#technically it's not really a fic since the lack of plot is deafening but

[professordrarry]

I'm sorry to just ask out of the blue, but I'd love if you wrote some drunk Draco. Might help me feel better.

You know, Anon, I feel that to my core. I’m sorry that this is…not great. I hope you feel better independently of my slightly tortured pre-Drarry. Draco is also not as funny as he normally is when I write him drunk and for that, I can only blame my own slightly weird mood. Sorry friend ❤️ ❤️

Harry jolted awake to a large crash, wand in hand and alert. It had been a decade and a half, yet noises in the night still freaked him out. He bolted upright and realised right away why he’d heard the sound; he was not in his highly-Warded and unplottable flat above the cauldron shop of Hogsmeade. Instead, he was haphazardly sprawled on the very nasty sofa in the staff lounge.

He took a few seconds to reorient himself, trying to work out why it was that he hadn’t made it home. The details shuffled through his mind slowly. Grading papers now so that if he finished on this random Thursday evening, if he caught up on the many hours of marking he’d put off, he could go to Ottery St. Catchpole at the weekend. Visit Molly. Play with the kids. Sneak in a few seeker games with Ginny.

Reoriented and no longer afraid in the safety of the castle, Harry was focused on the soft curse words from the small kitchenette around the corner that now made him chuckle. He casually wandered over, smoothing out his rumpled robes as best he could.

“Buggering fuckery fucking nitwit,” the quiet voice was whispering from the floor, surrounded by tins and boxes that had clearly just been wrenched from various cupboards.

“Need any help?” Harry asked.

The figure jumped slightly, then leaned back from a cross-legged position until it was lying with its back on the floor, revealing a very crumpled Draco Malfoy.

“Oh, of bloody fucking course it’s you,” he cursed, letting his legs fall to the floor too so that he was now completely prone and staring at Harry upside down. “Why in Salazar’s name are you in the lounge at…wait, is it still three?”

Harry glanced at his watch, then nodded, considering Malfoy’s slant and slur, his general dishevelled nature. “Um. Are you…no. Never mind.” “Drunk?” Draco sighed, closing his eyes. “Indeed.” “And you’re looking for…tea?”Draco giggled, the sound positively unnerving given who it was coming from. “Hid some biscuits in here last week. Ran out of snacks upstairs in my room.”

“Biscuits?” Harry repeated.

“Hungry.”

Draco didn’t explain further. Instead, his upside-down smile turned predatory, his eyes sweeping up and down Harry’s body; even from this unusual position, Harry flushed at the scrutiny. Draco’s face was always an open book, and the expression they’d landed on now seemed to be lust. Harry was flustered. It didn’t help that Draco looked like he’d been through a trial. His hair was a mess, the remains of black eye makeup smudged at the corners of his bright grey eyes, his clothes were wrinkled and stretched. He wore a tight, dark blue t-shirt with a deep vee that let his sharp collar bones escape. Black jeans and high boots added to the come hither outfit.

Harry cleared his throat.

Draco looked away. “You sleep here now?” Bit pathetic, even for you.” He reached his hands up into the air. “Help me up?”

Without a second thought, Harry walked around the boxes and gripped Draco’s hand, dragging him up. He faltered and stumbled a moment before regaining balance, laughing the whole time. The sound was carefree and out of place.

“Grab this,” he demanded with a violent poke of his wand that sent the box flying. Harry caught it deftly and sent the other boxes back into the cupboard with his own wand before following after Draco as he seemed to tumble and bounce from the room.

When they reached the second-floor staircase that led to the staff quarters, Draco stared at them a moment like they were the tallest of mountains and then giggled as he sat heavily on the bottom step and leaned his head against the rail.

“What’s the plan, Malfoy?” Harry teased. It earned him a glare that he appreciated more than was decent. It also forced Draco up again.

“Gonna ask me what happened?” he asked with a glimmer in his eye,

Harry smirked, offering an arm that Draco clung to instantly as they set off up the stairs. “No offence, clever clogs, but this isn’t really that hard to work out, even for a failed Auror like myself. It’s Thursday… Pub night. I’m guessing blue drinks, based on your…nevermind… I also have a feeling I can blame Professor Perkins, but that one will take more evidence.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know why I was in the lounge,” Draco tried to retort vehemently. He tripped instead, ending up against Harry and jabbing him with a finger in the chest that may or may not have been intentional. They carried on upwards in silence, Harry wrapping an arm around Draco’s back when he stumbled next.

“Thank you for walking me home, Mr Potter,” Draco sneered as they reached the top of the stairs. “Very chivalrous. You should be happy you aren’t…someone else.”

“Why?” Harry asked boldly.

“Might try to kiss you — Ooh!” Draco interrupted himself, looking more excited and alert than he had for the past five minutes. “Let’s go to the Potion’s classroom!”

Harry laughed and shook his head, extracting himself from Draco’s grasp and holding out the tea box, which Draco ignored. “I think you should probably avoid brewing for the next few hours, Professor Malfoy.”

“You’re no fun,” Draco pouted. “You used to be fun. I remember that. It’s why I hated you.”

Not waiting for a reply, Draco smiled broadly and whirled around in a flamboyant and extremely unsteady spin. “Do what you want, I am going to make some Felix Felicis.”

Harry started to protest but was disrupted by Draco halting in his path and turning around, smile still glued to his face.

“Did I look like Snape?” he giggled. “With the whirling and the dramatics?” He looked expectantly at Harry, who burst out laughing and grinned despite himself.

“You might have,” he agreed eventually. “But you aren’t wearing robes.”

“I know,” Draco scowled, looking down at himself and then planting his hands on his hips with an exaggerated pout. “I’m quite annoyed at this shirt, you know. I always pull in this shirt. This is my Pub Shirt. My Pirt! No, don’t say that. I never said that.”

“Right.”

“Right?!” Draco continued unhindered. “It’s very…purple-y, this shirt. And —”

“It’s blue,” Harry interjected.

“Ugh, no, don’t. It’s purple. Trust me. I’m not having this argument with you. It’s purple and it’s pretty and I look very fucking hot in it and I should, at this very minute, be making regrettable choices where I’m probably no longer wearing it.”

“I mean, that seems like a lot to expect of a shirt,” Harry teased.

“And instead,” Draco continued, “I’m in a school corridor with you at half three in the morning, arguing about purple. Because life is very unfair, even when you drink.”

Draco dropped his hands and waltzed back to where Harry stood, in front of the large portrait that presumably led to his quarters.

“Look,” he insisted, stepping very close and drawing up the hem of his shirt for Harry’s inspection.

Harry meant to look. He really did. He was ready and willing to look at the shirt, and then argue it’s blue-ness no matter what he colour he found there. He had a whole plan. But, when he lifted his eyes to examine the fabric before him, he instead found three things that simultaneously made him stop breathing. First, he discovered that Draco’s fingers were perfect and lithe, delicate and manicured where they gripped the fabric and held it aloft. Second, he realised that Draco’s eyelashes were incredibly long, but were so blonde that he’d never noticed (a part of Harry’s brain did realise that it might be weird that it was one of the few things he hadn’t noticed about Draco Malfoy).

And third, Harry noticed that Draco’s stomach, so pale it was almost blue, was soft. The rest of him was so defined, from chiselled jaw to sinewy forearms, that Harry had possibly been expecting abs. But instead, there was a softness to his stomach that existed nowhere else on Malfoy and Harry had to know what it felt like. He reached forward to trail his fingers down the skin before his brain caught up to him and he froze. They stared at each other in silent dare for a moment.

“I could be your regrettable choices,” Harry whispered finally.

Draco hesitated only a moment, Harry’s fingers still sitting on his stomach, before he leaned forward and made contact, mouth so full of whiskey that Harry felt like he’d taken a shot.

“You could be,” Draco muttered against his lips a moment later. “So regrettable. But no. Not like this. Not tonight. Please…regrettable choices should be things you won’t mind regretting.”

He pulled away and gently took the tea from Harry’s hand, turning on a still very uncoordinated heel.

“Serenade,” he whispered to the portrait behind him, causing it to swing open.

“Wait,” Harry protested, ignoring Draco’s slight flinch and wince when he turned back to face Harry. “One thing. Are there really biscuits in there?” he asked, gesturing to the box.

Draco snorted. “Guess you’ll never know. Goodnight…Harry."

[akvtsuki-ari]

A Study In Body Language | ii. tidal separations

Warnings: depictions of opioid withdrawal/drug use (there's a mention of needles), general warnings for drug addiction and arguing. 

Length: 4.4k 

Authors Note: After abandoning this fic for like? a year? I’m back at it. I really love this concept a lot and I think the end result will be good so please stick with me and read it! Promise it’ll be good <33

Plot Summary: Spencer takes time off and you’re worried about what the future holds. Maybe it’s moral obligation that leads you to take care of Reid as he works through his vices, but maybe there's something more to it. You can’t say for sure. 

Chapter 1 

Story Preface:  In the altruistic language of foreign tongue, and the flower lettering of love stories, it's important to remember the context. In which Spencer Reid and you will fall in love under the circumstantial evidence that the two of you exchange in the language that is physical, no symbolism or hidden messages but instead an abysmal means to end to find each other in places you never expect. In the image of storytelling, this is a Case Study In Body Language, and all of it's idealist beliefs and intentions. 

_______________

Midnight was detrimental to the human mind. The evidence of that was concise in the car ride between you and Dr. Spencer Reid. The space between tangible with tension and bubbling, simmering anger. 

Your hands were fastened around the steering wheel, knuckles pale white. Spencer was sitting with his knees away from you - teeth gritted together in a symphony of misplaced emotions and projection. The silence was deafening - both of you looking at anything but the other person with angry and nonsensical confusion. The wind was blurring your eyesight as you drove down the highway to Spencer's apartment, an uncomplicated endeavor that suddenly had some great stakes to it that neither of you could prepare for. Every detail was carefully placed in order to cause the most destruction. The sound of the bottles in the back clicking together, the silence of the entire city at 3am you and Spencers generally disheveled appearance. All things that seem culminated together to create a perfect disaster - it was almost poetic. 

Spencer cleared his throat, swallowing his pride as he turned his head to look at you. You were entirely still - nothing was moving except the fact he could see your toes curling in your shoes. It was a rapid and anxious movement, a way for the emotion to escape you while not showing anything else. Your jaw was forcibly still like you were telling yourself to keep it still. You were, gritted teeth and fists just begging to pound on Spencer's chest and knock some fucking sense into him. 

Spencer folds first, the silence begging to cut your tightrope friendship entirely. This outcome was beyond your words and description - neither unexpected or catastrophic, but rather heavy. A heavyweight on the both of your shoulders, tied to each other in social contract. Was it respect that kept your hands away from your phone the second you saw? Was it friendship? Or was it something bigger, much more vast than either of you that was bordering indescribable. The silence begged many questions, but most of all it begged to broken. You and Spencer forced to put the pieces together. 

“Y/N, listen,” his voice was calm - it was clear this speech was well-practiced and it pissed you off further. You shut your eyes with exasperation, as your tongue swipes the back of your teeth, physically trying to hold it back from calling him a fucking dumbass. You still might, but a selfish part of you was urged to just wait and hear his explanation. 

“I’m fine - but please don’t tell the team, I don’t need them worrying about me,” Spencer rushed the words as if they were being beaten out of him. You laugh angrily and swerve your car into a parking lot on the next turn. Spencer looks at you curiously as you stop in - opening his mouth to speak, words replaced quickly with the sound of your voice. 

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me? Are you genuinely fucking serious?,” your voice is beyond angry. Spencer's defense raises as he realizes the situation - as both of you play the other side of the court. 

“I seriously cannot believe you - I knew you were a selfish prick, but fucking seriously? Jesus Christ, Spencer what do you think happens now?,” your voice borders a scream as you look at him, eyes blurry, fingers shaking. You want to hit him, punch him, anything to knock him to his sense but you don’t, the urge pulsating through your every nerve. 

“What are you talking about? You were the one following me but this has nothing to fucking do with you! You’re supposed to just leave this alone, and I’m asking you a favor - what is complicated about that? This doesn’t concern you, so stay out of it!,” His voice is laced with dishonesty, hidden by anger but his selfishness prompts your frustration further. You want to correct him, to get it through his thick skull that this is bigger than him and you - that this has to do with the team and people he cares for but you’re too frustrated. 

“I seriously can’t fucking believe you and to be honest, I cannot deal with having this conversation with someone so fucking stupid - I’m throwing away your stash and dropping you off at home - I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” you say exasperated. You were sick for fucksake, nose still dripping and voice already hoarse from before. Too many demons in your own life for you to fight his at 3am. Not tonight anyway. 

“No, you can’t throw it away,” his voice nearly reads as a plea but you shoot him a look - one so sharp you suspect if you acted on that expression, he’d knocked out with a bruise on him.

The rest of the car ride passes in total silence, no gritting of teeth or anger left, all replaced with different kinds of exhaustion. Different kinds of frustration creating this chokehold on both of you as the long night become darker by nature - maybe as a show and tell for the plays that both of you are forced to make. To look into another's darkness without warning is a scary place to be, Both of you find yourself to explore together - the consequences were still unclear. 

You dropped Spencer off at his apartment, and you drive home. Comforted by the solitude but unable to focus on anything but the road without feeling fear stir in your chest. The feeling wasn’t out of place but it wasn’t what you were expecting. 

You feel your throat tightening as you walk into your own apartment, and walk into your kitchen - putting on coffee and rubbing your face with exasperation. The sleeplessness is replaced with jittery caffeination as you watch the sunrise through the window of your apartment. The darkness still seems to wane - but maybe that was the exhaustion talking.

__ 

Work called in like expecting but the morning lacked any feeling of normalcy expected. You were less angry now, surely. Everything was left feeling sticky in a sense - a long term discomfort surrounding everything you did, and the only thing that would relieve it would be seeing Spencer. After the anger subsided you just hoped he didn’t do anything stupid, but you weren’t close enough for the two of you to just talk or for you to text him. So you spent the whole night looking at lots of nothing while your mind went a hundred different places trying to figure out how you got here. 

Walking into the BAU was helpful - it was grounding, a well-needed kind of sanity. You were one of the few people on earth that was comforted by a place many would consider dark, but it was home. A home with people to hold you still, and love to make you weep, something you didn’t normally experience. Something you’d never really experienced before, anyways. 

Emily is the first to greet you, looking at you intently before laughing - partly concerned. You smile at her weakly, sending her a wave. 

“Rough night?,” she asks lightly, you laugh playfully and nod. She looks at you fondly, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“Being sick is quite disruptive to sleep apparently,” you remark with sarcasm. She nods and smiles sympathetically. 

“We don’t have a case today, Hotch might agree to let you stay home another day,” she comments. You shake your head. 

“Still gotta catch up on paperwork,” you say sighing. She nods again and theres a few seconds of comfortable silence. 

“Hey, Emily - do you know where Spence is?,” you ask carefully. She shoots you a curious look but answers your question. 

“He called Hotch last night and took some time off, said it was something to do with his mom. Haven’t spoken to him since yesterday,” she says, recalling that very conversation. 

Something in you drops, as you sit up straight. Emily looks at you confused, but you don't have any clue on how to explain so you don’t. Instead, you stand up and look for Hotch whose in his office.

“On second thought, I think I’m gonna go ask Hotch to take another day,” you say, voice hoarse. Emily just nods at you, dazed in her own right.

“Thanks, Em, see you soon,” you say as you rush over to Hotch’s office. He looks at you as you pop the door open, and greet him. You swallow thickly, your words seeming to be stuck to your throat as you speak them - unable to do anything but rush. Your every movement and expression feel that way - like time is moving too fast and too slow all at once. 

Hotch looks at you concerned, sensing your urgency as you walk in and close the door behind you. 

“Hey Hotch, can I talk to you?,” you repeat the question meekly. 

“Of course, Y/N,” he says to you, brows furrowed tightly with worry. 

“I wanted to request some time off, something is going on back home and - ,” your voice sounds like its going to break, so Hotch stops you. 

“Take as much time as you need, we’ll be here when things settle,” He speaks knowingly, the only one on the whole team who does know anything about it. It wasn’t technically a lie either, but it was happenstance that you were taking time off for it. 

“Thanks, Hotch,” you reply softly. He nods at you and you’re on your way out of the door. No one else is in, and Emily isn’t in sight so you slip away entirely undetected. 

The car ride to Spencer's house makes your skin itch. You can’t get dark thoughts out of your head, struggling to drive there in the first place. Worry blossoms in your chest and every stoplight seems to stimulate the feeling. Every moment that you aren’t sure is another moment Spencer could be doing something detrimental and you can’t have that guilt resting in you. 

You rush up his apartment stairs, and knock on the door. Silence. You shake yourself, trying to regain some balance before you knock again - voice small as your call to Spencer on the other side. 

“Are you okay?, Spencer,” your voice echoes in the empty hallways - seeming to loom over both of you. Every movement you make is calculated, and precise. 

Spencer lays against the other side of the door, slumped up against it with exhaustion. He knows he’s experienced minor withdrawals, he hasn’t gotten high in days and its working him heavily. His skin is hot against his clothes, eyes dilated, breathing through his mouth as he tried his best to stay still and relax. Pain shoots within his muscles as he fixates himself on anything, anything to keep him afloat. He hears your voice and winces. 

“I’m fine, Y/N, leave me alone,” he croaks out. You sigh with relief but know you can’t leave. 

“Just open the door, Spencer,” you say sighing. He feels a shiver run down his spine and shakes his head as if you can see him. 

“This has nothing to do with you, Y/N. I don’t understand what you’re here for in the first place,  you’re not gonna be some hero for finding this out. I gotta say I am impressed that you figured it out first though, I always figured you were kinda incompetent,” his breathing is heavy, taking an edge of his words. It stings to hear since you know he still means them but you don’t have the energy to complain. You sit down, back against his door and sigh. 

“You really are an absolute dickhead,” you say more to yourself than anyone else, growing frustrated. You rub your face in your heads, your legs up to your chest and you sigh aloud - annoyed. 

“Just leave me alone already,” his words hold sincerity in them. He sincerely doesn’t like you, and neither do you - but the two of you knew that already - before your relationship was purely political but it was forced to go deeper than that. This feeling was a cross between pure annoyance and frustration - you didn’t know someone's existence could be so frustrating but you found yourself here. 

“What do you want Spencer? Do you want some emotional speech about how you shouldn’t do this, and how you’re stronger than this? Well, fuck you - you’re not getting that out of me. I’m not fucking JJ, or Penelope, or anyone else for that matter. To be honest, I don’t give a single shit about your life outside of work and I’ve always planned on keeping that way. This situation, my presence here - we lie in this bed together. I’m not JJ, I’m not gonna pretend to be here out of some deep-rooted platonic love. We’re co-workers, and I’m a decent fucking person so I’m not gonna let you sit here and rot-away. Why? Because JJ, Derek, Emily, Penelope, and Hotch all care for you and I care about them. I’m not gonna let you ruin yourself and be a selfish prick  - so open the fucking door and let me help so you can actually get better. After that, I’ll keep your dirty little secret,” 

Your speech is given unwavering, and every word you said held a specific weight. You were right, and that was ultimately the problem. You weren’t close to Spencer, but you were close to the team. He knew you were doing this because you had too, solely out of moral obligation - he knew that you understood that something was objectively wrong. And maybe that was the problem - none of this was personal to you. You were actually just trying to help because you knew he needed it - he had no intrusive thoughts about something so objective. He sighs heavily, letting tears escape him. Weakly, he stands up and opens the door slightly. 

You walk into Spencer's apartment and scan the room. It’s a mess, books stacked up untidily along with take-out boxes and plastic water-bottle littering random areas. Fresh needles sat on the edge of his desk, and you winced at their presence - the whole thing too familiar. Spencer sitting on the couch dazed off. You know immediately. 

“Withdrawal,” you mumble to yourself. He looks at you confused. 

“How?,” 

“Not important. How many days has it been since you showered?” you ask. He can’t seem to remember and you sigh. 

“When was the last time you ate?,” you ask again. He shuts his eyes, lids twitching before he responds. 

“Last night,” he says again. You check his temperature and his body is hot. You sigh. 

“How long can you be alone for?,” you ask. He shakes his head, rubbing his face. 

“An hour, at most,” he admits to you quietly. You sigh, standing up and giving him a tight hug. It’s unexpected, and not something he was used to but the comfort was so... comforting he couldn’t refuse. You feel hot tears land onto your abdomen as you sigh, rubbing Spencer's back with understanding. 

“Leave the door unlocked in case you fall asleep, I’ll be back in half an hour. I’m gonna put on a nature documentary, so just watch that and just try to focus on it. When I come back, tell me something you didn't know already or correct something that was wrong - that’s your homework for the next half-hour, okay?” you say softly. Your tone of voice was warm, and knowing. This process seemed familiar to you but Spencer decides against saying anything. 

You put on some animal planet on your laptop, and go off on your way, letting Spencer watch and focus intently. He finds his eyes shutting as time passes, and falls asleep. 

__ 

Spencer wakes up to the sound of pots and pans in his kitchen. He doesn’t think he’s ever used his kitchen so he’s startled at first. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand as he walks into his kitchen to see you. You’re wearing an apron and bandanna, a long shirt and leggings. He’s never seen you like this, watching with intent as you fidget with the knobs on his oven. The smell of pasta and garlic hit him with ferocity and his stomach grumbles. You startled by his presence and turn to look at him. He finds himself overwhelmed and slips out a quiet hello. 

“Hey, Spencer. How’d you sleep?,” you ask the question casually. He blinks again and looks at you. 

“Well,” his response is dry. You start washing dishes in the kitchen sink as the oven turns off and Spencer finds himself walking closer to the island in the middle of it. He takes a seat, seeing fresh fruit and a glass of water poured out for him. 

“They had some strawberries on sale, so I cut them up for you. Vitamin C is good for you right now, and you need to eat anyways - so have some,” you explain, mindlessly washing away. You shake your head at how many seem to be in the sink,  probably a lot of weeks of build-up. It makes you wonder if anyone comes by. 

“Why’re you doing this,” he asks before he can stop himself. He flinches at the sound of his voice, gravelly and exhausted. You know the questions coming, but you can’t give him a good answer yet. You figure it’s worth a shot to try. 

“Recovery is a slow thing. The small things are what can be the most overwhelming when you’re trying to get better and I want you to get better” you say as honestly as possible. 

“But why?” he asks again. Not urgent, just curious. You turn the water off and look at him 

“It’s a story for when I know you a little better Spence,”

The answer seems to satisfy him, as he looks down. 

His voice is barely a whisper as he looks at you, watching you bend down and pull out a tray of lasagna. He watches you so carefully, he finds his heart, stirring - unsure of why. He smiles, a very small, but genuine smile as you place the lasagna on the counter. You look to him and give him a tight-lipped smile back. 

“It’ll be a minute before this cools, so I suggest you take a shower, or bath or something,” you suggest. Spencer winces, the thought of being alone in the bathroom making his skin crawl. He’s brain wracks itself with the idea of being alone again, that loneliness is what got him here in the first place and to be anywhere but there is so relieving. His eyes are hollow when he thinks about it. You see his expression and yours softens. 

“I know it’s tough if you want I can massage your head with shampoo or something before you go in - make it a little less daunting. My little cousin likes it because he’s scared of the sound the shower makes, so it might help,” you explain. Spencer blushes, but the idea isn’t all that bad. A little embarrassing but it’d be nice. Plus his head hurts, so it’s not all that bad of an idea. He scratches the back of his neck and nods. 

“Thank you,” his voice is barely above a whisper. You look at Spencer tenderly, and you sit down at the island next to him. He turns his body, neck stretching as he looks at you exhausted. 

“You’re gonna be fine, Spencer. It’s not gonna be easy because this type of thing, it just seems to follow you. It’ll feel like it’s everywhere at first, but it isn’t. Keep your head up, if not for you - for the people who need you like Diana and the team,” you explained gently. Spencer and you weren’t ever very close but his mother loved you. Even if she couldn’t remember you, she always had a pleasant reaction to your name when she was feeling okay. She had met you when Spencer brought her into the BAU for a case. 

Spencer's eyes shift their focus onto you and for the first time in his life, his reaction to you wasn’t so unpleasant. It was still strained, still difficult and unruly - but different. It was humanizing to see you like that. He nods at you, dazed. You give him an awkward smile. 

“C’mon, let's get you cleaned up,” you say, softly. Spencer blushes as he leads you to the bathroom

_

“I’m starting to realize, I don’t actually know anything about you,” Spencer muses softly. Your fingers are tucked away in his curls, white bubbles of foam and shampoo between them as you work Spencer scalp. His hair was greasy, but that's probably because he used that terrible 4-in-1 stuff before. You figured you’d be there for a while anyway, so you ended up using your own products. Disgusted at the fact he was a grown man and still used 4-in-1. Who does that? 

“I don’t really talk a lot about what I do outside of work,” you reply casually. You scratch a part of Spencer scalp and watch his neck crane in delight like he was a small dog. You stifle your laughter. 

“What do you do then?” Spencer asks. 

“I volunteer with kids, mostly. I help them learn to read at the library nearby, you know - read with them and help them pick out new stories to learn together,” you say sincerely. Spencer is softened by your words. 

“That's really nice,” Spencer comments. You laugh. 

“I guess so. It’s just something I do, you know?  Kids are wonderful, they have so much wonder about life. It’s all sincere, too. It’s more fun to read with people whose imaginations are so big, seeing them make up their own world,” you say affectionately. Spencer nods in agreement. 

“Yeah,” 

There's a moment of comfortable silence before Spencer finds himself curious again. 

“What else do you do in your spare time?,” 

“I try to volunteer as much as I can, just in general. Soup kitchens, animal shelters, that kind of thing. If I’m taking some personal time, I cook a lot. I’ll invite some people over and have a small dinner party. I’d invite the BAU sometime but that's kinda Rossi’s thing so I wouldn’t wanna intrude,” you say softly. Spencer notes that none of those things are really all that personal. 

“Those are all things you do for other people, though. What do you do for you?,” Spencer asks again. You feel something stir in you at the question, and you shift. You become a little suddenly aware at the fact that Spencer's head is between your thighs but you can’t say anything about it. 

“I listen to music a lot. I cross-stitch sometimes but that makes me sound super old. I bake a lot too, loaves of bread and bagels and sometimes desserts but I don’t have much of a sweet tooth. I really enjoy my me-time so I have very long-winded self-care routines that I do to loosen up and feel pampered. It’s nice,” you say shyly. You’re not used to the question, about what you do for you. It feels vain to answer. Spencer seems intrigued by that. 

“Self-care routine?,” Spencer eggs on. You chuckle at his curiosity. 

“Skincare, self-pampering, shit like that. Most women have like 3 different versions and they vary based on how much time they have. I’m a working woman, so I have a version for cases and a version for weekends alone and a version for going out. I can’t speak for guys here, so I won’t but yeah,”

“You know, it’s been proven time and time again that it’s majorly beneficial for people of any gender to take time off to attend to personal needs. It’s shown major benefits in overall happiness, mood, and overall attitude,” Spencer repeats back. You give a small smile, it finally feels more like Spencer. 

“Take your own advice, genius,” you comment back sarcastically. Spencer laughs, leaning into your fingers without much thought. He’s visibly more comfortable than he was before. It makes you comfortable too. 

“Alright, you feeling okay to go shower, kid?,” you ask Spencer. He does, but he find himself a little disappointed. The nickname bounces around his head for a moment before he laughs again. His voice is light. 

“Yeah, yeah I think I’m okay. Thank you,” He stands up and so do you, and the two of you look at each other for what feels like a few seconds too long. You look at him, the old t-shirt he’s in, and his pajama pants and you can’t help the way your heart bangs against the cage of your chest. It could’ve been a lot of things, maybe the fluorescent lightning or the way that your hands were covered in shampoo, or the way Spencer stood a little slumped and sleepy. You didn’t want to kiss him. You were just compelled to give him a break, and maybe that was worse. Feeling compelled to give someone empathy even though a small part of you always felt like they were a complete asshole. Feeling moved by someone's vulnerability so much you almost give them a pass, yes certainly that was more dangerous. 

You don’t say anything, you just give Spencer a smile and a pat on his chest. He hates the way he takes notice of the feeling. 

“I’m gonna set up dinner, and we can watch Harry Potter,”  It was the one thing you two had in common before all this. He nods. 

“Okay, yeah, that works. Thanks,” he says again more softly. He wants to say more, and in a way so do you but neither of you does. You wash your hands of the shampoo and close the door behind you. Your eyes flutter closed for a moment as you listen to the water run and think to yourself. It was by pure circumstance that you ended up here, really. The way every move had made thus far, though it felt so careful feels beyond your control. You weren’t alone for the first time in a long time and this feeling keeps weighing on you. More dangerous than love is empathy. Empathy for someone so stupid and selfish, it made you feel strange. Yet it was there. Yet, you were there. 

Spencer understood the feeling. Guardian Angel, the term bounced around in Spencer's mind as he showered. The feeling of your fingers still on his mind. Not alone, for the first time in too long. Strange is such a phenomenon. 

__ taglist: @cynbx​ @zephyr-studiesjp​ @reid-187​ @louistwinslover​ @skrrrrrrrrrrt​

[awed-frog]

So, the cuestion about writing it's just... I love writing, I love reading, I love my ideas and I really believe they're good ideas, but I can't finish them and I really don't know why. I thought maybe it was bc I had to plan them better, or bc I had to let myself just write and see what happens in the moment; I thought maybe the problem it's that I should tell them in a different way (like for a comic that then I could draw) but nothing I do works and it really hurts

Hi there! Thanks for writing back! So, what you’re describing is really a common feeling - I think most writers or artists have felt this way and can recognize what you’re describing. I’m going to talk about my experience, and I hope you can find something that you can relate to and that can be helpful to you.

The tl;dr part is, I think there are many possible causes for not being able to finish a story. Here are a few of them:

you’re having technical problems

you’re too much of a perfectionist 

you can’t put on paper what’s in your head

you’re having what I call ‘the Vermeer problem’

you have too many ideas for other stories and can’t focus

you’re experiencing a lack of support for your writing

you are bored with your own story

you’re afraid to finish the story

you can’t finish the story

you can’t tell these things apart

Let’s have a look at them, and remember - I’m talking about my experience here, so this might not apply to you at all. I’m just talking into the void hoping this will help you in some way.

1) This is the most common problem for someone who’s only just starting out. You know your beginning should capture the readers’ attention, but you don’t know how to make that happen. You know the ending should be spectacular and magically solve every issue, but you don’t know how to get there. Since we are rarely taught creative writing in school, this is completely normal, and there’s no easy way to get past it. Like for everything else, you’ll need a lot of practice, and maybe some kind of formal instruction (for instance, this is a good book, but there are many more). So, you know - do what works for you. Maybe join a writers’ club, or an online challenge. Read and reread books you like, and remember to read them ‘with the mind-set of a carpenter looking at trees,’ as Terry Pratchett put it. If you can, write every day - I find codas are a great way to practice, get better and get read (and if you’re comfortable to, you can ask your readers for pointers or criticism). Not being very good at writing is a big problem, but it’s also a problem you can solve. 

2) Being a perfectionist is one of those things that often trips you up more than it helps you, and there are some areas of your life - relationships, foreign languages, writing - where you have to let go of it. If this is an issue for you, remember that everyone is crap when they start out (do you know the original lyrics to Beatles classic Yesterday? ew!) and maybe experiment with breathing exercises, with yoga, or try writing with a soundtrack to get out of your mind a little. So, really - I’m not saying perfectionism is bad, but save it for your baking efforts and last drafts - your first draft gets to be as crappy as it likes.

3) This is a very common problem. When you do creative things, be it writing music or quilting, there’s often a great deal of anxiety and dissatisfaction in finally starting a project because the more your work, the less it looks the way you’d imagined it would. Sometimes I write something that’s supposed to be sad, or that was hilarious and sexy inside my head, and the I reread it and it’s just - flat. This happens to virtually everyone, but there’s something very important we need to remember: in the words of Jim Sollisch, “Writing is the art of figuring out what you know, not the process of recording what you already know”. Think about it like this: the inside of your head is a different country. Writing down a story is like finally getting to that city you’ve been wanting to visit for ages and ages - sure, you’ve seen all the IG pictures and you’ve planned your visit and you’ve fainted and drooled over museum websites and recipes of traditional dishes, but now you’re here, and it’s real, and it’s different. You’re here, and maybe it’s raining, and maybe that famous art gallery is closed on Sundays, and maybe that blueberry pie is way, way too sweet for your taste, but still - you’re here. Isn’t it wonderful? You can smell this city and walk down its street and discover small secret corners you never even knew existed and maybe fall in love with this one person you never ever thought you’d meet. So this, to me, is a necessary step to writing: to accept that daydreaming is good, that planning can be useful, but when the time comes, you have to let go of all of that and discover the reality of what your story is like.

4) I don’t know if you read Tracy Chevalier’s Girl with a Pearl Earring - it’s a favourite of mine, and I reread it a couple of times because I love how she writes UST, how understated and yet vibrantly present the feeling is. And anyway, towards the end of the book, the portrait is finished - this one, I mean -

- and everybody says Vermeer should finally sell it and start painting something else - only, Vermeer is not happy. He takes to spending hours in his studio - not painting, not working - just staring at the thing, because it’s beautiful and balanced and textbook perfect, but something is missing and he doesn’t know what (if you haven’t, please read the book and find out how he solves this, because it’s really beautiful). This is a feeling I often have when I read a first draft - everything that I wanted in there is in there, but something still feels - off. And here, I think, there’s no magic way of solving the problem - you can either ask a beta for help, and hope they see it, or you can keep working on it (and reading other stuff, and practicing, and getting better) until you see it yourself. 

5) This is another familiar feeling: you start writing something and BAM, you’re distracted by something else. And here, you need to find out what kind of person you are, because some blessed people can work on two projects at once, and others just can’t. Me, I always fool myself and think, ‘I’ll just work on both things, a week has seven days, how hard can it be’ - but nope. Right now, for instance, I’ve got about thirty books of Roman history on my desk because there was this story screaming at me and deafening me and I really wanted to get it out of my head, but today I’m finally giving up and bringing all that stuff back to the library and accepting this is not going to happen - not right now. Not as long as I’m writing a different story and I’m in a completely different headspace. And if you’re the same way - just keep a folder, or a notebook, and fill it with these half ideas and pieces of dialogue and then put them out of your mind. One story at a time - that’s a good and reasonable goal. Because another problem of a beautiful and tantalizing scenario popping into your mind when you’re struggling to finish a chapter for something else is - that other thing is automatically going to look more appealing, because it’s not real, because it’s untested, because you haven’t ruined it yet. And that’s why you’re tempted to abandon that stupid thing you’ve got in your hands that’s not working and go pursue something else. But, again, that’s probably not the best idea. Sometimes you just need to see a story through, no matter what.

6) That said, it’s hard to finish a story when you’re keeping it to yourself. I used to be paranoid about sharing things, but fanfiction helped me to appreciate the importance of feedback. So even if you’re writing original fiction, it could be a good idea to give fanfiction a try - signing up for a bang could help you to stay motivated and focused (you’ll have a beta, and maybe an artist!), and writing codas will usually get you some attention, because many people will automatically look for codas and ‘missing scenes’ after the end of an episode. If you’re not interested in that, consider sharing your work with a friend, a teacher, or a writers’ group. 

7) This is a tough one. Maybe you’re writing fanfiction and fall out of love with the show. Maybe you’re writing original fiction but you’re no longer interested in the story. It’s okay - not every story is meant to be. You’re allowed to give up (and you never know - there are writers who go back to their manuscripts ten years later, so I would advise against burning everything in a fit or rage). The trick here is giving up for the right reasons, so before you decide to walk away, look at your story again and ask yourself: what is it that’s not working? Could this get better with a new, exciting character? Should I drop this stale plot twist? Go with a different ending? If you can get your mojo back by shifting the pieces around, give it another try; but if the whole thing’s just a chore, and you simply lost interest, move on.

8) Many of us have a problem with endings. Ending a story usually means leaving your characters behind, and close a period of your life. If you write longer stories, fics and novels are like songs - they’re usually tied to very specific moments, and in letting them go you also let a part of yourself go. Plus, there’s always a lot of pressure on getting the ending right, because that can make or break a story, and it’s often the moment when big things happen - maybe there’s a slowburn that’s getting real, and you’re afraid the long awaited kiss won’t measure up to the fireworks display you implicitly promised your readers. Or maybe someone’s dying, and you’re not ready to say goodbye. Or maybe the big plot twist you’ve been teasing forever and ever just seems childish now, and you’re not sure how to make it more impressive. Whatever the reason, endings are hard. But, again, don’t put too much pressure on yourself. A lot of things can change between your first and last draft, so you have some time there. If you’re writing fanfiction, your readers will appreciate to finally know what happens, and if you’re hoping to publish your manuscript, an editor will probably help you to shift things around and make them better. Plus, as difficult as it is to say goodbye to this world you know intimately well, there’s also a sense of relief in finishing anything that takes up so much of your time and soul. It feels good. So: breathe. Relax. Write. 

9) A distinct problem is that you objectively can’t finish the story, or even get past the middle, or past two pages of heartbreaking dialogue, because you simply don’t know enough about that world yet. You have this great idea but you’d need to be an expert in microbiology, or cordon bleu cuisine, or deep space, to make it work. Or maybe you’re daydreaming about your very own Westeros, but your writing keeps getting interrupted by stupid, yet necessary details (how far away are these two cities? how fast can horses travel? what kind of swear words would a character with a made-up religion use?). If you’re devoted to your story, and determined to make it work, you’ll need to do research and plan and get answers to your questions before starting to write too extensively, because the wrong scientific detail can make your entire plot collapse. And the thing is, doing research is not always possible. Maybe you don’t have time right now, or access to the right resources (speaking of, there are some excellent blogs here on tumblr that will help you with making stuff more believable - a favourite of mine is @howtofightwrite). So, it’s painful, but there are some projects that need to be postponed, and others that will probably never happen at all. 

10) Finally, a big problem is that sometimes it’s hard to tell these things apart. Are you bored with your story because you can’t write a certain scene, or is it just a boring story? Are you being a perfectionist, or is this chapter actually out of balance and weird? Is this ambitious story too much for your current skills and knowledge, or are you just giving up? There is no easy answer to these questions, which is why I think it’s important to not walk away too easily - maybe come back when you’re in a better mood, or change your writing soundtrack, or set up a fake interview with yourself explaining why you’re so happy your novel is now taught in every school in America. If you can’t write, try drawing. If you can’t draw, create a moodboard for your characters, or a fake Wikipedia entry for your imaginary country. Play around with your story. Switch POVs. Create walls. Write scenes you won’t necessarily include in your final draft - get your characters trapped in an elevator, have them fired, have them hurt someone, or reminisce on childhood memories, or trudge through a really bad day. Go through writing prompts or shower thoughts or creepy Wikipedia entries and write something about that. Try to truly be honest with yourself, day after day (maybe keep a diary?), so you can get better at understanding whether it’s time to power through or time to take a break. 

Finally, I think that engaging in creative activities, whatever they may be, should be a way to make your life better, not worse. There are times when you’re just not inspired, times when you have zero ideas and zero wish to write or art or do anything, times when it’s actually better to focus on other things - your studies, your work, traveling, relationships - so that one day you’ll have something to write about. And that’s okay. Writing is like life - it’s messy, and it changes, and you change, and you just have to be patient with yourself and find a balance between loving the hell out of it and not take it too seriously. I hope this could help with getting you started, and I wish you all the best for your life and those stories crowding inside you, waiting to be told.