#okay i have to tag this so i can find it because i Need to keep track of the theories

[nereidprinc3ss]

spring into summer

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

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

February 17th

You don’t know when you last blinked. 

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

Spencer said you’d love this movie.

“You okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the right thing. 

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

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

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

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

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

He’s warm. He keeps you safe. 

March 9th

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

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

The ringing silence is killing you. 

“Spencer—”

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

“I explained it to you—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why would he do that?

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

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

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

You feel your throat closing as he stands. 

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

March 13th

“Spencer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’ve told me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 26th

“Did you mean it?”

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

“Did I mean what?”

“When you said you loved me.”

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

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

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

“… Okay what?”

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

“Spencer.”

“What?”

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

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

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

“But you’re obviously upset.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yeah, actually, you are.”

Spencer blinks. “Oh.”

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

More buzzing silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

“So you do remember saying it.”

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

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

“Noted.”

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

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

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

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

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

April 15th

“That tastes like lawn clippings.”

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

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

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

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

“Not ice cream.”

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

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

“How?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“… No. Yours isn’t even good.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “Come on.”

“Mm… okay.”

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

“We need to go.”

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

“And Kevin,” you agree. 

“Oh. You don’t want to say hi?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I just—I’m not ready for that.”

“We wouldn’t have to tell anyone.”

“Can we please just drop it?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

The thrum of his heart could lull you to sleep. 

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

April 29th

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

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

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

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

Later, you corner him by the coffee machine. 

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

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

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

“Are you accusing me of something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 3rd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood goes cold. “Spencer.”

A beat. “What?”

“You’re not staying behind for me.”

“I’m—”

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

“You just said—”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 20th

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

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

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

“Anti-inflammatories.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“Plenty.”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“A kiss.”

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

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

“Yeah? Why not?”

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

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

“Hey, wait.”

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

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

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

June 6th

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

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

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

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop talking to me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He simply lets you go. 

June 11th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are.”

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

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

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

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

June 30th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should we go?”

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

“So… you wanna wait?”

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

And with that, a silent treaty is signed. 

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

“September 24th.”

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

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

“Eight months is quite a while, huh?”

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

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

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

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

“Very.”

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

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

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

July 13th

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

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

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

“Bed?” You whisper against his mouth. 

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

Okay. “Couch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not ready.”

“Yes, I am, fuck, please, Spencer!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 3rd

Spencer corners you outside the bathroom. 

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

“Who was who?”

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

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

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

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

“Why won’t you answer the question?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Spencer is so overreacting. 

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

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

That only pisses you off worse. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer comes out a few minutes later. 

“They’re playing your song.”

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

“I can hear.”

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

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

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

Pointed? 

Surely not. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer?

Hm?

What am I to you?

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

Do you actually want me to answer that question?

You’d nodded. 

Is the answer going to freak you out?

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

Spencer weighed something internally for a long moment. 

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

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

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

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

Now, he’s asleep. 

You trace the moon-glow line of his cheek. 

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

God does not answer. 

August 19th

Something is off. 

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

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

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

Spencer isn’t doing anything wrong. 

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

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

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

The last time you broke up, you realize. 

That is a sobering thought. 

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

There is an old, familiar pang in your chest. 

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

He loves me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is wrong with you?

Why can’t you ever just be alright?

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

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

Something you’d learned from Spencer, of course. 

Spencer. 

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

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

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

For a few minutes, it works. 

Then, for no apparent reason—it stops working. 

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

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

You tap lightly at his door. 

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

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

Glasses. Sweatshirt. Spencer. 

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“I’m fine.”

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

“It was just a panic attack.”

This doesn’t satisfy him. 

“Do you often pass out from panic attacks?”

“Um… not never.”

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

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

“What triggered it?” He asks. 

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” is all you say. 

A pause. 

“Why didn’t you come sooner?”

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

“I… don’t know. I was overthinking.”

“Overthinking what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me why you’re upset.”

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

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

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

“No, no—look at me. Come on.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m really not hungry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He regards you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spencer?”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

He hums. 

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

You chew your lip. “Some of them.”

“Which ones?”

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

“I don’t know. We’ll find some.”

“I have a few in mind.”

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

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

You nod. “And I have a rule.”

He strokes your hair. 

“What’s that?”

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

You tilt your chin up. He kisses you. 

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

September 1st

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

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

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

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

“Or you’re being defensive.”

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

“Am I being accused of something?”

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

“No,” you huff after a weighty moment. 

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

Which means you need to backtrack. 

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

How can you make this go away?

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

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

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

“You should go.”

A beat. 

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean, this?”

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

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

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

“You are such a fucking asshole.”

The words come out too hurt, too quiet.

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

“Go. Home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing but stardust, now. 

You blow across the silent black ether. 

September 5th

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

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

“Sorry sorry sorry. I’m up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sure. Don’t get any ideas.”

You grin. 

“Too late.”

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

“Easy. Six.”

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

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

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

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

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

“Nonono, I’m dead sober. Please?”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Nothing, baby. It was a joke.”

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

“Why would you joke about that?”

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

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

Why are you breathing so quickly?

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

“Nothing.”

“Don’t say nothing, you clearly—”

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

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

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

Immediately, something about Spencer’s demeanor goes cold. 

“Did something happen?”

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

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

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

You watch it wash over him. 

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

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

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

But he’s going to. 

This is it. 

The unforgivable thing. 

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

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

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

“What did you say?” 

His tone bites. 

“We weren’t together.”

“In your mind we were never together, so I don’t really know what you mean by that.”

“No, we—we got in a really big fight—”

“When?”

You swallow. Because you work together, you should be familiar with this part of him—this relentless part, this I-will-run-you-into-the-ground part. But you’re not. 

“Spencer…”

Spencer recognizes this type of quiet. This quiet which means things can only be worse than they seem. The punishing anger is quickly slashed and bled until you feel it swirling around at your feet like water waiting to be swallowed down the drain. Displaced by massive grief, so heavy that you hear the break. The word is small. Too small to be a real question—it is a plea for mercy on a dying breath. 

“When?” 

You try to inhale and choke on it. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t think we were together—”

He snaps. “We are always together. You know exactly what we are. Take some fucking responsibility.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper, desolate. “I didn’t.”

A tremulous pause. Your skin is crawling and you can’t get out of it. 

“What does that mean? What do you mean, you didn’t mean to?”

Snippets come from a reel you’ve been working hard to bury. The blisters on your palms burn. There is blood and dirt caked into the half-moons of your nails, too heavy and too fresh. 

A phantom ache has taken up residence in your bones. It throbs. 

You only shake your head.  

Spencer comes to you again. Gets on his knees for the second time this evening, sets his hands over your legs again in some backwards sort of supplication. Some bastardized retelling of a sweeter story from a few minutes ago. Like he’s pleading with you to recant, rewrite—to fix it so he doesn’t have to leave. 

“What do you mean? Just tell me what happened,” he begs. 

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why?”

The pain in his voice pounds at the base of your skull. 

Words dance on the tip of your tongue. Because there is too much I don’t remember. 

But something deeper in your gut keeps them tethered. Pulls hard. Shame, perhaps. There is no excuse for what you did. There is no explaining it away. No circumstance in which you are innocent. A girl goes dancing. Looking for something. She gets drunk. She chases the thing she’s looking for into dark corners and down alleyways. She needs to know what it is she’s chasing—she needs to hold it by the throat and squeeze, thumb against hammering pulse, until it doesn’t have so much power over her.  

She wakes up in a stranger’s bed. That’s the part of the story that matters. 

“I just can’t.”

The words are too quiet, but he hears. Your lungs burn in the pulsing silence that follows. 

No solution. 

He gives you a few minutes in the dark living room to change your mind, to say the right thing. It doesn’t come. 

So he gets up. 

“Wait, wait wait—” your heart is pounding as you stumble off the couch and follow him, barely avoiding tripping over your own feet. He’s at the door. How did he get there so quickly? You catch the wall just behind him. “Spencer, wait.”

The tear in your voice is desperate enough you flinch. 

But it gets him to turn around. 

He looks exhausted. 

The pallor of his skin—the shadows exaggerating where his cheeks sink in and where the troughs beneath each eye get darker in purple half moons.

You fucked up so badly. 

How much more of you can he handle?

Is this the one thing to push him over the edge, for good? 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t—I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t right—I didn’t—” heat wells behind your eyes as you flounder and dig your grave helplessly, flexing and clenching your hands. “I’m never, ever gonna do that again. Something was—I wasn’t myself that night, and it’s not going to happen again, I don’t know why I did it. I was stupid, and I love you so much, and—please. Please, don’t go. I really need you not to go.”

Spencer regards you, gaze flickering up and down, swallowing. His eyes are all foggy and waterlogged. It makes you feel sicker.

“I know you’re sorry.”

Your chin wobbles. 

There’s nothing to fight with in his words. There’s nothing to scratch or kick or bite or cling to. 

“You’re gonna leave?”

A beat. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

It hangs in the air between you for a very long time. 

September 12th

When you see him at your door a week later, you’re not sure what to say. Spencer has hardly spoken to you at work. It’s not that he’s been cruel, he just… he’s been distant. Understandably so. 

This lack of words, you realize very quickly, is not going to be much of a problem. 

What he wants to do with you does not require a lot of speaking. 

In fact, you start to suspect he doesn’t want to hear you talk at all. It would be hard to form words when he’s kissing you like this.

But you have to try, don’t you?

“Spencer—”

He pulls away, leaves you reeling and head sparkling with fresh oxygen. Disoriented. Desperate to have him in any way you can. A thumb presses against the seam of your lips and you open for him without hesitance. 

He has you against the back of your door, locking it with one hand and pushing down on your tongue with the other thumb. You wish you could do more than let it happen. Do anything but suckle like a lamb. Make him talk to you. Fix it while you can. 

But for the first time in a week he’s close and he’s looking at you like he wants you and you could cry. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he whispers, eyes darting rapidly over your face like he’s hungry for the sight of you. “You are going to listen to me. If I ask you a question, you can say yes, or you can say no. If we need to stop, or if something doesn’t feel right, you tell me. Otherwise, you don’t talk. Do you understand me?”

Your delirious nod is not enough for him as he slips his thumb from your mouth and grips your jaw, angling you carefully upward so as to look right at him through shuttered eyes. 

“Do you understand me?” He repeats lowly, and your breath catches. 

“Yes.”

Those eyes slow, taking you in, that gaze dripping from you like honey. Just barely, he strokes the line of your jaw. He ducks to kiss you again and this time it is not so urgent. 

“Do you want this?” Spencer asks just shy of your own mouth, soft without warning. 

The fabric of his coat bunches in your fist. 

Only if you still love me, you want to say. But you know why he doesn’t want you to talk. So you can’t say things like that. So he doesn’t have to tell you of course I do. Please spare me the humiliation of admitting it. 

“Please,” you whisper. A trembling breath. More than a plead for sex. You are asking that he be kind. Perhaps it’s more than you deserve, but you can’t do this if he doesn’t touch you like he loves you. Not with him. 

You are asking for him to fix something big, something thus far unspoken and which you don’t totally understand yourself. It’s too complicated. He shouldn’t have to do this for you. He doesn’t owe you anything. 

Erase it, you want to say. Make this feeling I can’t talk about go away. I know you love me enough to do it. 

All this, with one please. 

Spencer exhales. And he kisses you again. 

Of course, Spencer’s not good with enforcing rules. Not when you’re opening up to him in this way. Even now he looks at you like you’re a marvel. Touches you like you’re a miracle. As soft and as careful as you could’ve asked for if you’d used the words—he may as well be tracing love letters into your skin. 

All you can do is try and respect his wishes. You hurt him, badly, you know you did. Don’t add salt to those wounds. He needs you to be predictable right now. No sudden movements. No derailments. To the best of your ability, you are quiet and good and gracious and docile. 

But you are only human. Those times you gasp his name under your breath, he just holds your hand tighter. A plead or two are lost against his skin or into the sheets. He takes pity on you—murmurs gentle questions just to give you an outlet. Kisses your teary cheeks as you give your shaky answers. 

He loves me, you think, in absence of the words, over and over, until you feel it, until your whole body is buzzing with it. Until you’re buoyant and nothing is hard anymore. 

Afterwards, his stillness is what draws you back. His heart pounds against yours, he’s exactly the weight and the pressure you need. But he’s still. The momentum of the passion is wearing off, and you can sense it. 

So you allow yourself one quiet, distressed little chirp. One nervous bid for reassurance. Spencer comes to his senses and quells you with a chaste kiss. 

And then he’s out of bed. The weight of all the air in the room, the heavy cold, comes crashing down—pressing into your skin, your stomach, all at once.  

Suddenly you’re paralyzed, unable to look away from the ceiling as he dresses, grabs the glass from your nightstand and disappears into the bathroom. A few moments later he returns bearing a cloth and a full cup. The cup hits the nightstand. The edge of the bed dips. He slides one hand up your calf like always, and you acquiesce, letting the weight of your leg fall against him. A warm washcloth finds your inner thigh. 

Your mind is screaming, deafening static. 

“You okay?” Spencer asks gingerly after a few beats of silence. There is a hesitance, there. A feigned lightness, like he’s afraid of asking. Afraid of opening up this line of conversation and too good not to. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as he cleans up any evidence of his having been here. 

“You got up pretty quick.”

More static. Something fights its way up your throat and you swallow it down. 

“Yeah. An old professor of mine is town. We have dinner plans.”

You don’t know what to say to that as he retrieves a few things from your dresser and returns. Normally he’d slide underwear up your thighs for you and pull a shirt over your head, but today you’re grabbing the garments from him before he has a chance. 

“I can do it,” you mutter, hurrying to yank the clothes on under his measuring gaze. Under other circumstances he might take offense to this. Might at least ask you about it. Now he only stands to give you space and pockets his hands. 

Because he knows. He knew the whole time. 

He’s not sticking around. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. Dust particles swirl through thick beams of molasses light, pouring in from the windows and warming rumpled sheets. How long was he here?

You hug your bare legs to your chest and settle your chin over folded arms, mapping dust like stars in a galaxy. “Why’d you even come?” you murmur.  

The world quiets down. Waits with you, holding its breath for his answer. 

“I don’t know.”

Light glares off the floor in a blinding white pool. Sends shooting pains into the back of your eyes as you fiddle with your own shirtsleeve. 

“Were you trying to… hurt me back, or something?”

“No.” The answer is firm and immediate. “No, I am not trying to hurt you.”

You say nothing. Wood creaks under shifting weight, but you’re not looking at him as he sighs. 

“You have to give me some time.” Your name on his tongue is reprimand, a thing he shouldn’t have to tell you. “It’s been a week. I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m not thinking straight.”

“You were thinking straight enough to drive over here and tell me not to talk while you fucked me.”

“I—” he sighs. At a perpetual loss with you. “I told you it wasn’t well thought out. I’ve been spiraling. All week. I’m not sleeping, I’m not making good choices. I mean—you—you fucked me over!” The words burst out, the way they do when he curses. “I haven’t had anybody to talk to about this. You are the only person. Do you see why that would be difficult? You hurt me so much and I miss you and I’m furious and you’re the only one I can talk to about any of it. That’s insane, right? I think you owe me some grace.”

“Did I owe you that, too?”

You gesture toward the unmade sheets and then bury your face against your arms once more. 

Humiliated. Like usual. 

Spencer is stunned into silence for a moment. 

“No. No, you didn’t. Did I—did I make you feel that way? If that didn’t feel right—”

“No,” you assuage tearfully. “I just wish you t-told me you weren’t going to stay, ’cause I wouldn’t have—I just can’t do that with you.”

“Can’t do what?” he asks, sitting on the bedside once more, hand twitching but ultimately leaving you be. 

“I can’t have sex with you if you’re gonna leave after. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t know that. But, like—you are the one person who can’t—I just really really can’t do that with you, because—” you stop yourself and change course with a shuddering breath, pressing your palms to weeping eyes. “I’m sorry. I know this is literally all my fault. I don’t get to ask for things. I know that.”

Fireworks dance against the back of your lids. Spencer is quiet. 

Then there are hands around your wrists. A thumb smoothing the delicate skin under your palm. You hiccup a gasping cry and melt toward him. It might be the most you get from Spencer, so you focus on the small touch until it burns. His voice is soft—a balm you don’t deserve. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” you sniffle, hands falling an inch, then two, as you go lax under his touch. “You don’t owe me an apology. Just—I can’t do that with you again until… until we have things figured out.”

The stroking thumb stops, and then restarts. 

“Okay.”

Finally, you open your eyes. Can’t make sense of the neutrality on his face.

“What?”

He only shakes his head. Nothing. 

Too tired to push him, you let your hands fall to your lap, and he keeps hold on your wrists. Sweeping. The lines he makes entrance you. 

“I’m sorry I put you in this position,” you whisper. 

No response. Back and forth. 

“I know you’re mad at me. You really, really have the right to be mad at me. I’m sorry for making you be nice to me. That’s so stupid, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for—”

“Angel.”

You bite your tongue and sink your gaze. What a ridiculous petname it is, now. How terrible of him to keep using it. 

“Sorry.”

Afraid to tell him he can leave, and too ashamed to let yourself enjoy his presence while it lasts, you remain in limbo. His silence does not tell you exactly how much he hates being here, but you think if the tables were turned, you wouldn’t be able to stomach it. Is it really better, his lingering, if it’s not because he loves you? With each pass of his thumb, you imagine him hating you more. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. 

“I’m not going to do this again,” he murmurs, jarring you from your obsessive contemplation. 

Now, when you look up, he’s focused on your wrist. 

“… I know.”

“No, honey. I mean… it needs to end.”

This sinks in slowly, with a heat in your face and the back of your neck and a sick tide rising in your stomach. 

The first thing you feel is panic. Drops of adrenaline in your bloodstream like you’ve just realized you’ll need to run for your life. 

“Why? Because—if this is because I said I can’t sleep with you until—”

“That was completely appropriate. You were right. It’s not good for either of us.”

“So why does that mean we can’t try again? I mean—I know you need time. You can have it. You can. We always do this, and then we get back together and it’s better. I already did the worst thing I could do—we’ll get better.”

The breath he takes is quiet, uneven and pronounced. The kind of breath you take when something hurts more than you thought it would. 

“You’re asking me to get over something I haven’t even fully wrapped my mind around.”

You falter. 

“No, I’m—I’m just telling you I’m going to wait, and you can have as long as you need—”

“Stop,” he says, more sad than angry. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t stop,” you whisper, closer to forlorn every second as you tear up and spill all over again. “I have to try.”

Spencer’s voice shakes as he speaks. “Do not do this to yourself. There is nothing you can say, alright? This needs to be over, so it’s going to be over. It’s not good for us.”

“But—but… you can’t just say it’s over, Spencer, we put so much—I’ve been trying so hard. I know I keep messing up, I’m sorry, I’m trying so hard. I don’t know what happened, I’m—I can do more, I know I can.”

“You can’t—this isn’t going to work. You can’t fix it.”

“But I love you. I want to be with you. I did it all for you, all the hard stuff, not for me, I just—I love you. I want you.”

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until he’s wrenching your hands from your face once more and pulling you into him. 

“I know you love me. I wish we were better for each other, angel, I do. But it’s not supposed to feel like this.”

It’s not supposed to feel like this. 

You shudder a cry. 

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want that. You d-didn’t deserve it. I’m so, so sorry, Spencer, I ruined everything, I—”

“Shh. Just… I’ll stay for a little bit longer, okay? Just a while.”

And he does. Until the room goes dark, and the stars watch silently from above.

October 29th

It’s not going to be warm enough to enjoy the outdoors for much longer—but today, the beams of sun are still thick through the turning leaves, still gold when you close your eyes, and the sweet smell of autumn is enough to keep you out criss-cross on Rossi’s swing. 

The seal on the glass door suctions open and then slides shut again, and Penelope is joining you. You accept the mug of apple cider, holding it carefully in your lap. 

“What a gorgeous day,” she sighs, and you hum in agreement. “Probably one of the last good ones. I saw rain on the forecast later this week.”

“It begins,” you mutter. 

“Yeah. And I haven’t even found a suitable mate to hibernate with yet.”

Your brow knits. “You’re not with—”

She pauses mid-sip as you turn to look at her. Right—you weren’t supposed to have seen her with Kevin last spring. Your face warms and you try to play it off. “Oh, right. You guys broke up forever ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t actually confirm or deny. Instead, a quiet settles. Or—a sort of quiet. Down the yard, in grass that is still lush and green, JJ and Spencer are playing some sort of game with Henry and Michael. One that seems to invoke a lot of delighted screeches from the young boys as they run around and fall over and get back up. 

“What about you?” Penelope asks. 

Apple and clove melt on your tongue and warm your throat. 

“What about me?”

“Are you hunkering down with anybody?”

“No,” you admit without fanfare. Garcia doesn’t respond—probably hoping to get more information out of you. You hesitate, and then go on. “I mean—I was seeing a guy. But it ended a little while ago.”

She speaks her pity gently, in a tone like the velveteen undersides of flower petals. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

You shrug. 

“It wasn’t… official.”

“How long were you seeing him for?”

“It would’ve been a year next month.”

This time, she’s silent for too long. 

When you finally glance over at her, she’s not looking at you, as you would’ve expected. 

She’s… looking at your feet. 

You glance down, ready to be very confused—and then you see the problem. 

Your jeans have ridden up. One sock is striped purple and green. The other, brown, dotted with horseshoes and cacti. They’re visibly too big for you. 

Quickly you try to tuck them further under yourself. But you’re sure it’s too late. 

You could explain this. You could say you forgot to bring socks on a case, and Spencer let you borrow a pair. 

Before you can, she speaks. 

“I worried that maybe you guys had split up.”

You flash her an alarmed look. “What?”

Penelope glances toward the house to make sure nobody’s about to come outside. 

“I mean… honey, you guys weren’t very subtle. I don’t think anyone who lacks my perceptive genius and emotional intelligence would have noticed, but I noticed. Like, I really noticed.”

You swallow, opening your mouth before you’ve decided your plan of action. Deny? 

“When?”

“Well, everyone always knew that you liked each other. But there was this one time—and this was a total invasion of privacy, and I will never do it again unless I have to—where, you know, you… weren’t answering your phone about a case, and I got worried, because no offense, but this team kind of has a track record when it comes to going missing, and so… I checked your location… and it pinged at Spencer’s apartment… who had just told me he didn’t know where you were. And then you both showed up. I’m so sorry, but in my defense, I was not trying to snoop—”

“Penelope, it’s fine.”

“Well—okay—and there’s this other thing that I haven’t told you about because it would’ve been mutually assured destruction, so I kind of don’t ask don’t telled it, which was… me and Kevin saw you guys on a date last spring. And me and Kevin were not supposed to be on a date. And you were not supposed to be sharing spoons—spooning, if you will—with Spencer. But I did see it. And I didn’t tell you and I felt really squicky about it for a long time and I’m sorry.”

You blink. Try to process. 

“You didn’t tell anyone else?”

“No! God, no! I like to gossip, I don’t like to ruin people’s relationships.”

“Who’s ruining whose relationships?” JJ asks breathlessly, carrying a tuckered out Michael on her hip and holding Henry’s hand as she approaches. Your head snaps up. Spencer is trailing a few feet behind her, eyeing you. 

Heat blooms in your cheeks. 

“Theoretical conversation,” Penelope supplies quickly. “Are we finally ready to harass Rossi about dinner?”

JJ looks anything but convinced—and in typical fashion, lets it go. 

“I think we are. What do you think Michael—pizza?”

“Pizza!”

Everyone cheers at that—aside from you and Spencer. Penelope hurries inside after JJ and the boys. Spencer lingers. You quickly try to get your shoes back on before he can tell that you’re wearing his—

“Nice socks.”

You sigh, pausing just a moment before you finish pulling your boot on. 

“Sorry. I need to do laundry.”

You stand, and Spencer opens the door for you. “What socks you choose to wear are none of my business.”

Halfway inside, you pause, glancing up at him. “Do you want them back?”

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

“That’s okay. I have a pair just like them at home.”

This is the first time you’ve exchanged more than a few work-related sentences since he ended things for good. 

It’s sort of ridiculous, after all the melodrama. 

It’s sort of a relief. 

January 1st

Garcia’s New Year’s party was a success. There’d been the most FBI agents you’ve ever seen crammed into her apartment at once. There was a chocolate fountain, three kinds of champagne, and an elaborate charcuterie setup spanning nearly the entire counter. At midnight, you’d popped a confetti gun and blew into a noise maker and cheered and jumped around and hugged your friends. 

An hour and a half later, you’ve taken over as impromptu host—Penelope is decidedly out of commission, snoring atop her bed, still in heels and sequins. 

“Bye, guys! Happy new year!”

You wave as the last stragglers head out the door.

When you close it, and turn around: “Holy shit.”You wade through confetti and streamers and napkins, kicking a few balloons out of your way. Any flat surface is covered in sparkly plastic cups and champagne flutes. “We trashed the place.”

From the kitchen, Spencer chuckles. “It’s pretty bad.”

You frown when you notice him stacking plates. “Hey, you don’t have to do that. I told Garcia I’d handle clean up.”

He checks his watch. 

“The odds of being involved in a fatal car accident are up 208% percent right now, and they won’t be going down for a few hours. Plus, my own blood alcohol content is probably hovering around point zero four, which is well under the legal limit to drive, but I’d prefer for it to be zero flat.”

You shrug and make your way over to the record player, which had finished up A Night At The Opera a while ago. “If you want to ring in the new year by helping me clean, I won’t stop you. Blue or Abbey Road?”

“Neither?”

“Boring,” you accuse, and put on Coltrane. The jazz comes slow and crackly and warm through the speakers. 

Spencer steps aside as you enter the kitchen and hunt for trash bags under the sink—compostable, because it’s Garcia. 

When you stand back up, you’re unprepared for how close he’s going to be—barely an inch separates you and you stumble on your quest to pop backward. “Whoop—” instinctively, he reaches out and steadies you. You grasp onto his arms, eyes flickering up to his and laughing nervously. “Hey.”

Spencer’s gaze is warm and easy on you as he pulls a little smile of his own. “Hi.”

A stuttering inhale. 

A moment that is just too long. 

His fingers seem to relax against your arms, just fractionally, for just a split second. Like he could hold you. Like you could stay this way. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, releasing your grip on him and stepping back. 

“You’re okay.”

A lazy sax solo traces its golden fingers around your thrumming heart until your skin is buzzing. His eyes are the same color as the music. Just as soft. Just as leisurely as they vamp the distance between your own. 

Bio-derived plastic dampens under your fingers as you flee to the living room. 

The next fifteen minutes are spent kneeling in front of the coffee table, cleaning drips of chocolate and splashes of champagne, and trying not to think about the way his eyes caught on your lips. 

Spencer doesn’t miss you. Not like you miss him. Apparently he even went on a date a few weeks ago. 

And with the way things ended, you’re lucky that he doesn’t despise you. Being on decent terms should be enough. Letting your perpetually smoldering want trail its smoke under his nose isn’t fair. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to his mystery girl. He’s trying to move on, and you don’t have the right to drag him down.  

But, just—that one little moment. One touch, and you’re totally thrown off your game. Now, you’re reading into the silence. You’re wondering what he’s thinking about you. If he’s thinking about you. 

Later—much later—the living room has been mostly cleaned. You’re taking the final trash bag to the kitchen when you notice something on the ceiling fan and pause, frowning up at it. 

“Spencer?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come here?”

He appears. “What’s up?”

You point at the fan. 

“I think somebody put a cup up there.”

Spencer makes a face and reaches up to grab it. He reads the name Sharpie’d on the side and snorts, before showing it to you. 

Kevin, scrawled next to the worst smiley face you’ve ever seen. 

“How do you mess up a smiley face?” you laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d be able to tell you.”

You suck your teeth. “God—do you think they’re together again?”

“Kevin and Penelope?”

The trash bag drops to the ground as you flop onto the couch, exhausted. Spencer crushes the cup and tosses it in, standing just in front of you, studying you as he thinks. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. They’re pretty good at remaining inconspicuous.”

You hum, slinking lower in the faux-leather. Maybe some friendly chit-chat is in order. Friends ask each other questions, don’t they? “Speaking of inconspicuous relationships… I heard you went on a date.”

He slides his hands into his pockets and picks his words in silence for a moment—you hate that. You hate feeling excluded from whatever internal conversation he’s having. Knowing that he’s measuring how much truth he’ll dole out to you. 

“Who’d you hear that from?”

You track him with your eyes as he takes a seat next to you. 

“Did you?” you ask, ignoring the question—more focused on the stubbled line of his jaw. 

Spencer considers his answer for a moment, head reclined on the back of the couch, charting the glittery paper stars suspended from the ceiling. 

“I did. Two, actually.”

Two dates? With the same person?

“How’s that going?”

He approximates a smile. 

“You’re not being very subtle.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to answer.”

Spencer meets your eyes. Studies them in turns, like there’s a secret language etched into the fractals of pigment.  

“I like her,” he decides. And your stomach sours. 

“But you didn’t bring her tonight?”

Spencer rolls his head back toward the ceiling—and very nearly his eyes, as he dryly reminds you, “We’ve been on two dates.”

“If you like her, you should’ve brought here. You could’ve kissed her at midnight and sealed the deal.”

A ditch in the conversation. The perfect depth and width for hiding a body, as something in the air changes. Drops a degree or two. Thickens. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs, looking back at you and finally putting an end to your game. Your face gets warm. Oops. Too far, maybe. 

“I’m being supportive.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Is that allowed?”

“You’re sure it’s not surveillance?”

“Yes!”

Even to you, you sound overly defensive. 

“Fine.” A moment passes. He’s staring at you, in this lazy sort of way. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You didn’t bring anyone either.”

“Well… I’m not seeing anyone.”

It’s embarrassing to admit. You pinch at the fabric of your skirt, worrying the glitter sewn into black like drops of silver. Stars, or beads of rainwater. 

“Why not?”

“Do I need an excuse to be single?”

“Just curious. Is that allowed?”

Evidently the look you cast him then is not as withering as you’d it to be. Not if he’s so unfazed. Still reading you like a familiar book. 

“God, this is frustrating,” he mutters, as if to himself, tongue darting over his lips and frowning like you’re a question he doesn’t have the answer to. Your own brow pinches, ready to be offended. 

“What is?”

“I just… I thought I’d stop wanting to kiss you by now.”

Behind the safety of a bone cage, tucked where he can’t see, your heart does a somersault. It probably shows in the way your spine straightens, the catch of your breath. 

“Oh. I’m… I’m… sorry.”

Spencer cracks a dry smile. 

“You’re sorry? Why are you sorry?”

“Well—I don’t know. Because… I don’t know. it just seems like… the wrong thing to want. You have a girlfriend.”

The softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head, all spell pity. Like you’re naive. 

“That’s not what she is, honey.”

Honey. You try to remember to breathe. To think.

“Then what is she?”

He hums. 

“Not you. As much as I tried to tell myself that was for the best.”

Scratch somersault. Back handspring. Or maybe a round-off. You swallow. Pick at your nails. 

Did you think this into existence? Was all your desire really so loud?

“Spencer…”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s not fair.”

His eyes are melting glass on yours, voice lowered in a way you’ve sorely missed. “How so?”

It takes you a moment to remember yourself. “Because I’m—I’m trying to be better. I’m really trying. I don’t want anyone to get hurt ’cause of me. So if this girl likes you—”

“Angel. Nobody’s getting hurt. She knew I had someone else on my mind.”

“You can’t call me that,” you whisper brokenly. But he’s close enough you can feel his breath. You don’t know how he got close like this—when you gravitated toward him, charmed as a snake by a flute. When the inevitable outcome limited itself to brilliant, disastrous collision. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because we’re not together.”

“When has that ever stopped us?”

All your air comes out at once. “This is so stupid.”

“You’re so pretty.” Delicately he cups your jaw. Strokes the tips of his fingers along the hollow of your cheek. “I was thinking about it all night. Noticed the glitter as soon as I saw you. Did Penelope do it?”

“Spencer, please.” Breathless. Pathetic. Desperate for him to put you out of your misery, one way or another. 

His throat bobs. “Come here.”

So you do. You lean in, one hand balanced on his knee, the other on his shoulder, and your lips brush so softly it can’t even be called a kiss. Still it sends a high-voltage shock through your whole body. He tastes like champagne as you kiss him deeper, as his hand wanders to the back of your thigh and hoists you across his lap. The other roots in your hair and your head spins. 

“Missed you so much,” he breathes into your mouth, not even bothering to pull away, or even to stop kissing you really. Mellow ivory and brass do a good job of concealing your soft breaths. Less so the undignified noise you make when Spencer shifts you roughly on his lap to pull you closer. 

“This isn’t a nice thing to be doing on ’Nelope’s couch,” you gasp between kisses, gripping at the front of his shirt like someone’s going to try taking him away from you. He alters his course from your mouth to trail down your neck. Lets fingers dip just beneath the hemline of your skirt until you shudder. 

“Then we’ll stop.”

Your jaw drops in a silent squeak as he nips at a delicate spot on your throat. 

The problem is that with the two of you, there is never any stopping. Not definitively. Never permanently. You can say it as emphatically as you’d like. You can even sort of mean it. But the cosmos has other plans. 

Outside, silent snow falls from a blue-black sky. There is nothing but the headlight glare from the occasional passing car. The popping and crackling of distant fireworks set off by the over-imbibed, ringing twelve o’clock in hours after the bloom of the new year. It must be midnight somewhere, you suppose. 

It’s just like you and Spencer, to be in the wrong place at the right time. It’s like you to slip through time-space cracks until you find each other in the accordion folds of the universe. 

It’s basically tradition.

spoilers: reader kinda cheats on Spencer but the consent there is questionable seeing as she was incredibly intoxicated

if u read this far WOW ily I hope u liked it :D I put blood sweat and tears into this bad boy. also shout-out @aliteralsemicolon for helping me so much with this fic she is a very helpful and willing consultant I think this never would've seen the light of day without her!!! ALSO THIS FIC WAS INSPIRED BY LIZZY MCALPINE’S SONG OF THE SAME NAME and each line corresponds to one of the dates of the scene!!! Read that here!!

[neros-left-pec]

playing infinity nikki with nero/dante/vergil

🥀 pairings: nero x fem!reader, dante x fem!reader, vergil x fem!reader

🥀 summary: headcanons for how this cute trio would react to you getting super into infinity nikki

🥀 warnings/tags: just fluff + probably OOC

🥀 author's note: i have really bad dmc brainrot but ive never even played the games (don't ask how this happened) LOL. i kinda see these as crack hcs since im not actually familiar with their canon personalities but i hope u can enjoy it regardless!

nero

you've been gone for a huge part of the day, so he starts looking around devil may cry for you. he finds you at your desktop looking VERY engrossed with what you're doing

doing his best to not alert you, he sneaks up behind you. it seems a cute video game has caught your attention, and you're playing dress-up...?

"Wait, each power lets her use a new dress? How does she change so fast?"

thinks it's ridiculous at first, but similar to Vergil he gets weirdly addicted to helping you pick the best scoring combinations

unlike Vergil, he is not very good at it. but he will try his best

"Okay okay, go with the lace gloves, TRUST ME. It's tagged as elegance which is what you need."

like dante, he is convinced he knows what he's talking about, but definitely gets pissed every time his outfits don't work out

"What the fuck, this is impossible! I thought this game was for babies!"

no nero, this game is not for babies. you need to lock in.

one day, you surprise him by coming home in an outfit eerily similar to one he had made for you in the game last week.

gets very visibly flustered when he sees you model it.

it suits you incredibly well and is very tailored to his tastes, since, well, he was the one who made the outfit after all!

he saves up a bit of money and takes you on a shopping spree. he must see you in more outfits

YOU GUYS ARE PLAYING DRESS TO IMPRESS IRL!!!!!

side note but i feel like he would go crazy if he saw you wearing black high heels. he loves black on you

dante

"So it's like dress-up... but with boss fights? Kinda kickass if you ask me."

he tries to help you pick an outfit but always makes the WORST combinations EVER. the outfits colors never match and he makes you wear ugly boots with a pretty dress or something lol

is convinced he is a master fashion designer

"Look at me, I'm adorable as hell!"

not really too interested in the game itself but he likes seeing how into it you get. you get very invested in the story and he finds it adorable. you have a simple heart and he loves you for it

asks you to show off your outfits

"C'mon, spin around. Pose for me, dear! ...Oh yeah that's very nice, I quite like it honestly. You've got some talent, huh?"

sometimes he thinks about how cute you would look in pastels and gets a bit distracted. his brows furrow, a soft blush dusting his cheeks as he hides a smile behind his hand.

with his mouth covered, it actually kinda looks like he's grimacing, which is hilarious. he'll often start daydreaming about you and get flustered. others will see him and think he's pissed off because of the tense expression. if only they knew about the big smile that was hidden behind his hand

vergil

he does not understand why you are stressing about losing a "style battle," whatever that meant

he stares at your screen with his arms crossed.

"So foolish..." FOOLISHNESS, Y/N. FOOLISHNESS----

watches silently. secretly enjoys watching you get worked up over something so silly

you ask him for styling advice and using the clothing stats, builds you the most min-maxxed outfit for the style battles. quickly learned the numbers have to do with if you win or not. however, he somehow manages to make them also look gorgeous at the same time (IF YOU PLAY INFINITY NIKKI YOU KNOW HOW HARD THIS IS). he does it to make you happy since you hate ugly outfits

after a while, he gets kinda into it

"No, that shade of mauve does not go with the rest of the outfit... Even the most untrained eye would know that a lady's shoes must match with her bag."

YOU STARE AT HIM....

he looks to the side and walks away.

damn him!

secretly makes a note to buy you a cute ensemble to wear to your next date

he will get rid of the price tags and fold them into your drawers so you happen across them

he will never admit he bought it but you know it was him

and of course, he buys you a bag with matching flats/heels depending on your preference :)

[harrywavycurly]

Handle With Care: Take My Time

Masterlist: Here

CW: minor language, smut (unprotected sex, don’t be like them wrap your shit okay?), frat Harry.

A/N: I’ve been asked for their first time together by a few people so I hope y’all enjoy, I just love these two they are precious✨

Tag List: @gmikaelson @ell0ra-br3kk3r @tulips4harry @mellamolayla @mads3502 @empathyroad @idk199o @sassamanda77 @maudie-duan @macy-tpwk @namoreno @coralferrio1 @stylesftcher @mema10 @cherryloveshs @umadirectioner @styleswithaseaview @sunflower-tia @fangirl509east @howling-wolf97 @outofthisworl-d @triski73

Summary: You and Harry enjoy a lazy morning together✨

The soft glow of the barely rising sun filtered through the curtains, gently illuminating the quiet of your bedroom. Harry as usual stirred first, he's not sure why but every time he finds himself getting the privilege of sleeping in your bed he always wakes up first as if he needs to make sure you're still there and it wasn't just a dream. When his eyes flutter open he feels his heart swell with pure adoration when he looks down and sees you nestled warmly against him, your gentle breaths brushing his bare chest. A smile works its way onto his face at how peaceful you look and he hopes it's not just the dreams your having but also because you can feel his arm wrapped around your shoulders securing you to him.

Unable to resist Harry moves ever so slightly so he can place a kiss to your forehead, grinning at how even half asleep you instinctively tilt your head the tiniest bit so he has a better angle of your face, or more so your lips so he can lean down and press a kiss to them. It's a slow and lazy kiss, since neither of you have anything to do today Harry doesn't feel the need to rush, so he takes his time brining a hand up to gently hold your face. As his lips move against yours he feels your hand rest on top of the butterfly he has tattooed on his lower chest causing a very familiar and comforting warmth to travel down to his toes along with a dull tingling sensation he's become accustomed to anytime you touch him. When you smile against his lips he pulls away just enough so he can watch as you slowly open your eyes, a sleepy smile still on your face as you meet his gaze.

"Morning." You murmur as Harry's hand moves so it's cupping your cheek, his thumb running gently along your cheekbone.

"Morning sunshine." His voice is thick with sleep but there’s also a hint of playfulness making you let out a soft giggle as his preferred pet name for you rolls off his tongue. "Sleep good?" He asks as his hand that's resting on your shoulder begins drawing little patterns on your skin making a shiver run up your spine at his soft touches. When all you do is hum in response as you close your eyes and let out a sigh Harry can't help but lean in to place a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Guess what.” He whispers not wanting to ruin the intimacy of the moment by being too loud. You just quirk a brow and lazily open your eyes as you lean into his warm touch.

“What?”

“We have nothing to do today.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He hums as he carefully maneuvers himself so he is hovering above you, a smirk on his face as he leans down and places a kiss to your cheek. “You know what that means don’t you love?” He asks as he kisses his way down your jaw to your neck, smiling against your skin when he feels your hands reach up and grab onto his arms when he gets to the spot just below your ear.

“What-what does that mean?” Your voice is breathy as Harry continues his trail of kisses down your neck, his tongue tracing patterns over the sensitive skin enjoying how your body begins to tremble underneath his touch.

“I can take my time lovin’ on you.” He answers, voice thicker now not just with sleep but with need, a need that only you can satiate. He continues to lower himself down your body leaving kisses as he goes, a smile takes over his face when he sees the swirling pink and yellow tye dye pattern of your night dress, the same one that had his mind a muddled mess of inappropriate thoughts all those months ago when you answered the door in it.

“You’re so pretty.” He mumbles against the fabric at your lower tummy as he positions himself between your thighs. His hands running up and down the tops of them a few times before pushing the skirt of your nightdress up and over your hips. He glances up meeting your gaze, your eyes are a swirling mixture of passion and affection that he’s sure matches his own.

“Tell me what you want.” He urges as he licks his lips, voice dripping with a desire to please you anyway he can. He watches you bite down on your bottom lip as he places a wet hot kiss to the very obvious damp spot on your pretty pink panties.

“You. I want you.” You breathe out softly as your hips jerk up when he places another kiss to your clothed center. He feels your hands tangle into his hair as his hands slide your panties down your legs at a achingly slow pace that makes a small playful smirk worm its way onto Harry’s face when he hears you let out the faintest of whines letting him know you’re just as desperate for him as he is for you.

“Harry.”

“M’right here baby.” He says softly as he places a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not going anywhere.” He assures you while placing a kiss to the inside of your other thigh.

He feels you tug at his hair, a signal he has learned over the last few months that he’s gotten to explore this side of your relationship means you need his attention. So without a word he adjusts himself so his face is once again hovering just above yours, eyes locking as your hands slide down to the back of his neck as if to keep him in place.

“I want to feel you.” It takes a minute for your words to click in Harry’s lust filled brain but he understands exactly what you’re saying when he feels you spread your legs wider and arch your hips towards him making your center meet his growing bulge that’s painfully tucked inside his black boxers.

His breath hitches and his eyes close when his hips instinctively rut down into you causing a breathy moan to slip past your lips.

“Fuck sunshine.” He groans as he opens his eyes so he can look at you. “You sure? I don’t-”

“Yes.” You say with a nod as you pull him down for a kiss, he holds back a moan when he feels your hands give his hair a nice tug before they travel down his back to the waistband of his boxers. “Please.” You plead when he pulls away, and Harry has never been one to be able to tell you no so he doesn’t stop you when you begin to pull his boxers down.

“Oh shit-fuck.” His words are jumbled together when he feels your hand wrap around him giving him a few pumps before he aligns himself with your entrance. With his eyes still locked on yours he slowly enters you, watching closely for your reaction, reveling in the gasps of pleasure you let out the deeper he goes.

“God you’re perfect.” he groans softly before leaning down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, your hands grab at his back as he begins moving in a slow, steady rhythm that have him swallowing down your moans as he deepens the kiss.

“Talk to me baby. How’s it feel?” He asks gently, craving your words after pulling away from your kiss swollen lips. A deep moan escapes you when Harry reaches down to grab at your leg, bending it at your knee so he can go even deeper with his thrusts letting the tip of his cock hit the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl.

“Amazing.” You answer with a moan as Harry’s pace quickens making your nails dig into the skin on his back. “So-oh god.” Your voice gets lost in a gasp as Harry grips your other leg and brings it over his hip so when he gives you a particularly deep thrust you get overwhelmed at how full you feel with him so deep inside you.

“Feels so-fuck you feel so good baby.” His voice is filled with desire as his lips find the spot just below your ear, giving it a gentle nip making a deep moan bubble up from his chest when he feels you clench around him.

“You were made for me huh sunshine?” He nips and sucks his way down your neck making your back arch as his thrusts begin to intensify. “Made for me to love on just like this.” He punctuates each word with a thrust of his hips until your hands are sliding off his back and gripping the sheets at your sides.

“Yes oh god-Harry.” Your strangled moan has Harry increasing his pace, knowing you’re nearing the edge and wanting you to fully let go for him he lifts his head, his eyes are full of nothing but love as they meet yours.

“Let go for me baby. I’ve got you.” He says as he leans down to place a kiss to your forehead. In this moment Harry swears he’s never felt so connected to someone as he does to you, only further proving to him that you’re it for him, no one else will ever have this kind of hold on him the way you do.

That’s all it takes before he feels you clenching and tightening around him, your eyes close as your lips part as his name falls from your lips over and over. It’s not until your hands come up and tangle into his hair giving it a few tugs that Harry tumbles over the edge of his own and drops his head into the crook of your neck as he lets the overwhelming sense of pleasure take over, mumbling a few curse words and declarations of how much he adores you against your skin as the two of you ride out your pleasure filled high.

“I love you.” He pants as he lays down beside you, pulling you into his chest with a smile on his face. “So much.” He adds before placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I love you too.” You say with a sleepy little smile as you rest your cheek on his chest, Harry lets out a sigh of content when he peeks down a few minutes later finding your eyes are shut having fallen back to sleep while listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart.

“Sweet dreams sunshine.”

[paperstorm]

Thanks for the tags @nisbanisba and @ladyknight1512!

Work is published Wednesday for me, from the latest Missing Moments chapter :)

“We’ve run into a bit of a snag in the wedding planning,” he begins.

Nancy smirks. “They can’t find flowers the exact color of your eyes?”

“Carlos is already married,” TK blurts out, before he has time to second-guess.

He watches as Nancy keeps smiling for a moment as if she thinks he’s joking. TK wishes it was a joke, too. Then he watches her face fall and a deep frown wrinkle her forehead.

“I’m sorry, what?” she asks slowly.

After taking another moment to search her eyes, TK says, “You really didn’t know?”

“Didn’t – that Carlos is married?” Nancy splutters, far too loudly.

“Shh!” TK insists, pushing up to his feet so he can pull one of the ambulance doors shut. Nobody is near them as far as he can tell from this vantage point, but she still needs to lower her voice. “Keep it down.”

“Sorry, I’m – no, why would I know that?” Nancy shakes her head and gapes at him. “We barely knew each other before you moved here.”

TK exhales and sits back down. He rests his elbows on his knees and scrubs his hands over his face. “Because the person he’s married to is Iris Blake.”

“Iris – Michelle’s missing little sister?”

“Yeah. Except she’s not so missing, anymore.”

He squints back up at Nancy, and she’s looking at him as if it would be easier for her to understand it if he’d told her Carlos has a tail.

“Shit,” Nancy surmises, leaning back and crossing her arms. “When the fuck did they get married? And why didn’t I know that?”

“When they were just out of high school,” TK answers, to her first question. He can’t speak to the second one. “They separated not long after, I don’t know exactly when. But just never officially got divorced.”

Nancy’s staring off into space, her eyes slowly moving back and forth like she’s trying to fit pieces together in her mind. TK’s been doing a lot of that lately. “Shit,” she says again.

“Yeah.”

“I guess it kind of makes sense.”

TK’s eyes widen. “It does?”

“I just mean, like, it was always kind of weird to me that Carlos was so involved with Michelle trying to find her sister,” Nancy explains, tilting her head to one side. “It’s not like he was a detective assigned to the case or something. Michelle always just said they were old friends, but in the back of my mind I was always like … you’re in your 40s and this kid is like 22 years old, how is he your old friend?”

“I guess he was Iris’s friend.”

“That’s what makes more sense. I never knew that part.”

TK sighs. He believes her, and it does make him feel just a little bit better to know he wasn’t the last to know about all of this. He forgives Carlos and understands why the secret was kept, he hasn’t been lying when he’s been insisting to Carlos that that’s true. But sometimes it still hits him unexpectedly and makes him feel stupid for not having figured it out, despite there being no reason he should have.

“So, wait.” Nancy leans forward and lowers her voice as she asks, “Did they split up because Carlos realized he was gay?”

“No.” TK slowly shakes his head. “I don’t know every single detail, but Carlos always knew he was gay. Apparently Iris did, too. Carlos said they were best friends and they both felt lost and like they’d never find anyone else.”

“So, it wasn’t a real marriage.”

“I mean … not in terms of them being in love with each other,” TK relents, “but it was still a legal marriage. And they still never got divorced.”

“And you just found this out? Iris has been back for – ”

“I know,” TK interrupts. He shakes his head again. “Can you please not be mad at Carlos? He had reasons, and we’re okay. We talked everything out, it’s good.”

Narrowing her eyes, Nancy says, “Okay. Why are you telling me, then?”

“Hey.” The door opens to reveal Tommy on the other side of it with an eyebrow raised. “Are we working in here or gossiping on company time?”

TK’s stomach leaps momentarily into his throat, worried she overheard them talking, but Tommy gives him nothing to indicate that she did.

“Gossiping on company time,” Nancy confirms, and Tommy’s expression turns to a fond smile.

“Love it, but maybe get some restocking done while you’re gossiping.”

“Aye aye, Cap.” Nancy salutes her and Tommy shakes her head before she wanders away.

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce @hereghostslive @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @whatsintheboxmh

@nisbanisba @chicgeekgirl89 @carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday

@rangersoup @ambernotember

@certifiedflower

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[dsireland86]

LOVE YOUR ONE SHOTS BESTIE

I have a lil request for another Noah one..

So like we all know that that man would 100 percent talk you through it right? 😭

So all im saying is best friend Noah.. Mut mastubate situation

🫣🫣

Sorry I live for the best friend Noah trope 🤪

Bestie🥹🥹🥹🫶🫶🫶 I love best friend (with benefits.... hehehe) Noah, too!

Can I Talk You Through It?

Tag list: @philomenie @supersquirrel1996 @foliosgirl @angelmarie89 @fadingintothegrey @thisbicc @lacy1986 @dominuslunae @shayzillaaaa @mrsnoahsebastian @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @stardustsirenmelody @romanreigns-supreme @anything-more than-human @into-the-grey @rumoured-whispers @myownthoughts12 @sister-sebastian @missduffsblog @bngurngheart  @somebodyllelse @xxkittenkissesxx @dizzylmwahh @kenjipepsi1 @blackveilomens @chey-h @disappearintothegrey @jilliemiw86 @pathion @fear-its-beauty @an0mallly @potterheadquinn @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @montgomery-929494 @missduffsblog @lilcazy011 @Lonelydragonlady @Mattysbitchvic @athenexe @pipidoll @flowery-mess  @bloody-spades

The feeling is insatiable, an overwhelming need and hunger that can't be quenched on your own. You're trying, but something's missing. It feels good, and you've brought yourself to the edge plenty of times, but never has the stimulation taken you completely over.

"Y/N!"

Noah's voice up the stairs scares the crap out of you. Quickly, you sit up and search for your short, unable to find them fast enough before your bedroom door swings open.

"Y/N, what are you,"

You grab the nearest blanket and throw it over yourself, hoping it covers your secret.

"Shit! Noah!" "Oh! Sorry," he apologizes, but you know it's not authentic.

Hanging your head because you can't bear to look Noah in the face as you try to recover from almost giving yourself your first orgasm, you're afraid that your vulnerability can be seen and it's nerve racking.

"What's wrong?" he asks, letting go of the door handle and letting himself into the room. "Are you alright?"

You shake your head knowing your cheeks are blood red.

"What's wrong? What happened?" "Nothing," you mumble. "Then look at me," Noah begs, standing in front of you.

You don’t respond, let alone raise your head.

"Hey," he says, shaking you by the arm a little. "It's nothing. Just forget it."

When you finally raise your head and look up at Noah, you see the genuine concern on your best friend's face and give him a half smile.

"What did you need?"

Noah's brows crease in confusion, unwilling to drop the subject.

"Not until you tell me what's going on with you. You seem really flustered. Did something happen? Or not happen," he asks, his perfect lips forming into a soft smile.

You want to tell him, you really do, but you're way too embarrassed to.

"Um, yes and no, but it's fine. Really, forget it," you say, shaking your head slightly. "What, a, what are you, were you going to tell me? What were you yelling for me for?

"Alright. Fine, don't tell me."

Noah's scowl is so Noah, and it makes you giggle, and when he smiles at you, your heart starts racing and a familiar tingle warms you on the inside so well that you feel your wet arousal seep between your thighs.

"What?" "What," you shrug, trying to hide the shakiness of your voice. "Alright, something's seriously up with you! Spill it."

Noah has always been the observant type, never letting anything about you go unnoticed, so it shouldn't surprise you like it does that he knows something's up.

"No," you lightly laugh, shifting on the bed. "Nothing is going on. I'm just," but you hesitate, unsure of your next words. "Just what?"

You look up at Noah again, and the tingling feeling hits you again. 

"Fuck!" you curse, covering your face. "Okay, this is stupid. Get up and come with me. I need to show you something," Noah orders, grabbing your hand and almost pulling you off the bed.

You panic, remembering you’re not wearing anything under the blanket and pull away from his grasp, almost screaming the word “no”.

"What the hell, Y/N!"

Noah turns back and looks at you, eyes wide with surprise, as you fix the blanket over your lap.

"I can't come with you right now." "Why not?" "Because! I just can't, okay," your voice fades slowly as you look away.

Noah comes closer to you, so close that you can smell his cologne on the bright yellow hoodie he chose to wear today. The way his brow furrows as he looks around your sitting area tells you he's thinking hard about what's happening at the moment.

"Get up." "No," you scowl. "Why not? Get up," Noah orders, a small smirk forming in the corner of his mouth as he pulls on your arm again.

"Noah! Stop!" you yell, holding on to the blanket, but part of it falls when you accidentally step on it as you try not to fall, revealing most of your bare bottom.

Scrambling to gather the blanket, you fall back onto the bed once you do, absolutely traumatized by what just happened. You're too embarrassed to look up at Noah because you already know what he's just seen.

"Well, damn." "Noah, just don’t, okay," you say pathetically, shielding your face with your hand. "What? All I was going to say is you have a really nice ass. That's all."

At first, you think you didn't hear him correctly. Risking a glance, you find an amusing look on your best friend's face, and for a moment, your embarrassment simmers.

"What?"

Noah raises an eyebrow and smiles.

"I mean, I'm not gonna deny that I've never checked out your ass before, but seeing it with nothing covering it, damn," he chuckles, "yeah, it's pretty nice."

You stare him dead in the face and try not to laugh, knowing he's just doing what a good best friend would do.

"Oh, whatever," shaking your head. "Look, if you're not going to tell me what you wanted, then maybe..."

"Why aren’t you wearing any pants?"

You stop mid sentence at Noah's question.

"What?"

Noah reaches for the blanket, but you grab it tightly.

"Where's your pants and underwear, Y/N?" "I, um, they're..." but you can't find the right words to say.

Noah comes up to the side of the bed so that his waist is eye level with your face, forcing you to stare at what's directly in front of you until he lifts your face with his finger beneath your chin. A sudden burst of stimulation that you've never felt before hits the center of your sex and it almost feels as if you could reach the high you've been aching to feel right then. You feel your arousal gather between your folds as you clench your teeth together.

"Aww, you're blushing," Noah teases. "I Like that look on you."

The playful look on his almond shaped eyes has your core aching.

"Come on, tell me what's going on, Y/N. And don't say nothing is. I'm your best friend. I know you better than you think."

You try to look away, but Noah won't let you.

"It's stupid, really stupid. And it's not your problem, so I won't burden you with it." "It can't be that bad." "Oh, it is. Trust me. And it's really embarrassing, so yeah." "Okay, fine," Noah sighs, sitting down next to you, implying he has no interest in giving up the game. "If you won't tell me, then I'll guess."

Your heart hammers against your chest.

"Fine. Good luck," thinking he'll never get it right.

Noah's big hand touches the side of your face, his tattooed touch sending chills throughout your entire body as he turns your head to face him. His long thumb, calloused on the pad, caresses your cheekbone as he looks from your eyes to your lips to your lap, then back up to your eyes again. The tip of his tongue sticks out between his thin, moistening them perfectly.

"You were trying to make yourself have an orgasm, weren't you?"

Your heart plummets to the pit of your stomach. How did he know? And why is he looking at you like that? The slight twinkle you see shows Noah's amusement, making you more nervous than before.

"Oh god, no," you shake your head, pulling away from the grip Noah has on you, "shit, no, it's not what you think. I, uh," but your denial comes out all shaky, and now you're even more confused than before

"Y/N," "Look, Noah, I think, uh, you should go," "Y/N," "I need a second to clear," "Y/N!"

You stop speaking and look up at Noah, fighting back the urge to cry. The small grin you see settles your stomach slightly, but you still feel like you're about to pass out from all the embarrassment you feel.

"What?" "It's okay," Noah says softly, reaching over and caressing the side of your face. "What?"

Noah laughs softly.

"It's fine. It's a normal thing to do." "No," you disagree, shaking your head. "No?" Noah asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "No, not for me, it's not." "What do you mean?"

You wipe away the single tear that manages to slip out and lower your face in shame.

"Come on. It's me, Y/N; your best friend. You can tell me," Noah encourages.

Sniffing and clearing your throat, you try to make your thoughts make sense.

"I, uh... I can't."

"You can't. You can't what?" Noah asks gently, laying his hand on your leg that's covered beneath the blanket.

"I mean, I can't make myself have an orgasm," you confess, twirling your fingers.

"Seriously? Like ever?"

The genuine surprise you hear in Noah's tone only makes you feel worse, and you start to cry out of pure humiliation.

"Yes, seriously! I've tried so many freaking times, and I just can't, and it's frustrating as hell!"

You're trying not to yell "at" Noah, but you're just done at this point, wanting to hide under a rock for the rest of your life.

"Okay, easy, killer. It was just a rhetorical question," Noah kids, earning him a slap in the chest.

"God, this is so fucking embarrassing," you cry in frustration sniffling and wiping your eyes with your hands. "Hey, relax, it's not that big of a deal," Noah urges, caressing your back.

His touch sparks every fire burning inside you, and you're not sure if it's his touch alone that's doing it or if it's just the unquenchable need you have at the moment.

"Easy for you to say. Guys can just whip it out and do their thing and be completely satisfied in just a few minutes. I've been trying this for months now, ever since the last time I had...," but your voice drops, realizing what you were about to confess.

"Since what," Noah asks softly, moving closer to you.

With his one hand still on your lower back, he reaches over with his other and slips it inside yours, threading your fingers together. You swear your ovaries explode inside you from the feeling and how Noah has nestled up beside you as if wanting to be as close to you as possible.

"Noah?" you whisper as his lips come down softly on your forehead and leave a small kiss behind. "Since when, Y/N? Since the last time you had sex with that shitty ass boyfriend of yours?" "Ex-boyfriend," you correct Noah after clearing your throat. "Whatever. The point is that it was four months ago. You're telling me that was the last time you had an orgasm?"

You groan, dropping your head into your hands again.

"Hey, look at me," Noah orders, pulling your shoulders back and lifting your head so he can see you.

Noah's eyes are full of so much emotion that it's hard to read them all. But you see the small little half smile that brushes across his lips briefly as his thumb strokes the skin of your cheek.

"Can I talk you through it?" "Huh? What?"

Noah continues to stare at you, his face expressionless.

"Talk me through what, Noah?"

But you feel like you might already know the answer to the question.

"Let me talk you through making yourself cum," he suggests, his face dead serious.

At first, you can't say anything because you don't know what to say, but the longer you look at Noah, the more you know he's serious. You swallow hard, closing your eyes for a moment then opening them again.

"Why?" you whisper. "Because you deserve to feel amazing."

It's the little smirk at the end of his words that does it for you.

"Alright, fine," you agree before you lose your courage. "Good answer," Noah says approvingly, getting up to close the door and lock it.

You're so nervous you think you might get sick, so you start breathing quickly, in and out through your nose then your mouth.

"Hey it's alright. You keep breathing like that, you might end up hyperventilating. This is meant to feel good, alright? Lay down. Relax,” Noah urges, caressing your hair before helping you lay back into your pillows.

Your eyes meet and you can see the genuine care for you that you've always seen in his and it eases your mind a little.

"Are you sure about this, Noah? Isn't this weird? Friends don't usually do this kind of thing with each other and, I mean, isn't this going to change stuff between us now? I'm not sure if I'm ready for my heart to go through..."

You're silenced by the weight of Noah's lips on yours. At first the kiss is hard and dry, one that you would deem a typical friend on friend kiss. But then Noah breaths in and opens his mouth, leaning in closer to you as you follow his lead as if by some magnetic force. His tongue slips slowly into your mouth and you allow him access, returning his touch as if it's the most natural thing to you in the world. Your hands slither around his neck as he finds the small of your back and pulls you up closer to him, allowing the blanket to slip from off your lap. Noah pulls back and looks at you, his usually soft brown eyes, now darker, and for a moment the two of you just stare, wondering what the other is thinking, before realizing what's just happened.

"But we're friends," you remind Noah. "I think we've been past the point of friends for a while now, Y/N," Noah confesses. "Ever since the night your shitty ex broke up with you and you kissed me right here on your bedroom carpet," he grins, looking down at the spot below his feet.

Noah's right. You've known it all along, and it's the reason why pleasuring yourself has been so difficult.

"Now, relax, and let me talk you through this, okay." "Okay."

Finding a spot where you're finally comfortable, Noah tells you to close your eyes. As you do, he helps you bend your legs until your feet are flat against the mattress.

"This is only going to work if you relax and keep your eyes closed." "Alright." "Do you trust me?"

A warm smile spreads across your lips, making Noah's heart flutter.

"Yes, Noah, I trust you." "Can I touch you?"

You want to open your eyes, but know this will all work better if you don't. Noah is trying to help after all.

"Yes. You can touch me."

Noah places his hands on your knees and tells you to let them fall open. You hesitate, naturally, but then you do and hear the quick intake of breath that comes from him and the quiet curse that slips through his lips. It makes you giggle a little.

"You're beautiful," Noah whispers and for a moment it feels like the world stops spinning. "Thank you," you manage to say through a crack in your voice.

He takes your hand and brings it your sex, placing your fingers over your center.

"The first thing you should do is visualize; a scenario, a place... a person," Noah begins.

You grin and clear your throat, shifting slightly.

"Once you've done that, you're going to ease the tip of your finger in between your folds, just like that, and back out to produce some wetness. Good. Now each time, go in a little further, a little deeper," he coaches gently.

Using your middle finger, you follow Noah's instructions, already feeling your arousal building from the vision inside your head, coating your fingers.

"Now, when you're ready," he adds, gently taking you by the wrist as you pull your finger out, "add another finger," lining up your pointer finger next to your middle and guiding your hand back to your center.

Slowly, you slide them inside you, feeling the tightness and pressure yet because of the vision you have playing out in your head, all you can feel is what your imagination is telling you. It's powerful enough to make you moan softly, yet not enough to get the reaction that you're needing.

"You need to do this a few times," Noah encourages, placing his hand around your wrist, pushing and pulling with you as you move your fingers in and out of yourself.

The whimpers come and fall like quiet little prayers. But it's still not enough.

"Alright, finally, you need the stimulation. Bring your other hand," he says, taking it and placing it where he thinks it belongs, "and place it right there on your pretty little clit. Perfect. Now, massage gently in small slow circles as you continue doing what you're doing with your other fingers. That's it. How does that feel?"

You're completely breathless, unable to process the feeling that's quickly building inside you. The fire in your lower abdomen is one you haven't felt in so long and the feeling is incredible. You moan, bite your bottom lip, arch your back and just when you thought you'd never be able to, you reach your climax as your much needed orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. Once it's over, you lay back against your sheets, breathless and with a pound heart.

"Well, how was it?"

When you open your eyes you aren't quite sure what you expect to see, but when you meet Noah's eyes, and you see the spark in them that you do, it makes the stimulation you just felt a million times more wonderful.

"It was euphoric," you grin, following it with the cutest little giggle Noah's ever heard. "You're really adorable you know that," he says, running his finger down your cheek after he hands you your shorts and panties. "Hmm, really?" "Really." "And dare I ask how it was watching on your end?" you ask timidly, hoping you haven't overstepped.

Noah pauses to think and then smiles.

"Euphoric," he answers right before tackling you and engaging in one of his infamous Noah tickle fights.

Some things really never do change.

[chil-aglia]

𝐃𝐨 𝐈 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐦? |ROTTMNT| (Male OC)

[Phantom Pain]

Be sure to read the tags on my Ao3 so you guys know what you’re getting yourselves into.

Art above is done by my beta reader Cimmerian who is one of the most talented artists I know! Please go like their stuff on tumblr!

HE’S SO CUTE! I love him 😭

Warnings: Light angst, implied PTSD, blood (from flashbacks), etc

And of course, a quick thank you to my awesome beta readers @cimmerian1275 + @bootyshakerrr9000 who helped me out a lot with this chapter! Very talented and please, go give them a follow, love their work, etc.

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

Leo had been curious about something since the day he first met Caden. If Leo's soul was stuck inside this stranger's body, then where was his physical body? The one that he was far more used to. The one he grew up in. 

Leo had no clue where Draxum was keeping him. He figured it would be in a lab of sorts, but he also knew Draxum was far too smart to just leave his vulnerable body in a lab that simply anyone could access.

He should ask Caden, surely he knew where they kept him. But… they currently weren’t on speaking terms, not since their incident with the med bay. Caden had given him the cold shoulder for the past few days. And to be honest, it was becoming really annoying for Leo. 

Why didn’t Caden see that it was best for Leo to amputate the infected arm from that guy? Did he want him to die? No, Caden couldn’t be that cruel, especially if he didn’t even know the man. Leo didn’t either, he might’ve seen him walking around before but he didn’t have time to stop and memorise everyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

Leo stood back, keeping his eyes on Caden who was propped up and leaning against the control panels inside the mindscape. He looked tired. Barely standing.

He would fall over if he kept this up. Leo can understand that it was hard to sleep, he’s dealt with insomnia for years. But this was just becoming ridiculous.

Caden needed sleep. He wouldn’t be able to perform and train properly without it. It would damage them both if Caden one day collapsed and got severely injured because of his fatigue.

He walks over, looking over Caden’s shoulder. “Hey, let me take over. You need to sleep.” He orders, fully expecting and waiting for an argument to start. But he was met with silence, which confused the older turtle as he walked around the panel to get in front of Caden.

To his utter shock, Caden was asleep. Sleeping up right but leaning against the panels. How that was possible, Leo had no idea. 

But he saw this as an opportunity. He just hoped this wouldn’t wake the young mutant and encourage him to be more pissed off at Leo than he already was. But he had to try.

Carefully he came around the podium and stood beside the sleeping mutant, slowly leaning over to place his hand on the activation panel. And to his surprise he could feel the body awaken, followed by the sensation of being pulled in.

Gaining control.

He gazed down at Caden, wondering if he was awake now that his body was, but he remained still and silent. Eyes closed, mouth open slightly and quietly breathing in a comfortable rhythm.

Leo sighs in relief and focuses back on the present. He was inside his room, staring up at the ceiling through Caden’s eyes. He almost wanted to sleep himself, feeling just how physically exhausted this young teen’s body was.

But Leo had something more important to do.

Find his body.

Grunting he stands up, rubbing the back of Caden’s neck as he walks around his room, grabbing the cloak for better measure to hide himself just in case he runs into anyone.

It was late so he hoped most of the base was asleep. “Okay Leon… let’s do this.” He spoke to himself in a determined whisper, pulling the cloak over himself and exiting the room.

-----

No…

Not here either…

This is just an old lab that was changed to be a botanic garden!

Leo grumbled, rubbing the borrowed hands over the face that wasn’t his. He had been searching everywhere he could possibly think of. Trying to think like a crazy yokai scientist was harder than he thought it would be.

He strolls down the hallway, head pounding from the stress and frustration as he stops in front of Draxum’s lab. He knew Draxum was either inside or in his room, and Leo was quietly begging for the yokai to be asleep in his bedroom, which was located on the other end of the base.

Leo glanced at the hand print panel, cautiously placing Caden’s palm against the machine, blinking in surprise but also in satisfaction when the doors opened, allowing him entry. He slinks his way inside, stealthily looking around.

No sign of Draxum. Or of anyone for that matter. “Easy… now, where the hell did you put my body?” Leo mumbled to himself, walking over to the corners hoping to spot some kind of visual clue.

But so far, he found nothing and he was testing his own limits, “Damn it!” He shouted, abruptly banging his hand against a table, some items falling off from the violent force of his slammed fist.

He winced at the loudness, looking around instinctively just in case someone overheard the outburst, but no one was around to hear. And Caden was fast asleep in a deep slumber in the mindscape.

Leo was fine. He just had to calm down and think.

He was good at thinking. Thinking is something he does all the time. Just take a breath…

Leo inhaled and held it before exhaling slowly, calming down the rising pressure of stress that filled his head. “Okay… if I was Draxum, where would I keep a body that I don’t want just anyone to find?” He asks himself, pacing back and forth with a hand under chin.

His eyes darted around the lab, zeroing in on anything that seemed out of place. “If I was Draxum…” He mumbles once more, his borrowed eyes settling upon a bare wall that was at the back of the lab.

He hums in curiosity, striding over and leaning forward to inspect the wall. “If magic taught me anything, it’s that there’s always a secret passage behind a wall.” He stated, placing his hands against the bricks, pushing on them lightly.

He did that a few times before his hand connected to the right brick.

A hand scanner appeared in its place, making Leo’s face break out in a sly grin, letting the scanner take note of Caden’s palm.

It beeps with a green light before the brick wall itself splits open to reveal an elevator.

“Draxum you sneaky bastard…” He mumbled in wry amusement, stepping inside the elevator and pressing the only button there was.

Down.

The doors close and the electric box descends, Leo taps the foot that isn't his against the floor repeatedly, impatient and slightly nervous for what he'll find when the doors open.

The elevator stopped and the doors slid aside, Leo hesitantly walked out as he ventured further inside the new destination. It was dark, there had to be a light switch somewhere right?

He carefully moved around, hands out in front of him as he felt around the walls, they were bumpy, rock like. Was this place some kind of cave? It would make sense considering they were already underground.

Aha!

Leo found what he hoped to be a switchboard, flicking on the first thing he felt. A quiet but noticeable hum echoed, and one by one, the hanging lights overhead turned on, brightening the place up to be seen.

Leo’s eyes quickly adjust and widen, breath caught in his throat as he observes the underground laboratory.

“Holy shit…”

He walks around, taking in everything he saw. How the hell did Draxum manage to keep this from them for so long? From him?

Leo was the leader, he should’ve known about a hidden lab. “Draxum, I’m going to punch you when I get my body back.” Leo told himself, trailing his hands against a table that had strange and unrecognizable materials scattered over its surface.

He stops when he sees a box inconspicuously hidden away under a chair. Tilting his head quizzically he crouches low and pulls it out, lifting it up and placing it down on the table, lifting the lid off it.

“What are you keeping from me Drax…?”

Leo dug through the box, it was mostly junk from what Leo could tell, but then he felt what appeared to be a smaller box inside. He picks it up, curiously examining it in his grasp.

His fingers traced over the lid briefly. Whatever Draxum had in here must be important right?

Narrowing his eyes he opens the cover, expecting to find… well, something that he could probably blackmail Draxum with in the future.

“…What the hell is this?”

He widens his eyes at the sight. They were photos. Lots of them, and they're all filled with Caden.

Are these all… baby pictures?

Leo picks one up, inspecting the photo. Draxum’s handwriting on the back claiming that this was 2 weeks into the creation of Caden, who was curled in on himself and floating inside a tube of green liquid.

The next photo he found was when Caden was 5 months old. Bigger and body no longer curled. But remained floating in the strange green water.

Leo puts them down, picking up another of when Caden was a year old into his creation. The first time he opened his eyes as the handwriting states on the back.

“Huh… he’s actually pretty cute in these.” Leo couldn’t help himself, speaking his thoughts out loud as he put the photo down, picking up another where it was Caden at 3 years old, toddler stage by now.

He was in the middle of a yawn, rubbing at his eye.

Another photo at 5 years of age, eyes open again as he had his small hand pressed against the glass of the tube, mouth open as though he was trying to communicate with Draxum, who must’ve been the one to take the photo.

Leo smiled fondly, his heartstrings tightening at the sight of these hidden pictures. He looks back at Caden through the mindscape, frowning slightly.

He was alone, basically trapped inside the tube for 17 years… and Leo had no idea. 

With a click of his tongue, he shakes his head and puts the photos away, closing the box lid and walking away from it. He had to focus. He was here to see if his body was around.

He moves around the underground lab, not knowing where he was even going. He followed the sound of machinery humming, whatever Draxum kept in this direction looked and sounded important.

He walks to where he could make out the silhouettes of a row of tubes, but they are dark, no light nearby and making it impossible to see what's inside. Leo clicks his tongue as he walks up to one, placing his palms against the glass, feeling around for another switch or something.

A button he felt on the side, he pressed down on it and stepped back at the sound of a whirring noise of what he could safely assume to be a water filter starting up.

The lights inside the tube turned on and Leo immediately felt his legs waver and become like jello. Stumbling back and bumping into a table, taking in panicked breaths at the sight.

The sight of him.

His grown adult body, floating in a green fluid, eyes closed and calm. Limp. And so… so dead-like.

Leo cautiously took a step forward, observing his body as he felt sick at the sight. Cuts and bruises clear on his skin, from when he was attacked.

His eyes gazed to his left arm, seeing a gash that was stitched up but he instinctively gripped tightly at his current left arm. Or he should say, at Caden’s arm when he feels a wave of lingering pain wash over him.

A memory flashed in his head.

-----

He was pinned down, gasping feebly for oxygen as Prime stepped on his plastron, forcing him deeper into the earth inch by inch, he was talking, monologuing about something, how earth was doomed forever.

But Leo only heard ringing, vision clouded with black. Wanting to pass out.

-----

His eyes scanned over his body once more, noticing his wrapped-up torso, and he recoiled, like he could feel the fresh stabbing sensation going through his side all over again.

-----

“Fuck!” He screams, letting out a pained cry as he trembles in agony. Prime’s tentacle was sharp and currently impaling his side, the air in his lungs wheezing as he spat out blood.

Choking on the fluids that pooled in his mouth. He was then flung aside like an insect—like a pest and crashing into a rock that crumbled and fell down on him when it cracked from the impact of Leo’s shell.

-----

Leo gagged on air, a hand coming up to his mouth as he took in deep breaths. He had to remind himself that those were just memories. He was fine now… right?

His fight with Prime was hazy, but he remembered getting too cocky, which resulted in his near death experience, and maybe he would have genuinely died if it weren’t for his brothers finding him in time.

“Fucking Prime…” He hissed out, annoyed at his greatest enemy that constantly brought terror and destruction and death upon his city. Upon his people and home.

And it was all his fault.

He lost the key. He is the reason they invaded. The reason so many innocent civilians were killed and turned into monsters.

It was his fault that Cassandra died. His fault was that Casey was an orphan. His fault that Raph wears an eyepatch due to a fight with a Krang beast that impacted his vision. That he basically lost half of his vision.

It was his fault that Donnie had that scar on his face.

His fault that Mikey was exhausted on a daily basis from using too much of his mystic power.

His fault…

That his father was gone—

Leo flinched when he felt something wet drip down the borrowed cheek that belonged to Caden. He blinked and gently touched the wetness.

He was crying. Or at least had a tear drop roll down.

“Damn it…” Leo hisses, wiping at Caden’s eyes. As he gave a final look over his body. He’s seen enough now.

-----

Raph didn’t like jumping to conclusions, didn’t like it when he saw others working themselves to the point they could so easily collapse if a breeze blew over them. It worried him, but he didn’t like telling others about it, afraid that they’ll jump to conclusions and tell him he's overreacting.

But he especially didn’t like it when it came to his family and close friends doing such exhausting work by themselves.

He chose to keep it to himself at first, but after a few days he was truly beginning to question what was wrong. Caden had consistently been visiting the dojo over the span of a couple days now, most likely even staying in there all night. He would be caught training with the katana’s, sometimes Raph would even see the young mutant punching at the training bags, kicking the dummies that stood firmly in the centre.

Raph didn’t think much about it at the start, he thought it was great that Caden was training. But there had to be a limit… especially when he was seeing worrying signs of fatigue, and dark bruises forming on his legs and knuckles.

Should he do something? Maybe he wasn’t the best person to ask what was wrong. Donnie would definitely be no help, and April was busy with work.

Mikey on the other hand… well, he was known as the Resistance’s go to therapist for a reason. It was his specialty. And he enjoyed helping others.

It was just now a matter of getting Caden to listen to Mikey. Give him a moment to have a chat with the youngest brother. Raph decisively turns away from the dojo and heads towards the office that Mikey likes to use for his sessions.

He just hoped the latter didn’t have any appointments. He greeted people that strolled by him, smiling warmly as he stopped in front of the closed door. Carefully and cautiously he twists the handle open, peeking his head inside.

“Mikey?”

The box turtle perks up, tilting his head when he sees Raph. Mikey was meditating, floating in the air cross legged, his cape floating behind him as he shot him a gentle and steady smile.

“Hey, Raph! What brings you here?”

Raph smiles sheepishly, “I, um… require some help. About Leo.” He began, watching as Mikey seemed to grow more interested now as he steadily placed his feet on the ground, looking up at his largest brother.

“What’s wrong?”

“Something is off with him. He’s been in the dojo. Like… a whole lot. All night I think, sometimes. Beat up and bruised. He doesn’t say much, or even notice me. I know we want him to get better at using his swords again, but…” Raph pauses, letting out an exhale to gather his thoughts.

“It’s like he keeps training to prove himself for something.”

Mikey’s expression softened, and gave a small nod. “Sounds like someone is trying to fight something they can’t punch.” He mumbles, making Raph shrug his shoulders, “Yeah. Do you think you can check on him? I would, but I don’t think I'm the right guy for the job.”

Mikey beams, standing straight as he clears his throat and pats Raph on the arm, “You did the right thing coming to me. I’ll go check on him. I’ll be Dr. Feelings.” He assured, which only had Raph give a deadpan look at him.

“Just go easy on him.”

Nonetheless he felt more relieved that Mikey was going to take over, talk with their brother. “Not to worry. I’ll be nice!” He laughs softly, striding out of the room and down the hallway to the dojo. Raph watches, arms crossed, and shoulders tensed.

He really hopes Mikey can get through to Caden. 

Mikey heard the sounds of grunts and pants once he reached the dojo, walking in further and leaning against the doorframe as he witnessed Caden once again throw himself into another set of brutal combinations. His movements were precise, and the blades of the katanas glimmered as they sliced through the air as cleanly as Caden could wield them.

There was some control, an indication that he was getting better at it, but they were still frantic. Desperate. Unrefined.

Mikey recoiled for a second as Caden stumbled on the pivot of a spin, catching himself just in time before his knee hit the dojo mat. The mutant hissing under his breath, breathing heavily as he kept his gaze focused on the floor.

He shakes his head, straightening himself as much as he can and gets back into a sparring position with the katanas in his hands.

Mikey could see why Raph was concerned. Caden was clearly overworking himself, and that could be seriously damaging for him. So, Mikey clears his throat and walks over, using his mystic abilities to stop Caden from slashing into the air again, the latter blinking dumbfoundedly as he tries to move his arms but they aren't listening.

“What the…?”

“Sorry! I didn’t want you to accidentally cut me when I came closer.” Mikey announces, chuckling as he finally released his mysticism that was holding Caden who was able to control his arms again, glancing over to Mikey.

“Did you need something?” Caden’s voice is breathy and flat, sounding confused and slightly annoyed that his training was interrupted. Mikey frowns imperceptibly, “Raph told me that you’ve overworking yourself here. Maybe it’s time to take a break?” He suggests, his smile a little forced out of his own worries for Caden.

The red eared slider tilted his head before letting out a heavy breath, using his arm to wipe off the sweat that had collected on his forehead.

“I’m fine.”

Mikey was taken aback. That line he heard multiple times from Leo. It was almost nice to see that perhaps Leo was still in there somewhere, but Mikey of course knew that in this circumstance specifically, it wouldn’t be good.

Leo had a habit of exhausting himself and hiding behind a mask of confidence. Especially when he first became leader.

“How about we try something else today?” Mikey spoke up, placing a gentle hand on Caden’s shoulder to stop him from returning to his training. Caden eyed him, deep in thought as he turned to Leo who was standing beside him in the mindscape. Waiting to see if he had anything to say about this.

He and Leo have had a… strange tension going on between them ever since the day in the med bay. Leo remained as distant as he could, sharply informing Caden to either train or just do something to help improve himself.

And Caden… well, he was stubborn. Sometimes not even listening to whatever he's told to do, giving Leo the silent treatment just to spite him in return for everything he’s done with Caden’s body.

But then Caden couldn’t help but get bored quickly, training is the only thing he can think of actually doing while stuck in the base. “Leo?” Mikey calls out, snapping Caden back to the present as he eyed the brother of Leonardo while he thought.

Leo stood silently, arms crossed and just staring. As if asking Caden to make a decision. To stop now would feel like a failure, like giving in.

Caden’s jaw tightened and his grip on the sword hilts were firm as he mulled it over. Mikey was still watching, patient but not passive. The softness in his eyes narrowed with concern.

“What would we even do?” Caden finally asked, avoiding eye contact with Mikey who smiled a little wider, encouraging. “Well… I was thinking why don’t we do something that we used to do? Maybe braid my hair, it could help with your memories?” He offers, noticing the way Caden tenses as he hardens his gaze.

“Come on, it could be fun too. You're swinging those swords like you’re fighting a Krang. We’re in a dojo, not the battlefield.”

Caden frowns, not sure how to feel about that statement. Leo watched him, his expression stoic, making the young mutant shift slightly. Was he disappointed? Angry?

He exhales, shaking his head as he looks at Mikey. “Okay…” He finally agrees, putting the swords away in their holsters that were strapped to his shell.

Mikey sits down comfortably on the mat, patting the spot behind him as Caden hesitantly lowered to his knees and sat cross legged behind Mikey who untied his hair, letting it flow down.

It stopped just halfway down his shell, silky and dark brown. Caden eyed it in curiosity. How did a turtle even get hair in the first place? From what Caden noticed from the brothers, they didn’t have hair on them.

“You okay?” Mikey spoke up when he didn’t feel Caden move to start braiding, making the latter jump slightly as he hummed in acknowledgement. “Yeah…” He uttered, his fingers reaching up and smoothing out the hair.

He bites his lower lip, furrowing his invisible brows together. He had no idea how to braid. How did Mikey expect him to know this?

Nonetheless Caden tried, moving the hair in all kinds of directions. Mikey could tell Caden was anxious, it was sort of adorable the more he thought about it, but he couldn’t just sit by and let him stew in a pool of anxiousness.

“You know, there’s multiple rumours about you going around the base.”

“Huh?”

This finally caught Leo’s attention, who listened in, keeping his gaze rooted on his brother. “Heh, yeah. The new one lately is that people think Donnie experimented on you and gave you some kind of youth serum.”

Leo groans at this, second handedly embarrassed at these ridiculous rumours. Caden however found some amusement in Leo’s obvious dislike towards these.

“Oh yeah? What else is there?”

“Kid…” Leo growls, but is interrupted by Mikey who snorts. “They think Leo ran away because you’re his child and he didn’t want to pay child support.”

Caden snickers a little at this, while also cringing in on himself that people mistook him as a child of Leo, but at least it was far more entertaining to watch Leo squirm uncomfortably at these comments. Mikey’s grin widens when he hears Caden softly laugh.

Good. He wanted him to be comfortable around him. 

“Oh, hey, by the way I actually have a question… how come your training so hard lately? Not that it’s totally a bad thing!” Mikey inquired before he corrected himself, laughing sheepishly, “It’s just… you seem like you're pushing yourself a bit hard.”

Caden’s amusement was quickly replaced, pausing for a moment, as he couldn’t help but frown at the question, ignoring the way Leo observed him. He knew he was being judged, and how Leo was a constant reminder that he had to be careful on what to say to the youngest of the brothers.

“I just don’t want to fall behind…” He mutters, not even sure if it was meant for Mikey or Leo. “You guys… you’re all so good at what you do in the Resistance. At least from what I’m told. But me…?” He falters, clicking his tongue as he sees how tangled the hair got.

“I’m just some reject Draxum made.”

The comment came out before he could even think, both Leo and Mikey tensing up at this as Caden huffs out a short breath of frustration at the attempted braid.

“Leo—“

“Caden.”

Mikey nods, frowning at the correction, “Caden. You're not a reject. You’re just… different is all.” He smiles lightly but Caden scoffs, crossing his arms like a stubborn teenager. Mikey hums in amusement at the sight for a second before he gains a new topic to talk about.

“Say, you went to the med bay with Donnie a few days ago right? I hope it wasn’t off putting. Especially after I heard we had an infected scare.”

Caden froze, body still as a statue as he recalled that day. It was still fresh in his head, the way he saw those wounded people and yokai.

The way Leo took over for him.

How he cut off an arm.

How could he forget?

Since that traumatic moment, Leo never once asked if he was okay. The two barely spoke about it, and it began to make Caden question who the hell Leo is. How was he able to stay that calm?

Surely it was normal for others to freak out, right? But yet Leo was the exact opposite. Caden could understand that Leo must’ve amputated lots of limbs before, but it was still just—

Caden couldn’t quite figure out the words that were caught in his throat. And with Leo? He never did talk about his feelings. What he was thinking about.

The most Caden would get is a feeling. A brief memory or a slight change in his expressions and tone. 

Caden gulps, letting out a shaky breath he had been holding as he looks away to the side. He could tell Mikey what he experienced… but what if he was just being dramatic? What if this was nothing to lose sleep over?

What if he’s just weak?

The familiar but still foreign pull away from his body sent Caden back, stumbling away from the control panel as Leo stood in front, eyes glaring ahead as he hissed slightly in warning at Mikey.

He used Caden’s body again without telling him first. All to scold his baby brother. 

“I don’t need you to therapy me, Mikey.” He lowly grumbled, flexing Caden’s fingers out to try again with the braid. Leo knew he shouldn’t let Mikey’s word get under his skin, but he was sick of hearing it.

Mikey often told him to see someone. To talk to someone that could potentially help him. He told him Leo’s bad habits were only going to damage him.

The way he would overwork himself with training or with missions. Barely having a chance to rest. A chance to get some proper sleep.

It was like that in the early days of the Resistance as well. Leo’s habits ranged from sacrificing himself to getting in harm's way when he didn’t need to, because he thought it was his duty to protect everyone.

And then his other bad habit when he was pent up with stress was to hit the dojo, punching the bags until his knuckles bled. And if Raph caught him, Leo would do the next best thing. And that was to get as drunk as he could, find the closest person he could flirt with and take them to an empty room for the night.

But those days stopped when Leo reached 24. He had become more focused on his leadership skills, and because Prime would inch his territory closer to the Resistance every month.

Caden walks over, shoving Leo to the side so that he could gain back the control that was meant to be his. His hands were still and tangled in Mikey’s hair.

He blinked to adjust to the fact he was back in his body again, taking a steadying breath in. He had to concentrate on something else. 

“I didn’t say you did. But I’m just saying, you should talk to someone if you’re having trouble. It doesn’t have to be me. Just… someone.”

Leo’s voice suddenly echoed, low and sharp inside Caden’s mind.

“You’re wasting time. Let’s get back to training.”

Caden flinched at the sudden voice, and Mikey noticed, feeling the way Caden briefly tugged at his hair in surprise.

“Ow!”

Caden lets go, feeling guilty as he groans and places his hands over his head. “I can’t do it…! Can’t even braid damn hair.” He growls to himself, unaware how Mikey turns his body around fully to look at him.

“It’s okay… you just need practice.”

“I don't have time for practice!”

The two became quiet, Caden left short of breath at his abrupt shout. Mikey knew it wasn’t just the hair he was talking about. It was everything else. The sword training has been taking up most of his time lately.

Mikey wishes he was able to help in some way. Help him, guide him through the challenges he has been experiencing. He also wishes he could just see into his mind, look at what’s bothering him.

….

Wait. He can!

Mikey perked up in realization, gasping softly. “That’s it!” He announces suddenly, making the young mutant flinch back in puzzlement. “What is…?” He mumbles, suspiciously narrowing his eyelids at him.

“Ninja Mind Meld!”

Ninja what…?

Caden didn’t seem to understand, but he saw how Leo stiffened, his breathing sharp as he hisses under his breath. “Shit…” He curses, hand under his chin in thought.

“What’s wrong?”

Leo looks down at him, unsure how to even explain the problem. Mikey however saw his confused look, and cleared his throat. “It’s okay if you don’t remember. It’s basically where I enter your mind, and I guess communicate with you. Oh! Maybe I can transfer your soul back to your original body?” He mumbles, the last part of his words causing Caden to widen his eyes in shock.

Transfer… his soul?

While he didn’t mind the idea of Leo leaving him right now. He was scared… scared that what if Mikey messed up and accidentally grabbed his soul instead?

Pull him out of his own body and—and...!

“I don’t want to mind meld.” He quickly spoke, noticing the way Mikey tilts his head before he softly chuckles. “I promise it won’t hurt. We’ve mind melded tons of times together.” Mikey assures, inching closer to Caden, raising his hands up to prop them against Caden’s head.

Caden however felt the need to either fight or take flight. And so, he stumbled back, reflexively raising his arms to roughly slap Mikey’s hands away from his face, eyes narrowed, pupils shrinking out of fear and breathing ragged.

“I said no!” He exclaims, his voice briefly stung from the raw shout.

His vision blurred, black splotches forming the corners. Mikey watched with an open mouthed expression of shock, “L-Leo—“ He began to say, but flinched back when Caden let out an actual hiss. Like he was a wild, cornered animal.

Shaking his head soon after, he quickly pulled himself up to his feet.

He turned to the exit of the dojo, slipping on his feet for a second as he barreled his way towards the entrance. Running out as Mikey sat there, mouth agape in bewilderment.

He… he hadn’t seen that look on Leo before. Or at least not since they were teenagers, when the Krang first invaded.

With a bone weary sigh Mikey smoothed out the messy attempted braid from Caden. Frowning down at his lap. He had really hoped he was going to be able to get through to him.

But now he felt like he’d failed him, Leo and himself. He just wants his big brother back. Why was that so difficult to ask?

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

I can see what Leo sees now with baby Caden—

APOLOGISE FOR ANY GRAMMAR MISTAKES THAT WERE MADE, I TYPE PRETTY FAST AND OFTEN DON’T SEE THEM UNTIL I ACTUALLY PUBLISH THE CHAPTER. THEN I’D TRY AND FIX ANY MISTAKES WHEN I SEE ONE.

Quotev - Do I Look Like Him?

Ao3 - Do I Look Like Him?

First Chapter here

Previous Chapter here

Taglist:

@turtl3sk3tch3s

@katiemaycreate

[lemotmo]

🥰

Q. Okay but in all seriousness what could a third option really look like? Any ideas yet?

A. The only thing I can really think might be plausible as a third option is officially setting up the 'will they/won't they' in canon. But even that is going to require something during these last two episodes, particularly from Eddie. We've seen Buck be questioned about Eddie and we've seen Eddie's sexuality questioned to Buck, but we haven't seen Eddie questioned or be confronted about Buck. And we haven't had him face any kind of direct questioning about his sexuality. We're going to need one of those things to be addressed directly to Eddie in some form. But Eddie confirming any part of a possible Buck relationship, either by admitting feelings or questioning his own sexuality, already pretty much removes the will they/won't they factor. Because either one of those things happening is going to be canon confirmation that Buddie is happening. And I'm just not sure the opportunity the earthquake, and one or both of them being trapped, provides for a big dramatic confession will be too tempting for Tim/ABC to resist. That's a moment that could be reblogged, retweeted, regif'd and hyped for the entirety of the break leading into season 9. I just don't know if that's something Tim will be able to resist. It would also be a scene that both Oliver and Ryan would definitely share on their Instagrams. And ABC and Hulu would be able to use for promotion and season 9 teases. That's just really tempting, easy PR. And spending the 2 and a half month hiatus before production begins on season 9 being able to tease the return of Bobby as well as the new relationship between Buddie is basically a PR gift because those things sell themselves. So I'm mostly where I was earlier. I think we're getting a mutual confession. BUT I'm not certain and am being very cautious and am trying to talk myself out of it purely for my own sanity.

*but I have wanted an over the radio mutual confession forever. I want the dramatics of one of them thinking they're not going to survive and deciding they can't die without the other knowing how they feel. That's why I think Buck will be the trapped one because there's definitely a reason they didn't have Buck tell Bobby he loved him. I think that's coming into play in the season finale. And a dramatic over the radio confession allows others to hear it, which gives the opportunity for Chimney and Hen reactions, which we and they deserve. I have craved that for years. Then I want them to have a private moment for their first kiss and face to face mutual I love you between just the two of them.*

That's what I personally want but I will take and be happy with whatever way they decide to make them canon. I won't be picky. But God I want the radio confession. I want the desperation of both of them thinking this is the only chance they're going to get to say it. Ugh.

Thanks again Nonny!

I've given up on trying to talk myself out of anything at this point. I am ALL in.

Whatever they're serving? I'm eating. 🤷‍♀️

Let's go!!! 😄

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[kxsagi]

NAGI BIRTHDYA👅👅👅👅👅

“𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐢! 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝”

a/n: OMG I FREAKING FORGOT I AM SO SORRY THIS IS LIKE 1-2 DAYS PLS FORGIVE ME BUT HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY NAGI ILY AND YOU DID NOT DESERVE TO BE LOCKED OFF FROM BLUE LOCK #SCREWEGOANDHISBOWLCUT2025

you should’ve known something was off when reo said, “don’t come over until exactly 3:00 PM. and don’t wear black because we already assigned that to isagi.” 

so naturally, you arrived at 2:56 PM in black. 

the door swung open before you could even knock. 

“you’re early,” reo said flatly. “and you’re gonna clash with isagi.” 

“isagi’s wearing black? what is this, a funeral?” 

“for his patience, maybe.” 

you walked in to find chigiri hanging balloons while standing on bachira’s back like he was a human stepladder. kunigami was trying to make a protein cake (“it’s just raw eggs and whey powder”) and shidou was duct taping a ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY SLUG’ banner to the ceiling. 

“you spelled ‘nagi’ wrong,” you pointed out. 

“no i didn’t,” shidou grinned, pointing behind him with his thumb. “that’s his new name now.” 

and there he was. the birthday slug himself. 

nagi was laying on the couch, wrapped in three blankets, holding a controller with one hand and a slice of pizza with the other. there were crumbs on his chest and zero thoughts in his eyes. 

“yo,” he said lazily. “thanks for coming. you bring me a gift?” 

“… you’re literally using your foot to open your third red bull. no.” 

reo clapped his hands. “okay everyone!! attention!! our baby girl turns– wait, how old are you again?” 

“i forgot,” nagi yawned. “how old do i feel?” 

“dead inside,” rin muttered from the corner. also in all black. like the goth boy he apparently was. 

“old enough to get a job,” reo declared. 

“ew,” nagi said. “i already have one.” 

“you play soccer like it’s a 9-5 nap.” 

“that’s productivity.” 

shidou slapped a party hat on nagi’s head. “okayyy, shut up and make a wish, birthday boy.” 

they handed him a slice of kunigami’s protein cake. it jiggled. it might’ve been alive. 

“what is this,” nagi asked. 

“dinner,” kunigami replied solemnly. 

he stared at the cake. then at the ceiling. then closed his eyes and made a wish. 

“what’d you wish for?” you asked. 

“for all of you to leave.” 

“rude.” 

“and for one of those gaming chairs with a built-in massage feature.” 

“there it is,” reo nodded. “the capitalism’s kicking in.” 

“open your presents, slug,” bachira sang, handing him a box wrapped in newspaper and sealed with ramen noodles. 

nagi opened it. inside was a burrito. 

“i got hungry while wrapping it,” bachira said. 

“you wrapped a burrito?” 

“i’m gonna need that back,” karasu added from the kitchen. “it’s my lunch.” 

next, reo handed him a sleek, sparkly gift bag with a tag that said TO: USELESS PRINCE. 

“this better not be another gym membership,” nagi warned. 

“open it.” 

he pulled out a pillow with his own face on it, wearing a crown, with the words NAP KING embroidered in gold. 

“… okay wait. this goes hard.” 

“i know,” reo smirked. 

“your turn,” nagi said, looking at you. 

you handed him your gift: a single sock with a note that said find the other one if you want your real present. 

“this is too much work,” nagi said. 

“exactly.” 

“what’s the real present?” 

you leaned down and kissed his cheek. “me.” 

he blinked. paused. 

“… can i exchange that for a PS5?” 

chaos ensued. bachira tried to steal your sock. isagi tackled shidou because he tried to light the protein cake on fire. reo yelled, “not again!!” like this had happened before. kunigami started doing push-ups in mourning. chigiri was live-streaming everything with the caption pray for us. 

and nagi? 

nagi fell asleep with a party blower in his mouth, one slipper missing, and the NAP KING pillow clutched like a teddy bear. 

happy birthday to the laziest genius alive. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[pastafossa]

hi pasta ! i’ve been a long time fan of you and your work, your writing is by far my favorite so far for matt that you’ve reignited me to write fanfics again ! i think you’re incredibly talented and so smart in your way of designing a story so vividly it just sparked my desire to to create again after my 30th reread of TRT. it is totally okay if you choose not to answer these but i have a couple of questions for writers? i have written fanfics before but they never came out to my liking (i never published them😅) so i’m looking to improve it and better my understanding of creating content that i like and am proud of!

the questions !! :

what are some things and tricks to writing lively, real dialogue? i find when i write sometimes my characters seem dull and cardboard like. i want it to flow naturally god dammit !

how do you go about characterization and staying true to it as your character develop and evolve? and to riff off of this question what is some additional research you would do to get the nature of your chosen character (ex, matt) right?

what are ways to better your writing? for example highlighting a characters complex emotions, describing the scenery around, detailed fight scenes and car chases, etc, etc. and not just them but silly grammatical errors and simple vocab. (i’m trilingual so it get a bit fuzzy remember all the rules of every language 😭) your foreshadowing game is just chefs kiss cuz you would sit on something and brush past it but it’ll make its comeback 20 chaps later, HOW??

and lastly, what is your advice to planning a long story? what are some steps you take to je respect the timeline of a show or a movie and how do you fit your OC into it? as well as making the OC’s backstory fit in. speaking of backstory and lore, i find it so hard to fit in believable, human lore to my OC and not make it super childish. i think you did such an interesting job with project beagle, the antagonist, the body swapping, the symbolism, etc, that it just feel so canon to me.

well thats all i have to ask, i hope it’s not too much, you really are such an awesome artist and i admire your work as a writer so much! thank you for sharing your stories on here/ao3. ❤️

Oh my gosh, this is so sweet! I'm absolutely gd honored you love TRT this much, I'm so, so happy it could help make you want to write fic again! 😭😭😭 Seriously, one of the things that just makes me absolutely delighted is when something I've made could lead to more things being made in turn, cause I don't just love Matt and Daredevil and TRT, I love stories in general! The world needs more of them, so this is FUCKING AWESOME. And I'm happy to answer these questions as best I can!

I'm also going to put this behind a see-more tag cause it's long LOL.

Token Matt gif just for fun. LET'S GET STARTED.

Natural, lively dialogue: Ooooh this is a fun question I haven't gotten asked before I don't think. I won't lie, part of it absolutely the immersion with all the shows, movies, and books I take in. But there's another element I was taught in creative writing classes - the idea that sometimes you should read as a writer. That is: read while asking yourself, 'how did they do that? Why? How did they foreshadow this?' Etc. You can do the same thing with characters speaking and with people. Listen to how these characters speak, how similar people speak, and try to get a feel for how they talk. I'll use contractions as an example. Most people use contractions, for example (at least in the US), in natural flowing dialogue. It's shorter, it's more casual, whereas they might speak more formally (less contractions) in a professional setting like a courtroom or when they're really angry and speaking somewhat threateningly. They also might not use contractions for other reasons - in TRT Ciro tends to use fewer contractions when speaking English, both because he's a classy guy and because English isn't his native language (he learned it more formally). I also try to treat each character as having their own natural accent (which can also show a bit of their personality). Matt rambles when he's nervous, but his dialogue gets sharp and choppy when he's furious (Devil wants to act, not talk). Foggy loves metaphors and has a lot of swings up and down in tone for emphasis (Grew up a theatre kid). When Jane in TRT is feeling particularly cold, she starts dropping unnecessary words from her sentences so they're shorter (more efficient + trained to give immediate answers without flourish). Sometimes it can also help to listen to the dialogue you write or have it go through a text-to-speech program so you can hear if it sounds stilted, but I've found the ability to detect stilted dialogue is just something you have to practice!

Keeping true to the character while letting them evolve: this is ALSO A FUN QUESTION. Especially because something I was taught is that, generally speaking (always exceptions): a stagnant character is a boring character. They need to struggle with who they are, and grow or devolve as a person. They need to learn. I knew I wanted that to happen in TRT, so yeah, a big question was how I could show characters growing while also keeping them the characters we know and love. And for me it was about figuring out what the basic building blocks of those characters were, and making sure they were always present, because an apple pie should always, in theory, come out of the oven an apple pie, even if it's been changed some by baking. Things like Matt's struggle with his faith, the way he's sorta incapable of finding a middle ground between Devil and Matt Murdock, his refusal to ignore injustice, his trauma and fear of abandonment, his love of the Kitchen, his anger issues and the ensuing impulsivity, these are all building blocks for him. These do not change. What changes is how they manifest, and what he does with them. Matt learns he can trust Jane with his trauma and fear of abandonment. She helps calm his anger. The building blocks are all still there. Some of them just get arranged a little differently as he grows. Same with Jane and how she has grown. She's always going to have Hound Mode floating around in the back of her head. Security will always be her biggest concern, her motivator. She's always going to be the one who prefers to think and plan. She'll always feel a little weird about personal identity, and be able to flip through lies and false faces with the best of them. But she'll handle all of that differently as she grows alongside Matt. The plot is baking them, changing those pies in the oven, but their base ingredients are something I'm super careful to keep consistent. That I think is one of my secrets since this has been going on 8 years now!

Additional research for characterization: I am always, always, always going to recommend good psychology research (I loved this shit in college, especially developmental psychology, and fortunately there's a TON that's easily accessible online and doesn't require any classes). For Matt, that would be psychological things like... what does repeated abandonment do to a person when they're a kid? How does abandonment and parental loss shape their attachment styles and relationships later in life (hint: it's not great)? We know he has untreated depression, so what's going on in his brain considering he's pushing all that down? What would the day-to-day struggle being exposed to all that crime and pain do (research into things like the mental health of paramedics and social workers, etc)? Dissect these characters like little bugs, put them on your table, and try to figure out why someone would do what they do. Be curious, basically!

How To Improve In General: I LOVE THAT YOU BROUGHT UP MY FORESHADOWING FIRST OFF, I'LL ANSWER THAT IN THE NEXT BIT FOR PLANNING BUT. For me this is a couple things. The biggest one is reading, reading, reading. Read professional stuff in addition to fanfic. Read in your chosen genre. Read writers you want to write like! Read writers who are writing what you want to learn! And when you do, ask yourself how they did what you want to do. I have one book series that's my absolute favorite, I've read it over and over and over again. And it's very likely that someone who's read that book series and TRT would be able to spot the influence that book series has had on Jane's character voice, how I write action scenes, morally grey characters, etc. So that's where some of it comes from! For things like detailed emotions and sensations, my favorite book is The Emotion Thesaurus! I've found I don't need it as much now because I've gotten the hang of it, but it's still good to have there as a refresher. And for things like grammar and simple vocab, not only will reading help, but I'd also open the door to any fandom friends who might beta read for you! I've been writing fic since I was... hrrgh, quite young. And I'm super grateful for the betas over the years that would go over my fic and leave notes - notes not just on what they had changed but why: why they changed this punctuation, why they broke up this sentence, why they capitalized this or lower-cased that. That helped a ton! But yeah, when in doubt, grab an author you love and open it up and go, '...Ok, so how did you do this???' Also holy hell, you're triilingual so you already get a TON of kudos here on learning how multiple languages work, YOU GOT THIS.

Planning a long story: now's the part where I make people groan but the biggest advice is to outline, I know a ton of us heard it in school and ignored it because pfft but THE OUTLINE REALLY IS IMPORTANT. This is how I was able to foreshadow things ages in advance - I knew what was coming in the future so I was able to leave breadcrumbs earlier on. This also meant I was able to figure out how certain dominoes would tip (like when TRT's original plotlines would change something in canon) or when there were gaps in Daredevil's timeline that I could neatly settle into. Knowing the entirety of the story and having it all laid out also meant it was easier to change things or work to make sure TRT fit into the Daredevil/Marvel Universe like a puzzle piece. That was one of the steps for me both when it came to respecting the timeline (not that you need to! That was a personal choice for me) and with making sure the lore all fit in. I love the Marvel universe, have since I was a kid, so I was able to tap some of their fun recurring tropes and themes (Evil scientists, secret government projects, Mutants/Enhanced characters in hiding) and instead of trying to make it new, I tried to do my own spin on it instead because I know this sort of thing already exists there, and threw in some of the other general genre tropes I enjoy (love me some symbolic otherworlds and psychic connections). I think for an OC like this, that's sort of the key. Their backstories will fit because they're built on power structures and building blocks that already exist. It's just about finding a little section that hasn't been told yet. That's where this type of OC flourishes: in these little gaps between walls and load-bearing pillars, a story and character you wouldn't find all that unusual if they popped up as a side character in canon, all to explore some part of the world that hasn't really been fleshed out yet. AND if desired, I think there's something to be said for matching just how grounded/fantastical your show/movie is. Daredevil is very, very grounded. People get hurt. They die. These aren't Avengers-level Gods who can take a lightning strike. So I respected that with Jane, who gets hurt... fairly often, tbh. I also leaned into, yet again, a story gap in that while a lot of the people running around with the Devil (Frank, Elektra, Stick, Jess and Luke, etc) are GOOD at fighting, Jane's specialty is NOT fighting, generally, even if she's pretty damn good with a gun and quick with her knife. Her specialty is getting away, so it gives us new things to explore in terms of threats and fight scenes!

I hope all of this helps! Everyone gets better with practice, so don't be afraid to put your stuff out there! God knows I've got old fanfic floating around the internet, and a lot of my early stuff wasn't anywhere near what TRT is. But I also couldn't have gotten to TRT without writing it, posting it, and learning from it. <3

[blae-kitta]

Sketch page! Margaritabille au by @kerink with Bill making a caesar, Ford in the outfit I'm living in rn, a joke post I've already posted of where Ford loses a bet, and an interaction that been lodged in my frontal lobe for ages and was gonna make a proper comic for and then didn't

[mulders-too-large-shirt]

thinking about how mulder loves to get scully a gift, usually terribly heartfelt, even if disguised as something flippant:

the superbowl vhs tape he brings her when she wakes up from her coma in one breath (and her deadpan "i knew there was a reason to live")

tickets for a football game to watch together in irresistible

bringing her flowers to the hospital in memento mori (he lies, saying he stole them from a guy with broken legs to make her laugh)

the birthday keychain in tempus fugit (and when she finds a meaning to it, he claims "i just thought it was a pretty cool keychain")

that is a man who is always thinking about her.

[ender1821]

so. uh. Wild Life finale huh

[tohruies]

hi hi mrs yao !!!! christmas is coming up, are you going to celebrate anythinf with xiangli ? :33 btw, since miss coco doesnt have a tree, here's a little something to say thank you for being one of my lovely moots 🥺

oh! 😁 hi hello mr puppetgear! 😁 christmas celebrations with xiangli you ask! 😁 well actually! 😁 you see, i was th— *dies upon seeing the image you’ve attached to this ask* 😳😲🤯😱😱😱😵💀🪦

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

I think I need that "Wow, I haven't stubbed my toe in five months! I was then shot fifty-seven times." Audio again

[suddencolds]

// personal

how strange it is to observe yourself changing

[atopvisenyashill]

do we need another long post about the house of the undying? no but i needed to put all my thoughts in one place and i’m merely giving the people what they want.

obviously spoilers all the through the end of the series, and the winds of winter, and also we’re doing some predicting here. i welcome disagreement and debate but if you're gonna be mean keep it pushing for the love of god. most up to date graphic and then let’s goooooooo-

key

first of all, please understand i'm not positing that george was thinking about elements this concretely when he was designing these prophies. i'm not not saying that either but it's mostly just to help ME visualize the events and look for patterns. "why is there no air" because. that's why. the white text is stuff that is not related to a specific moment with an element.

secondly, i started highlighting the figurative language because i see a lot of discussion on literal v figurative. i think people contradict themselves a lot in this regard - you'll see someone go from "if the towers aren't literal towers than we can't trust the prophecies at all" to "well this one is more figurative and that's fine" within a paragraph. i think this is all completely silly. george is writing what sounds best to him and sometimes its literal and sometimes its figurative and that's fine.

and lastly, i also kinda split it up into two pieces - the threes and the visions. again, not saying they aren't related but i am saying they're slightly separated.

spoken prophecies

three fires you shall light - one for life, one for death, and one to love

so FIRST OF ALL i do wonder if there’s a pattern here - ie first thing refers to the dothraki time period, second to meereen/essos in general, third to westeros, or something similar. there’s some that seem more obvious, and when you look at it, it sort of seems to fit that pattern - that’s kind of what the color coding is, it started when i thought i saw a pattern there. i think it's really notable that a lot of the stuff in the first row have clearly already happened - except the treason for blood which i'll get to later.

for life is drogo’s funeral pyre that brings to life her dragons, this one feels like the obvious & correct conclusion. however i don’t want to say like “one hundred percent” bc what if george pulls something else. u get me. but imo it makes sense that one or two things would have happened already, to confirm to dany it’s true telling, and would stick out obviously in her memory. am i over explaining something really obvious lol.

for death is not as obvious. there’s a few options, for now i have landed on either the upcoming battle in meereen (it’s gonna go on a while) or whatever is happening in Vaes Dothrak/with the Dothraki. both those are very close events that to me feel like a kind of…hinge point? i guess in her story. like arya getting on the boat to braavos, sansa coming to the vale, jon becoming lord commander, etc etc, they’re jumping into a new part of their story, and both of these events are specific "fire light" moments that will change the trajectory of dany's story. i think it will be the first time we see her use drogon offensively, with the explicit aim of killing someone when she says dracarys, hence the “for death.”

to love...listen so the thing is regardless of how she REACTS to it, or the details on how it happens, i think it makes complete sense that dany is the one to set off the wildfire pots. i’m not saying she’s going to ~rah go mad~ but i am saying it’s been a Thing in her family to play around with wildfire anyway (aegon iv, aegon v, aerion, AND her father all play with it!) and it’s her father that put the pots there, it just makes so much more sense narratively for dany to be the one to deal with the legacy aerys left behind and one of the biggest Chekho'vs Guns in the series. i love the joncon & young griff & golden company stuff but introducing the wildfire as aerys' creation just for two characters who are very disconnected from aerys and the kl plotline to flow it up does not have the emotional impact of a character we’ve been following for Every Book being actively involved with the accidental destruction of the city her family built, and the city her dad took steps to try to blow up (who we see talking about blowing it up in a vision right before this!!).

now while i think “a fire to love” is likely about the event of king’s landing going up, i think there’s a lot of options for what that even means. i think it’s going to be OBVIOUS when it does happen, because the first fire is obvious & imo what the second one involves also seems obvious (and other prophecies, like the Ghost of High Heart’s Lady Stoneheart prophecy, are fairly obvious when they’re spoken like this (patchface doesn’t count). But i think its not quite obvious YET simply because there’s minimum 2k pages left lol. My gut feeling here is the fire to love will be about the wildfire pots though!

three mounts you will ride - one to bed, one to dread, and one to love

one to bed seems kind of obvious here as well; dany mounting her silver to her marriage bed with Drogo.

one to dread is murkier. lot of theories but the one i lean towards is the greyjoy fleet/a ship. the dothraki refer to ships as “wooden horses” and "wooden mounts" so it fits the mount theme, and it’s certainly dreadful, both that she’s likely to be paranoid about them (bc of the kraken & dark flame warning) and because dany & her new fleet are on their way to start conquering westeros.

one to love…it’s drogon. we use different meanings of “to” both times before - one to bed, literally a mount that takes her to a place, and one to dread, the greyjoy fleet and the “dread” of them being untrustworthy, and of landing in westeros. it makes sense to me that this “to” is a third use of the word "to"- talking not of a literal or metaphorical place the mount takes her, but of the feelings she has for the mount. and whatever romances or husbands she may have, drogon will always be her greatest love.

three treasons you shall know…once for blood, once for gold, and once for love

this section is difficult for me. dany believes they have all happened but not onlyy do i not believe she’s gotten it right, more and more i'm coming around on the idea that none of them have happened yet. what's more is that the events we likely have already gotten (mount to bed, fire for life) are very obvious but nothing really sticks out to me as an obvious betrayal for either blood, gold, or love!

i’ve played with ideas about how SHE is the one doing treasons to someone else but i’m still very much on the fence here. i think it’s likely these treasons are going to come from WELL KNOWN characters, likely even POV characters. i’ve gotten stuck on the word “know” - does it mean she’ll simply learn of three reasons that happen? that feels like “well the valonqar doesn’t HAVE to be CERSEI’S brother” copium to me though. the reality is....i'm not sure lmao.

once for blood… anyways i don’t think mmd is the treason for blood - mmd doesn’t betray dany! drogo doesn’t listen to mirri’s instructions, jorah doesn’t listen to mirri’s instructions, and mirri is not acting vindictively she’s acting defensively. she does not betray dany, though i would argue that dany betrays her - you could argue it’s for blood as in for rhaego, for mmd’s magical abilities for the sacrifice, but i’m unsure about that and i think the fact that dany is so confident makes me believe it's not this.

once for gold

The wealth of the westerlands was matched, in ancient times, with the hunger of the Freehold of Valyria for precious metals, yet there seems no evidence that the dragonlords ever made contact with the lords of the Rock, Casterly or Lannister. Septon Barth speculated on the matter, referring to a Valyrian text that has since been lost, suggesting that the Freehold's sorcerers foretold that the gold of Casterly Rock would destroy them.

from twoiaf. it might be talking about tyland & jason taking the gold from the treasury which directly leads to the death of the dragons + jaime fucking up aerys but i feel like why mention that now and not earlier if it was meant to apply to past events?? nah, i think someone is selling dany out for lannister gold. who tho?? again, unsure lol. i can see several scenarios - one of her sellsword allies flipping for gold, maybe a greyjoy (??) flipping for gold. i had the thought that tyrion would get her to westeros, then flip on her because aegon offers him lord of casterly rock as a title outright - literally flipping for lannister gold - but i don’t know that dany wouldn’t just promise him the lordship outright in essos tbh so.

once for love - again, fuck if i know and i’m not confident of any predictions i’ve had or have seen.

what i noticed is that the last part in each of these three groups are likely to do with the burning of KL - the mount to love being drogon, the fire for love being the burning of KL. so perhaps the treason for love will be tied to the fire for love and mount to love, and it’s a love that is one and the same - dany will betray her people because of her love for drogon with the burning of KL.

obviously…someone my predictions here run on a theme - dany will clash violently with people in vaes dothraki and meereen (at minimum & obvious), dany will Be Involved with KL burning, and yes it will probably involve her doing something from dragonback. if you asked me “take away any theory about dany setting off the wildfire, what are you most confident in” it’s the mounts for sure. i think three different mounts, a horse, a ship, and a dragon, all make sense. i think one to bed feels obvious, one to dread Is A Ship even if it’s not greyjoy related, and one to love is clearly drogon. i’m also pretty conspiracy brained about the lannister gold!! but it’s also like…fire for death….she uses her dragon to kill…fire to love…involved with the plot her dad started….we can debate the context but i think the EVENT is correct.

vision sequence

Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth.

obvious, it happened on page already. i'm noting here that both of her brothers died at the hands of a younger relative (Viserys by Dany, Rhaegar by Robert) who immediately takes their title.

A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him.

Seems likely to be rhaego, given the dothraki look with targaryen hair and the fiery (his mama) stallion (his pops) as his sigil. Also notable to me that all three men are direct relatives - her brothers and her son.

Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman's name.

obvious from contexts clues that this is rhaegar dying on the trident. name he’s saying could be lyanna, but i am a “he said visenya” truther.

mother of dragons, daughter of death . . .

her brothers both die young, violent deaths. her unborn son, rhaego, can never fulfill the prophecy because of his premature death. all three men shown are descended from aerys & rhaella’s line ie potential princes in the prince that was promised prophecy. all three must die in order for dany to rise as the prince.

“daughter of death” meaning she outlived all the sons of death, even the son who knew about the prophecy, so all that’s left to be prince is the daughter, the true prince that was promised.

Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow.

Stannis - blue eyed king, with Melisandre’s fake burning sword and shadow shenanigans. It’s interesting when you bring in the “slayer of lies” line because - what specifically is the lie she’s slaying? That Stannis is Azor Ahai, the PTWP? Or is it MOSTLY to do with Lightbringer being fake? Does Melisandre factor into it at all? And do all three sections point to the same lie or different lies??

A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd.

less obvious - i tend towards the cloth dragon being victarion. dany calls the cloth dragon a “mummer’s dragon” as in she believes it’s a puppet. but crucially, it doesn’t say mummer’s dragon in that section! i find it unlikely that the cloth dragon and the mummer’s dragon are the same person!

However, as I note, he DOES have a fake horn - perhaps she slays the lie that the horn is real? i think i just a feeling the lie of the sword and the horn are linked but maybe i am cornplating here. i also think, if we take victarian as the cloth dragon, it's interesting that you have stannis being propped up by a rholloric priestess, and victarian being propped up by a rholloric priest. that feels like another azor ahai prophecy link.

From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire.

it could be euron, with the towers being the ten towers at oldtown, where he currently is. could be stannis, meli loves to talk about stone dragons. it could be dany & drogon - her dragon awoken from stone.

now, IF the second one (cloth dragon) is in fact victarion, i think it’s a little weird that this is euron bc then it’s two greyjoys in a row. but i suppose that’s not disqualifying, it’s not like the greyjoys are trustworthy.

mother of dragons, slayer of lies . . .

i'm even more fuzzy on this one than i am on the "stone dragon" one to be honest. what are the lies. it’s more than one lie right. or is it a singular lie. is it azhor ahai. is it something else. i had this thought that like, the first is about the lie that stannis has lightbringer - he doesn’t bc lightbringer isn’t even a sword, it’s drogon. the second lie is about the lie of the horn - victarian thinks he can take drogon from her but he is wrong. the third is euron raising squid stuff - he thinks he can raise a creature equal to hers, he is wrong. perhaps its about another object that euron has, similar to the sword and the horn? i keep coming back to it even though, every time i type it out, i look at what i wrote like “who let this man cook."

i will say what's interesting is that the daughter of death section is very tied to the prince that was promised prophecy - dany inheriting the prince title after outliving all the other princes, rhaegar literally invoking the prophecy with his last breath - and this section seems more focused on azor ahai.

Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars.

the obvious scene is dany riding her silver to her wedding BUT. note the "darkling stream beneath a sea of stars" in the description - the dothraki believe that the afterlife is riding forever in the grass lands. there’s a death association in this section.

A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly.

i think it’s obvious WHAT this is but not quite obvious WHO it is (note corpse in parentheses). we literally see euron do this to aeron, and more it’s the corpse that is smiling sadly, indicating that the Corpse is the Greyjoy. BUT the corpse could technically be ANYONE who a greyjoy nails to the prow. also note death stuff again.

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness

obviously jon is the blue flower, whose actions cause a chink in the nights watch (or a chink in the wall). i think this one is so goofy and i hate it skdjdj because the other two feel so mysterious and then this one is just a pin drop on jon’s location 🤧 however i would like to note that sweetness is not usually associated with good things in this series. it’s often used to mask poison, literally & metaphorically. this could mean like, so many things, but the death imagery in all three just goes WAY HARD.

mother of dragons, bride of fire . . .

there's a lot of "these will be her great loves" stuff but i'm not totally sure that's where it ends. i don't think this is inherently about dany being married to these three (four?) men. instead, i think the “bride of fire” is meant as a parallel to robb’s “true wife” being his sword. what they choose is their battles, and violence, and not any specific person to truly be wed to. see here:

She looked at her son, watched him as he listened to the lords debate, frowning, troubled, yet wedded to his war. He had pledged himself to marry a daughter of Walder Frey, but she saw his true bride plain before her now: the sword he had laid on the table.

visions part two

again, this part is all over the place. a lot of this has already happened by a dance with dragons.

Shadows whirled and danced inside a tent, boneless and terrible.

This is blood magic that mmd did to bring drogo back to life and claimed the life of dany's son, rhaego.

A little girl ran barefoot toward a big house with a red door.

This is Dany as a child. Interesting that she refers to herself as "a little girl" kind of separating herself from the vision she is in.

Mirri Maz Duur shrieked in the flames, a dragon bursting from her brow.

Waking the dragons, becoming the mother of dragons through blood sacrifice.

Behind a silver horse the bloody corpse of a naked man bounced and dragged.

The wineseller who attempts to kill her.

A white lion ran through grass taller than a man.

the lion drogo kills and gifts her in the dothraki sea.

Beneath the Mother of Mountains, a line of naked crones crept from a great lake and knelt shivering before her, their grey heads bowed.

The crones of vaes dothraki - this one doesn't seem to have happened yet and "naked crones" "shivering before her" feels like it's going to involve however she gets out of Vaes Dothrak. Very sinister feeling here to me.

Ten thousand slaves lifted bloodstained hands as she raced by on her silver, riding like the wind. "Mother!" they cried. "Mother, mother!" They were reaching for her, touching her, tugging at her cloak, the hem of her skirt, her foot, her leg, her breast. They wanted her, needed her, the fire, the life, and Dany gasped and opened her arms to give herself to them.

Obviously the myhsa scene. I think it's interesting how she associates herself with "the fire" "the life" and how she's being grabbed at.

But then black wings buffeted her round the head, and a scream of fury cut the indigo air, and suddenly the visions were gone, ripped away, and Dany's gasp turned to horror.

this is just so sinister to me. Drogon ending the vision sequence and her gasp turning to horror - feels bad scoob!

idk how to end this.

um dany is azor ahai and the prince that was promised but i don't think this is a good thing even a little bit. also drogon is lightbringer.