry had you jumping, eyes widening as you whipped your head to where he stood. his arms were crossed as usual, and his eyes held their usual steely gaze. he didn’t look happy, yet you weren’t surprised, for a sour expression was all he seemed to dawn around you.

visibly gulping as he descended towards you, your voice scratched against your throat as you attempted to talk to him. “i mean no harm dean, i swear.” the words came out in a croak as you attempted to plead your case, yet all dean could conjure up in response was an eye roll.

“i’m not stupid feathers,” the name didn’t come out tender, not like how cas would call you sweet pea. it came out demeaning, like he believed you to value yourself as some higher being who felt above him and his brother. “i know how you angels work, and i won’t allow you to come in here and judge me and sammy. if you thought i’d let you get away with being a bitch, then you are very wrong.”

his words made your lips quiver, eyes widening even more at his crude words. his entire life was centred around people leaving him, showing they never really cared. it wasn’t shocking that he didn’t trust you, that he would build such high walls around his emotions, that you wouldn’t even be able to get a peak inside. yet his words still left a stinging sensation on your gut, leaving a sour feeling in your chest.

“why are you so mean?” the words came out like a childish plea, a solemn whisper that had you reprimanding yourself at how dean made you feel like you were nothing. you were an angel for heaven’s sake. truly, you were above him. but you never thought like that, never believed that different species were placed in a tier.

castiel could be right sometimes. you were too sweet, a true angel. rightfully deserved of the description that people gave your kind. you believed that everyone should be treated equally. and like cas, you were too kind for your own good. so with dean standing above your rested frame, eyes cold as they stared at you, you attempted your last breath at making him see your true intentions. “you don’t even know me. i’m not like the other angels, i promise.”

all dean did was laugh, a bitter sound that scratched at your ears. “your promises mean shit to me, sweetheart. come and talk to me when you and your kind do something other than ruin me and my brothers lives.”

with that he stalked towards the door, not even letting you get a word in before he pipped in one last comment from the door. “try and stay far away from me, feathers. because if you try and piss me off, i’ll show you how mean i can really be.”

“is that a threat?” you wearily replied, trying to show some confidence as you weren’t up to be mistreated. you might be a kind person, but that doesn’t mean you were going to let people walk over you.

“no,” dean replied coolly, hand on the door frame as he was one step from being out of your sight. “that’s a promise.”

when you were finally alone, it suddenly set in that cracking dean winchester was a lost cause. he was cruel. a mean man that didn’t care about anything but what catered to him. sam was an honest and nice man, and if you would have to learn how to live by tip toeing around dean with his younger brother, then so be it.

TAGS: @floralscented @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @ostaramoon @haunteres @fallbhind @rubyvhs @foolinthera1n @taurus0queenie33 @vaiieydoii @jasvtsc @bitchykittenconnoisseur @galacticalllcafffeine @pascal-rascal424 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @fayeisuppose @angel-inspiredblog @geisterfvhrer @bluemerakis @si1ver06 @drqstqr @wh0s-ra3 @supernatural-bangtanboys @whump-loverz @mostlymarvelgirl @d3anwinchesterswife @youdontknowe

*sorry chat, i kinda made dean a raging bitch. but i swear!!! he will change!! we all know our man and his trust issues!!!

[ravenmacduff]

Sorry that I'm about to write a treatise on monsterfucking. But this post sparked that little obsessive part of my brain that needs to talk about it. So, I see monsterfucking in a couple of different ways. The most basic and simple is Monster HOT. Monsters are inherently sexy. And writers and directors *coughs Del Toro* recognize this and play into it. The Asset was designed to be attractive with a nice butt and kissable lips.

But we also have to ask why Monster HOT? Well, from my own experience as a trans woman, the monster is always portrayed as "the other". Myself and people like me are constantly demonized. They see us as dangerous. They call us predators, freaks, forced into this societal position where there are legitimately people afraid of us. (This goes for other marginalized identities too)

Afraid in the same way that they would be of a monster. And I think that's where a couple of my own ideas come into place. The first is empathy for the monster. In seeing ourselves in the monstrous, we want to reach out and offer love and affection. The same love and affection that we, ourselves need, and often don't receive. There's many horror movies where the monster just wants to be loved and in the end is rejected. Or killed based on societal fear.

King Kong is one story. It's represented in the final quote of the movie "It was beauty that killed the beast". Kong's love for Ann Darrow, which it's been a while, but I believe was rejected in the 1933 film, and accepted in the 2005 film. Kong always was "the other" (and was suggested in criticism of the film to represent blackness) to Ann Darrow, a conventionally attractive white woman. Kong's love of Ann represented the fears of interracial marriage at the time. Kong craved love, and society doomed him. As someone who is also othered doesn't it make sense to empathize with him?

Shape of Water, again also plays with this but more explicitly. Our Protag, Elisa is a disabled (mute) woman, her best friends are her black co-worker and her gay neighbour. All three are marginalized people. All three are shown to face discrimination throughout the film. Del Toro made sure that the fact these people were othered was text, rather than subtext. The main antagonist, Colonel Strickland, of the story is a white cishet man. His aggression, disregard for others and need for domination are extremely evident from his introduction. He's the kind of man who would be a protagonist in any other horror movie. Back to Elisa, it's her otherness that allows her to see the humanity within The Asset. The intelligence, the capability for love. In the end it's that love that saved both of them, while Colonel Strickland was doomed by his hate.

Those are just two examples of empathic monsters. For myself of course I want to love and be loved, and for a long time the fear of rejection for being a trans woman stopped me from truly achieving that. But I am loved and I'm loved by others like me. Who don't fear me because it found a different way to womanhood. And so of course I love monsters, because it shows I can be loved too.

My second thought about monsterfucking relates to a loss of control. Your powerlessness against a creature 10 times stronger than you. Who has all sorts of ways to make you submit. In other words a non-con kink. A kink that is often highly reviled because of its implications, but also very common. I believe the woman in the picture that I'm responding to is specifically referencing her own disgust with dub- or non-con.

Loss of control is a huge kink because many people, especially women feel like they always have to be in control. In control of their emotions, in control of any situation, in control of their sexuality, in control for their own safety. The point of being in control of our sexuality has been hammered in so intensely that to accept that we even have desires is hard. We're not supposed to want sex, we're supposed to deny ourselves. Slut shaming, attacks against women for being too sexual, all reinforce that a woman is not allowed to want for herself. We crave a release, to stop thinking all the time, to allow ourselves to want.

While heterosexual sex is so focused on the man, on the masculine penis, that a woman's pleasure is oft put to the side. You still have to think about others even when you want pleasure yourself.

Well, the monster doesn't care. The monster is going to give you exactly what you want have been denying yourself. This goes for men too. Louis from Interview with a Vampire is a good example. His bisexuality is frowned on by society, but Lestat doesn't care. Lestat is going to show Louis exactly what allowing himself to let go and accept pleasure is like. And for most of the movie Louis continues to try and deny himself, until he finally lets go and accepts who he is.

Speaking of vampires that brings me to my last point. Monsterfucking as a way to get power. And the clearest example I can think of this is Twilight. Bella, while attracted to Edward, was more interested in receiving the power Edward has, than Edward himself. She wanted to be a vampire and this was clear from the beginning. But Edward had to be all Mormon about it. There's many people who find power in the monstrous. To take a piece of the monstrous into yourself and thus gain the same power. And power is sexy.

Werewolves are shown as power through their physical prowress. It's very rare you see a lanky, malnourished werewolf. *Looks at a certain series with distain*

Idk I kinda rambled on. But those are my thoughts

Every day I am thankful to not be a TikTok user

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 9

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen, We have apparently now reached the time where I also bash Ferrari. I am sure they are super nice in real life too. They are not in this.

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Chapter 8 of...who knows.

It felt like forever. He knew it wasn't. It must have been minutes until the car door was ripped open and Charles slipped in right next to him.

It wasn’t until the doors were slammed shut behind Charles that Max dared to look at the Monégasque.

His heart skipped a beat at the sight. Charles was still in his racing suit just as him, the suit itself streaked with sweat.

The moment the car door closed, the car started riving.

"Merde," Charles cursed. Max could only agree. "I am sorry, that it took this long."

Max gave a sharp, jerky shake of his head. "You don’t have to apologize," he somehow managed to get the words out. "I’m just..." he trailed off, a shaky exhale escaping him. "How could you make it here so fast?" he asked, casting a quick glance in his friend’s direction.

Charles snorted. "Your press officer had a shouting match with Ferrari's,“ he said simply.

If Max wasn’t so focused on not completely losing it, he might’ve been amused with the mental image. But at the moment, he could only shake his head.

Next to him, Charles let out a sigh. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

"No. You?" he gave back.

"I don't have a bad feeling," Charles said quietly. “Not worse than it has been for days at least.”

Twin Telepathy was apparently a thing as far as Charles and Colette were concerned. 

Quite frankly, till this day, it still weirded Max out. They just seemed to know when the other one wasn't feeling well. 95% of the time, they got sick at the same time. They communicated more easily with each other than with anyone else, and regardless of what game they played...they needed to be put on opposite teams, because otherwise nobody had a chance against them.

Max was well aware of Colette and Charles' strange connection. Even if he didn’t fully understand it. They both had some sort of sixth sense when it came to the other one, and it sometimes felt like they were talking in secret code.

"What’s it telling you right now?" he asked, his voice barely above a rough whisper.

Charles turned to him fully at that, and Max saw the way his eyes swept over him, taking in every aspect of his appearance.

Max could only imagine what Charles was seeing. He felt like a walking wreck, and there was no doubt his appearance was mirroring that.

"Colette is in pain," Charles finally said, his voice strangely quiet. "She’s scared."

That answer felt like somebody shoved a knife into Max’s stomach. He inhaled sharply, the breath catching in his throat. “Of course, she is,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Charles seemed to sense what he was thinking, even without being telepathically connected through whatever the hell Colette and him had going on. The Monégasque reached out and took a firmer hold of his hand, the grip almost crushing.

"Don’t," Charles said firmly, his voice leaving no room for arguments. "Don’t go there. We’re gonna get to her as fast as we can."

There was a brief moment of silence, as Max tried to collect himself. He focused all his attention on the pressure of Charles' hand on his, and somehow, it actually helped.

"I feel so goddamn useless," he finally admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "I want to be with her."

"You want to try calling her before we are in the air?" Charles suggested.

That was not a bad idea, not at all. Max let out a low and slightly shaky exhale, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, I…” he had to stop and clear his throat. “Yeah, I’ll try to call her.”

His hands were shaking when he pulled out his phone out of the backpack that somebody had handed off to him, already packed. Regardless of all the drama that had gone on in the RedBull garage during the year… if it really mattered, the people in there pulled off minor miracles.

Within minutes, his entire day - hell, his entire week - had been packed for him, with all the essentials of clothes and everything else he would need.

He had almost forgotten about the phone in his shaking hands, but now he just stared at the screen for a moment. His fingers were trembling so badly that just unlocking the phone was a challenge in itself.

Jimmy and Sassy were on his lockscreen...a picture that Colette had once sent him when he had been away for one of his races...the two of them laying on top of her on their couch...

Every other time Max saw the photo, it made his heart do a little funny jump. Now though, it made his chest ache. It felt like a sharp stabbing pain, and for a moment, he just sat there and stared at the picture.

Then he called her.

It rang. And it rang, and it rang again. With each passing second, that horrible knot in his stomach tightened a little more. With every ring of the bell, it got harder to breathe.

Finally, to Max’s immense and enormous relief, the line connected.

"Hey, Maxie. I put you on speaker," Victoria's voice came over the phone, sounding surprisingly calm.

A shiver of something resembling dread ran through Max, at the sound of Victoria’s voice. But he pushed past the feeling.

His thoughts were once again running wild - was it a bad sign that Colette wasn’t the one speaking to him? Or was he just overreacting..?

“Hey,” he forced the word out past the lump in his throat. "How are you feeling?" he asked, pleading for Colette's voice. Was it selfish that he just wanted to hear her tell him that everything was going to be okay?

"Better now," Colette's voice came, sounding slightly hoarse.

The words were like a shot of adrenaline, and for a moment, Max actually felt a little lightheaded. “Liefje.” He closed his eyes, just hearing her voice sending another wave of relief through him. “Are you okay? How is Bébé?”

"Bébé has decided that they would rather be born today, so I would suggest you hurry up," Victoria said drily.

"Seems like the kid already inherited Max's need for speed," Charles quipped. "How are you doing, Coco?"

"I'm good," Colette's voice replied, and Max could only imagine the eye-roll that was currently happening. He knew his girlfriend, and he had no doubt that she had been glaring at Victoria ever since the phone was put on speaker.

"Where are you?" she asked, her voice suddenly turning much softer. "You're coming, right?"

"Coming," he assured her, his heart aching. "We're coming, I promise."

"I know. I’m not worried." She sounded like she meant it, but Max could easily imagine the anxiety in her eyes.

"You'd better not worry," Charles said, and then added, "I’m keeping him from doing anything dumb."

Max shot Charles a dirty look at that, bt he swallowed down the annoyed protest and focused back on Colette instead. “Just…hold on a little longer, okay?”

"It's not like I can go anywhere else," Colette replied, her voice slightly amused. "I’ll keep our little speed demon in there a little lo...." She broke off and let out a quiet hiss of pain, her voice once again cut off by what Max suspected to be a particularly painful contraction.

“Colette,” he said sharply, all kinds of emotions washing over him, one by one. “Liefje, just…just breathe through it, okay?”

There was a second of panting, then, he heard her take a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” she finally said. “Just…hurts like hell.”

He swallowed and clenched his free hand tightly into a fist, fighting against the urge to just jump out of the car and start running towards the airport.

Colette being in pain was not something he could deal with.

He heard her take a few more deep breaths, and he just sat there, waiting and listening and feeling absolutely useless.

"How long until you get here?" she asked after a moment, her voice breathless. He could see her in his mind, his sweet girl, sitting on the bed and clutching her belly as another contraction hit her.

"We're not even at the airport yet," he told her, and damn it, why were his eyes suddenly burning. "We’ll get there as soon as we can, okay? Just...hold on a little longer."

"What your dad said..." Colette said with a shaky voice.

"I know," he said simply, the grief raw in his voice. Neither of them were ever really going to get over the two babies they had lost. They had learnt to live with the pain, they had dealt with the heartbreak an grief...but it was always going to be scar for them.

"Max, if something…" she began, her voice a little wobbly. He could tell that she was crying, by the way her breathing got a little more hitched and ragged.

But she suddenly cut off and gasped, letting out an even breath. Another contraction..."Hey, nothing is gonna happen," he quickly said, trying to soothe her. "Nothing. I'll be there soon. I'll be there before you know, and our child will meet their parents. We will be fine, we will get through this. You, and me. Together."

"If something happens," Colette continues. "If..."

"No," he cut her off, the word coming out as a growl. "Nothing is gonna happen. You will not talk that way. You’re going to deliver a gorgeous and healthy baby, and I won’t hear anything else."

"Max..." she protested, but Max wasn’t having it.

"You’re not going anywhere," he said firmly, putting as much steel in his voice as he could. "You will be fine. Our baby will be fine, and I will be there soon and I will hold your hand and you can threaten to geld me and all of it will be okay. Just breathe.” 

He could hear the sound of her breathing, deep and even. She was trying to steady it, and Max gripped his phone tighter. He didn’t know if he was trying to hold himself together, or if he was trying to hold on to the sound of her voice.

The seconds ticked by, and then another contraction hit, and he heard her gasp out another ragged breath. Max felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. The idea of her in pain was like an invisible knife twisting a little deeper in his gut, each time.

"We need to go," Charles said suddenly. "We need to get into the plane." The car slowed down at that moment. "Coco, listen to me. I am going to be absolutely fucking furious with you if something happens to you," Charles told her fiercely. 

"Trust me," Colette’s voice said, sounding slightly tired. "I am very, very motivated to stay alive."

That was good. That was a good sign. If she was still being sarcastic and even a little bit cheeky…it was good.

"Just hold on," he told her again, the familiar feeling of helplessness seeping into his bones. "Just keep hanging on, for me. I love you."

“I love you too,” the words were as immediate and as fast as the sunrise each morning. "Hurry up, dammit."

"I’m trying," he replied, his voice hoarse. "I’m trying. We’re at the airport now. We’ll get there as fast as we can-" he had to stop, when he heard her let out another pained gasping sound, as another contraction clearly hit her hard.

“Goddamn,” he exclaimed, all of his muscles tense with the urge to do something. He wanted to help her, he wanted to be there to comfort her…but more than anything,  he was terrified of losing her. "Liefje, just keep breathing, okay? Breathe and stay calm."

"I’m trying to," her voice was breathless, and he knew that she was probably trying hard to fight the urge to cry out. Oh God, he hated that. He hated seeing her in pain, he loathed feeling this utterly useless.

"Go. Love you," she told him.

"I love you," he told her emphatically, wanting to say something more, but then Charles impatiently gestured at him to hurry up and get out of the car. "I...I’ll see you soon, okay? Just hang on, okay?"

"Yeah," he could tell that she was trying even harder to control her voice, trying to put on a calm and steady front for his benefit. "Just..." she cut off and let out a gasp, another contraction evidently hitting her hard. "...just hurry up before this baby decides to make their way out before you arrive, okay?"

"I will," he promised through gritted teeth. "I will, goddammit, I will, just…hang on."

He heard Colette’s pained panting, and each of her breaths was like a stab in the gut.He hated having to hang up on her

Everything in him rebelled at that. How could he, how could he possibly abandon her like that, how could he let her take on this pain and fear all by herself, without him there to hold her hand...but goddamnit, he had no choice.

He took a shuddering breath and pushed past the urge to scream, to slam his fist into something, anything. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, ranging from the desperate need to get to her, to overwhelming panic, to anger at the universe for forcing them apart and for putting her through this pain.

Into the plane they went…it was probably the shortest amount of time between entering a plane and taking off Max had ever experienced. 

Before too long they were up in the air, flying towards Nice.

The minutes ticked by, each one passing by like a century. Max would sit in restless agitation at his seat, his mind racing back and forth. Every thought and memory came back to Colette. He just wanted to be at her side, he just wanted everything to be okay…

And instead he would be stuck on this plane for 6 hours.

He would be stuck on this goddamn plane for six hours. Six hours, each one of them filled with the knowledge that the love of his life was giving birth to their child, and he was not there to support her, to hold her hand and reassure her that everything was okay.

It was driving him absolutely insane. He couldn’t take it, he just wanted to be there, with her. He could vividly picture her, sitting in the hospital bed and gripping the rails, her face screwed up in pain as she fought through another contraction. And he was not there to comfort her.

"Maman is with her. Your sister is with her. Lorenzo and Arthur too." Charles said at that moment. “We aren't there but everybody else is."

"How can you be this calm?" Max asked him, dragging a hand through sweat damp hair.

"Don't mistake calm for not being worried," Charles said evenly, his eyes tracking Max's restless pacing of the plane. "I am worried. For her, for you and for the little one. But freaking out isn't gonna do anyone any favours right now."

"I know,” Max said, his voice still strangled tight with stress. He just couldn't get any of the images out of his mind - her struggling and fighting her way through the pain, looking more vulnerable and pale than he had ever seen her...and he was not there.

“Besides, I shouted at Ferrari’s PR and got it out of my system, so currently, I am feeling quite calm.” Charles said darkly. “I imagine that’s going to change again when I am sure that Colette and the baby are alright.”

Max just stared at him. Charles had done what?

If there was a religion that Charles Leclerc believed in then it was Ferrari.

Charles Leclerc was their golden boy. Their Il Predestinato. There was no good-natured fobbing to be had about Ferrari regardless of what issues there had been had through the years, and there had been a lot.

Charles worshipped Ferrari like a malevolent goddess. He didn’t want to hear any criticism of his team and Max had given up on that a very long time ago. 

Charles and Colette both could be the most stubborn people Max had ever match. The only one who could match their stubbornness were each other. 

"You did what?" Max stared at him, utterly flabbergasted. Charles was an absolute Ferrari fan and loyal to the very core…why the hell would he yell at the PR people?

"Why...? What did they do?"

"They weren't even going to tell me that something was wrong with Colette," Charles said darkly. "I knew it. I knew that something was off. But they didn't say anything. It was one of Red Bull's PR Staff that got me out of the cooldown room. Ferrari wouldn't have said anything to me. Ferrari didn't want me to leave either. They wanted to debrief, they wanted me to give interviews,"

Max had to resist the urge to swear. He had been so focused on the fact that he was not with Colette that he hadn't even processed the fact that Ferrari had actually kept her labour a secret from Charles, simply to make him stay and do his goddamn job for them.

"You know that that is not normal, right?" he asked him drily. "I am not telling you that everything is perfect at Red Bull but Christian would never fucking stand for that."

"You know I never expected it," Charles told him, his mouth a thin hard line. "We are the drivers. We are the stars. But we come second. First and foremost, we are assets to the team. What Ferrari wants, Ferrari gets. We drive, we get podiums, we hold the trophies, and we smile for the cameras. Everything else comes second. It doesn’t matter to them. To them, only the trophies matter. "

"That's what they want," Max told him, anger seeping into his voice. "But that's not how it should be. Ferrari is wrong. If something is wrong with your loved ones, they have no right to keep it from you like that. Especially not for the sake of a goddamn interview."

"I know," Charles said, his lips thin with bitterness. "But there's not much I can do about it, is there? We may be the top drivers on the grid, but we drive the car that the teams give us. There's only so much that we can do when the team has power over pretty much every aspect of our career. And believe me, I am going to pay a fucking price for doing what I did. I just don't care at all. It's Colette," he said sharply. "I love all my siblings. I do. I love Lorenzo and Arthur. I would do everything for them. But they aren't my twin. They aren't the second half of me," Charles said simply. "Ferrari be damned."

Max hadn't thought that he was ever going to hear these words out of Charles' mouth but here they were.

"What the fuck did Jos say by the way? What did Coco mean?" Charles demanded.

"He gave an interview to Sky Sports," Max said, fury still embering deep in his gut.

"Of course he did." Charles said, not sounding surprised at all. "What did he say?"

"Confirmed the relationship...and the pregnancy," Max said clenching his teeth. "And if that wasn't enough...he made a...comment about how it had taken us long enough to have a baby."

There was a sharp indrawn breath as Charles absorbed that. "...What?" Charles said after a moment, his voice strangled. "...he made that comment in public? Are - are you serious?"

"I never told him about the two...miscarriages," Max said quietly. "I couldn't deal with whatever well meant advice he was going to have...but I...We lost two babies," Max said weakly. "My father went out there and confirmed our relationship and the pregnancy without talking to either of us. He just made that decision because it's "ridiculous" that we kept it a secret for so long. An it’s making me furious. This wasn't his decision to make. This was ours."

"Yes," Charles said, his jaw clenching. "It was. Your decision. Nobody else’s. He had absolutely no right to do that. Goddamn it, I have never liked that man, but I've never had the urge to punch him as much as I do this very moment."

"You and me both," Max said. The anger he was feeling would have been burning through him like a damn inferno if he hadn't been so worried about Colette.

"This should have come from us," Max repeated quietly. "Not from anybody else."

"It still can come from you," Charles said.

Max paused, looking up at him. "Are you saying we should..." he began uncertainly.

"You want to tell the entire world that you love my sister and that she is having your baby? You have an Instagram account and a phone with an internet connection," Charles said drily. "Tell them the truth. Your truth."

Max opened his mouth and then closed it again. Charles had a point. It was obvious what the news was going to be now if people had seen Jos's interview.

But he wanted to be the one to tell the world. He wanted it to be on his terms. He wanted it to be public but on his public terms. Not his father's.

"Are you ever going to ask my sister to marry you?" Charles asked him suddenly.

The question caught him completely off guard. "...What?" He said blankly, stunned by the change of the conversation.

"You gave her a ring when you were both 18 that you both insisted was only a promise ring," Charles said drily. "Are you ever going to replace it with the real thing?"

He thought back to that ring that still sat on Colette's finger to this day. A simply gold band with a tiny heart-shaped diamond.

He had given it to her in 2016, after his very first Grand Prix win in Spain. He had gone out and bought it that very same day to be exact.

He had bought Victoira a handbag the first time he had scored his championship points...but the first time he had won...he had bought Colette that ring.

"Apparently the baby is only going to have your surname too, because you have an agreement," Charles continued. "Do I actually want to know what that agreement was?"

"We were 18. Both our father's would have probably killed us, if we came to them and told them that we were engaged," Max said with a sigh. The Leclerc's had always been supportive of their relationship but Hervè Leclerc had very much thought that both Colette and him were far too young to get married. 

Jos on the other hand...Max didn't even want to imagine that screaming fit.  "So I gave her that ring and we agreed that..."

"You agreed that..." Charles repeated slowly, silently urging him to continue.

Max let out a deep sigh and dragged a hand through his already messy hair, mussing it up even more. "We agreed that we didn't really need a piece of paper to tell us what we already knew," he said simply. "Colette and I had been together for 6 years at that point, we already knew and accepted that we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. It was just a matter of when. So we decided that we didn't need a damn piece of paper to know that we were committed to each other. We already knew that, without a doubt," Max said simply. "It was a promise ring. To love and to cherish, till death us do part. One day we would do it properly, but till then...that ring was a promise."

Charles stared at him. "Let me get this straight. You have been married to my sister for 10 years?" he asked him sharply.

Max winced. Okay. Put like that, it sounded kinda bad. "We never had the actual wedding," he said sheepishly. "We both know it wasn't necessary for us, so...we kinda just...never got around to it."

"I mean, I did ask your father for her hand in marriage when it was clear that he wasn't going to be there...when we eventually did it properly...but...for us that ring was… It was more than enough," Max said quietly. "I knew damn well that I would be with her for the rest of my life. She knew it. We both knew it. And that ring was a symbol between us that sealed the deal. We both knew that it was going to be for forever and always. It was a promise. A promise to always stay by each other’s side. No matter how badly things fell apart around us. No matter how much the world wanted to tear us to apart. We were going to stay together, come hell or high water. We didn't need a paper to prove that to us or the rest of the world," Max said firmly.

Charles stared at him for a couple of long moments, processing this. Max was well aware that, from an outside perspective, it might sound weird. That they had been so young, but so utterly certain that they were going to spend their lives together.

But he and Colette had been together for years. And he had seen how strongly they had bonded over the years, seen what they had been able to deal with as a team, as one, and how they had come through every single thing that the life had thrown at them together.

"You two are utterly ridiculous," Charles finally said drily. "You didn't get engaged because as far as you two were concerned you already got married years ago."

Max winced a little bit and couldn't really refute it. If he were to be honest, he'd have admit it did sound utterly ridiculous, when Charles spelled it out like that.

But that just...that was how badly they had known right from the very beginning that this was it for them. They didn't need a piece of paper to tell them what they already knew.

"I'll ask her properly," he promised Charles. "I already got the ring. But Colette doesn't want to overshadow Lorenzo and Charlotte and I knew that she wasn't going to want to have a big party while pregnant so I figured I would just wait."

Charles was slightly taken aback by his words, before he gave a small smile. "She'll definitely say yes, you know," he said, the corner of his eyes crinkling with affection.

Max smiled in return. His heart ached with the thought of her. "I hope so," he said quietly, feeling like there was a hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be. "I really, really hope so."

[luvleyshif4]

for the arranged marriage i sort of pictured to be when cameron development isn’t doing as well and it’s sort of a hail mary for the camerons. like reader comes from a family where her parents have passed she lives with her grandfather( who is a kook and very traditional). readers family is really interested in marrying the camerons for social currency where the cameron’s sort of need it for like stability b/c the public doesn’t know the company isn’t doing as well. idk if this makes sense i feel like i’m just rambling 😭

HAIL MARY

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Arranged marriage trope, Power dynamics, Mild alcohol use, Family expectations, Parental pressure, miscommunication, slight angst to fluff

Word Count: 1.74k words

Authors Note: HEYY!! bb you’re not rambling at all I instantly understood what you wanted but it still took me a while cause this was kinda new and different for me to write so if it’s not up to your expectations please lemme know!! I tried my best to bring your idea to life and I tried to keep it as a one shot but lemme know if yall want a part 2 and how yall want it to be 😘😘

The wedding was perfect on the surface. Gilded edges on the invitation cards, a floral arrangement that screamed wealth, and guests dressed to the nines.

Your grandfather beamed with pride, his weathered hands gripping your arm as he walked you down the aisle. Rafe stood at the altar, his expression unreadable, though his posture was impeccable. He looked good in his tailored suit—too good. The kind of good that made you resent him a little, because he seemed untouched by the weight of what this marriage meant.

To the guests, this was a union of two prestigious Kook families. But you and Rafe knew the truth. Cameron Development needed the stability your family’s name could bring, and your grandfather sought to tie your future to theirs in a calculated move for relevance.

As you recited your vows, your voice steady despite the storm inside you, Rafe’s gaze met yours. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw something—hesitation, vulnerability, or maybe even guilt.

But then it was gone, replaced by the practiced charm of a man who knew how to play his part.

When the officiant pronounced you husband and wife, Rafe leaned in, brushing a featherlight kiss on your cheek instead of your lips.

Polite. Distant. Just enough to make the crowd cheer.

~~~

You awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming through the massive windows of the Cameron estate. The bed was cold beside you; Rafe hadn’t spent the night.

Not that you expected him to.

You sighed, slipping out of bed and wrapping a silk robe around yourself. The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that felt oppressive. You padded down to the kitchen, where Rose was already bustling about, her morning routine as polished as ever.

“Oh, good morning, sweetheart,” she greeted, her smile a little too bright. “How was your first night?”

You hesitated, not wanting to admit that it had been lonely. “It was fine,” you said instead, grabbing a glass of water.

Before Rose could probe further, Rafe strolled in, looking effortlessly put-together despite the early hour.

“Sleep well?” he asked, his tone light but devoid of real interest as he turned to you.

“Like a dream,” you replied dryly.

Rafe smirked, clearly catching your sarcasm. But instead of biting back, he gestured toward the doorway. “Walk with me?”

~~~

The two of you wandered down to the beach, the ocean breeze ruffling Rafe’s perfectly styled hair. You stayed a step behind him, unsure what this was supposed to be.

“So,” he began, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You hate this as much as I do?”

You blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness. “I wouldn’t say I hate it,” you replied carefully. “But it’s not exactly what I imagined for my life.”

Rafe nodded, kicking at a pebble. “Yeah, me neither.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crash of waves against the shore.

“Look,” Rafe said finally, turning to face you. “I know this isn’t ideal, but we’re stuck with it. So, maybe we should try to make it… less miserable?”

You crossed your arms, eyeing him skeptically. “How do you suggest we do that?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shrugging. “We could start by not pretending to hate each other.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t hate you, Rafe. I just don’t know you.”

His smirk faltered, and for once, he looked almost vulnerable. “Fair enough,” he said. “Guess we’ll have to fix that.”

~~~

Over the next few days, Rafe made an effort—or at least, he pretended to. He showed up to meals on time, asked you about your day, and even cracked a few jokes that made you laugh despite yourself.

But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Rafe’s temper flared at the smallest things—a missed call from his dad, a deal that fell through—and you quickly learned to give him space when he needed it.

One evening, after yet another tense family dinner, you found him in the study, nursing a glass of whiskey.

“You know,” you said, leaning against the doorway, “if you keep brooding like that, people might think you actually care about something.”

Rafe looked up, his lips curving into a tired smile. “Funny.”

You stepped inside, sitting across from him. “Seriously, though. What’s wrong?”

He hesitated, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Just… the usual. My dad breathing down my neck, trying to keep everything from falling apart.”

You frowned. “You mean the company?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, and he didn’t answer. But his silence said enough.

“I’m not blind, Rafe,” you said softly. “I know why this marriage happened.”

He looked at you then, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place. “And you’re okay with that?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know if ‘okay’ is the right word. But I understand it.”

Rafe leaned back, studying you. “You’re not what I expected.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What did you expect?”

“Someone like my dad,” he admitted. “Cold, calculating. All business.”

You smiled faintly. “Well, sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t be,” he said with a smile matching yours, his voice quieter. “It’s a good thing.”

~~~

The gala had been like every other event since your marriage, carefully orchestrated, polite smiles, and an unspoken agreement to keep up appearances. You played the part of the poised wife, and Rafe was the picture of composed charm. But tonight, something felt different. He was quieter, more distracted, his usual effortless confidence replaced with something… uncertain.

When the evening finally ended, Rafe lingered near the doorway as you said goodbye to the last guests. His gaze followed you, his jaw tight. You caught it in your periphery, but before you could ask, he motioned toward the garden.

“Come with me,” he said softly, his voice lacking its usual edge.

You hesitated only for a moment before following him into the cool night air. The garden was bathed in soft moonlight, the distant sound of waves blending with the gentle rustle of leaves. It felt like a world away from the ballroom.

Rafe stopped abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets. He glanced at you, then quickly looked away, as though second-guessing why he’d brought you out here in the first place.

“What is it?” you asked, stepping closer, your arms brushing against each other.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze flicked to the ground, then back to you. “I don’t really know,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “I just… I needed to talk to you.”

“Okay,” you said gently, your heart fluttering at the vulnerability in his tone. “About what?”

He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “About us.”

The words hung between you, their weight undeniable.

“What about us?” you asked, your voice soft but steady.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, his shoulders tense. “This thing we have… this marriage… it’s not what I thought it’d be.” His voice wavered, the confidence you’d always associated with him nowhere to be found. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.” He said for the second time in your marriage.

“You already said that though,” you murmured, your voice steady.

“I know, I just…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as if searching for words that wouldn’t come. Silence hung between you, heavy and unfamiliar, until he finally exhaled sharply and looked away.

You tilted your head, studying him. “Well is that a good thing or a bad thing?” You said after a while.

“I think it’s a good thing,” he murmured, his eyes darting to yours before quickly looking away. “But it’s confusing….. You make me feel things I don’t know how to handle…. And I…i think about you more than I should. About us. What we are. What we could be.”

Your breath hitched. His honesty, his hesitance—it wasn’t like anything you’d ever seen from him. Slowly, you took a step closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now, Rafe….”

He laughed softly, a self-deprecating sound. “I don’t have any answers,” he admitted, his hand twitching at his side.

You reached out, your fingers brushing his arm, grounding him. “Then don’t overthink it,” you said.

Rafe’s gaze dropped to where your hand lingered, then back to your face. His eyes softened, and for a moment, he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. He opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated.

“What?” you asked, stepping even closer.

He swallowed, his voice tentative, almost shy. “I want to…. Can I….” He said as his gaze fell on your lips….

As hesitant as he might have seemed, he sent your heart racing. You stared at him, his expression almost boyish in its uncertainty, and something in you broke.

“Please….” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of all the feelings you hadn’t caught on to yet, or hadn’t dared to name until now.

That one word was all it took. The hesitation melted from his face, replaced with something deeper, something more certain. His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek as he leaned in.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, like he was still testing the waters. But as you kissed him back, all the tension, all the uncertainty, seemed to dissolve. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepened, taking on a desperate, unspoken intensity.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his lips hovered just a breath away. His hand still cradled your face, his thumb tracing soft patterns on your cheek.

“Was that okay?” he asked, his voice rough and uncertain again, though his lips quirked in a small, nervous smile.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head in disbelief. “More than okay,” you murmured, your fingers curling into the fabric of his blazer.

Rafe exhaled a laugh of his own, his tension finally breaking. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze filled with something raw and unspoken.

“Wanna try again?” he asked, his voice quieter now, his smile more sure.

Your heart fluttered as you nodded with a shy smile.

“Please,” you said again, and this time, the word carried no hesitation.

He didn’t wait this time, capturing your lips with his again, and the kiss felt like a promise—a quiet, unspoken vow that things between you would never be the same.

[insidekatmind]

Beyond the Fear~Jude Bellingham

Plot: you and Jude fight because he wants a child but you don't feel ready

wearing: angst, sweet ending

You are in the small park next to the apartment complex where you live, where the afternoon sun filters through the branches of the trees, creating bright spots on the grassy ground. The children run and laugh around you, their energy is contagious. You enjoy spending time with them, organizing little games, telling stories or helping them with their homework. It is a moment of lightness, of pure carefreeness.

Jude, your boyfriend,watches you from a distance. It is not unusual for him to do so. He often leans on the fence of the park or sits on a bench a few meters away. You recognize him immediately.

"You always stay here, huh?" he says one day, leaning in with a smile that tries to hide something deeper.

"I like being with them," you say, pointing to the group of children playing hide and seek. "They're so full of life."

Jude nods slowly, but his gaze doesn't move from you. It's intense, almost piercing. You feel the weight of his eyes on your face, on your hands as they fix a little girl's braid.

"You're incredible with them,"he murmurs at one point. His voice is low, almost a whisper, but loud enough to reach your ear."You know... sometimes I think about what it would be like to have a child of our own."

His statement takes you by surprise. You turn to him, trying to read the enigmatic smile on his face. "A child, huh?" You ask with a light laugh. *"Don't you feel like you're rushing a little?"

*But Jude doesn't laugh. He takes a step closer, letting the silence between you thicken. "I'm not kidding," he says with a sincerity that both makes you uncomfortable and intrigued."Every time I see you with them... I can't get the idea out of my head of what you'd be like as a mother. Perfect, I'd say."

You blush, looking down. "It's a nice thought, but... it's not the right time."

"When will it be, then?" he insists, gently taking your hand. His touch is warm, reassuring, but you sense a sort of hidden urgency.

His fingers trace small circles on your palm, a silent, insistent request for your acquiescence.*

"Jude..." you hesitate, looking up. Your eyes meet his intense look. "We've only been together a few months...it's too early to think about such serious things."

*He nods, but there's a stubborn stubbornness to his expression. "I don't believe in fate, destiny, or crap like that." He says, a little harshly. "But from the moment I saw you, I was sure of one thing: you were made for me."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. You've heard them before, in small declarations of love and passionate embraces. But this time it's different.

Jude's fingers tighten around yours, almost anxiously. "There's something about you, something that makes me feel..." he struggles to find the words. "I don't just feel attracted to you because you're beautiful, or funny, or intelligent. It's like I've known you all my life. Like in my soul, deeper than I can put into words, I know you're the one."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. You've heard them before, in small declarations of love and passionate embraces. But this time it's different.

Jude's fingers tighten around yours, almost anxiously. "There's something about you, something that makes me feel..." he struggles to find the words. "I don't just feel attracted to you because you're beautiful, or funny, or intelligent. It's like I've known you all my life. Like in my soul, deeper than I can put into words, I know you're the one."

His grip on your hand becomes almost painful. "I want to share everything with you. I dream of going through life together. Of having adventures, of loving you till we're 80, of having children... I know it sounds silly but... I can't see myself with anyone but you."

You look at him, torn between surprise and affection. He's so vulnerable here, so different from the usual self-assured man you know.

"I... I don't know what to say," you stutter, trying to order your chaotic thoughts. "I love you, too... But what we have now is so good... Why must we rush into things?"

His eyes narrow, as if your answer is not what he expected. He runs a hand over his face, frustrated. "I'm rushing? It's been months, darling. We're not getting any younger. Life is short. I don't want to waste a instant."

Your heart beats faster, not just because of his intense gaze, but also due to his words. His insistence on the concept of time makes you uncomfortable, you feel pushed into a choice.

"I understand that you want these things, believe me. But we're still figuring each other out. We should enjoy this phase of our relationship..." you try to reason, but Jude interrupts you, his voice a little more urgent than before.

"What do you mean 'figure us out'? I feel like I know you better than myself! What more should we know?"

You take a small step back, overwhelmed by his persistence. You'd hoped that this talk would end with a laugh, in a warm hug. Instead, it's becoming an argument, something you didn't expect.

"There are so many things we don't know about each other," you explain, your voice wavering a bit. "We haven't gone on any significant trips, we haven't met our parents, we haven't faced any serious problems... these are all fundamental things, Jude."

A small shadow of annoyance passes over his face, making his features harden.

"What are you implying? That our relationship is not serious because we haven't done all these things? That it's all just an illusion?"

You shake your head, trying to find the right words to express what you feel. "No, no, I'm not saying that at all. I'm just trying to be realistic. We can't make big decisions if we haven't experienced many things together."

"I don't know, I don't know..." you say, frustrated and a little scared.".We both know it's not just about time. It's a feeling, it's an intuition."

Jude makes a small sound, almost like a scoff.

"This isn't about your damn intuition," he says, a hint of anger finally breaking through. "I want a life with you, I want to wake up next to you every morning... Is it so hard to understand?"

You shake your head, feeling tears stinging your eyelids. This conversation is taking a direction you weren't expecting, and it's hurting you.

"Of course, it's not hard to understand. I want those things too, but..."

He suddenly grabs your shoulders, almost shaking you. "But what, huh? What is holding you back from making a commitment?"

"It's not that I don't want to make a commitment," you try to explain, your voice choked with sobs. "I love you, you know that. But committing to a life together...it's a huge deal."

He lets out a breath that sounds like a strangled laugh, and releases your shoulders, taking a step back.

"I see. Commitment must come when you're ready, huh? The right time, the perfect set of circumstances..." he says, his voice full of sarcasm.

His words cut deep. You feel accused but don't understand why.

"Jude, that's not what I'm saying..."

But he silences you, his gaze burning with frustration and disappointment.

"Isn't it?" he asks bitterly. "You want to keep playing this game until everything is perfectly aligned, until it's too late. But life doesn't work like that."

You feel a sense of panic, like things are spiraling out of control.

"Please, stop... This is not how I wanted this conversation to go." You take hold of his forearms, your fingers wrapping around his tense muscles. But he doesn't soften.

"How would you want it to go, then? Would you like me to wait until we're old and gray?" Jude says, his sarcastic tone like a blade in your heart.

you look at him trying to make him see reason "Jude we are only twenty-one years old"

He looks at you with a mix of disbelief and anger.

"Twenty-one is not that young, darling," he retorts through gritted teeth. "Many people have families at our age. Hell, some get married at eighteen !"

You let go of his arms, taking a small step back. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, but you try to keep your voice steady.

"But most people wait. Just because some others go through these steps early doesn't mean we have to do the same."

He lets out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair.

"So what, we'll just wait and wait and wait some more... just because most people do?"

His tone is harsh, like he's expecting a specific answer that you can't give him.

"I... I don't know..." you stutter, overwhelmed by the force of his insistence.

He takes a step forward, closing the small distance between you. "Exactly. You don't know. You have no idea when you'll feel ready, and you have no idea how much time you're asking me to waste."

His words cut deep. They make you feel like a fool, like a coward who's afraid to make decisions. But you try to keep control, even though your vision is starting to blur from the tears you're holding back.

"I'm not asking you to waste anything... I just want..."

He cuts you off with a sharp laugh. "You want... what, exactly? Do you even know what you want?"

The question hangs in the air like a heavy cloud, and you struggle to find an answer. In a way he's right.

"Of course, I...I want a future with you," you start, trying to keep your voice from trembling.

"But I also want to enjoy being young, to do things we can't do once we have responsibilities, bills to pay, maybe a family..."

He looks at you, his gaze intense and critical.

"You think having a family would prevent you from enjoying life? Do you think having responsibilities would make everything impossible?"

There's a hint of hurt behind his anger, as if your words are twisting a knife in an open wound.

You take a deep breath, trying to make him understand what you feel."No, that's not what I'm saying. I know there will be beautiful aspects too, moments that will fill us with joy..."

He shakes his head, dismissing your words.

"But you're afraid. You're scared of the commitment, of the responsibility. Of giving up your freedom."

You shake your head fiercely, feeling like he doesn't understand you at all. The tears are ready to burst, like a dam about to break.

"I'm not scared of commitment. I love you more than anything! It's just... It's a big decision, can't you see? I'm not scared, I just need time."

He scoffs, his eyes narrowing. "Time. Always more time. But what if I don't want to give you time? What if I don't want to spend my youth waiting for you to make up your mind?"

His words sting like a knife, leaving you cold.

"So what, you're just going to give up on us because I want a little more time?" you ask, your voice choked with tears.

He doesn't respond right away, his gaze averted. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, a hint of regret in his tone.

"Is it really just a 'little' more time? Or another year, two years... or maybe five?"

You swallow hard, the reality of his words sinking in. It's true, you can't give him a definitive timeline. The thought of losing him fills you with fear, but the thought of rushing into something you're not ready for is equally scary.

"I don't know..." you whisper, fighting back tears. "I just wish you could understand."

He sighs, and his features soften a bit. "Understand what, darling? That you need to figure stuff out before committing to me? That I have to sit around and wait for you to make a choice? How do you expect me to be okay with that?"

The accusation stings, and your frustration begins to match his.

"I'm not impossible! I just need time."

He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

"How much time? A month? Six months? A year?"

His insistence is exhausting, and you suddenly feel the need to defend yourself.

"Stop pushing me! I can't give you a damn timeline because I don't know how long it will take me to be ready!" you cry out, surprising even yourself with the volume of your voice.

His eyes widen at your outburst, clearly not expecting such a reaction from you. The silence that follows is tense, filled only by the sound of your heavy breathing.

He looks at you for what feels like an eternity, his expression a mixture of frustration and hurt, and then sighs, running a hand over his face.

"You know what? Forget it. We're going around in circles. It's pointless."

A pang of pain stabs your heart at his words. You feel abandoned, like he's giving up on you without even trying to understand.

"So that's it? You'll give up on us just like that?" You ask, your voice cracking with emotion.

His words cut deep, making you feel like a fool, like a child who doesn't know what they want.

"Is it so hard to wait?” You say, your voice trembling with tears.

He looks at you like you've said something stupid, and he snaps.

"Yes, damn it! It's hard! It's harder than anything I've ever done. Spending day after day, not knowing if you'll ever want to build a life with me. Wondering if I'm just wasting my time."

It breaks your heart to hear him express his fears like this, to realize how much this hurts him. You want to reach out to him, to hold him, to tell him it will be okay. But the words choke in your throat.

"I... I don't want to hurt you..." You whisper, your voice trembling with sobs.

He lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, they're filled with an intensity that makes your heart stutter.

"But you are hurting me. By not knowing what you want, by not giving me some kind of certainty. Do you even see a future with me?"

"sure baby" whispers softly

His expression softens slightly at your words, but his eyes remain searching, as if he's trying to understand more than just your answer.

"You say you see a future with me, but do you really? Are you sure I'm what you want? Because if I'm not, you need to be honest. I'm tired of being in this limbo, of waiting for you to make up your damn mind."

Your heart aches at the pleading in his voice, and you reach out a trembling hand towards him.His closeness, the certainty in his voice, it's so tempting to give in to his reassurance. But doubt still nags at you.

"But what if I can't figure it out?" You whisper, feeling like a failure."What if I'm stuck in this feeling forever?"His closeness, the certainty in his voice, it's so tempting to give in to his reassurance. But doubt still nags at you.

"But what if I can't figure it out?" You whisper, feeling like a failure."What if I'm stuck in this feeling forever?"

"Of course I see a future with you," you whisper, your voice breaking with emotion.'But I just.. I need a little more time to be absolutely sure."

Jude looks at your outstretched hand, his expression still edged with frustration.

"Time. Always more time. But how much is enough? How long until you're 'absolutely sure'?"

He looks at your outstretched hand, his expression still edged with frustration.

"Time. Always more time. But how much is enough? How long until you're 'absolutely sure'?"

You shake your head, feeling frustrated and helpless. It's true, you can't give him a timeline, but you want him to understand.

"I don't know..." you admit, your voice thick with guilt. "I just want to be sure, to be absolutely sure, that we're doing the right thing here. A life together, it's a big deal, it's a huge commitment..."

A hint of disbelief flashes in his eyes.

"You don't think I know that?" He asks, his voice rising slightly. "I know it's a huge commitment. And I'm ready for it, dammit, I've been ready for a while."

His intensity makes you shudder, but you try to steady yourself.

"I know you're ready. And I'm scared, okay? I'm scared that I won't be able to give you what you want, that I won't be enough."

Jude looks at you incredulously, surprised by your confession.

"You think you're not enough? Is that what this is about? You being scared you're not good enough for me?"

You nod, tears welling up in your eyes again. The fear of not being good enough, of not measuring up, has been at the back of your mind for a while now, but you've never voiced it.

He lets out a breath, his expression shifting from incredulous to something softer.

"Goddammit, darling, is that what you think?"

You nod again, unable to speak as the tears start to fall. The weight of your insecurities is suddenly too much to bear

He watches you for a moment, his expression a mixture of surprise and hurt.

"You really think I'd want to spend the rest of my life with someone who's not 'good enough'?"

You look down, unable to meet his gaze. Your insecurities are screaming that he deserves better, that you're not worthy of his love and commitment.

"I don't want to hold you back," you whisper, your voice barely audible."I don't want to be a burden."

He shakes his head, his expression becoming more intense.

"Hold me back? You're not a burden. Goddamnit, you have no idea the way I feel about you, do you?"

His words hit you hard, chipping away at the wall of insecurity you've built around yourself. But doubt still lingers in the back of your mind.

"What if… what if I can't give you what you want?" You ask, your voice trembling.

He takes a step closer, his gaze serious and determined.

"Babe, what I want is you. Just you. I don't care about anything else. And if you're scared you can't give me what you think I need, don't you think that's something we can talk about and figure out together?"

His closeness, the certainty in his voice, it's so tempting to give in to his reassurance. But doubt still nags at you.

"But what if I can't figure it out?" You whisper, feeling like a failure."What if I'm stuck in this feeling forever?"

He tilts your chin up, making you meet his gaze.

"Then we'll figure it out together. I'm not giving up on us, on you. We'll work through it, we'll find a way. I'm in this for the long haul, no matter what."

you smile sweetly and hug him with sweetness.He hugs you back, his arms wrapping tightly around you. His embrace is warm and reassuring, and for a moment, all your fears and doubts are drowned out by his presence.

He buries his face in your hair, his voice a low murmur. "I'm not going anywhere."

hearing his words you hug him tighter "I love you Jude"

He tightens his hold on you, his heart racing at your words. For a moment, he just holds you, basking in the sweetness of your declaration, before pulling back enough to look at you.

"I love you too, darling. More than you could ever know."

[elalmadelmar]

I feel like a lot of people have forgotten, or maybe never learned, what a potentially safe space even looks like. That's the only way they could try and frame fandom -- all of fandom! -- as a supposedly safe space.

Here's what you need to even entertain the ability that a space could be made safe for some subset of people:

A defined location, either online or offline

A defined boundary on that location, with little or no ambiguity on what is inside or outside of it.

A defined and agreed-upon set of rules outlining behavior that supports the sense of safety as opposed to behavior that violates the safe space.

Some form of defined enforcement for the set of rules, almost always implemented by some sort of moderator or enforcement team who in turn can be removed from authority in case of misbehavior.

A classic example is one of the original online safe spaces, the old LiveJournal community VaginaPagina. It was a community centered on sexual & health education and advice for people with vulvae, and the safe space policy was extensive, clearly stated, and enforced by the moderator team. The entire community was structured to create a space where people, including teens, could ask the kinds of questions they were often afraid to ask their parents, teachers, or peers -- about birth control, about sex, about menstruation, about the general health and maintenance of a vagina, about recovering from violence, and more, and receive answers that were helpful and kind. Posts or comments that violated the policy could be hidden or removed by the moderator team, and people who repeatedly violated the policy could be banned and blocked from further interaction. Community members could choose to lock their posts so that only community members could even access them in order to protect their privacy for sensitive or delicate questions. That's how you build a safe space.

If anyone can come wandering in? It's not a safe space. If there's no universal set of rules everyone has to agree to in order to participate? It's not a safe space. If there's no way to enforce the rules or conduct expectations? It's not a safe space. If it's a large movement sprawled all over the internet or irl? It's not a singular space at all, let alone a safe one.

Curating your own experience is important, but even so, you have to recognize that unless you're in this kind of locked-down atmosphere that's tailored to your needs, you're not in a safe space; you're still at risk of coming across things that make you feel unsafe, or of having others interact with you in a way that makes you uncomfortable and unhappy.

Ok I want to say something controversial

But you are responsible for your own safe spaces. You can block tags, block words, block people.

“But i thought fandom was supposed to be a safe space” —yeah you have to curate it.

Unfortunately one persons’s safe space may be another persons’ trigger. That’s ok. Simply block them, block the tag, block the word etc. They can do the same for you.

Maybe I’m just out of touch, but I’ve been around since the days of “don’t like, don’t read” and that’s a good philosophy. If it squicks you, scroll past. If it causes you anxiety or upset, block! Plenty of people are responsive if you ask them to tag an upsetting trigger. And if they’re dicks about it, block em.

[wardensantoineandevka]

Yeah, I think at the end of it. I get, understand, and agree that the narrative moment we're at is "Bells Hells, feeling they don't have the resources to fight Ludinus a second time today and still uncertain about the central question of what is to be done about the gods in Exandria, move toward Predathos in an attempt to control a situation they feel is inevitable. Imogen feels she has to make the choice to accept it into herself because Predathos is still moving toward her and the Ruidusborn, tragically boxing her into this because she feels she has no other meaningful choices." Great, amazing, I totally understand this, and it is a natural beat and one that coheres as a culmination of the campaign. It's actually a pretty great beat in summary.

The frustrating thing ultimately feels to be the execution, because it constantly feels like the story is meandering from beat to beat after an incredibly long series of meanderings over the course of the campaign. It's ultimately fine the characters feel uncertain, but the storytelling itself feels uncertain as well about what it is doing and that is less fine. Every decision is made with a sort of timid "I suppose that's the thing to do, I don't really know" at the table level without a very clear sense of what they're moving toward narratively, and that's really more of the problem. It's undercutting what is otherwise a really great direction.

Decisions don't feel like they have teeth because the storytelling is so hesitant about whether it's the right direction to take, so the needed feeling of stakes, inevitability, tragedy, suffocating circumstance don't exist in the way they should to give what's happening the needed sense of clarity. It feels like we're all moving through a bog in a not fun way because the story itself isn't sure what it's moving toward even in a sense of vibes or structurally. moving confidently and toward a tragedy in a sense of trapping the characters and cornering them would've done wonders, but instead it kinda has the feeling of trying to unroll a carpet dramatically and it just kinda slowly stops. Like, it's a slow drift down a lazy river instead of feeling dragged out with the tide.

It is a really great beat to have Imogen accepting Predathos because she feels she doesn't have any other choice in the series of pressures occurring right now. But, the pressure doesn't really feel like it exists because it all feels disconnected from the moment or too gently / abstractly applied or too slow to be framed, and the inevitability aspect doesn't feel like it's quite standing because narrative inevitability comes from momentum and strong storytelling intent and purpose, and it's never felt like this campaign has had that. The storytelling is hesitant and uncertain, so the tragedy doesn't quite come through on experience of the moment, even when it does come through in summary.

And that's more the frustrating thing. It's a good beat executed a little too uncertainly. The choice itself for the character is a good one, but it — like much of the campaign — feels like it lacks a storyteller trust in the narrative or trust in the choice itself to make it really feel satisfying as an execution. I genuinely wonder if that's ultimately what I'm bouncing off of, the fact that it doesn't feel like the table is trusting in the narrative or trusting the choices they're making for the story or trusting in themselves and each other to carry through the story they’re telling, so the intentionality and purpose feel off and it's stripping a great beat of its power by making it feel hesitant at a narrative mechanics level.

[babyb1ues]

A little something about Xavier and his display of jealousy

It’s not even the first time we’ve seen him come across as bitchy, jealous or stand off-ish with other people when it comes to the MC, but regardless of that, I think the reason one might think it’s OOC or weird of him to be /this/ jealous is simply because it’s never made clear where it’s coming from, as in, the root of it all—granted, it shouldn’t have to be spelled out, it’s right there for one to read if you sit with the context, his character and try to understand the situation beyond just what you’ve been presented.

I don’t see it as lack of confidence—I do not believe even for a second that he feels inferior to others, humans or not, I think, for him, this sort of jealousy is a very complex thing that comes from a deep need and fear, which in turns spills into a certain type of dominance that he already naturally seemed to carry, but that’s a very different subject.

I’m talking about the physical need of being with someone he already lost twice, the years of missing and yearning, that’s why I also believe there’s something so very carnal about the way he behaves and, well, wants. He thrives on being with the one he loves, he’s clingy like that. The perceived notion of someone he loves being taken from him, in any way, I think, sort of puts him in fight mode—he’s snappy, pouty, bitchy, sometimes. He’s already been in a position of abandonment before, one time unwilling and another one where he saw no other choice but to leave, but it’s not just about that, but also about the loss of no longer being understood, of not being seen as who he is, since that’s the beginning of this connection for him—and now that he’s found her again, by some sort of miracle, I feel it makes sense for his hackles to be raised. Here he is, trying to make up for lost centuries, and someone comes and wants to whisk her attention away? In his head, he won’t have that. Also, I don’t know if he believes other people have pure intentions (probably not) so I wonder if he’s also protective about that.

This article does a good job in explaining different types of jealousy and where they come from, so with all of that, I think we just have to understand the basis of his character, the trauma and history, and how all those past experiences manifest into strong emotions that he’s kept to himself for so long, also another reason why he’s generally intense. For the first time, he’s been living since he’s been alive, and now, well, he’s running out of time :p

[mysaldate]

Doesn't that sort of make sense though? Why would the characters make a big deal out of it if it's normal for them? It's kind of an issue I have with a lot of fantasy series, the characters are all from this world where magic exists but they have to act surprised and clueless about it for the audience's sake? That has always felt cheap and kinda lazy to me. Yes, act like it's normal because it is normal for you. Don't make a big deal out of it and let us figure it out. Yes, you run a risk of a lot of fandom glossing over it but imo, it's much better than breaking character just to coddle your audience.

On your age point... no, that doesn't really work. The game is originally a joseimuke, meaning for working-class women. Just because Aniplex and Disney US decided to dumb everything down for the English release doesn't mean teenagers are suddenly the intended audience. The characters are those ages because that's a popular trope and that's it, they might be 30 or 50 and they wouldn't change because the age label on fictional characters is arbitrary as they are not real. Yes, Disney JP still keeps certain things censored/safe but far less than whatever is going on in the EN release. In a similar vein, the whole "respect women juice" thing was added in the EN release while in JP, it was left at the fact that women are intimidating and more physically imposing which led to Leona and Ruggie trying to appease them even outside of their own culture (we wouldn't exactly call that respect, now would we? We don't say women irl respect men when they go out of their way to appease them because they are physically stronger).

This isn't about whether or not Jack has a knot lol. This is about how many features the characters do have that the fandom just explains away or even straight-up ignores. And it gets worse when it comes to cultures. The hyenas are mistreated in Sunset Savannah because they have a bad reputation (yes, it is a part of what happened with Scar but also for biological reasons) which then leads to them having to scavenge for food and use trickery which furthers the stereotypes even more. Leona's palace guards are all women because lionesses are usually the ones guarding a pride. Leona does roar or growl in the story on multiple occasions (and a roar is even one of his battle lines iirc).

Malleus was literally born from an egg, that's a pretty big thing imo, people even like this, they just don't like thinking about what that might mean for Meleanor. Also, dragon fae only being able to conceive with their true love? That's a pretty huge difference. The fae in general communicating by hisses and chittering noises? Yes, it's a language for them but at the same time, that's a pretty non-human thing to do. And despite Lilia adopting Silver, he never taught him the language so there's a question of whether full-blooded humans can even learn it.

I agree with you that this is a prevalent problem in media, I just don't think twst is as devoid of it as you seem to suggest. Yes, fandom is always there to explore things more and push them to their logical limits and conclusions but, again, I think twst gives us a ton to build off of. It makes sense to me that they don't make a big deal of it, much like they just off-handedly mention other parts of their world that are normal to them but alien to us, simply because it's no big deal or it is common knowledge for them ("By the Seven!" is an easy one. Nobody feels the need to explain it but we all know why that is, another example would include Mozus' off-hand mention of the discrimination against beastmen in the past, and obvsl there are more all over the place).

Anyway, this got long, sorry. I like discussing this sort of thing even if we don't come to an agreement. Personally, I like the way twst does it but I do get why people might want more obvious explanations and followups on things in way that are harder to disregard.

I need. Twisted Beastmen and the like. To be more animalistic. Not necessarily like, physically, I don't meant that in the furry sense. I mean that in the 'they're part animal and it'd not just for show' sense.

I want beastmen with claw like nails. Where the cat-like ones tend to walk on their toes when not wearing shoes because it feels right. Where their eyes and pupils reflect the animals that they're partly of. With fangs and teeth appropriate for their species.

Ruggie making laughing noises at the active prospect of food. Whooping when in a fight and needing backup. Lowing when excited for a fight.

Leona roaring to get the whole dorm's attention. Chuffing in greeting at people he considers part of his pride. (He'll sometimes grunt at Cheka like a mother would to her cubs but will deny it.)

Jack barking at danger to warn others and howling to try and figure out where his pack is (he forgets they can't howl back, but Ruggie will sometimes low at him and Yuu definitely tries to howl back.)

I want to see Azul with the tips of his limbs in human form retain some of his octopus natural ability to camouflage. I want to see his hands always moving, grabbing something, holding something. Azul who might not have bones in human form with how flexible he is??

The tweels who aren't very active naturally during the day but get really hyperactive at night. Who bare their teeth at people when excited.

Che'nya who lounges in the sun on lazy days. Who's great at stretching and popping everywhere in his body if he needs to, to a concerning degree.

GIMME FEY WHO DONT ACT HUMAN

Malleus who snorts smoke when he's angry. Malleus who wear gloves because he got claws. Malleus who has a tail and wings outside of his dragon form sometimes.

Lilia who gets just a bit too excited at the prospect of a fight and spilling blood. Who can recognize a person by the smell of their blood. Who makes inhuman noises when too excited and gives off a very eldritch horror kind of vibe if he lets loose.

Sebek who can be found eating rocks sometimes. Who finds quiet in thunder and lightning. Who can move so smoothly and silently you don't know he's there until he opens his maw. Who has a lot of really sharp teeth for someone with a human mouth.

Just- gimme some animal, like, REALISM. PLEASE.

[456-is-the-way]

haiii so i was wondering if i could request a fic abt reader x frontman cs ive had this idea for s while now i just cant write it😓😓

so the idea is reader is a daughter of one of the vips and one day reader's father decideds to fund the game by marrying her to frontman if that make sense?? or reader's father made some sort of deal with ilnam (up to you) , and reader is just totally against it at first bcs she thinks the games are cruel but once she spends more time around inho she warms up more and grows to really him and he also warms up to her😣😣🙏🙏 (so its like an arranged marriage, enemies to lovers type shi🤞🤞)

A/n: I LOVE ALL BLOWING UP MY ASK BOX!!! FIRST OFF I LOVE THIS IDEA. So imma write it lmao as stated before I am taking requests in my ask box first! So here is another one. Please let me know if you want to ask for a character from season 1 or 2! NGL needs more Gi-hun requests yall lol!

Trigger warning: N/A

Squid Game Masterlist

In-ho x Reader

The Arrangement

It was no secret to (Y/n) (L/n) of her father's wicked deeds. Since birth, she knew they were in one of the most elite families who not only watched what they called the ‘Squid Game’ but actively held their version of the games. It was a horrid curse (Y/n) from which she could not escape. For many years her father hosted, sponsored, and even made active bets in several games held worldwide. But none of those topped the Korean games is what her father stated for several years. She even had the chance to meet the original creator of the games, an older man named Il-nam. After all the gambling, (Y/n)’s father made one of the most unbelievable bets with the old man. He decided to place the ultimate wager on player 456: his daughter could marry anyone of Il-mans choice.

(Y/n) sat in the room with the other VIPs and her father as the final battle commenced between players 456 and 218. She closed her eyes not able to watch this. (Y/n) understood the tense feelings between the players as she was forced to watch the entire game season unfold. She could not imagine what they both felt, best friends turned against each other. She took a deep breath as her father made her watch. Despite her fate, she honestly hoped 456 won. It almost disgusted (Y/n) how her inner thoughts had rooted for the players. She had favorites just like the VIPS. At the end of the battle the underdog, Gi-hun prevailed.

It was the same day Il-man and her father introduced her to the special man she would be wedded to. “Meet the most important man here. Someone I entrust everything to. You may remove your mask.” Il-man said. (Y/n) had met The Front Man several times before. He had been very attentive to the VIPs but it was obvious (Y/n) had his personal attention. She never thought anything of it because most people gave her special treatment. Once the mask is removed her eyes widen, who knew the man was at least somewhat attractive man.

“I am In-ho. It a pleasure to be marrying you, Ms (Y/n).” He bows.

_1 year later_

The wedding took place only a year after the deal. It was held privately and only the most important officials and elite families were invited. Everything was from the top chefs Korean had to offer, she was respectful of In-ho’s culture and insisted on having a traditional Korean wedding. After the ceremony, they were sent to the luxury oceanfront hotel. She leaned against, In-ho as they were sitting on the balcony. “In-ho, why do you run these horrible games?” Her question was answered with silence unsure of how to answer (Y/n)’s question In-ho turned away. He still was not very open to (Y/n) but he did find her gorgeous and knew it wasnt her choice to partake in the wagers her father deals.

“It was complicated but I know you are stuck with an old man like me so I guess I will tell you. I had been a player in the games before. Back when my wife had been in the hospital. I had been the last one standing. It didn’t matter I was too late. She and my unborn child died… So I took the old man's offer to take this over. He needed someone to inherit the games. Including for me to have… children. He planned I would pass this down. I plan to do that. He was like a father to me and I only wish to make him happy.”

(Y/n) put a hand on In-ho’s chest. She gently cupped his face. “I am sorry In-ho. I promise to be a good wife to you… I couldn’t imagine what you are going through. Come on let's go inside.” (Y/n) kissed him deeply. In-ho eagerly accepted the kiss picking her up. It was no lie he liked the woman and Il-man knew In-ho would need someone like (Y/n) to make him stable.

She honestly felt bad for the man who was forced to particapte in these games only to still lose everything he had. “I know you I think you are very attractive for an ‘old man’. None of this is your fault … I won’t leave you,” She promised combing back his dark brown hair. Perhaps this would be so bad after all.

[just-a-itty-bitty-kitty]

Voice of the Smitten is a coping mechanism. (and so are the other voices)

The same thing applies to the rest of the voices, yes. But for my sanity, today, let's just talk about Smitten[I am ill about him].

Smitten is fixated on the Princess and on appeasing Her because he's born out of a belief that She's their only way to happiness and safety.

In Damsel's chapter 1, LQ establishes for themself that the Narrator is not a safe nor trustworthy person, but unlike Prisoner's ch1, instead of learning to be generally cautious and adopting an idea that there's no one they can fully trust, Quiet puts all of their trust into the Princess.

I strongly believe that, in order to shield themself from a dangerous, unclear, and scary reality, LQ dives into a sort of... 'fairytale' scenario. And that scenario, by extension, becomes the backbone of Smitten's whole worldview. He, just like the rest of the voices, is born out of a need for safety and control, and he knows of it as his purpose and his yearning. His mindset works as a mechanism that protects Quiet from a state of intense stress and discomfort.

So then, what is this mindset, exactly?

Well, for Smitten, expectations of certain roles appear. Roles that everyone has and needs to uphold: The Shining Knight, the Helpless Damsel, the Villain that's keeping them apart.

"Then you should know that we and the Princess are in love and the four of us will be foiling any and all assassination attempts you've got in the works."

These roles bring a sense of comfort. He has this vision of what the world is supposed to be, of what he's supposed to be. Fairytales always have happy endings, so with this vision, there comes a promise of everything working out.

"If he just makes everything go the way it's supposed to, then they'll be safe."

It gives Smitten the role of a protector, someone who controls the situation and wants the best for Quiet, as opposed to the Narrator who has an ulterior motive and clearly just wants to hurt them.

It gives him a sense of control.

So when something goes wrong, it feels like that control is yanked away, and that threatens his and LQ's safety. It takes away his happy ending that he tries so hard to keep.

"We'll get our happy ending, even if it damns each and every person who's ever lived!"

Another thing worth remembering is that the voices and LQ are at least under the impression that they haven't been living for very long. The only experiences they have to go off of, to learn from, are the ones we see in Chapter 1 and then on. To Smitten, the last time things went awry, they died horribly.

So it's no wonder he freaks out and feels like he has to push back for control. And that is also why he sees no problem with killing Quiet's body or even detaching himself from them entirely.

"Don't mind my sacrifice. It's a fair price to pay to give her everything she doesn't know she wants."

He places the responsibility for taking care of everyone on himself. Smitten is firmly under the impression that he "knows better". And he's even proven right a fair amount of times, which only solidifies the idea in his head.

"I told you! There's no life more worth living than that of a true believer!"

"I told you our love was insurmountable!"

But that also means Smitten unintentionally traps himself(and everyone around him) into a box, limiting his potential to just that, a shallow role. And that creates the feeling of inferiority.

His role is all there is to him, so if he can't uphold it, then it means there's something fundamentally wrong with him. It means he's failed.

In fact, Smitten seems to be laser-focused on his own shortcomings, at least when it comes to the Princess.

If She's somehow unhappy with anything Smitten has to offer, then it's not because She did something wrong, or because of some outside factor out of their control(he doesn't want to accept anything being out of his control, even if it would seemingly benefit him). No, it's because Smitten wasn't enough.

He idolizes Her while putting himself down.

"That's because she's perfect!"

It's a bit more complicated with The Long Quiet. On one hand, they are technically one person, but on the other, the voices like to distinguish themselves and seem to have a sense of their own identity.

If we take a look at one of Damsel's third chapters: The Burned Grey, Smitten is very distraught and angry at Quiet, and yet also berates himself at the same time.

"Ah, yes. The mirror. So we can see the monster we've become."

"No, my love! You did nothing wrong! I'm sorry! I'M SORRY, NOT YOU!"

So I think we can assume that it's a mix of both. He may feel angry at LQ but will ultimately blame himself.

Because it's his job to make sure everything went smoothly. It's his job to make sure that She was happy, because if She's happy – they're happy and they just threw all of his work away, but he was supposed to stop them. He was supposed to keep them happy.

He was supposed to keep them happy.

[amorphousgreydragon]

The way you say it does make a lot of sense. It might be my rejection sensitivity dysphoria that I need to get over in that regard. But if I were to describe the feeling I personally experience when I meet someone who identifies as a girl then "Oh, I want to know what type of girl they are / how do they express their femine" so everything they do I sort of look through that lense, as if I was expressing my femininity in that way as well. I don't really wear suits anymore but if there was a girl I knew who liked to wear them I would be fawning like hell because that's cool the way how I feel about that type of expression. It might be because I'm not personally acquainted with a lot of other non-binary folk and feel a bigger connection to aspects of myself that do make me fem that make me relate more to other women, in that sense that I socialise with them differently than other people. I'm thinking and sympathising in the same framework as how I feel about myself, while, when people tell me they aren't like that, I don't use the same framework anymore, which 1. Probably isn't bad, so the diminishing feeling might stem from either rejection sensitivity or just having the habit of using those circuts made to suit my own experiences and sensitivities 2. Probably isn't even necessary to switch from them, since I just don't understand enough about how other people feel in order to contextualise their expressions and the signals they send from their perspective, meaning that if I was able to become attuned to their expression of gender, I would be able to perceive gender as a whole (including my own and the pathways I use) in more nuanced ways, thus expanding from the narrow framework my intelect developed on it's own to something greater and more suitable for the world at large.

I'm autistic btw nice to meet you ^^

so idk if this is just something i run into or other people get it too because i don't really see it mentioned or talked about, but there's a degree of "yeah #girl power #feminism" when people perceive me to be a gender nonconforming girl and that enthusiasm evaporates the moment they find out i'm trans and not a girl.

like. i wear a tux for concerts. people who think i'm a girl give me so many compliments and say i'm so brave for wearing it and good for me for making the choice and all that. and then, when I say that I'm trans and my pronouns are they/them and I'm not a girl, they just completely 180 in the enthusiastic support and turn into the fake smile required civil "that's nice," and find the nearest way to exit the conversation.

because there has been a push to expand what girls and women can do. however that support does not extend to saying you're NOT one when they think you should be.

[push-the-heartbrake]

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

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

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

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

Word count: 14.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you by any chance from Russia?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Captivating, right?” you quipped. 

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

You didn’t look like either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” he replied shortly. 

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin. 

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

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

“A few.” 

“More than one?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too crude of a word for you?” 

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

“I listened to The Kick Inside.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t necessarily lie—” 

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

He waited, silent and expectant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Kidnapped in his own home?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duty calling?” you asked. 

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?” 

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

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

You held your breath as he gathered himself. 

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Restless and impossible, the situation was. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You look very pretty.” 

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

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

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

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

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

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

“Drugs and that?” you filled in. 

“Yeah.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–––––––––––––––––––––––

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

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

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

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, that could work.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Rude?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly. 

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

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