#there is a second ask related to this topic in this post just in case Read More cuts it off on your dash

[darkmatilda]

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer struggles with a relapse in addiction after emily's death when he meets you, a person who wants to help everyone around.

𝐭𝐰: there's going to be a lot… all topics related to mental health issues, mentioning the death of a loved one, suicide, relapse into addiction, violence. stay safe guys 𝐚/𝐧: please, read before reading. this is the full, ridiculously long version of "with the light off" that I posted yesterday. i’ve never seen a fanfiction this long on tumblr, and i won’t lie, i'm fking insane.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 25k

Spencer Reid was a genius.

Everyone knew it; he knew it himself, though he didn’t always see himself that way. It’s not difficult to explain what a genius is. One defining trait was that his brain worked at an incredibly fast pace. Metaphorically speaking, of course. In any case, he had no trouble connecting facts and forming assumptions that later proved accurate. With the amount of knowledge he had about various situations and people, it wasn’t hard to predict the course of certain similar events. It was simply a matter of connecting the proverbial dots—that’s what the vast majority of his work entailed. The rest involved risking his own life, something he had recently experienced in a painful way.

Spencer knew hundreds of stories about people struggling with addiction. He had read just about every available resource on the subject, trying to help himself. He understood the topic from firsthand experience and was aware that relapses were entirely normal in the face of difficult life situations. Yet, once he had overcome his addiction, he never imagined— even in his darkest visions—that he would ever reach for Dilaudid again.

But that’s exactly what he did. Well, technically speaking, not yet. But it was only a matter of time—minutes, to be exact.

He was walking through the city with the drug in his coat pocket, as if it were an ordinary item, like a wallet or car keys. At the same time, he felt as though everyone was staring at him. A shiver ran through his body every time he accidentally made eye contact with someone. She knows what I’m about to do. He knows too. They all do.

He was acting like a complete paranoiac. 

He had a substantial dose of Dilaudid on him and knew he’d take it the moment he was alone in his apartment. Yet, he hadn’t used it—he was still technically clean. Could he call it Schrödinger’s relapse?

He started to laugh, a bit hysterically, as he fumbled to open the door. Suddenly, the key seemed too large, or maybe the keyhole had somehow shrunk? Or perhaps his hands were simply shaking so much that he couldn’t line it up? The second option seemed far more likely, though admitting it was difficult for someone as devoted to logic as he was.

Spencer pressed his forehead against the door, taking a deep breath. He was ready to break down the damn thing…

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” came a voice behind him.

He turned around. One of his neighbors had poked her head out from the apartment across the hall—a sweet-faced elderly woman with an even kinder demeanor. Talkative and prone to asking questions. Knowing her love of sensation (she really did seem to have more energy and bravery than he, an FBI agent, did), it wasn’t all that surprising she’d stepped outside the moment she heard strange noises from the hallway.

Her question, the very presence of another person, somehow brought him back to reality.

"Just fine, Mrs. Schulz," he said, forcing a calm tone.

Standing with his back to her, he closed his eyes and took a deep, slower breath. His neighbor lingered for a moment in her doorway, and even without looking, he could imagine the suspicious look on her face. But finally, he heard the sound of her door closing—she’d let it go.

He slapped himself on the cheek, trying to snap out of it. He hadn’t been drinking—he was just coming back from a funeral—but he felt dazed, as if he were drunk. Slowly, he raised his hands again, and this time he slid the key into the lock without issue.

He didn’t even turn on the light or take off his coat; he went straight to the bedroom and tossed what could only be called a junkie’s kit onto the bed. In a plastic bag were a clean syringe and the main event.

Dilaudid.

He hadn’t wanted anything this badly in a shockingly long time. He’d promised he’d never touch it again. He’d made that promise to JJ and Gideon, but most importantly, to himself. Only when he pictured their faces and heard their voices in his mind did doubts start to creep in. He couldn’t get addicted again.

But on the other hand, did using it just this once, after all this time, really mean falling back into addiction? He knew people who had quit smoking years ago but occasionally had a cigarette—just to see if it still tasted the same. They’d end up thinking, Wow, was I really addicted to this? It’s disgusting!

It should be the same for him. He’d do it once, just this one time.

He recognized that particular thought. It was the voice of addiction.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d once gone to a support group for people struggling with addiction, sitting in the back, practically hiding, but he listened intently. That was what they talked about—how to separate his own thoughts from those of addiction. It all came down to the fact that addiction had no real power over him; it couldn’t physically force him to take the drug, only tempt and seduce him.

And he had to fight it.

He ran his hands through his hair, and then, on impulse, grabbed the bag on the bed and shoved it into the small safe in his nightstand. He kept his gun and badge there, along with his most valuable belongings. And now, also, the thing that could destroy him.

Breathing heavily, he backed out into the hallway. He couldn’t stay in the apartment. If he did, he’d give in. The problem was, he didn’t really have anywhere to go. He didn’t want to show up at JJ’s or any other team member’s door; he didn’t want to admit his moment of weakness. Besides, that day had been Emily’s funeral—everyone was too absorbed in their own grief to have to worry about him too.

The only place that came to mind was the library.

In his teenage years, it had been his only, truest friend. He’d spend hours there, loving the feeling of being surrounded by walls of books. He loved running his fingers over hardcovers, as if reading a message written in Braille. And above all, he loved to read. Was there any better escape from reality?

The next hours were spent immersed in the works of his favorite authors, pinching the back of his hand every time his thoughts wandered toward Dilaudid. A red mark appeared on his skin, and after another attempt, he began to bleed, though he didn’t even notice until he accidentally stained the page while turning it. He hurriedly set the book aside, feeling guilty for damaging it.

To make matters worse, someone appeared by his side.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, you were so engrossed in your reading, but I need to close now. It’s midnight," the librarian informed him, looking every bit like the most stereotypical library worker.

Spencer looked at him pleadingly, not even knowing what he was hoping for. That the librarian would let him stay until morning? In silence, he put on his coat and headed for the library’s exit. It wasn’t a standalone building. Upon stepping out, he found himself in what looked like a hallway, with stairs leading, as far as he knew, to the laundry room, and wide-open doors to another room.

He was about to head for the actual exit when something caught his attention. A sign, like the ones warning about slippery floors. However, instead of a typical message, it had an inscription written in a handwriting resembling that of a child, with a flower replacing the dot on the letter "i."

If you feel like you can’t handle it, come in. We’ll talk, or not, if you don’t want to. But know that you’re not alone :)

He stared at the message motionless. It sounded a bit like some social campaign he would have ignored in 80% of cases. Yet, something about the simplicity of the message kept his gaze fixed.

Let’s be honest, Spencer was fucking terrified of going back to his apartment. And probably because of that, he decided to walk through those doors.

"As if I didn't have enough cleaning to do every fucking day," you muttered under your breath, moving yet another chair so you could mop the floor with the poorly wrung-out mop. A puddle formed on the old brown panels. ” I’ll be a twenty-five-year-old with the spine of a life-worn retiree. Amazing”

Even though you had been complaining for over twenty minutes, deep down you were pleased with how things had turned out. You could use this room from midnight until six in the morning and even got your own set of keys. For free. Well, not entirely. In exchange, you had to clean at the end of each day. It hosted meetings for Alcoholics Anonymous and other support groups. And anonymous chip-aholics, you thought, noticing crushed crumbs under one of the chairs.

Your earnings as a bartender and occasional office cleaner didn’t allow you to rent any space for your... let’s call it a project. However, you believed you’d rather strain your back a little and perhaps save someone’s life than spend these already sleepless nights watching shows or partying.

You couldn’t quite remember how you came up with the idea. It probably happened while reading some sprawling discussion thread on a random forum online. Reading how people argue over the best cheesecake recipe on some website was one of your favorite late-night activities (don’t be fooled by the trivial topic—the discussion included a serious threat of arson and ended at a police station). Anyway, one night, while you were browsing a forum for parents of teenagers out of boredom, you came across advice from a woman who claimed that her communication problems with her daughter ended when she started talking to her late at night, rather than in the afternoon when she got home from school.

The thought wouldn’t leave you alone. You looked into it and found that, while most support groups met in the evening, it was usually early evening. Well, that made sense—few people could dedicate their whole night to it. But you could. You’d been struggling with insomnia since college, ever since your mother passed away. After finishing your evening bar shift at eleven, you’d rush to this place, put up your homemade sign on the door, and wait. You’d catch up on sleep in the mornings. And then, repeat.

Was it exhausting? A little. Had your social life nearly vanished, with the only people you saw being your equally nocturnal roommate and the neighbor’s kid you took to daycare in the morning for a few extra dollars? Absolutely. Did it bring you satisfaction? Only one person had shown up since you started, but yes, it brought you immense satisfaction.

It might sound a bit overdramatic, but helping others was your calling.

You continued cleaning, muttering a few more curses under your breath. One earbud dangled from your ear; listening to music went against your personal code. You knew that if some desperate person rushed in after reading the sign on the door, the sight of you—the person offering them a conversation—with earbuds in might be a bit discouraging. They might think better of bothering you and back out, and you wouldn’t even notice, absorbed in the music. But you couldn’t help it—you hated silence.

So, you bent your own rules, using only one earbud.

You swung the mop in a wide arc, in perfect sync with the rhythm of the song, and couldn’t resist doing a spin. Cleaning and dancing—was there a better combination?

When you turned around, you only then noticed that someone had been watching you the entire time. Which meant they’d heard every curse word that had come out of your mouth over the past twenty minutes. And there had been... a lot. You pulled the earbud from your ear, like a teenager caught watching something they shouldn’t.

Congratulations, you idiot. Whatever’s bothering him, he’ll definitely want to talk about it with someone like you...

“Hi!" you said, in the friendliest tone you could manage. You had to somehow get rid of all those curse words from your mouth. The man didn’t respond, but you noticed his chest move, as if he was taking a deep breath. Unfortunately for him, every time the other person stayed silent, you started babbling nonsense. "Sit down if you want, and don’t worry about the wet floor. I mean, maybe worry, if you care about your teeth. I slipped here yesterday too, but luckily on my back…I can’t afford a dentist visit, do you know how much they charge now?"

"I’ve read... I’ve read the note on the door," the man said shyly, pointing his thumb behind him. Only then did you take a closer look at him. A black coat with a piece of a black shirt peeking out, matching trousers, and elegant shoes...You straightened up, still holding the mop, realizing he must be coming back from a funeral. "Can I really stay here for a moment? If so, for how long?"

The desperation in his voice tightened your chest.

"Yes, of course," you said gently, much less chaotic than before. "You can stay as long as you need."

You held back the playful remark, At least until six in the morning, because after that I’m not welcome here anymore. Humor could ease tension in tough situations, but it wasn’t always appropriate, as you had learned many times. This man didn’t look like he’d be helped by your silly jokes…

He looked, above all, lost. He must have felt that way, since his feet had led him to this place. Despite your earlier words, he didn’t move, seeming unsure of how to act.

"I…I don't have to talk to you, right? That’s what the note says…"

His stuttering didn’t seem like the result of shyness. You got the impression that his lips were refusing to cooperate, too tired to express what his still sharp mind wanted to convey.

"If you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you. But sometimes, you know, it’s better to say what’s on your mind."

It seemed like he only heard the first sentence. Completely ignoring the second, he took a seat in one of the chairs in the last row. They were arranged like pews in a church, one behind the other. Surprising, considering it was a space for support group meetings. Usually, in such places, the chairs were set up in a circle—you knew that from experience.

For a moment, you kept staring at him, fighting the urge to speak again. His appearance moved you deeply—actually, the suffering of every living person touched you. And he was definitely suffering, moving stiffly as if in constant pain, with a vacant expression on his face. But since he had decided he needed silence, you couldn’t impose yourself on him. It could have the opposite effect, driving him away rather than encouraging him to open up.

You had no choice but to return to cleaning.

Moving around the room, you tried to take steps as light as a ghost. You tucked the earbuds into your pocket. You gathered all the lost trash and items, finishing mopping the floor. From time to time, your gaze would instinctively drift toward the man. Staring wasn’t in good taste, but you couldn’t help it. He looked... intriguing?

He was definitely young, around your age or maybe a little older, but still very, very young. His skin was unnaturally pale, contrasting sharply with his black clothes. Brown hair, short but longer than most of your male friends', a bit unruly. His eyes... so much was happening in them. While the rest of him seemed cold and unmoving, those eyes were a window to all the pain inside him.

You looked into his eyes just once and knew he wouldn’t say anything more to you. You’d spend a few hours in silence— you would finish your work and take a seat in the first row, far enough so you couldn’t hear each other’s breathing, but in a position where he could see your back, remember your presence, in case he decided to speak. But that won’t happen, you thought, and you were right.

At five in the morning, the mysterious, troubled man left the room.

You stared at the door, overwhelmed by your own thoughts. Maybe you had made a mistake by respecting his request? Maybe you should have sat right next to him, taken his hands, and begged him to tell you everything? You had no idea if those few hours of silence had soothed him, or if it had been the opposite. You were afraid he might have dangerous plans for himself, but that realization came too late. You couldn’t run out after him into the street; you wouldn’t find him in the cold, December night.

All you could do was sigh, certain that you’d never see him again.

Seeing him in the doorway the next night, you thought you had fallen asleep and that it was just a dream. 

But you never slept at this time. 

Spencer couldn’t reasonably explain why he went back there the following night.

Or why he was heading there for the third time.

He also didn’t know why he was so surprised that Hotch had given them a few days off. After all, he had long since learned that behind his cold exterior lay a genuinely caring and understanding nature.

Maybe he was simply hoping for the quickest possible return to work, something that would occupy his mind. He’d even be willing to stay late at the office, analyzing some old, unsolved cases, and only head home in the late hours, when he’d be longing to collapse into bed.

He’d be so exhausted that he wouldn’t even think about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe. He still hadn’t gotten rid of it, for a deeply humiliating reason. He feared that if he so much as tried to open the safe, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.In the evenings, he was gripped by an anxiety so intense that his breathing would grow shallow to the point of causing severe dizziness. He couldn’t sleep either. An irrational fear haunted him—the fear that he might simply stop breathing in his sleep. That he’d never wake up again. In a few days, maybe a week, one of his friends, let’s say Derek, would decide to check why he wasn’t showing up to work. Derek would find him still lying in bed, his skin gray and cold, his limbs stiff.

His merciless mind seemed to be conjuring these images on purpose. Imagining Morgan over his lifeless body would send him back to Emily’s funeral, making him feel that same painful tightness in his chest.

These weren’t even flashbacks. He was almost certain he was sending himself back to that moment at the cemetery deliberately, purposefully crafting these visions. He wanted to amplify his suffering, to make a possible relapse feel more justified. It felt as though he was faking his tragic state, which made him dismiss any thought of asking anyone for help. Why would he, if he didn’t deserve it?

Besides, he didn’t want to intrude on anyone else’s grief. JJ couldn’t afford to break down; she had to stay strong for her family, for little Henry. Derek had nearly lost Emily in his arms, bearing an unbearable guilt and pain—it would be cruel to burden him with more. And Hotch was still reeling from his own tragedy; Hailey had died not so long ago, and Prentiss’s death could easily reopen those old wounds. They were the ones who truly deserved these few days off. Their struggles were real; he was just an addict—a boy supposedly intelligent.

Supposedly, because if he really were, would he keep something capable of destroying him in a safe by his bed, within reach at any moment.

Because of these thoughts, he feared the night more than anything. That’s when he became weak, vulnerable to the voice of his addiction. So, spending his nights away from home felt like the only solution.

He’d already developed a sort of routine. First, he’d head to the library, usually packed with students preparing for exams. As the hours wore on, they would disappear one by one, until by closing time, he was left alone with just the one librarian in square glasses.

He’d wander out to the hallway, glancing into the next room with the same curiosity he’d felt the first time. He wondered if that girl was still there. It seemed almost unbelievable that anyone would willingly spend entire nights sitting in silence with a gloomy stranger. Didn’t she have work to get up for? Or classes. She looked like a student—the kind who’d doze off in the front row without a shred of humility, doodle strange symbols in the margins, and engage professors in conversations on topics wildly unrelated to the lecture. And, somehow, they actually responded to her.

He stepped through the door, certain he’d find her there, yet…the room was empty. A chill ran through him at the thought that maybe he’d finally lost his mind and had only imagined her. In men, the first symptoms of schizophrenia usually appeared a bit earlier, but as everyone knew, every rule had its exceptions…

Something crashed forcefully into his back.

“Damn, sorry!” said the girl, her face obscured by the enormous box she was carrying.

She leaned it against her hip so she could see who she had just bumped into. Spencer was surprised to realize that he had been waiting for what she might say. The day before, when she saw him, she had said, "Oh, Mr. Mysterious. Good to see you, I was starting to think I made you up..." That had been their only interaction that night, and he wondered if she was going to greet him with a similar line.

But she simply smiled, adjusted the box in her arms, and walked past him. Did he really feel… disappointed?

He quickly shook his head. After all, he had asked her from the very beginning if they could not talk. He spent so much time there because it was the calmest place he could imagine, not because he was looking for new friends. He didn’t need them. New friends quickly turned into real friends, then old friends, and eventually, they only left wounds.He sat in the same spot as the previous and the one before that night. During those, he barely moved, spending those hours solely on thinking—about matters both important and trivial. This time, he brought something to occupy himself, specifically a pocket edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Even though he knew the book by heart and could recite any page from memory, he still found comfort in the story. Besides, this particular edition had been a birthday gift from Emily. He opened to the first page, but then his eyes fell on the inscription she had written by hand… As he began to read it, the words of her dedication blurred with the words spoken at her funeral. His head was filled with a ringing, and he immediately closed the book and placed it back in his pocket.

So, he was left with the escape into the depths of his own mind. He knew that most people wouldn’t be able to spend so many hours just thinking, but for him, it had never been a problem. He wasn’t sure whether it was a matter of his nature or simply a matter of habit, a skill he had mastered during his lonely teenage years.

Then, he glanced briefly at the girl still there. It occurred to him for the first time, what on earth she needed that huge box for. He found her standing on tiptoe on a chair, trying to reach the corkboard hanging on the wall. Attached to it were reminders about the benefits of belonging to a support group, etc., so people who got bored during meetings could constantly remind themselves why they were actually sitting there. The girl was trying to frame the board by pinning… Christmas lights to its edges?

Given her short stature, it was quite a challenge. Sensing that her fall was only a matter of time, he stood up from his seat. He didn’t even particularly wonder why she was hanging Christmas decorations in November.

“I’ll help,” he offered.

She looked at him, first a little surprised, then almost with relief.

“I’d like to, as any altruist would, refuse your help and say that you don’t have to…but for God’s sake, please, just do it,” she said, immediately jumping off the chair and onto the floor. “I think I’ve already told you that I can’t afford a dentist, so I’d rather not take the risk.

“You mentioned it,” Reid replied, not sure what else he could add. He stopped trying to come up with any elaborate responses. Once again, he reminded himself that he hadn’t come here to make new acquaintances; he didn’t need to present himself in the best possible light. He could afford a little blissful silence and grumpiness.

She watched his actions with her arms crossed. He reached the spot where she wanted to attach the lights without much trouble.

“I know it’s not very hygienic,” she muttered, cutting a piece of tape with her teeth. “But I don’t have scissors, and as they say, you have to make do somehow.” She handed him a transparent piece, which, though almost invisible from a distance, was meant to keep the lights from falling. He accepted it without a word.

“The owner requested that I decorate this place for Christmas,” she continued. “He mentioned something about how the atmosphere positively affects most people, so it’s best to start as early as possible. But for me, it’s a bit too soon. What do you think?”

Absorbed in the task, he hadn’t heard her question. She didn’t seem bothered by it. Leaning against the wall with one arm, she clapped her hands when he finished.

“Thanks a lot, stranger. Now that I’ve used you once, maybe we should finally introduce ourselves?”

Spencer prolonged the process of getting off the chair as much as he could. For some reason, he didn’t really want to reveal his name. In a way, he liked that, entering this room, he was just a shell without characteristics, data, or past experiences.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she added, noticing his hesitation. “Actually, names don’t really matter. I can always just call you a stranger. You could suggest some adjectives. Think it over carefully; it’s an opportunity to be, for example, a handsome stranger…”

He couldn’t help himself and chuckled. The girl’s eyebrows raised slightly, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

“Spencer,” he revealed, extending his hand.

She shook it, offering her own name in return. Her nails were of varying lengths, especially those on her thumbs, which didn’t even extend past the tip of her finger, as if she only bit those particular ones.

“Well, considering we’ve theoretically known each other for three days, it sounds a bit funny, but nice to meet you, Spencer. Thanks again for the help. So, let’s see if it works.”

He had planned to return immediately to his seat, but the girl spoke so quickly that he didn’t have time to pull back. Instead, he found himself standing in front of her, watching as she switched on the Christmas lights, her face showing the intensity of an inventor presenting their latest creation.

“No way,” she muttered when the lights didn’t turn on.

“Probably the batteries,” he replied.

She looked at him as if he had just said something groundbreaking.

“You know what kind we’ll need?”

“AA, the thin ones.”

“Alright, then let’s go,” she decided, moving forward with determination.

“What? Where to?”

For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or just referring to herself in the plural. It was... unexpected.

“To the store, across the street. I need to decorate this place if I want the owner to keep letting me do what I’m doing here. Since you’re a battery expert, you can tell me which ones to pick.”

“AA, the thinnest ones. I’m not an expert, it’s common knowledge. Haven’t you ever changed batteries on a remote?”

He hesitated a bit about leaving the room with her. However, she had already put on her jacket, a brown leather one, at least two sizes too big. Underneath, she wore a green, lace blouse with an asymmetrical cut and flared sleeves, giving it a slightly fairy-like style.

“I guess not, I don’t know. My mom was against television, and we watched it so rarely that we never had to change batteries. Or maybe she changed them herself, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I just want company so let’s go.

If she had phrased it as a suggestion, he would probably have replied that he’d prefer to stay inside alone, if that were possible. However, she used a command, delivered so quickly that his brain didn’t even have time to process what was happening before his body moved forward.

After a moment, they crossed the street, heading toward a small, 24-hour shop on the corner. Spencer figured he might have dropped by there once before or after a visit to the library; after all, it wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar neighborhood.

Almost immediately after stepping inside, they came face-to-face with the guy behind the counter, who looked like he was counting down the hours until closing, the way prisoners count down the years left on their sentences.

“What do we need, expert?” the girl muttered to him, as if they were about to buy a part for constructing a rocket launcher, not just a couple of ordinary batteries.

Spencer asked for batteries and, after a moment’s thought, a coffee, too—the kind served in those ridiculously inconvenient cups without any sleeves, making it easy to spill and burning hot to hold. The girl glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, so he added, asking for one for her as well.

As they waited for their order, an incredibly awkward silence settled over them. It was odd, considering they’d spent the last two nights practically without exchanging a word. She stood with her elbow casually resting on the counter, while he kept his hands in the pockets of his brown coat. The harsh, almost clinical lighting inside revealed details about her appearance that Spencer hadn’t noticed before. For instance, her light-blonde bangs fell in a heart shape on her forehead, her eyebrows were slightly asymmetrical, and her eyes were the coldest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Or maybe it was the effect of the black eyeliner on her waterline?

Noticing his stare, she tilted her head in question, assuming he had something to ask. Caught off guard, he mirrored her gesture without knowing why. They were spared further awkwardness by the arrival of two coffees on the counter in those unfortunate cups.

“Thanks for paying,” she said as they stepped back outside. As the door closed behind them, he felt like muttering no problem but she beat him to it. “I was counting on it. I don’t have any money on me. That’s my way of saving—just never carrying cash.

A comment about how it wasn’t the wisest method came to his lips—after all, accidents happened, and sometimes having a bit of cash on hand could actually save one’s life. He was surprised, though, by his own concern and sense of responsibility toward a stranger.

As they left, she locked the door, then handed him her coffee to hold so she could unlock it again to let them back in.

“If it turned out you didn’t have a cent in that fancy coat of yours, I would’ve just stolen it,” she admitted in the same casual tone one might use to comment on the weather. Her bluntness startled him every time. “I even considered it, but then you pulled out your wallet. Hey, you’re not a cop or something, are you?” she asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

“I am,” he replied automatically. Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. He’d already given her his name, and now his profession. At this rate, his anonymity would burst like a soap bubble.

From her expression, he could tell she took it as a joke.

“Oh no. Are you going to arrest me now?”

He shrugged.

“If I did, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”

Saying this, he felt a twinge of inner humiliation. His slightly improved mood sank back to square one, as he was reminded that he wasn’t on a casual outing with a friend—he was on a forced exile from his own apartment.

She pushed open the door and stepped through first, walking backward, facing him as she went.

“I’ll take that as a no. Although, on second thought—do you have hot water in your place?” He nodded, answering her question, clueless about where she was headed. Her comments were too unpredictable. She clapped her hands together. “That’s great! They cut ours off in the building two days ago for some maintenance work, and honestly, I’ve missed nothing more than a hot shower. So, officer, maybe you should reconsider that arrest?”

She literally pushed her wrists right under his nose. For a moment, he regretted not having handcuffs with him. He imagined the shock and amusement on her face if he actually snapped them around her wrists. He shook his head, not understanding why he was picturing that—or why, suddenly, he felt so amused. Well, at least it was a relief compared to how he had felt an hour ago.

“Well, I don’t know the procedure for a cop taking an arrested person to his own home,” he replied.

“I’ve heard they do that with the worst criminals,” she said.

“Like battery thieves?”

“Every serial killer starts somewhere.”

“I don’t know of a single case where it started with stealing batteries.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know enough about criminology?” she asked, spreading her hands.

Spencer fell silent for a moment, then simply started laughing. Not mockingly, but genuinely, like he hadn’t in... a long, long time. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t have known the true reason for his reaction. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t know the true reason for his reaction. She tried to take the coffee from him, still holding it for her. As he was still overcome by some boyish chuckle, he flinched and accidentally brushed her pale hand. The girl didn’t even seem to notice the fleeting contact, grabbed the cup, and took a small sip of the still-hot drink. His fingers twitched, curling and stretching. He had never been a fan of physical contact, accepting it only from those closest to him. Whenever he tried to touch someone, he had an overwhelming feeling that it bothered them. Spencer considered it an incredible paradox that he worked by conducting in-depth psychological analyses of individuals, yet in his personal life, he struggled so much with understanding others' feelings.

Standing in the same spot, he watched as she approached the Christmas lights.

“Well, come on, techie. Time to change the batteries.”

She pulled him out of his thoughts. He joined her by the corkboard, this time offering her his coffee. It took him less than a minute, but when the lights blinked on, she patted him on the shoulder with such admiration, as if he had spent an entire day working on it.

It was a purely joking gesture, but somehow it still reminded him of all those pats on the back at the funeral—the last time anyone had touched him. He was really starting to hate his brain for dragging up memories like that every damn time he began to feel even a little bit better.

The girl must have noticed the slight withdrawal on his face after she touched him. He could almost see the invisible notebook in her mind, where the words never touch him again, he doesn’t want it seemed to appear. He suddenly wanted to open his mouth and explain that it had nothing to do with her, but he knew it would come out sounding pathetic.

That’s why he just sighed, like a beaten dog, wondering if taking Dilaudid that day would have allowed him to talk to her—and anyone else—with far more ease, without the heavy burden on his shoulders and the eternal tornado of painful memories storming through the depths of his mind.

“So…” the girl began after a longer pause. Her voice sounded different for a moment, stripped of its playful and cheerful tone, and Spencer almost felt as if she forced herself to bring it back. “Thanks again for your help and for unwittingly stopping me from committing theft. Oh, and for the coffee, though it’s one of the worst I’ve had in the past ten years of my life. Which is about as long as I’ve been drinking coffee at all. Anyway, if you’ve grown tired of my chatter, your lucky moment has arrived, because I need to get back to hanging the rest of the holiday decorations, cleaning the floors…”

"I can help you with all that," said Spencer’s lips—certainly not him, at least not so quickly or so confidently. That didn’t mean he disagreed, though.

She bit her lip, gently shaking her head.

“No… I don’t want you to feel obligated, like you have to help me with something. Or like you need to repay me for hanging out here. Since… let’s say I started this place, I’ve been managing everything on my own. This room is pretty small, there’s really not that much to clean. So just relax. Enjoy your book—I noticed you brought one.” She nodded toward his coat pocket, where it indeed rested. “Yeah, I stared at you for a second. Subtly, of course, so you wouldn’t notice. But don’t worry, you weren’t, like, picking your nose or anything. Not that I assumed you would. I mean, you don’t seem like the type.”

“Thank…you?”

One thing about Spencer—he often heard that he talked too much. That was just his nature. When a broad topic genuinely fascinated him, he couldn’t help diving into even the tiniest details. It always left him feeling a bit ashamed, worried that whoever he was talking to wasn’t remotely interested and was only rolling their eyes internally. For the first time in a long while, he’d met someone who made him seem like the quiet one, maybe even a bit grumpy.

The thought surprised him, but he regretted not meeting her at a different point in his life. Just a few stupid weeks ago, when Emily was still alive, and he wasn’t constantly battling the urge to soothe himself with Dilaudid. Maybe then he could have mustered more energy, started a truly engaging conversation. But now his throat was bone dry. He realized he was stuck in the belief that a part of him—the part everyone seemed to like the most—was gone, and the only way to get it back was locked in the safe by his bed.

His ears started ringing, and his own body felt like it no longer belonged to him. It was just an ordinary object with a delicate structure, cracking under the loud sound filling his ears.

The girl kept staring at him. God, he must have looked pathetic in her eyes. Was she talking to him because she wanted to, or because he came here every night and she had no other choice? He could have sworn he saw some disgust in her eyes. For the first time, he noticed that when they stood side by side in the store under such harsh lighting. It allowed her to examine him closely, and she noticed the bags under his eyes and the tired grayness of his skin. Furthermore, he spoke so little—she must have despised him.

He felt the urge to simply run out of the room, head straight back to his apartment, ignore the old neighbor on the stairs, and with trembling hands, open the safe... then it would all be over, the pain and the tension...

“Spencer?” A sound pierced the heavy dome surrounding him. His name. It was the first time she had used it, instead of some mocking label like stranger, officer, or techie “Spencer, is everything okay?”

He sank heavily into one of the chairs. It was the only way to stop himself from leaving. Not enough, he felt. Something kept urging him to stand up and go to his apartment. The apartment, the safe...

"Could you... could you say something to me?" he asked pitifully, in the voice of a beggar pleading for a piece of bread.

He had to distract himself somehow, get rid of these thoughts.

"Say something to you?" she repeated, confused.

"Anything, please. About inheritance and gene mutation, why you even come here every night, it doesn’t matter, just talk to me…"

"Okay," she said, a little feverishly, sitting down right next to him. He avoided her gaze, but briefly noticed she was looking at him with concern in her cold, blue eyes. "Okay... okay... so I'll tell you I have no clue about inheritance and genes, sorry...what was the other topic to choose? Why do I come here?"

He didn’t answer, not even realizing she had asked a question. Trembling, he listened only to her voice and her words, paying much less attention to the tone. He forced himself to listen. You’re not leaving this room, at least not until she finishes speaking. Listen. She has a nice voice, doesn't she?

"Spencer, you’ve gotten very, very pale."

"It’s okay, just talk to me. I need... to forget about something."

The girl suddenly nodded, with more readiness and understanding.

"Alright... Why do I come here? My friends, the ones who even know about this, slash one roommate and a guy from the bar, I'm not going to pretend I have a lot of friends...Anyway, they asked about it, and I told each of them a little bit of something different, but with the same general meaning. I didn’t go into details, I didn’t go into details, but I’ll tell you now, not just because you look like a dying man and I feel a bit like I’m fulfilling your last request before you drop dead on the floor. By the way, I wonder what I’d tell the police if that happened. Would you stand up for your old good friend, officer?"

His hands clenched around his knees, his head hung low, and for a long time, he had been hearing the beating of his own heart. His smile in response to the question was crooked and tired, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still a smile.

"How, when I'd be dead?"

"Oh, you like to nitpick words?"

"I just like logic. Usually."

"If I wanted to finish you off, I'd start telling you about my roommate's love life. That one's completely devoid of logic. You’d die listening to that.”

“So maybe another time? Besides, as much as I'd prefer not to die in an AA meeting room, I'd rather listen more about you."

"So listen. And breathe, deeply. You can take my hand if you want, or if it helps. Don’t you think I sound like I'm giving advice to a woman in labor? Breathe, hold my hand..."

Spencer exhaled again, followed by a burst of laughter. Her train of thought was simply exceptional, and he was genuinely curious about what would come out of her mouth next. He was beginning to forget about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe by his bed…

"Oh God, I forgot again what I was talking about, I’ll never finish telling this…" The girl groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Ah, college. No, wait, something about friends. I know, why I started this place! Alright, so it all probably started in college. The need to help, not the idea. I came up with that through an internet forum and arguments about cheesecake. Anyway, at my college, we created this really small organization. It's hard to even call it that, it was just... at that time, we were all moved by a girl I shared a room with who had attempted suicide. After everything, she dropped out of college... nearly cut contact with us, and we felt the need to do something, to help someone. Young, ambitious psychology students, you know? I think it was even my idea. I was sober for the first time since the academic year began, longer than two days, and immediately started having flashes of brilliance. It was about this: late at night, when most people were contemplating suicide, we swarmed all the nearby bridges. "It sounds heroic, I know. But in reality, we intervened only two, maybe three times. I was really surprised by that, I thought it was one of the most popular methods."

"In the United States, the most common method is hanging. It accounts for 25 to 30% of cases. After that, there’s..." He felt the need to swallow. "Overdose. Especially among the young. Falls from heights or deliberate drownings are less common, but still present in the statistics."

"I'm a little concerned about your knowledge on this subject."

"I read a bit."

"Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, as someone whose favorite book is Girl, Interrupted, but maybe it’s time for some... less... devastating reading?"

"Maybe I'll think about it. Anyway, what’s next with your... project?"

The girl rested her chin on the back of her chair, recalling where she had left off. Spencer finally straightened up, and as he became more engaged in the story she was telling, his hands stopped shaking as much.

"Well, as students go, we kind of lost our drive. They left one by one. The only thing I can say in their defense is that it was a damn cold winter, and you could have gotten hypothermia just from standing on that bridge at that hour. But I... somehow got more involved in it. My mom... passed away barely a month after I started college, completely unexpectedly. You know... or maybe you don't, I don't know what the beginning of a semester looks like in college. More parties than studying. My body had a full Mendeleev’s table inside at that time. Those nights spent on the bridges were the first sober and fully conscious ones in a long time. I liked standing there, thinking. To the drivers passing by, I might have looked like I wanted to jump myself, but I never considered it... not in that particular way. I had been dealing with insomnia for a long time, so I could come there very late. And one time... I really managed to save a man. I noticed him, and we talked for almost an hour. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, but... after that time, he actually stepped down from the railing, hugged me, and walked away. I don’t remember what I said to him. I’m not even sure if it actually happened, maybe I made it all up?

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Spencer stared into her lost gaze, devoid of the false positivity that usually covered it. He wanted to... he couldn’t quite determine if he wanted to hug her. He wanted to do something, but he wanted it to be more than just a hollow gesture. Still, he flinched, holding himself back from wrapping his arm around her.

"I'm sure it really happened," he said, his voice quieter and hoarse. The girl was surprised by the certainty in his tone. "And that's because... maybe you don't realize it, but you're doing exactly the same thing now as you did on that bridge, just in a different place and with a different guy."

He saw her slowly blink, the weight of his words settling in. One of the most talkative women he had ever met was suddenly rendered speechless. They stared at each other in silence for a long time, her lips parting and closing a few times. He felt a strange tension, as if whatever she was about to say would determine something significant in his life.

"Is that... why you come here every night?" she asked finally. "To avoid standing on the bridge?"

Spencer hated metaphors, couldn’t stand when others used them, and struggled to create them himself. So he knew he had reached a truly strange point in his life when he found himself using one.

"I stand on it all the time, every moment."

Her fingers moved restlessly, her face momentarily expressionless. Then, she simply reached for his hand, the one farther from her.

"Nighttime is the hardest, isn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted. He kept the next sentence in his mouth for a long time, chewing on it repeatedly, questioning whether it tasted right and whether he should say it. He felt... that this request might be too much. Yet, at the same time, he was painfully desperate. For the first time, truly motivated to do it. He hesitated, licking his lips, and the girl followed the movement of his tongue, as if wondering what he was about to say. He finally decided to just say it. "I have something at home that I'm afraid I'll take. I know that when I try to get rid of it, I won’t be able to stop myself. I know I probably shouldn’t ask you this, but I can’t do it on my own... I don’t have anyone else who could do this for me..."

She looked at him with a cold seriousness.

"Are you trying to lure me to your apartment?"

"No!" he assured hastily, realizing it really did sound that way. He quickly shook his head. "You're right, you shouldn’t go to a stranger’s house, and I shouldn’t even ask you. We barely know each other..."

"I was joking," she interrupted, reaching for her jacket. "I want to help you, I really do."

"No, I’ve thought about it, and I think I can handle it on my own..."

"After what you just told me? Forget it. I’m not taking the risk that something might happen to you."

"But..."

Determination sparkled in her eyes.

"How far do you live from here?"

You were doing something incredibly stupid.

You were going to the apartment of a man you had met three days ago and knew nothing about except his name.

You were practically risking your life. You could have ended up subjected to excruciating tortures beyond anything you could imagine, then murdered and desecrated.

This was how Spencer lectured you the entire way, trying to convince you not to follow him, but it was already too late. You had made up your mind and tried not to think about the potential danger. It was incredibly difficult, thanks to the vividly detailed stories he kept sharing.

During the twenty-minute subway ride, he managed to summarize the biographies of six serial killers who targeted women just like you. He even called you someone in the highest risk group for assault and violence, to which you sarcastically muttered thank you and clamped a hand over his mouth—mainly because the woman sitting next to you looked like she was dialing emergency services.

“You know an unsettling amount about that topic too,” you remarked as the two of you covered the last stretch of the walk on foot. “You know, murderers and crimes.”

Of course, you had locked up your space, even though you’d never left it before sunrise. Night after night, you had stubbornly stayed until morning, even though, apart from Spencer, only one other person had ever shown up, and you’d spent most of the time bored out of your mind. Yet, you didn’t feel guilty about abandoning your post. After all, your intention from the start had been to help people in crisis—those who couldn’t or wouldn’t seek professional help, who needed more of a friendly, honest chat over a beer but without the beer.

Since the moment that man had first walked through your door, he had occupied your thoughts more than you wanted to admit. You had been incredibly afraid he’d spend every night silently sitting with you and then suddenly stop coming, leaving you with guilt and endless questions. Instead, he had opened up almost by accident.

Even though you knew far less about him than you wanted to, you felt a strange connection between the two of you. Mostly in the form of sleepless nights, the shared loss of someone dear (you guessed this from his attire during that first night), and likely a history with various substances.

Many people would look at him and refuse to believe he could be an addict. Well, aside from the state he was in after several sleepless nights in a row—exhausted eyes, a few days' worth of stubble, and a slouched posture—he looked quite respectable. But you had encountered enough people struggling with addiction to know that appearances were no indicator. Judging based on looks in such matters was simply harmful.

“As I mentioned, I read a bit,” he replied to your question.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah? What, The Silence of the Lambs as a bedtime story every night?”

He chuckled but didn't press the issue further as you both reached the building where he apparently lived. He stopped, signaling for you to do the same. Above you, a streetlamp cast the only light in the starless night. Spencer was wearing a brown coat that you really liked, and a light breeze ruffled his hair.

"Maybe you should text your roommate, let her know where you're headed?" he suggested. "You know, give her the address..."

"Oh my God, Spencer..."

"I just want you to feel comfortable," he said.

You sighed and grabbed your phone, wanting to ease his worry.

"It's just common sense to do this every time you're going somewhere with someone you don't know. Or when you're coming back alone. It's not just about women."

"Now I'm starting to think you're really a cop," you muttered.

You pulled up your friend and roommate Jude's number on your phone and began typing a message.

i'm going to some weird dude's place, here's his addy. if I'm not back by noon, just know my head's probably in his fridge xoxo

Jude worked nights cleaning office buildings. She must've been slacking off because she replied almost immediately:

you little slut. 

After a moment she added:

don’t let him tie you down

if worse comes to worse bite his dick off

not as hard as it sounds

“She replied that I’m being a bit irresponsible and I should be careful. She’ll call me in an hour to make sure everything’s fine.”

Spencer seemed satisfied with the response.

“Sounds like a really good friend.”

“Yeah, the best. Let’s go in. 

As soon as you were at his apartment door, he noticeably tensed up. And when he turned on the light, you saw his skin pale again, just like earlier when you had been worried about his state. You didn’t look around too much. The apartment was definitely nicer than the one you shared with Jude, but it had been kept in a style from a decade ago, which immediately impressed you since you weren’t a fan of modern architecture.

“Where is it?” you asked, referring to the mysterious thing you were supposed to take from him.

Uncertainly, he opened the door to the bedroom for you. If he really intended to kill you, it probably would have happened right then. You watched as he approached a cabinet near the double bed. He opened its doors, revealing a simple safe. He typed the code so quickly that even if you had wanted to, you wouldn’t have been able to memorize it. You held your breath as he came over to you, handing you some plastic bag. You shoved it into your pocket without even looking at it.

You didn’t want him to think for even a moment that you were judging him. Besides, the moment he handed it to you, that concern no longer mattered. He could finally breathe again in his own home.

“I haven’t taken anything for a long time,” he confessed in a quiet voice. “Actually, I thought I was completely clean. But something happened recently, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t get rid of it.”

You stood in front of him, your head tilted up, the plastic bag weighing lightly in your jacket pocket, even though its contents were virtually weightless. The silence between you became intimate, and a smile of appreciation crept onto your lips.

“You’re incredibly strong.”

“I’d be strong if I hadn’t bought it.”

“Spencer, you kept it in that safe, what, for three days? You spent nights away from home so you wouldn’t think about it? You asked me to come and take it so you wouldn’t risk giving in. Think about it. So many people would’ve broken down in your place.”

You could see that he didn’t completely agree with you, but you didn’t want to push him to change his mind. You were just sharing your opinion. For a moment, you both stayed silent, his head leaning in your direction so you could hear each other clearly despite the softly spoken words. It was as if you were sharing secrets so big that even the walls couldn’t hear them.

"I hope that by taking this, you'll be able to sleep for a bit," you said, feeling a little like you were committing a sin by breaking the silence. Spencer stepped back to his usual distance.

You knew there was nothing left for you here, but somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the room. You didn’t have even the slightest excuse to stay, so you sighed and glanced meaningfully at the door. His expression was unreadable, his shoulders hanging loosely by his sides.

"Well, I’m off. I’ll drop by the place for a few hours," you said. You were really about to walk out when you cursed in your mind and finally forced yourself to say what had been bothering you. "So... even though you’ve gotten rid of it, do you still plan on coming by? I mean..."

You didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

"We’ll see each other tomorrow," he assured you shortly, but firmly, which was enough for you.

You wanted to leave with a sense of mystery, but you couldn’t stop the wide smile that spread across your face. Spencer opened his mouth, probably to say something about safety and walking alone in the city late at night. You gave him a quick, caring look and disappeared through the door.

You’d been living a nocturnal life for years, aware of the dangers that the darkness held, but you’d also come to know the comforting feeling that it left behind in its embrace.

*

One might expect that after an entire afternoon at work and a sleepless night, you would collapse into bed exhausted by morning. But that never happened. Every day, you returned to your apartment in that dark green building with red fire escapes and spent two hours tackling your dreaded household chores—washing dishes or doing laundry.

You hated mornings, though you didn’t know why. Nights were loud and alive, and so were you during them. Mornings were quiet and seemed to trap you like wounded prey. They cornered you, gnawed at you, and forced you to confront... what exactly? Your own life? Your thoughts? Longing and emptiness?

One thing was certain: you wouldn’t trade your lifestyle for anything in the world.

Around eight in the morning, you would take your neighbor's son to preschool. She was a single mother, just two years older than you, earning a decent income but, as a result, constantly busy. Sometimes she left the boy with you, rewarding you generously afterward.

That was also when Jude came back from her night shift, usually dropping into bed without even greeting you. By then, you would often shut your eyes for a few hours, too—you weren’t a machine, after all, capable of functioning entirely without sleep.

And yet, you were always the first to wake up, spending an hour or two in bed with your laptop before your friend joined you, and the two of you would have breakfast. At two in the afternoon.

You spread homemade jam on your toast. Jude was obsessed with unprocessed food, and if she had the time, she’d probably bake her own bread—from flour she milled herself from grain she grew. You could easily picture her in some tiny, bygone village, growing vegetables with a scarf tied around her head—a funny image, considering she lived a thoroughly urban lifestyle and spent every weekend in a club.

“So?” she asked, walking into your small kitchen after her shower, wearing a black satin robe that revealed glimpses of her freshly pampered brown skin. Even the lack of hot water in the entire building didn’t stop her from sticking to her twenty-step skincare routine. She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “How was the night? Did you have to use your mouth?”

“If you’re referring to that advice you gave me yesterday—no, I didn’t have to.”

“Probably used it in another way,” she said with a smirk.

“Sometimes you’re as gross as teenage boys in high school.”

“Sorry,” she said, waving it off while making herself some coffee. “I’m just happy for you. Lately, you never go out, never see anyone. You spend your nights acting as a free therapist in an empty room, and when you’re not at work, you’re glued to your laptop. It’s not healthy, babe. Sometimes you’ve gotta have fun and blow off some steam. So, who’s the guy? You said he’s kind of a weirdo.”

“He kind of is,” you admitted. “But in a sweet way. We didn’t fucked by the way.”

Jude turned to you, looking utterly crushed.

“Then what the hell did you do? Play chess?”

“You immediately assumed it was a quick hookup. This is a guy I met while acting like a free therapist in an empty room,” you quoted her own words back at her, slightly sarcastic.

She was silent for a moment, arms crossed, staring at you. “Hot?”

“What does that have to do with anything—”

“Well, he must be, considering how quickly you agreed to go to his place. You know what, girl? Need any help with your ‘business’?”

You snorted with laughter, swallowing the last bite of your toast.

“Whore”

“Single young woman, I prefer” 

You weren’t very talkative, your mind constantly drifting back to the events of that night. You regretted not getting Spencer’s phone number. You needed to know what happened after you left and how he was holding up, to the point that you couldn’t focus on anything else. You comforted yourself with the thought that you’d see him again that night. An intense need to learn more about him, to understand him, and a bit of concern for him lingered with you.

Jude was sipping her coffee when there was a knock at the door. You flinched, and she, stiff as a board, stopped you with a gesture of her hand.

“I have a bad feeling about this…” she muttered under her breath, nervously clutching her cup.

As if on cue, the light knock at the door turned into a loud pounding. “Jude!” a male voice shouted. “Jude, come on, let’s talk!”

Your friend hid her face in her hands as you sighed. Richard was her ex-boyfriend, and a complete psycho. They had broken up a year ago and had no contact since. Yet, every now and then, he would remember she existed and stalk her like some kind of obsessive. Then he would disappear again. You had almost gotten used to it, though you still insisted she should report it to the police. Jude, on the other hand, thought it wasn’t worth the trouble since nothing would come of it anyway.

“Pretend we’re not here,” she ordered.

You sighed again, looking at her gently. “I really think you should do something about it.”

“He’ll get bored in a week. We just have to wait. Maybe one day he’ll break his neck on those damn stairs, and we’ll be done with him.”

You couldn’t help but snort, despite the seriousness of the situation. The steepness of the stairs in your building was truly terrifying. So much so that when you went out to the club, instead of heading home in the early hours, you’d crash at some mutual friends’ place. Trying to climb those stairs drunk could end tragically. 

Jude was right about one thing. Richard quickly lost interest, and after ten minutes the knocking stopped, but you didn’t leave, afraid he might be lurking somewhere in the hall. You both left the apartment together—she was heading to meet some friends, and you were off to work.

You liked the bar where you worked. The afternoon shift started quietly, mostly with a few guys stopping by on their way home from the office, chatting calmly and not causing any trouble. As night fell, the atmosphere picked up, becoming livelier. You always finished your shift just when the fun was starting to turn into chaos and arguments. As you left, you noticed the jealous looks from your coworkers, who, after months or even years, still watched some people with fear. Well, a drunk person is an unpredictable one.

You walked back to your rented room as if wings were carrying you. You were curious about what time Spencer would show up. You suspected he spent his evenings in the nearby library, which closed at midnight. You also hoped that besides him, others might show up as well.

Once inside, you started wondering if you should move the sign from the door to a more visible spot, so more people could learn about your initiative.

 Spencer usually showed up right at midnight. Not waiting for him, you got to work on your usual chores. You were certain he’d appear in the doorway any moment, just like he always did—silently, like a ghost. As you scrubbed the floors, you kept turning over your shoulder, always convinced you’d see him there. But every time, there was no one. You glanced at the clock and went back to work, because what else was there to do?

You really regretted not exchanging phone numbers.

Sure, you had taken his Dilaudid, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that he might eventually crack and reach for it. That was the dark scenario that had formed in the pessimistic part of your brain, and it lingered there only for a moment. You remembered the determination and certainty in his eyes last night—he really didn’t want to return to addiction. Most likely, something had just come up. After all, not everyone can afford to stay up so many nights in a row. Work, studies, responsibilities... You realized you didn’t even know what he did for a living. There were so many questions.

Hours passed. You looked at the Christmas decorations you’d put up yesterday. Your mom had never liked Christmas, considering it an unnecessarily stressful time, but at your request, your home always drowned in lights and Santa hats. As an adult, you walked past such things in stores with your head down. Every association with your mom brought memories—positive ones, true, but sometimes the greatest joys also brought pain.

You sighed, catching yourself in those thoughts. This was exactly why you hated silence. It always led you down a path of sadness. You considered putting in your headphones when someone appeared at the door.

You straightened up with hope, but it wasn’t Spencer. Instead, it was a man in a burgundy sweater, glasses on his nose, and a touch of gray in his hair. You recognized him as the librarian, who sometimes left work when you were arriving. He greeted you in an extremely polite manner.

“I’ve noticed that sign on your door for a while now, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to come in. Do you work here?”

At first, you were disappointed it wasn’t Spencer, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a smile. Someone had finally taken an interest in your notice.

“It’s not really a job. More of a personal project. I sit here and listen to what’s weighing on people’s minds.”

The librarian turned out to be a kind, though very shy, man. You talked for a while; he made you laugh more than once, and the rest of the night didn’t seem as depressing. He unexpectedly confided in you that his retired wife was battling cancer. He must have felt the urge to get it off his chest as soon as he entered, maybe even as soon as he saw the sign. He tried to maintain composure, but inside, he was terrified of losing her. His aging hands trembled as he spoke about it, and you listened with a heavy heart.

When you returned to the apartment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You sat on the fire escape, your legs hanging into the dark space, until the sun rose. You heard the key turn in the lock and jumped to your feet, rushing to the door.

“Jude, Jude, Jude!” you called to your roommate. She stepped back, her exhausted mind unable to handle such an enthusiastic greeting. Without waiting for her questions, you said, “You need to find someone for me. Get their phone number, preferably. I don’t care how, I know you have your ways.”

Your roommate wiped her eyes.

“We’ll talk after I get some sleep. And after you make me breakfast. Eggs, just how I like them.”

You agreed to the arrangement. Jude had incredible stalker skills. Once, she found an online profile of a guy just by knowing what kind of watch he wore. You didn’t want to wait until the next night hoping Spencer would show up, so you decided to track him down yourself.

While Jude was sleeping, you wandered aimlessly around the apartment, eventually collapsing on the couch with the laptop on your stomach, reading through discussions on poaching forums. Why? God knows. You just couldn’t sleep.

A king’s breakfast appeared on the table: fried eggs on toast with avocado, freshly brewed coffee. Jude sighed at the sight.

“If only my future boyfriend treated me like this.”

“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, finishing off half an avocado raw. “I’m only doing this because I really need you to find someone for me.”

“Did you meet some handsome guy again?”

“It’s the same one.”

She laughed.

“You slept together and now there’s no trace of him? Sounds familiar…”

“Oh, just shut up with the toast. We didn't sleep with each other. How much longer you’re gonna eat that? 

She rolled her eyes at your rushing and deliberately prolonged eating her breakfast, just to watch the vein on your forehead throb. When she finally finished, she pushed her plate aside and placed her laptop on the table instead. Cracking her knuckles like a piano virtuoso before a performance, she said:

“Alright, tell me everything about him. Every little detail—not just his name and address. Which metro line you took, what shoes he was wearing, what type of condoms he used, everything. That’s how I’ll find him.”

“Condoms?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Exactly. Give me thirty minutes.”

You started losing faith in the success of this plan, but when you shared the information with her—though not everything, to preserve at least some of his privacy—she actually went silent for half an hour, fully focused on her laptop screen. You waited, tapping your nails on the table.

“Ha! Got him!” she exclaimed, both amused and proud. “Oh, crap… did you know the guy’s a doctor?”

"What?"

Surprised, you shifted in your seat. Not that it was entirely implausible… actually, the more you thought about it, it kind of fit him. But his career path was the least of your concerns at the moment—you were looking for a way to get in touch and find out why he hadn’t shown up last night despite his promise.

“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Jude read out. “Sounds sexy. Were you two playing some kind of role-play game?”

“For heaven’s sake, Jude, I told you…”

Once again, you explained to her that you hadn’t spent the night together, but she just cackled through your entire speech.

“Fine. Whatever. You know what, you’re right—we had sex. BDSM, ropes, the whole deal. I’ll tell you all about it…”

“Okay, on second thought, I don’t want to hear this anymore.”

“So plug your ears and give me his phone number if, by some miracle, you managed to find that too.”

*

The first case they got right after Emily's death involved murders that had taken place... in another state.

They were supposed to have one more day off, but it turned out to be a child abduction case—something that simply couldn’t wait. They were called in and had to go. Unless, of course, they wanted a life on their conscience…

Spencer remained silent throughout the entire flight on the jet. He barely slept at night; after the girl left, he stared at the door for a long time, then at the empty safe where his old, despicable colleague had just been. He felt that with the disappearance of the threat, his motivation to leave the apartment or do anything had faded. He no longer viewed the place with such intense disgust, but now considered it... incredibly lonely. When she left, a silence of an unparalleled intensity settled in, causing a sharp headache. He lay down in bed, fearing it might worsen.

The news about returning to work simply terrified him. He was unable to think, at least not as intensely as usual, and after all, that had always been his role—the brain of the team. Without the ability to focus, he was useless.

In child abduction cases, the first twenty-four hours are always the most critical. Pressured by time, he stared at the case files, analyzing all the information gathered so far, and he was losing it. Inside, he was simply losing it. In the past few days, he had started to accept that due to grief and the return of his addiction's voice, he might not be as effective as usual. As a pure realist, unwilling to lean toward either extreme, he finally came to the conclusion that this state would pass. It would pass... he just had to wait.

But he couldn't afford to wait. Someone's life depended on him. A child's life.

This is how he justified it to himself. This one time, he would give in, not to satisfy some fleeting, selfish need. The reason was far more complex, morally justified, even sacred. One could say he was sacrificing himself for the greater good of the case.

"Spence," a voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see JJ with a gentle smile on her face, though it lacked much joy. "I can see you're feeling better."

He hesitated before answering. His mind was a jumble of intertwining conclusions, assumptions, and calculations related to the case he was investigating. Having been torn from his own world, he didn't quite grasp what she had said.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said that it’s clear you’re feeling better. You were really distant on the jet. I was worried."

He swallowed hard, overwhelmed by a wave of shame. If only she knew why he felt better...

Looking at her face, he felt the urge to cry, to fall to his knees and apologize to her. She shouldn’t even be worrying about him—he didn’t deserve it.

"Spencer?” she asked, worried, as he once again failed to respond.

Panic began to rise within him, the same paranoia he’d felt when returning from Emily’s funeral with Dilaudid in his pocket. Everyone knew what he’d done, they’d seen it, could read it on his face. He was as transparent as water, unable to hide anything.

And then, as if fate, weary of watching his pitiful behavior, decided to intervene, his phone rang, saving him from the situation.

"Oh, sorry JJ, this is something important," he said, even though he didn’t recognize the number.

His friend looked at him with suspicion.

Having received the call, he didn’t even have time to speak when someone on the other end beat him to it. That was enough for him to guess who was calling.

"Hello. Dr. Spencer Reid? This is the investigative department. We have a few questions for you regarding a missing woman who was last seen with you."

JJ noticed the change in his expression and surely registered how he took a few steps away so she wouldn’t hear his response.

"Very funny," he snapped. He was surprised at how pleased he felt hearing her voice. His muscles relaxed a little, like when she told him about herself at his request. "You know that the investigative department doesn’t contact suspects by phone?"

"Jerk, fool, and fun killer."

He let out a laugh so soft it sounded more like a sigh.

"You know why I’m calling, right?" she asked. He could hear her moving around the apartment, closing some doors, as if she were hiding. "I’m not going to yell at you now about why you ditched me, because it’s not exactly that you ditched me, but you kind of did. Are you keeping up?"

"Ditch me?" he repeated, surprised. "You mean... our late-night meetings?"

"No, I mean the book club where we meet every Monday."

"Something came up at work," he explained, ignoring her sarcasm. "Something really, really important, and it didn’t occur to me to let you know... Actually, I didn’t even think you’d be waiting for me."

He said it sincerely. Until now, he had thought that the girl's question during their last conversation about whether he would come was merely out of politeness, not because she actually wanted to see him.

"Of course I waited. And I was worried when you didn’t show up. You know how few people visit me, when someone finally came through that door, I dropped the mop because I thought it was you."

He fell silent, feeling a warmth in his chest. Lately, he had felt lonely, not just with his own problems but in other areas of life as well. The sadness made him think he was losing interest in things that had once brought him so much joy. Without all of that, he felt a little like a lighthouse in the sea, with nothing and no one within a few miles’ radius. On top of that, he had isolated himself a bit from his loved ones, he had to admit. It was only these late-night meetings and this phone call that made him realize he wasn’t completely alone.

By chance, he caught JJ's gaze. He wasn’t completely alone—he had friends around him—but that didn’t change the fact that he felt like he didn’t deserve them.

"Can you even talk right now, Doctor? If I’m interrupting something important, you can just say so."

"In literally one minute, I’ll have to get back to work…"

"Alright. Setting a timer for sixty seconds. Damn, I’ve already wasted like ten saying that. Never mind. Anyway, I get that something might have come up and you couldn’t make it. I’m not mad. But I’d really like to talk to you. If you get the chance, stop by. You know where."

"I’ll come by as soon as I’m back. Probably not today. I’ll call you then."

"No, don’t call," she asked. Surprised, he furrowed his brows. "Just show up. It’ll be romantic, don’t you think?"

"I hate to break it to you, but neither of us has what it takes to be a romantic," he replied gently, regretting that he was talking to her over the phone instead of face to face. It was always so hard for him to understand the intentions and meaning behind others’ words when he couldn’t see them.

"I do," she protested. "Maybe not you. You seem like the type who, when a woman asks for flowers, buys her a flycatcher."

"And what’s wrong with a flycatcher? It has an exotic and intriguing look, is a natural insecticide that helps reduce the use of chemical ones, and it’s very easy to care for. Besides, let me remind you that once you told me to take your hand and breathe, then asked if you didn’t sound like you were coaching a woman in labor. Is that your idea of romance?"

"That has nothing to do with my sense of romance. I just sometimes can’t keep my mouth shut. But honestly, flycatchers are freaking awesome. I’ve always wanted one. Still, my advice is, if you ever find yourself debating between buying a woman roses or a Venus flytrap, it’s safer to go with the roses."

"And what if I’m certain that the only woman I’d ever want to buy flowers for would prefer a Venus flytrap?"

"Deduce that yourself, Doctor."

He couldn’t help but smile. It felt strange—his cheek muscles had grown unaccustomed to that kind of effort.

"I know my sixty seconds are up," she said after a moment, her voice calmer and less chaotic. "But there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you."

"What is it?"

"How are you doing with, you know, the addiction? Was it easier for you after I took the Dilaudid from your apartment?"

The phone began to feel heavy in his hand, and the next breath was simply uncomfortable. He felt the same kind of shame as when JJ had asked if he was feeling better. The girl had been the only person he had confessed to about struggling again. His honesty on that front had made her quickly rise in the ranks of his closest people. It would have been easier to admit to her that he had relapsed. He even had a full explanation ready in his mind: he’s working on a missing child case, and had to do it to focus... He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bring himself to say it.

"Sorry, I have to go," he lied instead. "We’ll... we’ll see each other soon."

"Alright," she replied, somewhat coldly, certainly with concern. "I understand. See you soon."

He noticed that JJ had started glancing in his direction again. He hesitated, wondering if he should approach her, but he felt so bad about himself that he needed to disappear from anyone’s sight. He needed to focus on something, like the case but wasn’t sure if the fog in his mind would even allow that. 

Disappearing for a moment in the bathroom might help, and at that moment, it seemed like the only solution. And maybe it should have dawned on him much earlier, but only on his way did he start wondering, where the hell did she even get his number from?

*

That same night, you were calm. You were happy that Jude managed to get his number and that he could explain everything to you, which, in turn, made you stop worrying.

You felt the same on night number two and... night number three.

But when Spencer didn’t show up for the fourth time, you began to worry.

On the fifth and sixth nights, you called.

By the seventh, you were pissed as fuck. 

On the eighth day, you decided that since he couldn’t be bothered to call back, you’d stop acting like some damn wife waiting for her husband to come home from war. He was probably cheating on you. Well, not literally. Just extending the metaphor. 

You still spent every night in that room, but you no longer wondered whether he’d show up or not. You just did what was expected of you. As usual, you cleaned the floors. The owner of the hall called, asking you to clean the windows on both sides as well. You couldn’t help but greatly appreciate that you were on the ground floor. The cold air that made its way inside left pleasant kisses on your cheeks. The librarian came by to say goodbye. He did this every night exactly at midnight, when his shift ended and he was heading home. Sometimes he stayed to chat, but not always in the mood for it. Lately, he was feeling better and shared with you that the treatment for his wife’s cancer was showing positive results. Overjoyed, you almost fell out of the window and asked him to deliver good news to you next time when you’re actually standing on the ground.

You had always hated silence, but then it became unbearable. Through the open windows, the sounds of cars reached you, but not enough to drown out your thoughts. After a moment of hesitation, you shoved the headphones into both ears. When you felt particularly bad, you would return, body and soul, to equally painful moments. It usually happened in chronological order, without skipping even a single detail. There would be some minor inconvenience, and suddenly you were back in the dorm, banging on the bathroom door while your roommate was carving herself up in the tub. And a second later, you were at your mother's funeral, with no other family member around to hug you. You had never needed it so much before or after.

You closed your eyes. Usually, this happened in the morning, during those hated hours, not during the beloved nights. You opened them a moment later, and in the window, your face was reflected... along with someone behind you. Scared, you jumped out in a place. 

"I'm sorry," Spencer said, looking guilty. "I really shouldn't have sneaked up on you when half of you was hanging out of the window."

At first, in shock, you pulled the headphones out of your ears. You stared at him... furious. There had been no contact with him for so long, and now he appeared as if nothing had happened, looking unbelievably good, and holding in his hands...

"Is that a flycatcher?"

He seemed surprised that you were the one to ask about it first. However, he smiled and lifted the plant higher. 

"That's right."

"Shove it up your ass."

He opened his mouth, but no words came out, seemingly surprised at how quickly your calm tone shifted to anger. You took a moment to examine him more closely. He was dressed neatly and meticulously in a black cardigan, the collar of a white shirt peeking out from under it, and a red tie. Over that, he wore a black coat, not a single crease visible on any of his clothes. He was freshly shaved, his hair seemed a little shorter... but his face still carried that unhealthy expression, and his eyes looked exhausted. It also seemed to you that... he'd lost weight? As if he were trying to hide what was going on inside by his outward appearance. 

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, while his fingers tightened around the pot. "Look," he began, his voice a little unsteady. "I've been going through a really rough time. Actually, it's been like this for quite a while. On top of that, work's been stressful, and then I got sick..."

You interrupted him, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. "I called," you said, your voice sharp.

“I know,” he admitted. “I saw, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to call back because... I was ashamed...”

“Ashamed that you started taking Dilaudid again,” you stated more than asked, almost certain your guess was correct. You weren’t really angry anymore, just disappointed. Not in him, or in the fact that he hadn’t been able to fight the addiction. It hurt you how much he feared admitting it.

He didn’t answer, which was confirmation.

His gaze darted away from yours as fast as his legs could carry him. You sighed and moved closer, until the only thing separating you was the flycatcher he held. Your hands rested on the soft fabric of his coat, near his elbows. Due to the difference in height, he would have to lower his head to look at you. But he stubbornly kept it straight.

"Spencer, are you afraid I'll judge you?"

A long silence.

"I know you won't," he finally replied. "You're not the kind of person who judges someone for their struggles, I know that. But it's still so hard for me to talk about it."

"Hey, remember, you don't have to explain anything to me. Or say anything now. We can focus on something else first, and whenever you're ready to talk, I'll still be here. Like every night. Unless you just dropped by for a moment?"

Spencer finally looked at you, and as he lowered his head, a few stray strands of hair fell onto his forehead. You were still holding both of his shoulders, tightening your grip slightly to reassure him.

"I've got the whole night free. We finished working on the case, and I don't have to show up at work tomorrow."

You frowned slightly.

"A case?"

"A child abduction," he explained.

Something about this didn't add up.

"I thought you were... a doctor. You know, like, hospital stuff."  You could see how much that amused him. "Don't laugh at me! That's what my friend told me. I asked her to find your number, and that's the information she came across."

"I have a doctorate," he clarified, glancing at you with a small, indulgent smile. "That's why 'doctor.' I don't work in a hospital."

"And here I was already picturing you in a lab coat with a stethoscope around your neck," you groaned. "More than once, actually. No offense, but you don't  look particularly sexy in white. So, what do you do, then?"

He scratched his nose, hesitating slightly before answering.

"I'm an FBI agent."

For a moment, you stared at him silently, your lips slightly parted like an idiot.

"So, you really are a cop... I was joking about that the whole time we last saw each other! That’s why you were laughing so much." Finally connecting the dots, you crossed your hands on your hips, still surprised. You let out a short laugh."A doctorate. Impressive. Now I feel embarrassed around you for dropping out of college."

Spencer's eyebrows shot up.

"I didn’t know that. Psychology, right?"

"Last year. I rarely admit it to people, to be honest. I just don’t feel like hearing, 'How could you drop out when you were so close to finishing?'"

"I'm sure you had your reasons."

"Well, I like to tell myself that. But honestly, I was just in a really bad place mentally."

"That's a reason too."

For a moment, you fell silent. You’d never felt particularly ashamed of it, but you also didn’t like delving too much into the topic. Wanting to change the subject, you brought a smile to your face and pointed to the plant in his hands.

"Is that my apology gift?"

Spencer handed you a terracotta pot with a young, elongated flycatcher inside.

"Something like this. You're not mad at me for not reaching out, are you?" He tried to make sure.

You looked at him and shook your head.

"Not anymore. I'm very easy to bribe. Shouldn't I water this?"

For the next hour, at your request, he told you about this type of plant with such tiny details that you started to wonder if it was possible for an average person to have such an extensive knowledge… on any subject. But you listened intently. First of all, he had that way of talking about things that you always admired in others. It was captivating, filled with passion. Secondly, you were about to become the "mom" of a Venus flytrap. You had to know everything about your baby to take proper care of it.

"Am I boring you?" he asked during his talk.

You shook your head, encouraging him to continue his lecture. Then Spencer asked how your past few days had been, and the conversation flowed on. Easy and pleasant, sometimes abruptly shifting from one topic to another, but then slowly returning to it. Comparing it to your first longer conversation here… you were glad to see how much he had opened up.

Carefully choosing your words, you managed to find out that work had been the trigger that led him back to taking Dilaudid. When he finally said how terrified he was that his distraction might cost the child’s life, you simply didn’t know what to say. Sitting right next to him, you just melted into his side, resting your head on his jacket and wrapping your arm around his back.

"You lost someone recently, didn't you?" you risked asking. "That must have been some kind of trigger too."

A long silence fell, during which you could easily count his breaths. Two long ones.

"She was a member of our team. And to me, like a sister.”

You were surprised when Spencer gently laughed at those words.

"I still carry it with me," he said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a small, pocket-sized edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. You’d seen him with that book before. "But I just can't manage to read a single page. I'd really like to, though. I loved that book as a kid."

"I hated reading as a child," You recalled. "My mom loved it. Mostly fantasy; for my sixth birthday, she gave me all of Tolkien’s books. But I preferred the adaptations. I felt like my imagination couldn’t grasp all those beautiful images, I preferred to have them in front of me, on screen. It wasn’t until college that my roommate gave me The Bell Jar. She was obsessed with Sylvia Plath, which, now that I think about it, was incredibly unsettling. Well, you know, considering what happened later. But maybe I’m adding things in. Anyway, that’s when I fell in love with books. The ones that don’t take place in distant, magical worlds, but in gray cities or sad suburbs. About people, happy or less so, with good hearts or complete bastards, as long as they’re realistic."

"Do you have any books left from your mom?" Spencer asked, intrigued. You realized you hadn’t talked about her with anyone in a long time, and certainly not in such detail. Until now, you had considered her an intimate memory, reserved almost exclusively for you.

"I donated them to the library near our place. They’d just gather dust at mine, I don’t know if I could bring myself to reach for them. It’s not even about my dislike for fantasy… I also have two boxes of her clothes hidden in my apartment, I don’t even look at them anymore, let alone wear them. She had a wonderful style. A bit like a fairy. She was a psychologist at my high school, and everyone, literally everyone, told me they envied me for having such a mom."

"You also dress like a fairy," he said, studying you more closely. His gaze slowly traveled over you, starting from the light, ruffled blouse and ending at the heavy martens. He snorted. "Okay, like a fairy who goes to rock concerts in her free time."

"Thank you, that’s the style I’m aiming for,"

"So what’s wrong with your mom’s clothes? From what you’re saying, I gather you had quite a similar taste."

You hesitated to respond, thinking about those unopened boxes in the tiny attic of your apartment. You couldn’t even remember exactly what pieces of clothing were in them. It was just… the thought of wearing any of them for an entire day, at work or in your free time, terrified you. Your brain couldn’t separate the good memories from the destructive ones; you simply couldn’t have anything that reminded you of your mom. All the time.

You noticed Spencer was watching you. His expression was gentle, yet painfully sad.

"It never gets easier, does it?"

You realized he was talking about grief and quickly shook your head. Your words might sound incredibly pessimistic to someone who had recently lost someone.

"No. It does get easier, really," you assured him. "God, that’s probably not what you want to hear right now..."

"I want you to be honest," he asked.

"It gets easier, but it will never get easy. At least not for me. Though maybe it’s because I just haven’t confronted it yet, you know?" You laughed bitterly. "I live in constant denial, and when it gets hard, I put headphones in my ears to stop thinking. And the more time passes, the harder it is to face it.”

"So is that your advice? To accept it as soon as possible?"

"I'm not sure you can give advice on grief, Spencer. It's such an individual thing."

You saw his chest move as he sighed. You both spent some time in silence, as it seemed like you both needed it. Spencer didn’t take his eyes off the cover of Alice in Wonderland. You didn’t take your eyes off him, but your gaze wasn’t fully present, so he didn’t even notice you were staring.

You continued your conversation, and the morning arrived at an incredibly fast pace.

There was some tension accompanying the moment of goodbye, for some reason.

"I just want you to know that now, with all the work I have... I won’t be able to come here. Sometimes, sure, but not every day, no chance," he said, standing in front of you as you both got ready to leave. You threw your leather jacket over your shoulders and froze, your hands clenched tightly around the fabric. You quickly corrected yourself. What did you expect, that every night would look like this?

"I totally understand," you assured him, pretending to sound casual. "But if you need this meeting, you know where to find me. No need to announce it."

He nodded, and for a moment, silence hung between you again. You grabbed the pot with the carnivorous plant and froze, not really wanting to head toward the apartment.

"Or maybe..." Spencer started, clearly unsure of himself. "Maybe we could meet somewhere else. You know, like any other... friends. For dinner or whatever you suggest."

You pressed your lips together, feeling an even tighter knot in your stomach.

"Maybe," you said, in a very weak voice. You knew where this was heading. "But... you’re aware of what my day looks like, right? I’m busy most of the afternoon with work, then I come here for the whole night. At the moment, I’m only available in the morning..."

You didn’t have many friends, nor did you enter into long-term relationships for that very reason. Sometimes you met a fellow night owl, someone with whom you spent some good moments... but it was never forever. You never came across someone for whom the nocturnal lifestyle was a permanent state. Usually, after months or years, they decided they’d had enough of that way of life and tried to cure their insomnia. But you planned to live that way until the grave.

"There are still weekends. Though sometimes I work then too, if a tough case comes up... But let’s not think about that. I’m sure we can figure out how to make it work." You had a strange feeling that Spencer didn’t believe his own words. He swallowed with a kind of desperation. "At least from time to time, because... I really like you."

You really liked him too. But despite the fact that you deeply hoped you could stay in touch, you were aware that it wasn’t a very realistic scenario. You shook your head to stop thinking about it. You grabbed the Venus fly-trap in such a way that you could hug him goodbye. He prolonged the moment, holding you tightly with both arms, and in that gesture, there was... gratitude?

"See you then," he said, barely nodding as he did.

"Soon, I hope," you replied.

He left as you turned to lock the door. You could still feel his strong embrace around your body, and it was as if your body itself was telling you that something was missing.

 It was truly a tough morning return to the apartment.

*

"One more time, what’s the name of that bar?" asked Morgan, who was behind the wheel.

The other matter concerned the murderer targeting female students, with a recurring detail being that each victim had spent the night before their death at the same bar.

“The Tipsy Cow,” Spencer repeated, without a moment’s hesitation.

He was incredibly focused because he had taken Dilaudid. The first dose after a period of abstinence always put him in quite a pleasant state. The following doses, however, brought unwanted effects. After the first one, he didn’t even sweat. When they finished working on the search for that child, he was so stressed about meeting her that he deliberately delayed the moment in order to show up clean again, as if it had never happened. Later, he admitted everything to her anyway, so all the suffering was somewhat pointless when looked at from a broader perspective.

Though he desperately wanted to maintain their relationship... day by day, it became clearer to him that it probably wasn't possible. It was all about time. After a whole day at work, he simply couldn't afford to visit her late at night. Still, he tried to drop by even for an hour. Her mere presence gave him pleasure, the simplest pleasure in the world. He valued their conversations, loved her sometimes chaotic way of speaking, and how attentively she could listen to him. These meetings also motivated him to resist his addiction.

But in the last two weeks... something always came up. December, the end of the year, was always a bit intense.

It seemed to him that she was also drifting away from him a bit. Well, for the past fourteen days and six hours, she hadn’t sent him a single picture of how her flycatcher was growing. He didn’t know if he had done something wrong or if there was some other reason. In any case, the current case was so complicated and shocking that it looked like another week without contact was ahead…

“The Tipsy Cow,” Morgan muttered, shaking his head in disdain. “That’s gonna be the bar with the worst name I’ve ever set foot in. And there have been many.”

“A party animal, huh?”

“I used to be, yeah.”

In recent weeks, Derek had been throwing himself deeper and deeper into work, making it his top priority and always staying late. It was his way of coping with Emily's death. Spencer envied him a little for that. He, on the other hand, was so drained that sometimes, with no real plan... he would scroll through job offers he kept receiving. There were plenty to choose from. But for now, he felt he couldn’t bring himself to leave, even though the thought lingered in the back of his mind.

Together, they stepped into the small bar. The colorful, shifting lights gave the space a slightly club-like vibe, but the crowd inside wasn’t overwhelming. The music wasn’t too loud, and it was easy to move around. The noisiest spot was a small group of men playing pool in the corner, loudly cheering on a brunette in a black jumpsuit.

“We need to talk to the bartenders, find out who was on shift Friday night. Honestly, it’d be best to question everyone,” Morgan said as they approached the bar, where a burly man in a black polo shirt was busy mixing a drink. 

"Hey, man. We need a word with you."

He didn’t even look up at them.

"Order something or don’t. I’m not here for chit-chat..." he trailed off, his expression shifting the moment he saw the badge. "Okayyy. That changes things."

Spencer stood sideways at the bar, arms crossed over his chest. He was more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation, but his focus was sharp, ready to catch any details crucial to the investigation.

“Were you here last Friday, around 9:30 to 11:00 PM?”

The guy leaned against the bar with one arm, chewing gum as he thought about it.

“Nah, on Fridays and weekends, I usually come in later.”

“We need to know who was tending the bar then. This is serious, dude.”

“Damn, someone died?”

Their looks said it all.

At that moment, a petite bartender with light hair emerged from the back, carrying two glass bottles in her hands. Initially, she didn’t look at any of them, seeming a bit detached from her surroundings… Spencer straightened up completely.

 What a damn coincidence.

The bartender addressed her by name.

“You’re here Friday nights, right?” he asked.

The girl, caught off guard, nodded, only now noticing their presence. Her eyes shifted to Morgan, who was closer to her and holding his badge up. The muscles in her face tightened slightly with unease. Her eye makeup was heavier than usual—black with a touch of shimmer in the corners.

Only then did her gaze linger—suspiciously long—on him. Her lower lip parted slightly in surprise. Spencer had no idea if he should acknowledge her. He was keenly aware of how nosy Morgan could be when it came to his personal life, and he’d never mentioned his new acquaintance to anyone on the team—or in his life, for that matter.

Swallowing hard, he felt a slight panic rise, urging him to say something.

“We need to talk to you,” he told her, his tone carefully balanced between serious and gentle.

She seemed uneasy about the FBI’s presence; he could see the stress in her piercing eyes, which hadn’t left him for a second. He felt a sharp urge to reassure her, to tell her not to worry.

“But don’t stress—it’s just a few questions,” he added, his voice softening.

When he turned his head, he noticed Morgan watching him intently. He avoided his gaze at all costs, pretending to be at ease.

“Was anyone else working with you that night?” Morgan asked.

“Peter,” she replied. “But he’s on leave right now. His girlfriend just had a baby. A boy. Not that it’s any of your business,” she added quickly. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure I have his number somewhere if you need it…”

She began hurriedly searching her pockets, tugging at the fabric of her black jeans. She was also wearing a dark purple blouse tied at the waist, with a deep lace-trimmed neckline and wide, flared sleeves that didn’t seem particularly practical for bartending.

“You can give it to us later,” Derek reassured her. “What we really need are the details. I want you to try to remember everything that happened that evening. If you can’t, because it’s too loud here… Reid, maybe you two can head to the back?”

There was a faint, sly glint in his eyes. Did he… figure it out?

Derek shifted his gaze to the gum-chewing bartender. “And I’ll have a chat with you.”

Spencer let her lead him to the small back room. He turned to close the door and, when he faced her again, noticed her raised eyebrows and the faint smile playing on her lips.

“Coming to work today, this was the last thing I expected,” she chuckled.

Spencer smiled slightly as well. “It’s been a while. You look good—like you’re sleeping better. Does your partner know we know each other, or are we sneaking around like we’re in some kind of movie?”

“He doesn’t,” he replied, quickly adding, “But of course, it’s not a secret. And the fact that we know each other has no impact on the investigation. By the way… I really like your blouse.”

She raised her arms, showing off the flared sleeves, clearly pleased he’d noticed.

“Guess where I got it,” she said, and without waiting for his attempt, revealed, “It’s my mom’s”

He clearly remembered their conversation on the topic, so he tilted his head with a smile.

“I’m glad you finally pushed through,” he said quietly. He, too, had something to share. “As for me… a few days ago, I started reading Alice in Wonderland. I’m not sure if you remember…”

“The edition you got from your friend? Of course, I remember. That’s good news. Are you feeling better?”

He scratched his nose, unsure of what to say. It had been hard for him to identify his state lately; things were stable, maybe even better, if not for the fact that he had gone back to taking Dilaudid.

“And how’s Steven?” he asked, referring to the flycatcher they had named together some time ago.

“He’s good. The kid I sometimes look after stuck his fingers inside recently, and she bit him. I got a little scared that his mom might sue, but it turns out she doesn’t hurt people,” she said, but then straightened up suddenly. “Wait, here we are chatting, and I think you were supposed to be questioning me.”

Spencer immediately caught himself.

“Yeah, right. So, I’d like you to close your eyes, okay?”

She followed his instructions, responding to his quiet and focused tone. He needed her to recall everything that had happened that evening, to bring back any memories that could help them catch the unsub. As her eyelids lowered, she took a step closer. Suddenly, the room seemed even smaller than it was, as if the walls were trying to pull them together, closing in. Spencer lowered his voice further, causing her face to twitch slightly.

The last time they had been this close, they had accidentally found themselves too near. Her gaze had dropped to his lips, she sighed, and kissed him. He had been caught off guard, unsure of what to say, and she... acted like nothing had happened. He felt the gradual distance between them, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He didn't even allow himself to acknowledge how often he thought about that kiss. In fact, it had been the only thing on his mind since they entered this room and stood face-to-face once again. At the same time, her expression and behavior suggested as if nothing had ever happened. She always had a more relaxed attitude toward touch than he did, but the kiss must have meant something to her, especially since she had initiated it, right?

Not knowing what the hell he was doing, he brought his head closer to hers. He didn’t touch her, just froze in place, very close to her face. She had already said everything she knew, he’d gathered some valuable information, but still, she didn’t open her eyes. Was she aware of how close he’d gotten? Could she feel his presence right next to her?

He had no intention of getting closer to her; they were both at work. It was just… he’d been overcome by temptation and was curious about her reaction. But he quickly withdrew and cleared his throat quietly.

“That’s it. You can open your eyes,” he issued the final command. He knew it looked awkward, scratching the back of his neck, but he couldn’t help it. “Thanks a lot for your help. I think this could be important for the investigation.”

“I hope so,” she said, sadly. “They were… innocent girls. I can’t believe this man just comes here so casually now.”

“You never know what the other person is hiding,” he remarked, feeling a sudden tightening of concern in his chest. They had already left the back room and were approaching the bar where Morgan was still talking to the bartender. He slowed his pace. “Be careful when you walk alone at night, okay?”

“Am I in danger?” Worry flashed across her face.

“From this particular killer? Well… you’re not his type. But he’s not the only person with bad intentions in the world. Just be careful, please.”

She nodded, looking him in the eyes.

“For the first time, I’m glad I’m not anyone’s type,” she added after a moment, breaking the seriousness of the situation. Spencer held back a chuckle. Morgan glanced their way briefly. “Goodbye, agent.”

“Goodbye,” he replied with a short grunt. He wanted to ask if they would see each other again soon, but he knew it was highly unlikely, especially while they were focused on their work.

He never thought any relationship he had with a woman would be tested by something as mundane as differing daily rhythms. Still, he intended to hold on to the hope that it might work. Maybe something would change soon?

A sly grin tugged at Morgan’s lips as they walked back to the car.

“She caught your eye, didn’t she?” he teased.

Spencer looked at him, feigning pity.

“I’m a professional. I don’t get distracted at work.”

“Should I remind you how…”

The faint, really faint trace of a blush on Spencer's cheeks prompted Morgan to burst into laughter.

*

The owner of the room across from the library called, asking that you not come that night. Apparently, there was a meeting planned that would stretch into the early hours.

You had become so accustomed to your routine that, when you returned to your apartment from the bar, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Jude was getting ready for work; you exchanged just a few words before she left. So, you laid down on the couch with your laptop on your stomach, unbuttoning your pants for comfort as you lazily read a book review online.

Your gaze kept drifting between the screen and the flycatcher sitting on the coffee table

Earlier, you had thought about Spencer a lot, but more out of concern or curiosity. Since your encounter at the bar, however, those thoughts had shifted in another direction. He was literally occupying more space in your mind. At random moments, you even found yourself catching his scent—the same one you had noticed when he was so close.

You kissed him because you wanted to. Simple explanation. If it were up to you, you would have gone even further. But you knew that wouldn’t be good for either of you. You were already starting to grow attached, and it hurt to realize how little future you could see in your potential relationship. Potential relationship. You were imagining too much.

You closed your laptop with a resigned sigh and got off the couch. Jude was at work, Spencer was probably either working or already in bed, and the rest of your friends might not appreciate you suddenly reaching out after months of silence. But just because you were alone didn’t mean you couldn’t have fun on your own, right? You hadn’t gone out in ages. You were in the mood to dance, to have some fun, to meet someone new—a wild girl or guy for just one night, then forget about them completely. You needed that. Lately, there had been so much tension inside you.

So, you spent an hour in front of the mirror, touching up your makeup and thinking about which shoes would go best with your black mini dress. It wasn’t just any black dress—that would be boring. This one had short sleeves, exposed shoulders, and a subtle, astronomical pattern with a delicate sheen.

You left the apartment barefoot, holding your heels in your hand. The stairs in your building were too steep to navigate in those shoes. On the way, you threw a jacket over your shoulders, heading to a club you and Jude had been to before, where you both loved the atmosphere. It was there that you met a group of five friends who pulled you into their circle even though they didn’t know you, and the whole night felt like it lasted only a minute. Jude still kept in touch with a few of them. You were hoping for a similar adventure.

You didn’t drink much when you went out alone for safety reasons. You quickly found yourself lost in the rhythm of the club’s music, dancing with strangers and clearing your mind in the midst of the chaos. Hours passed, and someone tried to kiss you, pulling you into a tight embrace, but you couldn’t feel it. It didn’t bring you any pleasure, yet you had a twisted feeling that it would’ve been different if it had been someone else…

You stepped outside to get some fresh air. Your cheeks were likely flushed from both the dancing and the stuffy atmosphere inside.

The phone rang. Jude?

"Hey, girl," she said, her voice clearly worried. "Are you home?"

"I went out to the city," you replied, feeling uneasy. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing... it's just that the neighbor called me saying Richard is hanging around our door again. Be careful, okay? You know, you never know what might go through his head. And we don't even know if he's sober. At this hour, probably not."

You clenched your lips. The December chill hurt like knives, it was almost three in the morning, and you hadn’t planned on staying out until dawn. From the start, you intended to head back early, maybe relax in front of the TV for a bit, and perhaps even try to sleep, since nothing else seemed more appealing. Of course, you weren’t angry at Jude; it wasn’t her fault that her ex turned out to be a psycho.

"Thanks for telling me. Don’t worry, I’m not going back to the apartment for now."

Your roommate hung up, as she had to return to work. You stood there facing a dilemma. Should you go back to the club? You felt too drained to dance, and sitting alone in a corner seemed incredibly boring.

Maybe it was that one drink you had, but your legs seemed to take you in a certain direction.

You weren’t sure if Spencer was even home. But if you had nothing else to do, why not check? A short walk. You were a little desperate, after all, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. That’s how you justified it. You were going to him because you had no other option.

He opened the door, dressed in a wrinkled shirt, trousers, and a tie loosely hanging around his neck. His hair was in disarray, and you felt an urge to run your fingers through it and style it the way you wanted, but it would’ve been awkward.

"Hey. Am I interrupting?"

Surprised, Spencer shook his head.

"No... Actually, I was asleep."

"In those clothes?"

"I fell asleep while reading..." he explained, trailing off when he noticed your appearance. To put it modestly, you looked incredibly hot. For a long moment, his gaze lingered on your dress, visible beneath the open jacket and ending high on your thigh. "Very... nice dress. Is it... is it your mom's too?"

You chuckled.

"Can you imagine my mom, a school psychologist, in a dress covering half her ass?"

Embarrassed, Spencer raised his hands in apology and also chuckled softly.

"Sorry, I'm still half-asleep. Anyway... is there something wrong that you're here?"

"My mentally unstable ex-boyfriend of my roommate is lurking under our apartment.” You confessed bluntly “I'm a little scared to go back, and... I didn't know where else I could go."

It seemed like he was suddenly waking up quickly. He swung the door wide open, letting you in.

"Of course, come in. Is he dangerous?"

"He shows up every now and then and then disappears. It's like a lottery. Jude doesn't want to ever see him again, so we just pretend we're not here when it happens."

The inside looked just as you remembered. The lights were off everywhere except the bedroom, where he was probably reading. You allowed yourself to take off your uncomfortable shoes and set them by the door.

"Why don't you report it to the police?" His forehead furrowed with concern.

"Jude doesn't want to. And I don't want to do anything against her will. But I swear, if this happens again, I'll convince her. Or I'll do it myself."

"You should," he said, and suddenly a silence fell between you.

You weren't sure how to act. You'd barged in on him in the middle of the night, pulling him from his sleep. Not to mention, you hadn't seen each other since that conversation at the bar.

"Let me take your jacket," he said after a moment, as if remembering how to behave when hosting a guest.

You slowly took it off, revealing the full dress. Spencer momentarily let his gaze linger on it, but then he caught himself and turned away to hang your jacket. The glance didn't embarrass you in the slightest; if anything, you expected to catch him looking.

"Sorry if I woke you," you said, realizing you should probably apologize. It was only then that you began to feel a little awkward about the situation.

"You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault. And I'm glad I can help," he said, and once again, silence settled between you. Spencer placed his hand on his forehead as he realized you were still standing in the hallway. "Sorry, it's been a long time since anyone's visited, and I don't even know how to act... Do you want something to drink, or need anything?"

"I’m fine," you assured him, walking behind him into the living room. "I don't want you to act like I'm some important guest, Spencer. Or like you need to serve me."

"But you are an important guest," he replied.

A warm, gentle smile appeared on your lips.

"What were you reading?" you asked, leaning your lower back against the kitchen island, the two rooms connected as one. You glanced around the cozy interior, in soft, almost warm hues, where the darkness of the night blended with the orange light of the lamp. "Let me guess, some spine-chilling thriller?"

"I have spine-chilling thrillers every day at work," he snorted. "I was reading... Emma. Jane Austen."

Your eyebrows shot up.

"You fell asleep reading classic literature on a Friday night? Spencer Reid, what kind of man are you?"

"In a good way or a bad way?"

He stood across from you, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. Your eyes lingered on the first few undone buttons of his shirt.

"Of course, in a good way. Why would I judge someone for reading?"

"I don’t know," he shrugged. "Some people think it’s boring. And weird, especially on a Friday night. And what about you? What were you doing before your roommate’s ex showed up?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes as he nodded meaningfully toward your outfit. "Were you reading too?"

You lifted your chin high.

"Exactly. I was reading my favorite Shakespearean drama in my favorite dress. And those incredibly comfortable shoes I left by your door."

"That goes without saying."

"I definitely wasn’t at any club."

"I wouldn’t even suspect you of that."

"I was doing what any God-fearing virgin would do," you said, bursting into laughter at the absurdity. "Alright, alright. I’m getting carried away. Now I actually feel like reading something. But nothing too classic—I don’t have the brainpower for it. Do you happen to have any romance novels?"

I'm afraid not."

"Really? You have more books in your home than the library in my hometown, and not a single romance? I’m not talking about dark erotica or anything—just something subtle. Friends to lovers, polite sex..."

Spencer choked on a laugh.

"Sorry, but are you drunk?"

You were just horny. 

"Not a drop of alcohol has touched my lips. I'm just hyperactive. That’s what the night does to me."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"So? Aren't you hiding any sinful books in there?"

He rolled his eyes, clearly amused rather than annoyed by your persistence.

"You're welcome to look," he offered, gesturing toward one of the shelves. "But I’m not promising you’ll find anything like that."

"But if I do, you owe me a drink."

“And if it turns out I’m right, then what?”

You bit your lip, pondering. 

“I’ll figure something out.”

“You know, I won’t enter a bet unless I know what I get in return.”

“And what do you want?”

“A dinner together,” he replied without hesitation. “Or breakfast, if you prefer.”

“Deal,” you answered just as quickly. You weren’t worried about regretting it—your blood was buzzing too much for that.

He extended his hand for you to shake on it, sealing the deal. Instead of letting go, you held onto his fingers firmly and tugged him toward the bookshelf. He stood so close as you examined the books one by one, taking some out to inspect their covers to see if they suggested any hint of romance. When they didn’t, he let out a short laugh, his breath brushing against your neck and sending a shiver down your spine. You didn’t let it show.

“Spencer…” you started after a while, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “It counts if the book has a romantic subplot, right?”

“No, it doesn’t count! We agreed on a romance. A full-fledged, contemporary one.”

“We didn’t say contemporary.”

“I assumed it was implied since I mentioned owning Jane Austen books. Pride and Prejudice is a romance, among other things…”

“Ha! So you do have one. I won!” You raised your hands high in victory.

“…But it’s also a social and domestic novel. Doesn’t count.”

You poked him in the chest with your finger. “You don’t know how to lose.”

He glanced at the spot where you touched him, clearly trying not to smile.

“Maybe I just care a lot about that dinner,” he admitted boldly.

You didn’t know what to say. You tried to look at him confidently, but it was hard to think and maintain eye contact with him at the same time.

“Or breakfast,” you murmured.

“Or breakfast,” he agreed. Realizing how close he was standing, he instinctively stepped back half a pace. “So, are you ready to admit my victory?”

You shot him a defiant look.

“Not a chance. I haven’t even checked all the books yet. I’m only about three-quarters through. Who knows what kind of BDSM might be lurking in the last quarter?”

“Seriously?” he asked with a sigh. “Okay, just look at me. Do I seem like the kind of guy who reads stuff like that?”

“Honestly, you look like the kind of guy who reads encyclopedias. But the one thing I know about people is that appearances can be deceiving. Still waters run deep.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re as stubborn as they come.”

“Maybe I just really want that drink,” you teased.

“I can make you one,” he offered unexpectedly.

“Seriously?” The suggestion caught you off guard.

Spencer shrugged casually.

“I don’t drink much, but some friends gave me a few bottles for my birthday.”

You hesitated, considering.

“I’m not really in the mood,” you admitted. You felt good, even without alcohol. “But I do have another request… Do you happen to have something I could change into? I won’t lie, this isn’t the most comfortable dress… though it’s absolutely stunning.”

He smiled softly.

"You’re right. And yes, I’ll find something for you to change into. Just… it’ll be something of mine."

Following him into the bedroom, you let out a small chuckle.

"You know, I didn’t expect you to have a closet full of women’s clothes. Plus, in my size. Although, who knows what girls leave behind at your place. It’s a tactic, you know? You leave a sock at a guy’s place to have an excuse to come back. Unless you didn’t like it, then you have to accept losing the sock."

He didn’t say anything, opening the wardrobe to find something appropriate for you. You’d been in his bedroom before and didn’t feel the need to look around; nothing had changed inside.

"Do you do this often?" he asked, inspecting a t-shirt. "Use the sock strategy?"

"No," you replied, shrugging. "I’m too straightforward for that. If I like it, I just go back and say 'Let’s do it again' Or I don’t leave at all. I’m a bit of a parasite too."

He chuckled at the comparison and finally handed you some clothes. You didn’t really look at them; you just needed something looser, something you hadn’t danced in for hours at the club.

"You know where the bathroom is, right?"

You confirmed and were about to head in that direction when you stopped.

"Wait," you said, turning back toward him. But then, you turned again, facing him with your back. "The zipper on the dress," you explained, pulling your hair to the front. "I could manage it myself, but I don’t want to risk breaking it. Could you…?"

"Y-yeah," he agreed after a moment, stepping closer.

He stood just behind you, reaching for the top of your back. Before he pulled the zipper down, there was a moment where he simply paused, unmoving. Your knees suddenly trembled, almost impatiently. Then, he tugged at the zipper, unfastening the dress, and the coolness and freedom teased your skin.

You could have said thank you and headed to the bathroom, but you didn’t. Something kept your body rooted in place, right there next to him, feeling the pads of his fingers on the lower part of your dress.

Even his breath, louder and irregular.

When you began to, slightly disappointed, assume that he wouldn’t do anything more, his lips found a spot on your neck, kissing it slowly. You inhaled deeply, your head instinctively tilting back, giving him more access, as if you had been waiting for just that.  He stopped for a longer time in this specific place, pressing on it harder, as you barely hold a groan. 

Your breath was given a free rollercoaster ride.

You reached your hand back, wrapping it around his head and pulling him closer to you. You felt him sigh directly into your skin, leaving another two hungry kisses on an exposed skin on your shoulder. God, why were you still wearing that dress?

You abruptly stopped, turning around and almost hitting the top of your head against his jaw. You didn't care about it, and the thought of apologizing never crossed your mind, just simply pushed him, planting a strong kiss right on his lips.

The clothes he gave you slipped from your hand and fell to the floor, but neither of you were concerned about it, as you were both too absorbed to care. You pushed him again, this time onto the bed, on which he sat, surprised by your suddenness. You saw red marks creeping onto the parts of the neck exposed by the undone shirt. 

"Spencer, Spencer, Spencer," you said, shaking your head in a mock reprimand. He tilted his head to the side, unsure of where you were going with this, his fingers impatiently brushing your waist on both sides. "You lied to me."

Your hands grabbed his face, positioning just under his jaw and lifting it upward so you could find his lips right against yours. 

“I lied to you?”

"“That's right. You said you don't read romances. But tell me, how does someone who doesn't do that know such practices?”

“Practices?” he repeated again, surprised."

His gaze was focused solely on your lips to which he tried to get closer, but you hadn't allowed him to yet. 

"This whole unbuttoning of the dress. And then, the neck”

With your index finger, you traced along the skin on his neck

“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. He removed one hand from your waist and took your hand, the one you had been playing with.

“Did I like it?” you scoffed with a genuine laugh.“I’m like half naked now. Answer that for yourself”

Undressing was the element you hated the most. You became impatient and couldn't understand why your clothes couldn't just disappear from you, instead of threatening to burn your already overheated skin. Spencer didn't help, so slow in his movements. You had a feeling he was doing it on purpose. He probably enjoyed watching you struggle to untangle yourself from the dress. He waited a minute before helping you, effortlessly pulling it over your head.

Maybe slow wasn't the most accurate description.The way he touched his body wasn’t slow. It was like rationing a treat, breaking it into small pieces and savoring them one by one. Meanwhile, it gazed straight into your mouth, shouting, eat me!

It required incredible self-control and composure, but it resulted in something more than just pleasure. When he found himself right between your legs, his lips touching gently every single inch of your thigh and refusing to go further despite your pleas, you compared him to the previous guys you slept with. With them, on the other hand, you had to tell them to slow down, to do everything more carefully, and not to focus solely on their own needs.

“Does it feel right?” He asked, briefly lifting his gaze, his hands gripping your thighs.

Your back arched, probably enough of an answer, but you confirmed it with a soft moan.

"I'd rather you said it out loud. Does it feel right?"

"That's edging on sadism, do you realize that?" you whimpered, trying to release the tension by pulling at his hair.

He stopped again.

"Please, do it again."

It wasn't something he had to beg for.

The rest went similarly. You liked how his confidence and courage grew, but you also went wild when, at certain moments, the same gentle and sometimes awkward Spencer returned. It was a perfectly balanced mix.

"Can you talk to me more?" he asked over time, once he was already inside you. "I want to know how you feel about all of this." After those words, your forehead twitched slightly as you felt the onset of pain. "Does it hurt?"

"No," you whispered, accompanied by a faintly tired exhale.”A little. But it's normal I just didn't have sex for a while”

"No, it shouldn't hurt you. Do you want to stop?"

"Just... give me a moment."

He slowed down, almost stopping. You took a breath,pressing your forehead to his. You stayed like that for a moment, neither of you in a hurry. After all, where to? Outside, the night still reigned, long and patient, winter’s grip holding steady. You liked having his face so close to yours, joining them together and not speaking. For the first time, you could truly say that you enjoyed the silence.

You had always considered silence overwhelming, incapable of calming the chaos that arose in your mind. You preferred moments of wildness, loud sounds, and fast pace, but it was in that silence, which fell then, that you found a peace filled with intimacy.

You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.

"It's okay, I'm ready."

After everything, you simply lay facing each other, tangled in one another. Actually, you didn’t like that expression "after everything." After everything—after what exactly? Sex wasn’t just about the physical act; it also included the long moment before and the even more significant one after. It was precisely that moment after which revealed the true you both. How much you cared for each other and how much you meant to each other beyond the bed. That was often missing in one-night stands; the perspective of quickly disappearing from each other's lives and being forgotten somehow intensified selfishness in people.

Lying there, you played with the hair on his forehead.

"You know, they say this is the moment when people are the most honest with each other."

"Do you want to squeeze a few secrets out of me?" he asked.

"Just one," you said mysteriously, turning onto your back. Before that, you noticed his eyebrows furrow.

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at you again.

"Which one?"

You pretended to hesitate before answering. You tried with all your might to keep the smile from appearing on your face, betraying you.

"I'm afraid that even now, you won't be honest with me."

"I'm starting to get worried."

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise to tell the truth. Give me your pinky."

"What?"

"A pinky promise, you fool."

“O-okay” 

Clearly surprised, he did what you asked.

"Now tell me the truth. You got any romance books at your place you're too embarrassed to admit to?"

He rolled his eyes.

"I'll find them," you teased. "I’ll get up right now and find them."

You pretended to get up, but he pulled you closer, preventing you from moving.

"You're not going anywhere."

*

You fell asleep.  

Asleep. At night.  

Completely normal for any other person, but for you...? The shock made your heart beat faster, painfully colliding with your chest. The blanket slid off your shoulders as you sat up.  

Spencer sighed in his sleep, the kind of breath that often heralds waking, but not this time. He was still deep in slumber, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward you. Falling asleep next to each other after sex had always seemed a bit... cliché to you. Pulled straight from the movies. It looked pleasant on screen and spared the viewer the awkward scene of putting on clothes that had been scattered across the floor in a frenzy of passion just moments earlier. In reality, who had time for that?  

For you, someone who had been struggling with sleep issues for years, it was usually just lying in bed next to a guy sleeping soundly, feeling bored. A sign it was time to get up and leave.  

You’d planned to spend the night at Spencer’s place from the start. Well, maybe not specifically in the same bed, but as his... guest. Because of Richard, of course. So when he fell asleep mid-conversation, you didn’t have many options on where to go. Besides, you didn’t want to leave. It was nice lying next to him; his face looked so innocent in sleep. You had thought about quietly grabbing a book or reaching for one of the ones in the bedroom, but that would probably wake him up. So you rested your head back on the pillow and watched him. At some point, without realizing it, your eyelids grew heavy.  

It was a very early hour, or so the clock on the nightstand claimed. It felt unreal to you. Usually, at this time, you were sitting in an empty room, waiting for some lonely soul desperate for a conversation to walk in. 

For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, but... it would hurt if it didn’t work out. You’d lose a friend and confidant. A man who had come to you at his lowest point and decided to trust you, making you feel special. Someone who understood you, made you laugh, and had even given you a Venus flytrap. On top of that, he had an excellent taste in books, an incredible intellect, and, to be completely fair, was very good in bed.

Well, running away wasn’t an option anymore. You knew that when Spencer woke up, you’d have two choices: pretend nothing happened again, or have a conversation. You were both adults, so it was only reasonable to expect you’d choose the latter

You knew you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. It was an anomaly, one that wouldn’t repeat itself. Still, you wanted to let him sleep peacefully, feeling guilty for disrupting his night by barging into his apartment. Before finding a comfortable position by his side, ready to lie there for an hour or two, you glanced one last time at the clock—and something caught your attention.

“Spencer,” you said softly, not wanting to wake him too abruptly. It didn’t work, so you gently shook his bare shoulder. “Spencer, your phone.”

It must have been silent, but you could clearly see an incoming call displayed on the screen.

At the word phone, he reacted as if it were a blaring alarm. He bolted upright, still half-asleep, and pressed the device to his ear.

“Hotch?” he asked, his voice rough and groggy, sounding almost like a cough. He listened to the person on the other end, rubbing his face with one hand to wake himself up, then sighing heavily as he ran that same hand through his hair.

"I’ll be there in an hour," he said, his tone laced with clear reluctance but also an undeniable sense of duty. When the call ended, he turned to you over his shoulder. The expression on his face softened.

"Hey," he said gently.

"A new case?" you guessed, trying not to let it show how much you didn’t want him to leave. After all, it was what it was—his work was far more needed by the world than by you in bed.

"We’ve been working on it for a while, and there’s been some kind of breakthrough... I’m really sorry. I feel bad, leaving like this," 

"Spencer, I understand. It must be something important. Go, and don’t worry about me. I’ll get myself together and head back home soon..."

"And what about your roommate’s ex?" he interrupted, giving a slight shake of his head. "You don’t know if he’s gone yet. You shouldn’t be going back alone."

"It’s Richard. He’s a very impatient motherfucker. He’s probably already gone," you replied.

"You don’t know that."

"So, what are you going to do?" you scoffed. "Take me there by the hand?"

Spencer was silent for a moment, looking at you as if the answer was obvious.

"Just stay here,"

His suggestion made you raise an eyebrow. Spencer shrugged.

“Well, what? It’s barely five in the morning. I don’t want to kick you out this early just because I got a call from work.”

"Kick me out?" you chuckled, causing him to look at you with a slightly puzzled expression. At the same time, he was heading toward the wardrobe, realizing he didn’t have much time and should start getting dressed. "If you call this kicking someone out, then I don’t even have a word for how other guys behave. By the way, could you hand me, I don’t know, a sweater or something?"

The apartment had a pleasant temperature, but you still had an overwhelming urge to wrap yourself in something warm and soft. The only piece of clothing you had with you was a short-sleeved dress. And a jacket, but that didn’t really count.

"In that case..." Spencer began, rummaging through the clothes in his wardrobe, his brow slightly furrowed as if he were seriously contemplating his choice. He didn’t seem amused by your earlier joke—in fact, he looked surprisingly focused.

His fingers finally stopped on one of the hangers. He pulled something out and turned toward you with a faint smile.

"I'm tremendously proud that I don't fall into the category of those other guys. You like purple, right?" he added, holding up a sweater in a deep plum shade.

"I meant just any piece of clothing. But yes, I do like purple," you said, stretching your hands out in front of you, encouraging him to toss you the sweater.

Instead of throwing it, he stepped closer to you. At first, you didn’t understand what he was doing, especially when he stopped right in front of you, still holding the sweater in his hands.

It dawned on you a moment later, and you burst into laughter, raising your arms up so he could slide it over your head. The sweater draped over your body, proving to be slightly oversized. The V-shaped neckline awkwardly settled on your shoulder, slipping down and leaving it exposed.

Spencer, almost mechanically and with focus, slid his hands under the fabric to free your hair that was tangled beneath it. After probably half the night in the club and the second half spent in bed, it probably resembled a huge mess of hay, but you weren’t particularly concerned about it. It only just occurred to you that he had to leave soon, and knowing his work and the constant impossibility of syncing your schedules, you might not see each other again until the next few days.

"I’d like to talk to you," Spencer suddenly said, almost as if he had to force the words out, quietly taking a breath. "About all of this. About us. We don’t really have time for it now, but as soon as I get back, I’ll make sure to meet you. No matter what time it is or how tired I am, okay?"

You wanted to comment on the last part of his words, the bit about being tired, assuring him that you weren’t asking for that from him, but something in his gaze stopped you. It was funny how his eyes were both sleepy and lively at the same time. His dark iris blended with his dilated pupil, the boundary between them fading, making them almost hypnotic.

"So, are you staying here?" he asked.

A delicate smile passed over your face.

"I see this means a lot to you. Aren’t you afraid I’ll start digging through your books?" "All of them are at your disposal," he reassured, also lifting the corners of his mouth slightly.

However, suddenly his expression darkened, as if some spell had been cast, taking away all his confidence. For a long moment, he stayed silent, and you tilted your head in confusion.

"Can... can I kiss you?" he finally asked.

"Do I need to remind you that we already slept together?"

"Well..."

Whatever he was about to say, you simply cupped his neck with your hand, pulling him closer. A sweet, shallow, slightly long —a typical farewell kiss.

He had already mostly dressed, with only the task of crouching down by the nightstand left, to open the safe inside. You knew he kept his gun and badge there. You tried not to look in his direction while he entered the code, just as common decency dictated looking away when someone unlocks their phone. But still, you noticed how his fingers trembled slightly.

When he left, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. If you were anyone else, you would’ve hidden under the blanket, absorbing the scent of both of you, sinking into an incredibly peaceful sleep. However, you were aware that wouldn’t happen. You pulled a pillow under your head, lost in thought, haunted by some strange unease.

You spent a long time simply wandering around the apartment, unable to help the fact that you were one of those people who got bored quickly. Jude had just returned, you thought, as the clock struck eight. The main trait of her ex was unpredictability, but even he followed certain patterns and routines in life. He didn’t show up that early because he knew she was still asleep. He preferred to knock on the door at noon and bother her during her free time.

You started getting ready before you even made a decision. First, you made the bed, then undressed again to slip back into the dress. On top, you put Spencer’s sweater, for some unknown reason not wanting to part with it. Was this some sort of reversed sock strategy? Were you taking his clothes instead of leaving them behind?

An impulse shot through your body as you stood by the door. Not even knowing what you were doing, you simply returned to the bedroom, falling to your knees in front of the, as it turned out, unopened safe.

Spencer hadn’t emptied it completely. Inside was a dose of Dilaudid, the reason his hands had been trembling earlier.

An unexpected wave of guilt hit you with force. Recently, you hadn’t brought up the topic with him at all, assuming that if he needed to talk about it and was ready to, he would bring it up himself. But that’s not how people in addiction found themselves. They could deny it to the very end, doing anything to avoid seeking help.

You wiped your face with your hand. Should you even confront him about it when you saw him again? Well, the answer was probably yes, but the real question was how.

You came up with the idea of perhaps arranging a night in your room across from the library. That place had an oddly polite way of encouraging people to be honest, without making them feel like information was being extracted from them forcefully. You had been considering this on your way back. The heels were rubbing your feet, and after the night in the club, you had a few blisters. Before entering the building where you lived, you simply took them off, not wanting to risk your life on those steep stairs. Jude had sprained her wrist on them once, and thank God it was just her wrist.

Completely lost in your thoughts, in their aggressive waterfall, you didn’t even notice someone sitting right by the door to your apartment, leaning against it with their back. You jumped in surprise when Richard sprang to his feet.

Shit.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, clearly happy to see you. You cautiously stepped back a step, likely balancing on the edge of the stairs. You didn’t turn around, nervously glancing at the man. "Hey, do you remember me? You're Jude's roommate, right? You definitely remember me."

"I remember," you admitted uncertainty, holding yourself back from taking another step backward. Richard always had that dangerously unpredictable energy. One moment, he could circle around his girlfriend like an attention-hungry kitten, and the next, he’d be throwing plates in the kitchen. Although, theoretically, he had no reason to hurt you, you preferred to remain... cautious.

"That's great. Listen, could you let me in for just a second? I need to talk to her."

You didn’t know what to say, how to act. Of course, letting him in was out of the question; you wouldn’t do that to your friend. However, you knew that as soon as you opened the door, he’d take advantage of the opportunity and force his way inside. You could step back… the real question was whether he would let you.

"Come on..." he pleaded, trying to make a puppy-dog face, which looked downright comical on his stern face. "Please, she doesn’t want to see me. I just want to talk, to make things right. I’ve changed, really. I don’t know what she told you about me, but half of it probably wasn’t even true. Please."

Seeing that you still weren’t moving, his features suddenly hardened.

"Just open the door."

You didn’t respond.

"Where’s your key?"

He probably guessed it was in your jacket pocket, and suddenly reached for you.

"Move away, right now!" you hissed, pushing his hand away.

He grabbed your wrist so tightly that a strangled cry of pain escaped you.

You started struggling. You tried to push him away as he rummaged through your pockets one by one, still gripping your hand tightly, preventing you from escaping. A few times, you struck him with a clenched fist, shouting loudly, hoping to wake Jude or one of the neighbors.

Your attempts at defense were in vain. No one came. Richard finally found the key, and once he got what he wanted, he shoved you aside with a scoff.

You didn’t even have a chance to try to regain your balance.

It happened so quickly that you didn’t even manage to close your eyes, fooling yourself into thinking it might protect you from the pain to come. During the struggle with Richard, you dropped the shoes you were holding, your bare feet slipping off the edge of the step. Your body followed, limp, like a rag doll. In that moment, you wished you were one. Without bones, the sound of them cracking filling your ears.

Without limbs, vulnerable to breaks.

Without real eyes, still covered in the remnants of party makeup.

Beautiful, cold, and empty, as they started to fill with fog.

Forced to look in the direction your neck had twisted.

Dead. 

tagging: @lillaberry @nightfullofparadox @issy25 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @reidmarieprentiss @miriamnox @bloodredrubyrose

i'm so grateful for how many of you wanted to read it all <3

[xxsycamore]

🔞IKEMEN BREEDING SEASON🔞 - XXSYCAMORE'S 2000 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION EVENT

On October 28th, 2024, this blog hit 2K followers! Once again, thank you, everyone, for the support, and for sticking around in my writing adventures. I hope you can continue enjoying my work! Now, our previous milestone celebrations were all about fluffy short stories, so I figured it's high time we bring some smut into the mix. Even though spring would have been perfect for the Ikemen Breeding Season, I decided, why wait when we can have it now. Besides, that time is reserved for part 2 of our Steal My Heart!! (1500 followers) event! If you have placed a request for it and haven't received a ficlet yet, don't worry, I haven't deleted anything! :)

➺ PROMPTS

How do you want the suitor to breed you (or the MC)? :

In the heat of the moment

As proof that you belong to them

To produce an heir

With a chance for twins

While imagining you being pregnant

Making sure that it takes

Making the moment special

When they'd already gotten you pregnant before

With you taking the lead

While you're in heat (Omegaverse)

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ 2 separate request openings - Since in the past there have been times when everything has been grabbed in the first 10 minutes from the announcement, I decided it would only be fair for the people in different time zones if I divide it into two batches at different times of the day.

FIRST REQUEST OPENING WILL HAPPEN ON OCTOBER 30TH, 12 PM UTC (8 AM EDT) (or click here to see it converted to your time zone)

SECOND REQUEST OPENING WILL HAPPEN ON OCTOBER 31TH, 12 AM UTC (8 PM EDT on the 30th) (or click here to see it converted to your time zone)

Both request openings will be closed after I get a total of 15 requests each! I will make separate posts to announce when those start and close.

➺ RULES:

Understand that these are going to be short NSFW stories, around 500 words each.

Anonymous asks are allowed, but please don't abuse my kindness and don't request if you're a minor!

Pick a character from the list below and a prompt from the prompt list. Threesomes are allowed, so long as no one is related, lol.

Be sure to let me know if you want MC x Suitor(s) or Reader x Suitor(s). If you don't specify, I'll write it as I see fit!

Specify your gender preferences if you have any! If you selected "Reader", I'll by default write them with afab traits. This goes especially for the prompt "Imagining you pregnant" where you could encounter terms including but not limited to: breasts, lactation, love handles, vagina, ovulation, womb, ovaries, pregnant bellies, you get the picture. To bypass all of this, you can ask for a Gender Neutral Reader, or you can be more specific and tell me your preferences in detail.

Mpreg is welcome, sure, why not. This goes both for Male Readers and for Getting your suitor pregnant, like in the case where you picked the Omegaverse prompt and he's an Omega. Go wild.

OCs are NOT allowed, due to how short these stories are going to be versus the research required in order to do justice to your OC. Sorry!

Don't send multiple requests! One per person. Again, I'm put my trust in you about not abusing the anon option.

In the event where I've already received the same prompt with the same character, I'll only write it once!

Don't hesitate to give me details! :) I want to create a work specially crafted for you. If you have a whole scenario in mind, I'd love to hear it, even if I have to squeeze it in the word limit. Where are they doing it, what is the reader wearing, what petname the suitor uses - these are just a few examples! Additionally, since I haven't read all the routes of the characters listed here, if you feel it's needed, you can provide some in-game information about the character if it has a relation to topic. Ex: "I think he'll make a great family man because he canonly loves taking care of the younger ones."

Requests sent outside of the specified time periods won't be accepted. I try to immediately answer these so you'll know, but I might also straight-up delete anything that doesn't follow the rules.

➺ AVAILABLE CHARACTERS:

Ikemen Villains: Wiliam; Harrison; Liam; Elbert; Alfons; Roger; Jude; Ellis; Victor; Darius; Nica; Ring

Ikemen Prince: Leon; Chevalier; Yves; Nokto; Licht; Jin; Luke; Clavis; Rio; Sariel; Gilbert; Keith; Silvio, Cyran/Cyril, Matthias, Kagari

Ikemen Vampire: Napoleon(pls); Leonardo; Mozart; Arthur; Vincent; Theo; Isaac; Jean; Dazai; Sebastian; Comte; Shakespeare; Vlad; Faust; Charles; Drake; Galileo

Ikemen Revolution: Lancelot; Ray; Jonah; Fenrir; Edgar; Sirius; Kyle; Luka; Zero; Seth; Blanc; Oliver; Loki; Harr; Mousse; Dalim; Dean; Levie

Ikemen Sengoku: Nobunaga; Masamune; Shingen; Hideyoshi; Mitsuhide; Kanetsugu; Ieyasu; Mitsunari; Yukimura; Sasuke; Kenshin; Kenyo; Ranmaru; Motonari; Keiji; Kicho; Yoshimoto

Midnight Cinderella: Alyn; Giles; Louis; Leo; Byron; Nico; Albert; Robert; Rayvis; Sid

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆

Please understand that I can't guarantee that I'm going to write all of these! I have a lot of issues IRL that I need to take care of, which leads me to either not having a lot of free time or not having the needed energy and inspiration to write. Either way, I hope you can have fun with this event! I can't wait to see what you send me. Have a great day, and I'll see you in my askbox soon! <3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Well if given how the anime will adapt the Manga, it makes me wonder about the savanaclaw adaptation given how many delays due to the artist's personal life that octavinelle Manga came around and is now have overblot Chapter before Savanaclaw does. I wonder if the author will have time to finish it and given how heartslabyul will release in October 2025, it might take awhile to animate savanaclaw.

[Referencing this news!]

Decided to put these together because the topics were similar enough and I have similar advice for both asks. To briefly clarify the second ask, I believe the Anon made a typo and meant to say "Yana Toboso was NOT involved in the anime's production". This is because Yana made a tweet recently stating that she and her team were surprised and honored that they were making an anime adaptation based on the manga.

Now, about the first ask: we are not aware of what the manga and anime creation process looks like for Twst. Yes, the Savanaclaw manga has had a number of delays, but we cannot be sure if this impacts the anime at all. For example, we don't know how much of the Episode of Savanaclaw anime is even done yet. We don't know if the anime team is going to be in talks with the mangaka to coordinate things. We don't know when the Episode of Savanaclaw will air (and for all we know, it could give the mangaka ample time to finish up). There are many things we do not know, so it would be VERY hasty to conclude anything now.

Regarding the second ask: Yes, it does seem like Yana had no involvement in the anime. This, however, should NOT be taken as an immediate sign that the anime will be poor quality or that the anime will deviate from the main story in large (and bad) ways. Nothing of the news we've heard so far would indicate any sweeping changes. This is equating a past occurrence with something that has yet to even happen without even knowing if the production circumstances are even the same between them. The only thing we know that is linking the animes of early Black Butler and Twst is Yana's lack of involvement. This doesn't account for ANY other factors in production, and it's also assuming that Yana's mere presence makes a product good--and, conversely, her absence automatically makes a product bad. I don't think this is the way to go, as it's jumping to conclusions based on minimal evidence and it's putting way too much weight on Yana's shoulders to carry the quality of the Twst anime.

And that brings me to the thread linking together not just these two asks, but a lot of the anime-related posts and asks that I've been seeing as of late: fearmongering and doomposting. Lots of it.

As I’ve said multiple times now, it's fine to be hesitant about the anime. I'm hesitant of it myself! However, let’s not draw preemptive conclusions or fret over what are ultimately hypotheticals. It’s so far off, and we have zero of the actual final product to look at and judge the quality of. I'm seeing so many people make mountains out of molehills, working themselves up over nothing, assuming the worst-case scenarios... 💦 and again, all of this based on little to no information. I can't help but that time and energy could be better spent on other fandom efforts or things we actively enjoy. It's valid to be anxious about the anime and how it presents something we care so much about, but putting those feelings in a public space paints the fandom in a bad light. It gives the impression that we'll jump the gun and claim something is bad before letting the product speak for itself. If you're a current Twst fan that is excited for the anime, it may not feel so good seeing others theorizing about how bad it will be. If you're a potential new Twst fan seeing this stuff, you'd feel very unwelcome or unwanted. I worry this will fester and create divides in the community... unintentionally creating an environment that isn't fun to be in, and that's the antithesis of what I think fandom should be. I guess I'll end on this note: There is a difference between being healthily skeptical and assuming the worst of a production. Please take a moment to reexamine your concerns about the anime and ask yourself "Is this a reasonable fear?", "What am I basing this off of?", and, "How, if at all, will this affect my own enjoyment of Twst?" If it gets to be too much for you, then please, please step away from social media (where a lot of these fears are being touted) and take a break. Do something you like, take a walk, whatever. I just beg of you, don't allow yourself to be consumed by feelings that will bleed the fun of fandom out of you 💦

[centrally-unplanned]

Saw this really cool post of a 1982 "SF" (Science fiction but in Japan that included things like anime, manga, tokusatsu, etc at the time) magazine that did a survey of active fan groups/circles at the time - ~woo, precious data! Lets see what we got:

Love to see a good gender breakdown - as is often the case in these things, while it is of course majority men the number of women participating is very strong. You do notice the age imbalance there - many women in their teens and college-aged, but it drops off quickly. I suspect that this is primarily because this survey is right in the middle of the first wave of the "pop SF boom", where more approachable works like Gundam and new manga subgenres were rapidly growing the community. So the older cadre was more heavily men, while the new group is more balanced. However, this is the early 1980's - it might just be that when a woman graduates college she was expected to marry and "settle down" still, inhibiting participation in these kinds of groups. I think it is primarily the former, Japan had pretty rapidly changed in the 1970's and female creative types were commonplace by then, but I won't pretend the latter players no role.

The writing on this page just contextualizes the piece, not much to report, though it does note that "3 people replied 'other' for gender...as a joke!" Sure, jan!

Anyway, on to page 2, what is our poll question of the day...

ロリコンについてどう思いますか? What do you think about lolicon?

....*siiiiiighs* guys I didn't, I didn't look at the second page before typing this up! I just wanted to report the gender data! This just happens to me, I swear -_-

But I can't back out now I guess:

It actually splits the question by gender - men are asked "are you a lolicon" while women are asked "what do you think of guys who are lolicon" - sexists, way to erase the female lolicon. Not actually joking there, it is a quite a thing due to its overlap with rape and dubcon fetishes - but I won't pretend I have expertise on the prevalence of that in 1982 Japan's SF community, even if it you see it today. Anyway, most men are not lolicons (the tallest line), though others fall on a spectrum from interested to "graduated", certainly a choice of words one could make.

Funnily a good dozen say they are called that by others, but not themselves - I believe that is related to the vague line between loli & shoujo aesthetics at the time. Which is important to emphasize, as I always do on this topic - sometimes the word lolicon just means "youthful" or "cute", sometimes it means like high schoolers, and sometimes it means real-deal underage stuff, and you won't know without context.

Meanwhile two women label lolicon men as "cute!", good for those two living their truth, while others are broadly tolerant but have Opinions. Which is fun, because the rest of the page is people sharing said opinions, sorted into "good" or "bad"! Some choice ones:

★ It's a symptom of modern civilization’s sick parts, but also an inevitable phenomenon. It’s better than having a rabbit or cat complex. Don’t lay hands on young girls. Lolicon must remain platonic. (♂/19/)

You see this theme a bit, "symptom of modernity", the new sexual fetishes are a product of a changing world. Certainly up for debate, but also very "in vogue" for the 80's & 90's to worry about that sort of declinist narrative. Then again, guy is a catgirl and bunnygirl hater, not sure we should listen to their shit taste.

On the flip side you get the "natural way of things" types, of which this is my favourite:

★ There’s nothing abnormal about having a dream involving an uncontrollable urge towards pre-teens. Even Romeo and Juliet would have made Romeo a lolicon given Juliet’s age (14), but people don’t think of it that way. Only at that age can girls love and respect men without ulterior motives. (♂/19/)

That last line, you are telling me so much about you with that one!! You can see how this is discourse, right? Like if one side says you are a "symptom of modernity" you ofc respond with "this is how all guys are" and with callbacks to traditional culture.

The "bad" side has a lot of ruthless condemnation, with more than one call for the lolicons to simply die or labelling them worthless scum. The magazine's writers do try to keep the tone breezy but I do think this topic being actually contentious in the community pokes through here. Though this serious one really did undercut herself a bit at the end:

★ I can understand why one person of the same gender might feel admiration or affection for a child or young girl, but for a man to only be able to love much younger women? That’s a mental illness! If they aren’t willing to fix themselves, they might as well die. They’re enemies of women. It's not going to turn out like Nabokov's Lolita. (♀/20s/)

I mean they did also kill jesus Humbert Humbert in Lolita. that was a pretty significant thing that happened. like i understand where you’re coming from here but they very much did kill the Lolita guy.

There is an editorial at the end, and it echoes something one of the comments also states; that the lolicon boom was seen as coming from "hard" SF fans, the people who did the really nerdy stuff. There is a word they use actually which is neat: 根暗/Nekura, meaning someone with a "gloomy root". It began seeing use as a slang for hyper-serious, boorish people in the late 1970's and became a fad to use in precisely 1982 - here is a live record of that! They associate "hard SF" fans with these sort of gloomy types who can't take a joke or appreciate hanging out with the buds at a bar, that kind of thing. From there, and here I am reading between the lines, these fans like a sort of "idealistically sterile" world, and lolicon as a preference (in comparison to Real Adult Women) flows naturally.

I mention this because astute readers might be going "oh, like otaku?" and that word was only just buzzing around at this time - it is typically dated to 1983. The editorial writers note that these nekura-types are nowadays proud of that fact, wearing it like an identity:

A: I’m not really sure why, I don’t fully understand the inner workings of the SF world, but it’s like, out there, hardcore SF fans are considered gloomy. Maybe that’s why there’s this connection to lolicon? B: But surprisingly, everyone’s actually pretty cheerful. In today’s world, the 'dark and gloomy tribe' is trendy. It’s like they’re enjoying calling themselves gloomy, almost as a fashion statement.

So yeah, I can totally see proto-otaku discourse going on at the edges here.

There is a third page but it continues in a similar vein. A bunch of mentions of Hideo Azuma, who I am growing increasingly convinced was more of a lodestone for the lolicon boom than is currently appreciated - he is the ur-reference everyone makes. More discussion of girls in sailor uniforms as a gateway drug, yeah yeah, "is fine as long as its fiction", of course of course, one of the magazine editors remarking he wants "a wife for practical uses but a daughter as a pet" yeah okay we can call it we're done here, no more survey data anyway.

Not the topic I expected to find, but still this is really valuable "primary source data" - you can't trust the literary class fully on these things, having first hand quotes from community members on otaku culture in the era is always valuable.

Sorry if you got tricked into reading this - in my defense I did too!

[beauty-and-passion]

TBOB PART 1: OF BILL’S POWERS AND DIMENSIONS (1/2)

FINALLY.

It took me an eternity to finish this post. And not just because I have 32 pages of notes about this goddamn book, but also:

life in general

summer in specific

if I’m supposed to relax, then why do I have so much stuff to do

the goddamn thisisnotawebsitedotcom that I stupidly thought was just a simple website like it was for Lost Legends, ahah how big could it ever be. OH BOY HOW WRONG I WAS WHY DO I KEEP UNDERESTIMATING ALEX HIRSCH WHY

And so here we are, with the first post about this big topic I wanted to talk about. I know that any additional info coming from thisisnotawebsitedotcom can add/disprove my points, but in that case, I’ll just write one more post. I already wrote more posts than I originally planned, so writing a few more isn’t such a huge difference by now.

So, let’s start by analyzing a little closer how Bill’s powers work, how they are related to dimensions and let’s ask ourselves some more questions. Because of course there are still questions: it wouldn’t be Gravity Falls, if there were no mysteries left.

_________________

Obligatory disclaimer

I will talk about the entire book and make spoilers

I will mention all codes (thanks to the Gravity Falls wiki for being so efficient)

I will use any sort of language, but hey, if you have this book I suppose you won’t be shocked by a couple of swear words

I will also mention some of the info available until now on thisisnotawebsitedotcom - or at least the ones I found HERE

And now, let’s start.

_____________________

“Dimensional powers”

In the “Reality is an Illusion” in TBOB page, Bill says two important things:

Reality is made of code and madness and microscopic “legos”

Everything big is made of something small and the small stuff can be manipulated

This is a nice reference to the string theory. To put it very VERY simply, this theory suggests that the smallest elements at the foundation of everything are called strings. Strings are incredibly smaller than quarks and, depending on how they vibrate, they can make everything in the universe.

Related to this theory there’s also the M-Theory: to put it even more simply, the strings are not all similar, one-dimensional elements, but they vary depending on how many dimensions they contain, from one to eleven. (Beware: this is an oversimplified explanation. For more details, please check the experts’ ones)

Why those theories are important? Because I think they may offer us an explanation of how Bill’s powers work.

From all I saw in the series and until now, it looks like Bill’s powers are all related to dimensions. If there is a dimension of some kind, Bill can enter, alter or influence it. So if the entire reality and everything in the universe (living beings included) is made of strings and strings have dimensions, than this explains how why Bill was able to:

enter and modify other dimensions (including Earth during Weirdmageddon)

modify other living beings

possess other creatures

see the Third Dimension while he was in the Second

This also may explain the ciphervoyance: if Bill can see the third dimension, then he can also see all other possibilities - and if these possibilities are higher dimensions, then he can see them too.

And yes, this explains pyrokinesis too: if Bill can look into other dimensions and modify them, why couldn’t he modify the strings of one dimension enough to “start fires with his brain”?

_____________________

But what about dreams?

Dreams should be different, right? How can Bill look into them? Dreams are not a dimensions, right?

Please, allow me to introduce you to this part from Flatland: the Sphere is talking to A Square about something very specific:

"For I, who see all things, discerned last night the phantasmal vision of Lineland written upon your brain."

It looks like the Sphere has been able to see inside A Square’s dream. A 3D creature has been able to look into a 2D creature’s dreams.

Since Bill’s entire story is heavily influenced by Flatland (we will talk about it extensively in the next series of posts, don’t worry), I think this supports the theory that Bill’s powers are “dimensional” indeed and that dreams are another dimension entirely. That’s why Bill can enter them and possess/read other people’s minds: it’s because that’s an entirely different dimension he can look at, enter and modify.

And, as we saw from the string and the M-theory, it doesn’t matter if we’re talking about a higher or lower dimension: Bill can still look at, access and modify it.

And if you’re not convinced yet, consider that Bill talked about the mindscape as a “liminal basement”. So it’s a sort of “bridge” between dimensions - or a “bridge dimension” that connects the unconscious to the conscious. So if he can enter dimensions, there’s no reason he can’t enter dimensional bridges.

_____________________

Powers that would “eat you alive”

All of this seems pretty cool and fun, doesn’t it? We saw Bill using these powers to wreak havoc at O’Sadleys after his breakup with Ford, to switch the function of every hole in Preston Northwest’s face, and to alter reality during Weirdmageddon.

But we also saw him speeding up Ford’s mind when it’s sluggish, calm him down when he’s anxious and rewiring his optical never to see a new color.

And that was exciting, because that’s what I wanted to see. How’s possible that this guy could just enter someone else’s mind and possess it, but not mess in any way with the delicate, complex system of human brains? Humans have a lot of areas and neurons and everything: it’s a perfectly complicated, complex mechanism. Why would Bill miss the chance to do something inside it?

And then, Bill showed Ford a speck of what he’s really capable of:

And that… ooho yes, that’s EXACTLY what I wanted to see. Those are real threats. Rewiring the optical nerve again, not to help, but to entirely alter your perception of reality. Play a tone louder and louder until it drives you insane. Burn neurons, delete memories, push enough switches to make you forget your own name. That’s the fucked up stuff I wanted from Bill! That’s the stuff that makes me think he’s right, when he said the monster “would eat you alive, Sixer”.

Even more messed up, when the next page he said “Oh, those were just practical jokes”. 200% messed up, I love this little psycho, he deserves to burn everything and attend more therapy.

_____________________

The questions of how

So let’s recap: Bill is a two-dimensional living creature who has dimensional powers. He can look at, alter and destroy all kinds of dimensions - no matter how big (universes) or small (strings) they are.

Now the rightful question is: how the fuck did he get all these powers? Is this something usual, for 2D creatures to have such godly powers? Of course not, considering no one in Bill’s home dimension was able to do/see what he could.

At this point of my reasoning, I also asked myself: how did he manage to not just look into a dimension but also alter it? Looking into is something, altering is different…

But then, I though about myself. I am a three-dimensional living being. I can look into a 2D world and I can alter it too. I can destroy a flat surface. I can add things inside it. I can intersect it with my shape. I can do a lot of stuff to it. I cannot live inside it like a two-dimensional being, but I can modify it.

So can Bill. He can look and modify other realities - but he can also enter them. Something I, a 3D being, cannot do.

In addition to that, consider that since I am 3D, I cannot enter, see or alter the 4D world. I can figure out a hypercube and try to wrap my head around its shape and how it’s supposed to work, but I cannot actually see the fourth dimension and all higher ones.

Bill, on the other hand, can see any dimension, no matter how high or small it is. He can see them all, alter them all and enter them all.

How? How can a 2D creature do it?

_____________________

The lack of a physical form

In the “MY WEAKNESSES” section in TBOB, Bill says something about not having a physical form.

Even in the show, Bill talked about not having a physical form: in fact, as soon as he enters Earth to start the Weirdmageddon, the first thing he does is get a physical form.

That implies he didn’t have a physical form before. But he was also living in the Nightmare Realm, which is “a space between spaces”, a place with no consistent laws “physical or judicial”, and a place in which the realms of physics and reality make no sense. So yes, even a being without a physical form can live inside it.

And even in this book, Bill often talks about himself as “an idea” that never dies. He sees himself closer to a concept, than an ordinary, living being. Keep that in mind for now, we’ll use it for later.

However, now we can ask ourselves another thing: fine, Bill was an idea/had no physical form when he lived in the Nightmare Realm. But what about before that? What happened before the Nightmare Realm?

Before that, Bill destroyed his home dimension.

_____________________

In conclusion... for now

I know, it’s evil to end a post like this but stay tuned, because the next one will have the biggest Theory That Might Be Wrong I developed until now.

We've just started.

Next post ->

(How about a coffee? ☕)

_______________________________

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[actual-changeling]

Welcome back to a meta post that was not supposed to exist, but I fucking love answering questions, so here we are.

i got an ask (the answer contains a tl;dr) about why I think Crowley has unstable relationship patterns, and the following will be a detailed look at why this is the case, how Aziraphale plays into it, and what it ultimately means for the two of them.

This won't be as unhinged as my usual analyses, so consider this a special edition of Alex's unhinged meta corner - now hinged.

As always, please remember that this is my personal interpretation—not a generalization—and that genuine questions are welcome, either here on the post or in my inbox!

Everything I will say is based on research I have done, books & studies, and many, many conversations with my therapist (and at points my psychiatrist too); just so you know I'm not making shit up as I go.

Now, in the context of trauma-related/based disorders, what exactly does it mean to have unstable relationship patterns, and how does it apply to Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship?

Canonically, heaven does not care about what Aziraphale is doing and they are not keeping an eye on him. We know this both from references in the script and their dialogue and what we see throughout the show as a whole. That "fear" of being found out should he openly commit to Crowley is, for the most part, self-fabricated.

Yes, hell would potentially punish him (that potentially is another long post), but that is not something Aziraphale gets to take and use against Crowley, and the fact that does it anyway to 'prove' that he is not behaving incorrectly is a big issue.

What that leaves them with is a very common and well-known relationship pattern that requires a lot of self-awareness, control, and work to break it.

Aziraphale and Crowley get closer, spend more time together, their relationship grows and the intimacy increases, resulting in their behaviour changing to reflect that. They go on more romantic-coded dates (e.g. 1827, whatever the fuck 1941 was), eat together more frequently, drink together and feel comfortable enough to get drunk drunk while in each other's company—which always carries the inherent risk of doing something 'forbidden' while their impulse control is lowered.

I think the second episode of season one is actually a great example for all of this. When they drive to Tadfield, there's a mutually respectful conversation, they tease each other, they bicker like an old married couple, and don't fall into blaming the other for the situation they're in. At the manor, they are openly flirting from the start, laughing about the paintball guns and blowing kisses to miracle away stains, and the wall slam scene honestly speaks for itself.

I wrote a detailed analysis of it right here, which contains the conclusion that the entire interaction was intentional and orchestrated by the two of them.

They are doing great, they're comfortable, intimate—both physically and emotionally—and their sides are already on their asses about the apocalypse, so why not commit to the relationship?

Because Aziraphale gets scared, scared of intimacy, scared of what it would mean for his life, scared of what it would force him to confront (his faith, mostly, which is another gigantic topic), scared of the changes it would bring to their relationship, scared of breaking out of the pattern they have been moving in since the very beginning.

So he pushes, hard. He insults and denies and hurts Crowley to get as far away from all of that as possible. Push & pull, no matter when, no matter why, it's always the same.

At this point you might be thinking Alex, this is all on Aziraphale, how is this also Crowley's unstable relationship pattern? The answer to that question can be roughly summarized in one sentence:

He does not punish or discourage Aziraphale's behaviour.

There are NEVER lasting—if any—negative consequences for Aziraphale when he forces them into the push/pull dynamic, when he insults him, denies their relationship, calls him evil, you name it. No matter what Aziraphale does, Crowley always forgives and forgets and comes back to him, essentially resetting their loop. That way there cannot be any progress because they're not moving a single inch in either direction that isn't carefully organized and controlled by Aziraphale.

Why does Crowley not confront him? Because he is scared too.

Now, THIS is the part where I explain why I said Crowley has unstable relationship patterns. It is important to understand that Aziraphale's kind of instability is only one possible manifestation, and that they are—broadly speaking—on opposite ends of the spectrum, which not only makes them incredibly compatible, but also makes them worse.

Crowley is terrified of losing Aziraphale permanently and being on his own. God rejected him, heaven rejected him, hell rejected him—his life as been one traumatic incident after the other with a strong focus on abandonment and neglect, especially from people he cared about.

He says himself that Aziraphale is his only friend, he doesn't have anyone or anything else. The bookshop is Aziraphale's anchor, but Crowley has nothing except the Bentley and whatever Aziraphale allows him to partake in. Hell can take his job, his flat, punish and torture him as they please, and make his life, well, hell.

With the Bentley only appearing in the early 20th century, for 99% of his life he had nothing except for Aziraphale, his best friend, the person he loves.

So what does he do? He clings, he circles him and tries to push his orbit just a tiny bit closer whenever there's a gap he can use, trying to solidify their relationship. Terrified of being abandoned again, he swallows and ignores everything and anything negative.

The final fifteen are the FIRST TIME that Aziraphale asked him for something and he said no without changing his mind later—and it was literally the worst case scenario, the one boundary he has that he is not willing to cross for him, literally the barest minimum.

Every other time he relented, gave in, apologized for something that wasn't his fault, have Aziraphale everything he wanted from Hamlet over shooting a gun at his face to giving him the Bentley. Crowley's primary objective is to do whatever it takes to avoid being abandoned, so whenever Aziraphale DOES push back and abandons him/says that he will, he panics. He panics even more when there is an outside source threatening Aziraphale's presence in his life.

Look at how frantic he is when he finds Aziraphale after the bandstand, trying to say whatever it takes to get him to come with him. He does the apology dance, gives in when it comes to Gabriel, and never reacts to Aziraphale in a way that would prompt him to re-think the choices he is making, let alone stop doing the push/pull.

His identity revolves around Aziraphale, his only relationship is with Aziraphale, he allows him to shape him to his liking as far as he can take and then some, he needs him to be happy, to enjoy himself, to live a life worth living—and Aziraphale needs him to be and do all of those things so he can keep up his behaviour.

They are dangerously co-dependent and just spiral deeper and deeper until they hit rock bottom and are forced to separate.

Look, I have BPD on top of everything else, I have been in a relationship with this exact pattern in Crowley's role, and it is fucking horrible. Absolutely unbearable. My ex-partner was like Aziraphale, pulling and pushing and pulling and pushing but on a daily basis, every few hours. No amount of talking or begging could get them to not behave in a way that would hurt me, and I was so emotionally tied to them and terrified of being alone that just like Crowley, I relented every. single. time. A year and a half and they never, not ONCE, apologized for anything. Ever. Not for hurting me, not for being an asshole, nothing.

The only way I got out was with a lot of therapy, support, and so much emotional work I was having several panic attacks a day because I was so fucking exhausted. Crowley and Aziraphale separating was the best thing that ever happened to their relationship.

Now, Aziraphale is facing negative consequences for his behaviour and is forced to examine himself and deal with all those fears causing him to behave the way he does. Crowley on the other hand is now forced to learn how to exist without Aziraphale to orbit around—he needs to develop an identity that exists outside of Aziraphale, so he can have boundaries and stick to them.

[cripplecharacters]

Hi! : ) You guys are amazing.

Sorry if this is stupid or offensive but i have a question regarding terminology describing facial diference/ disability

So my first language/ the language i write in is not english so while the terminology post is helpfull since i can translate it/ use it as a genereal guide in what to look out for it does not cover everything. I am sorry if this falls into the category of research question but how do i find good resources for terminology in my own language/ make sure its a good resource with the terms people with facial diferences in my country prefer? Its hard since my country is small and not great when it comes to ableism so there is not many resources availibel in the first place.

The second is a bit more specific. I want to include a character with cleft palate in the wider supporting cast, or at least in the background. So not a mayor/important character I can't spend much time describing them and i dont want to center their description on their facial diference. The term for cleft lip in my language literaly translates as "hare lip" into english whic is...yeah. Its probably not an uniqe case either. There might be some better term for it but i have not been abel to find it and i am not sure there is anything thats not overly medical. If that is the case should i use the medical term instead even if its jarring and include what it describes in a footnote? Does the mod team have sugestions on what else to do in this situation/ similar ones I probably will find myself in? How do i handel ableism thats literaly the integral part of my language. How do i catch terms that have ableist/ bad conotations bejond the basics since it is less called out over here i might not even notice its problematic? I dont want to make the issue any worse, further normalise bad terms by not caring about terms.

I thank you, so much in advance.

Hi! No such thing as a stupid question.

I'll just say that I very much relate to these issues considering my native language calls congenital disabilities “innate flaws” : ) so;

As for first question:

The first step would be to check if there are any organizations/groups that have resources in your language about facial differences, or checking if some international orgs have translations of their pages where they talk about facial differences. Moebius Syndrome Foundation has a page on face equality in 8 languages (+ English).

If there aren't any (high probability that this is the case unfortunately), try to see if there are any advocates for face equality that write in your language and what do they use (and in what contexts!).

If you still have issues, there's always the ultimate beauty of writing - making words up! When there's nothing you can use as a reference, the best way is to just create the word that you need. I'm aware that it could be hard to figure out what's appropriate and not accidentally offensive or insensitive, but your good intentions and putting care into it are already doing a lot of the work for you.

I really like this essay - which is about a very different disability-related topic - that asks a great question in this “how do we make [language thing] good for disabled people?” sphere: what feels beautiful? What term do you feel like sounds nice and not othering or pointlessly medicalized? Because honestly, if I encountered an invented word for facial differences in my native (very non-English) language and the explanation behind it was “I thought it sounded pretty” then I'd take it. Always better than “gross deformity” that many consider neutral without thinking about it at all.

Obviously the easiest way would be to ask someone who speaks your language and has a facial difference, but I'm aware that not everyone has that possibility - still, it could be a good idea to reach out to your local disabled community if you're able to. Or just ask on whatever social media is popular where you live!

You can also send us what is the language that you're having this issue in - despite the blog being very America-centric and English-only, a lot of us speak different languages and might just happen to know the one!

Second question:

First thing I'll address is that cleft palate and cleft lip are two separate things. They are often lumped together because they very often co-exist together, but a person could only have one of them.

Cleft palate hasn't, AFAIK, been referred to as a harelip anywhere, so I'm going to assume the question is about a cleft lip.

There's a few options as to what you can do here, in my opinion;

you describe the cleft lip without using any specific term (“they had an opening/a faded scar on between their upper lip and their nostril”);

the character calls it by the medicalized term* because that's what their doctor has told them, and they could mention how awkward/long/difficult to say/no one knows what it is/etc. the word is;

the character is self-aware and points out that the term “harelip” is weird as hell to say about a person when someone refers to it as such;

or, again, you make a word up. The word “lip” probably has to stay for clarity's sake, but try to replace the animal part with something: cleft, split, parted, fissure, opening, etc.; You can also check how other terms with “cleft” are called in your language: cleft chin, cleft palate, cleft hand/foot, etc.;

or you can make up a word fantasy-writer style and describe a cleft lip but give it a completely new name that fits the setting more - [Name]'s lip, [Some sort of deity]'s blessing, you can kinda do whatever (take a look at the Terms That Suck guide below first though!).

*my go-to way of finding the medical term is going through English Wikipedia (yeah, I know, but it works for this) and switching the language to the one I need. The cleft lip and palate page has 55 languages, so there's a chance it's on there - if it is, you might potentially find a nicer synonym in the “other names”.

Now for my (very personal) guide on catching if a term Kinda Sucks because doctors have some... tendencies in how they name various conditions:

does it use a word that is just a synonym for evil, or otherwise immoral or broken?;

does it have an animal connotation? (hares, wolves, elephants, fish... there's so many...);

does it have a monster/fantasy creature connotation? (i.e., Donohue syndrome being called leprechaunism, Hypertrichosis being called Werewolf disease, etc.);

does it just sound rude? (my native language uses the word “maw” to mean cleft palate, which I find to be fucked up);

is it straight up racist and/or xenophobic? (like most of the historic words for syphilis were just “[nationality] disease”).

There's obviously nuance to everything (“vitiligo” is considered neutral, despite being derived from the word for “blemish” in Latin) but as a vague framework I find these to be useful. Again: what feels good or neutral will probably be the better option over “animal face disease”.

I hope this helps!

mod Sasza

[agendabymooner]

from the ground up ! fernando a. x ofc (professional wrestler!canadian!ofc)

“this life will go by in a blink of an eye but i wouldn’t wanna spend it without you by my side.”

summary: weeks after their 15th anniversary, trish and fernando alonso introduced the newest members of their family to the world. f1 twt were also posting about… everything alonso-related, including the names of their kids (in a loving manner)

content warning: mentions thirsty!grid of years 2023 and 2005, literally fluff, long ass names of the alonso kids, pregnancy/birth announcement, crappy spanish translations + taylor/fernando alonso references

note: i can see you lurking and i just wanna say hi 😩 everything’s been a bit of a flop, i know 🥲 there should be some pierre gasly content otw as well- but idk who else to write for (thinking about este and checo atm)

let me know what you think!! send me an ask- tell me what’s going on, etc. enjoy xx

masterlist

[1st image: “back in 2013, your husband - f1 driver fernando alonso - started a rumour about your firstborn’s name being seven something words long. you never addressed anything about it despite it being asked repeatedly. then you confirmed that that’s the case after you had given birth to your second child. the youngest.” trish: she’s not going to be the youngest soon enough but yes.]

[2nd: just for the record, our kids freddy and rey have been given at least three middle names. and since they were both born in spain, their surname follows after what the practices tell us. i didn’t honestly want to tell anyone outside our family about it but nando was so excited that he told his grid friends. sebastian vettel’s the one to basically cause chaos and said “yeah the two named their son after their ancestors.”]

[3rd: it became a recurring topic that would show up once in a while. we don’t like making a big deal out of it — our kids don’t need to have their legal papers be published or spread to the public because they are entitled to the privacy that they have now. though the two have been bragging about their names in front of a camera whenever they could. especially when their papa gets interviewed— oh god, they actually tell everyone their full name.]

[4th: “yes! i remember the press conference with him and the kids!” t: i was hoping that it wasn’t streamed live when they had that but what can i do? it’s already out there hahaha. they’re really proud of their name. “would you be willing to repeat what they introduce themselves as?” t: i might as well. so, their names are frederico hugo fernando patrick and reyna severina odette anastasia alonso staedtlander— don’t look at me like that. i know it’s long.]

tagged fernandoalo_oficial

liked by lance_stroll, estebanocon, amydumas

amydumas holy shiiii- more godbabies for aunt amy!! liked by thetrishalonso

thetrishalonso i carried them all for you to spoil them!

user1 what’s up with the names 🥲

user2 what are their nicknames?!!!

thetrishalonso tino and tiago 💕

user3 name inspo?!!

thetrishalonso rubén = rubens barrichello and michael = schumi ❤️

user3 IM IN LOVEEEEEE

lewishamilton oh my god you and rey are outnumbered 😂 liked by thetrishalonso

thetrishalonso there’s no need to point it out 😂

carlossainzjr cannot wait to see the chicos, beatrice!! liked by thetrishalonso

thetrishalonso hurry up, tiago’s waiting to meet his godfather for the first time 😉

estebanocon congratulations, trisha and fernando!! liked by thetrishalonso

user4 look at my bestie, getting noticed by the grid crush of the season

astonmartinf1 just found our drivers 1 and 2 for the 2041 wdc season 💚 liked by thetrishalonso

thetrishalonso freddy’s looking forward for the 2032 season 😂💚

astonmartinf1 he’s welcome to be lance’s no. 2 anytime!

fernandoalo_oficial estoy tan bendecido de tenerte a ti y a nuestros hijos 😍 i’m so blessed to have you and our kids liked by thetrishalonso

thetrishalonso thank you so much for your love, mi amor ❤️

[translation: i am so incredibly grateful for my wife and her strength to carry not just one, but four children that i am sure i will love and appreciate as long as i can breathe. freddy, rey, tino and tiago, you will always have a place in my heart. freddy, you are an incredible big brother to all your siblings, and i can't wait for you to make them feel proud when you start your career as a racing driver. reyna, you will always be the best girl in my eyes, don't let other people say otherwise, princess. tino and tiago, you are the miracles that your mom and i have been asking for for years and i am always glad that you have come into our lives as nothing but surprises.]

tagged thetrishalonso

liked by nicholaslatifi, mickschumacher, lance_stroll

comments have been limited

amydumas congrats alo!!! i’ve always known i trusted you with trish for good reasons 😉 liked by fernandoalo_oficial

lance_stroll look at tino! he’s just as handsome as his godfather 😎

fernandoalo_oficial eh, you’re not that handsome.

lance_stroll wOW MEAN

sevstaedtlander congratulations nando and trish! their cousins are excited to meet the two liked by fernandoalo_oficial

tillywolff aww 😍 much love from me and the whole pack! liked by fernandoalo_oficial

thetrishalonso thank you tils! we can’t wait to have a play date with the wolff cubs and have you and toto meet the twins!

danielricciardo man you’ve got some balls 🤣 congratulations on the twins, nando and thetrishalonso!

thetrishalonso thank you danny, i can’t wait for your little one to show up too. though word of advice: please don’t refer to the kids as “some balls” ever again 😭

maxverstappen1 me and sylvie are up for babysitting if you ask for it 😉

mickschumacher hell no, i’m watching the alos

charles_leclerc you guys are funny

landonorris the bigger alo kids literally love me. have you been considered a favourite by either? no? exactly.

lance_stroll bold of all of you to assume they’d even allow anyone to watch the kids

carlossainzjr you might be a favourite but me and lance_stroll are the godfathers. so, keep trying nonetheless 👍

[goodluckclove]

Why Are You a Writer?

So the other day I did the second of my Writer's Refuge interview series, soon to be posted later this week. It went pretty well! It was with an artist on here I admire a lot and it was a really interesting conversation.

Perhaps even too interesting. We got onto the topic on why a person would tell stories, and their answer ended up being drastically different than mine. It ended up sending my on a little bit of a spiral (No fault of yours if you read this, Cass), but I didn't really talk about it with her at the time. You know, it's an interview. It's not about me.

My instinct when I'm feeling emotionally vulnerable is to sort of hide away most of the time, but it's a sleepy day in the Gardener household and I think it might help me to talk about it. So below the read more I'm going to get deeper into the question often asked to people in my trade: why are you a writer?

Spoiler alert: it's because I'm lonely.

No real gravitas or dramatics there, I don't think. Little actual literary merit. I've heard people say that they're writers because they're overtaken by stories, just a vessel to the act of creation that can't help but craft narratives. I think that's cool in theory, and it's something I relate to, but I also think it's a mind type that doesn't exist in a vacuum.

I grew up a child of addicts with about a five and eight-year age gap between me and the rest of my siblings. We were conditioned to be deeply loyal to each other and care in the way our parents couldn't care for us, but most of the time my siblings didn't want to play with me. My parents didn't want to play with me. I had a few friends at school, but not many of them were able to hang out with me outside of campus for one reason or another. Throughout my developmental years I spent a majority of my time on my own, just figuring out different ways to entertain myself.

And I felt a fundamental other-ing from the rest of the people around me. I was precocious, considered "mature for my age" (a poison adults have been feeding the youth for generations), but it went deeper than that. I would speak quickly to my peers, joking almost frantically without letting them get a word in edgewise. It felt like they all knew a common language I was never able to learn and never could. At one point in middle school I told myself I was better than them. i don't think that anymore. Now I'm just confused.

As an adult I'm often confused by other people, sometimes to the point of fear. I struggle to stay afloat in large social situations, to look charming and keep the other person placated and talking, making sure they don't realize the fundamental truth that I'm not supposed to be there. Sometimes it gets to the point where I'm so exhausted that I physically can't look at human faces for hours afterwards. They all look like fleshy slugs.

Does that make sense? I say that a lot in conversation with those around me, a constant plea for validation. Am I making sense?

So I write. I write a lot. With no other line of work at the moment I've been writing about 60k words every month for the better part of the last year. And I do it to tell a story I'm passionate about, sure. I do it to process emotional ghosts from my past. But if I'm being honest with myself I know I write to create a connection between myself and the audience. To create a story that someone can read or watch and say "I understand", even if their interpretation is different than my own.

I do it because I'm lonely. And I'm not really proud of that. But it's the truth.

Riley was surprised when I told them this. So are you saying that if you were happy you wouldn't be a writer? They asked. Well, I am happy. I'm also lonely. These two things can exist at once.

But if I had a different life. A more functional family system that would've likely resulted in me needing far less treatment than I currently do. If all that was the case then I might not see the need to be deeply embedded in my own head. The rest of the world might not come off as the threat it sometimes is. But then again, my life and my identity would be so drastically different that I don't really see the point in speculating.

Would I be a writer? Maybe. I don't know. I'd probably have other hobbies.

I don't usually like talking about myself like this. It feels indulgent. A little too skin-less for my tastes. But, as with anything else, maybe someone younger and in a similar state could read me talking in this way and feel an aspect of comfort. If one person does then that would be worth it. I'm glad I'm a writer and I think I'm a capable one. I'm also aware that being a capable writer doesn't necessarily mean you're also deeply neurotic, which is both a comfort and a small point of envy.

If you've read to this point - which, by the way, is an oddity of cosmic proportions to me, maybe reblog and speak a bit about how you became a writer. But maybe be a little honest with yourself. If it comes from a deep well of pain, that's meaningful. If you just want to create a powerful story that people can lose themselves in, that's also meaningful.

You don't need to suffer to be a good artist. That's absolutely not something I believe to any extent. I'm just one of the ones that did, and that's something I'm going to have to work out over the course of the next rest of my life.

I don't know. I'm rambling. Maybe it can be your turn to talk now.

[warblogs17282]

"I also really wonder just how much of his mother Blitz sees in Stolas." - An answer.

I remember asking myself this shortly after ghostfuckers released, and thanks to a reblog I did a few days ago where I touched on topics kind of related to this, I think I have an answer. More specifically, I touched on this topic in that reblog:

According to an article posted on the Michigan State University website (and more sources agree with this claim as well), research shows that people tend to choose partners similar to their exes or parents, which in Blitz's case, which obviously be his mother, Tilla.

What relevant similarities between Stolas and Tilla have we gathered already?

'Stolas has Tilla's smile.'

'Stolas in s1 e6, and Tilla in s2 e10.'

I'm pretty confident that Stolas in s1 e6 and Tilla in s2 e10 (as I have just shown you), is intended to be a parallel of sorts between the two people, the two scenes.

So, assuming that these similarities between the two are an intentional decision from the helluva boss team, what could this possibly tell us?

"People tend to show romantic interest in people who resemble their exes or their parents. Called transference, this concept holds up across the lifespan - meaning that younger, middle-aged and older people all tend to follow this pattern."

I believe that it shows that both Stolas and Tilla share some similar qualities, such as being gentle and caring, to give a few examples. Keeping the quote from the article in mind as well, I suspect that in Blitz's mind, even if subconsciously, Blitz sees those parts of Tilla in Stolas, like Stolas is emulating parts of Tilla in a way.

Some other lines in the article I'd like to mention are these:

"For this study, the researchers asked over 500 participants to use adjectives to describe their past partners, such as "nice," "helpful," or "charismatic," and then designed dating profiles to mimic those traits. Leahy and Dr. Chopik found that, not only did the majority of participants favor profiles with similar traits as their exes."

"The study also found that people were more interested in dating people who reminded them of their parents as well as their exes."

Now, while the first quote of the two does talk specifically about past partners, I believe the second quote shows that what the first quote is saying is also true if we were to replace 'past partners' with 'parents'.

As I have recently stated, I believe that it is likely that Stolas shares some positive qualities/traits with Tilla, and that Blitz may have noticed this, even if it's subconsciously.

And well, in s2 e9 and s2 e10, it's been made pretty clear that Blitz has strong feelings for Stolas.

So, in conclusion, I suspect that part of the reason why Blitz fell for Stolas, and has all these feelings for Stolas, is because Stolas appears to share some positive qualities with Tilla, and as research shows, people tend to pick partners similar to their parents, again, for Blitz, that parent being Tilla.

Also, the article states that the results of the research has nothing to do with the oedipus complex, before anyone tries to say that I'm implying that Blitz has that.

"Although the finding may seem Freudian at first, Dr. Chopik explains that it has more to do with emulating a past positive relationship in one's life."

[dragonshoardofworks]

DP x DCMK (x DC)

Where Danny and Shinichi meet at the Hawaii where's a Ghost Convention (pre-portal and Conan, when they're both around 11–12 years old) since both sets of parents are invested in the topic. (The Fentons because they're the Fentons and Yusaku because he's researching for one of his books).

They become friends and keep contacts through messages, sharing school shenanigans, crushes, cases and family mishaps.

The One Thing that Danny doesn't share, though, is his halfa status.

First, because Shinichi doesn't believe in the supernatural (according to him, magic is just unexplained science) and second, because his change is far from any kind of "normalcy" and Shinichi had categorically stated that he doesn't want anything to do with superheroes, he's just a "normal" detective and they (the Justice League) save the world.

Though, it's not unusual that, if something weird happens in a case, Shinichi asks Danny's opinion and intel since the Fenton's library has "weird"/obscure material. (If the answer gets him too close to superhero-stuff, Shinichi passes the ball to the JL, more specifically to Red Robin, but that's something for a following reblog of this thread.)

So when Shinichi becomes Conan and settles in Ran's home, he contacts our favorite boi.

(A bit late to the @crossoverdanuary party... (^～^;)ゞ Anyway, long post in chat-style, plus an extra, so I decided to use the read more function because it was getting out of hand... (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) )

Shinichi: Hey Danny, do you know anything that should be killing you, but instead it shrinks you? Danny: Shrink as in size or age? S: Age D: Hold on, gotta check some books to be sure, but usually anything age-related is dark shit. What's for? Fun or case? S: ...It's for a case D: Well, that didn't sound ominous at all, then gotta go *faster* *few minutes later* D: Okay, the closest thing (still in the Mortal Realm) to what you asked is this jewel most commonly known as "Pandora" (if she knew, she would definitely lose her shit) D: it's a gem hidden inside another gem that glows red under the moonlight D: "if bathed in the light of the Volley Comet, it would shed tears capable of granting eternal life" S: This doesn't sound anything like what I asked you (⁠눈⁠‸⁠눈⁠) D: Cut the sass beanpole and let me continue D: since the legend exist and it's documented, it should be reasonable to presume that someone managed to attain it, right? S: ...right *squinty eyes* D: So if some scientist tried to reproduce the same results in the *scientific way* instead of the magical one, they could have either the original "Tears" or the one who consumed them and run test and experiment on them D: whatever the case, there would be either some inferior or failed products that instead of making you immortal, *de-ages* you, which is the next best thing (i.e. you would live longer) D: but since they were "failures" compared to the immortality elixir, they could definitely become poisons. D: So! Since you were so ominous, was it really for a case or did our dear Professor Agasa dabble in alchemy? 👀 (read) D: Beanpole, I know you read my explanation and since this is really dark shit you *have* to at least give me context D: because among the warnings that the grimoire gave me, there's the thing that you become somewhat cursed S: ...Or you're cursed or you're not, there's no "somewhat" D: He speaks! 🙌 D: Give me *the deets* *long pause* D: *Shinichi Kudo* ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ S: Okay, fine! I can feel your disappointed stare all the way to Japan, stop! >Д&lt; D: Then explain S: Okay S: so you know how I can't leave things alone when they have suspicious all printed on them? D: Your worst defect, yes, but continue D: ...wait D: Shinichi no D: HOW OLD ARE YOU NOW?? S: Still 17, thank you very much D: I mean physically, you little shit, don't dodge the question! S: ... S: ...we think 7 D: What in the Infinite Realms everloving fuck, Shinichi D: Okay, you know what? D: I'm coming to Japan and you can't stop me, you *midget*, I know what you're already going to say D: it's dangerous, yada yada D: nothing I've already seen and fought S: What do you mean?! D: Since you're *such a good detective*, deduce it yourself D: give me your coordinates in the meantime and don't you dare move from that spot S: If you send me Superman or anyone of his creek, I swear to Kami, Danny D: Please, Superman could only desire to be anything like me, now *coordinates* ಠ⁠_⁠ಠ *coordinates sent* D: good boy D: now get ready in 3 S: 3 what? D: 2 D: 1

🕵️👻

A full body shiver run over Shinichi as soon as the "1" appeared on the screen, so he looked up from his phone, searching for where the cold draft could have come from. However, the agency toilet window was closed and the closed door had a good insulation, last time he had checked.

So what...!

"Boo."

Shinichi shrieked with all the high pitch of an elementary schooler, as he whirled around to look at what, or better, who had whispered by his ear.

A white-haired green-eyed floating teenager with a black hazmat suit with white accents grinned almost maniacally at him, showing their fangs predatorily.

Anatomically they looked male and despite the unhinged expression, the body language didn't project "danger". If anything, it was loose and casual as if he (until otherwise stated) belonged here.

The unearthly glow suggested either some substance coating him that gave him that illusion, or there was magic afoot.

Irritation surged inside Shinichi: Danny knew his rules! No direct superhero meeting, only exchange of intel!

"Who are you and why did Fenton send you?" Shinichi gritted, crossing his arms to appear less like a 7 years old.

"You disappoint me, little detective, I thought you would have figured it out at first glance!" The supposed hero pouted, crossing legs and arms midair and staring back at Shinichi. "I guess that your fame had been an exaggeration, after all. Some East Highschool Detective you are!"

The teasing little smirk incensed Shinichi more than alarming him (the other knew his secret!), but the last thought made him pause.

Danny wouldn't betray him like this by informing whatever "superhero" of this situation just to help him without his consent. Their boundaries had been awesome like that and had been respected so far, despite the many trials both had faced.

So who was this person really?

Shinichi's mind focused back into deducing the teen before him, and the more looked, the more disbelief made way in his heart. (...He had said he would be coming to Japan, but not in that instant!)

"No way, Danny?"

"Fucking finally, midget! What took you so long?" Danny huffed, untangling then touching down on his feet and looking him over. "It even gave me time to take a look at your situation!"

"Hey! Your voice is different, so I could deduce it only because "if you exclude the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the Truth"! Since you would never spill my secrets to anyone, this must have been you!" Shinichi gestured to his friend, who flushed green when he registered the meaning of the words.

"Wow," he breathed, sounding pleased, as he scratched his nape, "you would believe that a ghost of me is still me instead of me betraying you, wow!"

"Wait, ghost? I thought you just become a superhero, not that you died!" Despite his insistence on not believing the supernatural, Shinichi had read the Fentons' papers on ghosts (the most recent ones, AKA the "no more biased version" as Danny had called them). And, while he hadn't told his friend this, the scientific breakdown of what makes a ghost what they are, had made Shinichi believe in the existence of ectoplasmic beings.

But to discover that one of his best friends had died, he hadn't known or could have done anything, plus Danny hadn't felt safe enough to tell him until it had become unavoidable, made Shinichi clutch his heart in agony and despair.

Probably sensing the shift and interpreting the action for what that was, Danny's face shifted into regret, as he knelt down before the shrunk detective and a ring of light lit up at his waist, washing over him and leaving a hoodie-and-jeans-clad raven-haired and blue-eyed teenager.

Slowly, as if not to spook a frozen Shinichi, Danny laid a hand on his shoulder, while the other took the free little hand to his NASA hoodies chest and splayed it there, allowing him to feel his heartbeat. As if he had known that only words wouldn't have been enough to convince the detective.

Slowly but surely, feeling Danny's sluggish but steady heartbeat, made Shinichi unclench, then lean against his friend's chest, head tucked under his chin.

Carefully, Danny wrapped his friend in a hug, knowing well that, while physical affection was welcome from him, Japanese social conventions and the Kudo's upbringing had left Shinichi a little adverse to prolonged contact.

As the apparent 7-years-old melted into the embrace and clutched Danny as well, followed by a suspicious wet sensation on his chest, the halfa realized that this was bad.

Shinichi had never sought comfort like that, according to professor Agasa (who Danny did keep in contact with, since he was more a parent than the Kudos), so to do this now...

"It's okay, Shinichi, I'll explain better what happened to me, but it's not your fault." Shinichi shuddered at these words and buried deeper in the embrace, making guilt shoot through Danny. He had caused this breakdown. The least he could do was to help him through it and some.

"And we're gonna find a way to solve what happened to you, I promise."

[mariacallous]

The overturning of Roe v. Wade and this term’s Supreme Court abortion cases have understandably kept attention riveted on abortion. But while the abortion battle rages on, people are losing sight of the second front of the war to secure women’s reproductive autonomy: birth control.

As state abortion bans proliferate in the post-Roe era, the use of reliable birth control to prevent unintended pregnancies is more crucial than ever. Moreover, defenders of reproductive rights now must guard against an additional challenge—the offensive far-right conservatives are mounting against contraception.

Unplanned pregnancy is more common than most people realize. According to the latest data from the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), 42% of all pregnancies are unintended, meaning that the pregnancy was either unwanted or seriously mistimed.

While abortion is an important line of defense in preventing unplanned parenthood, it should be a last resort. The easiest way to prevent unplanned parenthood is to prevent an unintended pregnancy from occurring in the first place.

There are compelling reasons to support the use of effective birth control. A long and robust economic literature has shown that improving access to contraception reduces maternal morbidity and mortality. It also leads to healthier babies, less child poverty, better living circumstances for children, and improved educational and career opportunities for women.

In addition, birth control offers the most politically unifying approach to secure women’s reproductive autonomy. While just over one-third of the U.S. public doesn’t think abortion should be legal under any or most circumstances, nearly 9 in 10 approve the use of contraception, including 86% of Republicans. Birth control is also a more effective way to reduce abortion incidence than current state-level abortion bans which so far have not translated into fewer abortions nationwide. But if unplanned pregnancies essentially disappeared, there would be vanishingly few abortions.

And yet, despite birth control’s benefits and broad popularity, some conservatives are now targeting contraception.

Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas opened the door to these attacks when he argued that the same legal reasoning used to overturn Roe implies that “in future cases” the Court should “reconsider” Griswold v. Connecticut, the landmark case that established the Constitutional right to contraception in 1965. Since then, legislation to ban or restrict access to certain forms of contraception has already been discussed or proposed in Arkansas, Idaho, Louisiana, Michigan, and Missouri.

The Heritage Foundation as part of its Project 2025 initiative has called for a potential future Trump administration to restrict access to certain types of birth control. When asked about the topic in a recent TV interview, former President Trump said he was “looking at” policies that would restrict access, adding that “some states are going to have different policy than others.” He later walked back those comments, but many of Trump’s actions as president, including his decision to halve the patient capacity of the Title X program that provides affordable birth control and related services, foreshadow what may be his real intentions.

Senator Chuck Schumer recently led an effort to codify the right to contraception nationwide. All but two Senate Republicans present voted against the measure.

Central to Republicans’ attacks against contraception have been efforts by anti-abortion religious groups to falsely equate certain forms of birth control with abortion. That position is contrary to the consensus among medical experts that contraception, unlike abortion, does not terminate pregnancy and instead prevents pregnancy from occurring in the first place. The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, for example, has stated: “None of the FDA-approved contraceptive methods are abortifacients because they do not interfere with a pregnancy and are not effective after a fertilized egg has implanted successfully in the uterus.”

Amid far-right attacks, defenders of women’s reproductive autonomy should focus more attention on effective contraception.

As a safe and virtually foolproof form of birth control, the surging popularity of long-acting reversible contraception (LARC) which includes IUDs and implants is especially promising. For a typical couple using a condom, the risk of pregnancy within five years is 63%. For those relying on the pill, it is 38%. With a LARC, it is less than 4%. LARCs change the default so that users can “set it and forget it” without losing sleep over concerns about getting pregnant.

Many women are taking notice. The share of women using LARCs increased sevenfold between 2002 and 2018. LARCs are now the third most common contraceptive method used by women after sterilization and the pill. Early evidence suggests more women and men are seeking out effective contraception including LARCs in response to the overturning of Roe v. Wade.

Beyond the increased use of LARCs, the first-ever over-the-counter birth control pill hit the shelves of major drug stores earlier this year. That is important because nearly one-third of women using the pill say they have missed taking their dosage because they were unable to get their next supply in time.

But what more could be done?

Primary care physicians should screen all women of reproductive age for their pregnancy intentions to encourage patients who don’t want to get pregnant to focus on the risks of sex and their contraceptive options for reducing them. We also need to ensure all healthcare providers, not just doctors, are trained in the use of LARCs, have them on hand, and can provide same day insertion. Where these approaches have been tried, unintended pregnancy and abortion rates have both declined dramatically.

In addition, more funding for Title X is needed. One rigorous study has shown that eliminating cost sharing for low-income patients seeking birth control would significantly reduce unintended pregnancies and abortions and save more than one billion dollars in Medicaid expenses in the first year alone.

The overturning of Roe v. Wade was a Pandora’s box that unleashed an invigorated assault on women’s fundamental freedoms. As the onslaught intensifies, defenders of women’s reproductive autonomy must fight back to fortify the first and strongest line of defense in protecting a woman’s right to choose if and when to seek a pregnancy.

[isa-ghost]

My friend

I am gonna do it

WHAT ARE YOUR Q!PHIL HEADCANONS MY FRIEND

YESSSSSS

Here's Set 1 and Set 2

Now M O R E

He won't do it without prompting because he'll feel like an ass giving nobody else room to talk, but if someone got him on the topic of like. Exploration or flight or something, he could talk for hours. He's extremely knowledgeable and passionate about stuff like that, most times because he has centuries of experience

I don't want to diagnose cc!Phil or whatever bc I know he doesn't like when people do that, but to me his rp character is free reign. And as a psych major with ADHD who's focusing on the study of neurodivergent disorders: this man is hella ADHD coded. He's told too many personal stories that are relatable to me for me to be silent about it. I'm 🤝🏻 this crow man

In his case this isn't a nd trait but instead a crow one, but he experiences echolalia sometimes. Funny things or certain noises he hears just scratch an itch in his bird brain real good, he can't help but repeat it for a while

The way to Phil's heart is good food, fun to be around, and kicking ass. If you can tick those 3 things off for yourself, you're Phil Approved

He'll say he doesn't fall for peer pressure, and often times he's right. But on rare occasions someone like Fit or Etoiles can convince him to do smth he maybe wouldn't at first. It's easier to win him over when he's drunk

cc!Phil has talked abt how he gets a weird confidence boost when he's drunk as shit. That's real for q!Phil too. He could be staggering slurring speech drunk and still snipe something like 50 blocks away. It makes Fit and Etoiles want to kiss him about it

He has intentionally made almost his entire wardrobe varying shades of green, which he pairs with black, red & gold. He thinks it's funny to have a branded wardrobe like an anime character

Idr how canon dsmp is to q!Phil but he still has the friendship emerald charm hanging from his hat. Perhaps it's from the Antarctic Empire days instead. Idk, I just like the character design of Dangly Thing On Hat Brim too much to exclude it from his design in my head (I should rlly attempt to doodle my Phil beyond the random notebook ones I've done. Maybe I'll post those if asked idk)

Don't underestimate this man's ability to get dramatic. Tallulah ain't the only one in the family that can go hard

I wouldn't say he has a bad temper. He's very well-practiced at self-control. However, there are certain things that set him off so severely, he throws self-control out the window. Those things aren't worthy of him trying to be "the bigger person." They deserve their ass handed to them right here right now (see: The Codes pre-current lore).

In a similar vein, when the situation isn't one of those special Fuck This incidences, he still doesn't have a temper, but when he finally snaps, he SNAPS. Like on a The Polycule be like "mark me down as scared and horny" level of snap. When you get on the Angel of Death's last fucking nerve he let's you KNOW.

I'm self-projecting here: this fucking idiot man has a detrimental habit of insisting on handling stuff like anxiety alone. He hates when people see him without his composure. It's not even like an embarrassing thing, it's just very uncomfortable to him. So when a panic attack hits or he finally concedes and let's himself cry, it's alone. And sometimes that makes it worse. But even that doesn't make him change his mind. "Keep it together for the kids," right? :')

Having a stroke about thunderstorms is a reflex. Even on Quesadilla Island, the second he hears thunder he reaches for a trident like a dork.

He near-obsessively preens his wings because he doesn't want the Federation, or anyone else for that matter, getting ahold of his feathers when they shed. He doesn't know wtf they could do with those and he doesn't wanna find out.

And yet somehow Missa and Lullah both have a couple feathers that he's shed and he has no idea. Lullah wants to make a necklace out of them.

[reimeichan]

hello! when u have did or osdd how do u deal with the reoccurring denial that your alters are just mood states or normal singlet multidimensionalness of identity that you’re just misidentifying as alters? 😵‍💫 what can be said to prove to yourself otherwise? are there any sources/explanation on the differences between the two things (alters vs normal singlet variation of identity)? I saw your post on things that were actually did but u thought were normal.. and I was wondering if u had anything else related to say related to this topic?

For me, I eventually came to the conclusion that it doesn't really matter if what I'm experiencing are "alters" or "mood states" (or something akin to that) because ultimately it doesn't really matter if they're "truly" alters or not, what I experience is dissociation and a disconnected sense of self (among other things). Instead of trying to ascertain if what I'm experiencing is an alter or a mood state, I've found it more useful to just observe myself and my experiences. By noting things down that are actually observable, I can start to spot patterns and draw conclusions that way- and also keep an open mind that whatever conclusion I come to may not necessarily be fully accurate or correct.

Two analogies come to mind for myself- the first is that of stars and constellations. In one area of the world, we may draw shapes in the stars in one particular way. In another area of the world, we connect them differently. Are either of these patterns more correct than the other? No, we merely see different patterns in the same night sky, and it doesn't mean one is more or less correct than the other. The second analogy I have is that of scientific models- science is ever-evolving after all. The models we had hundreds of years ago may no longer hold up in current day due to new information and discoveries. With each new bit of research and observation of the universe around us, we grow closer to understanding how this universe functions and thus we need to change and update our models are we learn new things. Does this mean our old models were wrong? More often than not, they weren't wrong so much as they were incomplete- and in either case, it merely means that we now have a better understanding of the world and the universe around us.

Unfortunately I don't have any papers or research off the top of my head that can differentiate between alters in a dissociative system vs singlet "parts of selves". I'll post this ask either way, in case any of my followers can provide anything for you, anon!

[the-s1lly-corner]

Thank you! Can I ask more angst alphabet with Sir Pentious? F (fight), H (heal) and J (jealousy)

F, H, J with Pentious (angst alphabet)

You may get more angst!

Notes: reader is GN but the post mainly focuses on pentious

Prompts: Fight, heal, jealousy

CWs: edit

FIGHT

Sometimes he can get really wrapped up in an argument, which can lead to some nasty things said if you get him riled up enough.. but hes quick to realize what he said was wrong and try to backtrack the second it leaves his mouth

He doesnt like walking away when having a disagreement with you because he doesnt want it to come off as him not caring, even though sometimes disconnecting and coming back later is the better route

I dont think he would maliciously throw something in your face that he knows is a touchy subject for you, if it does happen its likely a "this is semi related and relevant, I'm not saying this to hurt you or win"

Hes a lot less of an ugly fighter than some of the other cast members, he doesnt like fighting with you and if he can he will try to have a civil discussion and work something out

HEAL

However on the chance he does say something that went too far or hurt when he didn't intend it to..

Hes going to apologize and its going to be more than saying sorry- his time at the hotel had done him good... expect him to actually say it as well as work on trying to fix the problem

Hes going to try to make it up through really leaning into taking care of you and any responsibilities you guys share.. he may also outright ask what you need him to do

You both have a serious talk about the original argument in order to prevent it from happening again, as well as working through the original problem together

He will carry at least a little bit of guilt forever even long after you forgive him

JEALOUSY

He does his best to not get jealous, and he trusts you! He trusts that you won't to behind his back and flirt with someone! But that doesn't exactly mean he trusts other people

He doesnt want to restrict you from seeing someone, but if you ask about it he will let you know his discomforts

He feels so bad because he doesnt want to make it seem like hes controlling you

He respects you more than anyone and he cant help but feel that his jealousy is... disrespectful towards you

Attempts to bottle it up but hes so obvious, its only a matter of time before a hissy comment gets tossed out

But what if no ones flirting and you're just hanging out a lot with friends, without him?

He does feel a little left out, especially if you're out a lot.. becomes clingy when you are around

Once more he doesnt want to come off as controlling so this may be another case of you noticing something's up and bringing up the topic

Does get better about not bottling up with time

[natalisdragon]

Have you noticed that the two post-credits scenes in Bucchigiri?! are similar? It may be obvious, but it is no coincidence, both are moments between friends, TWO FRIENDS, sharing a very personal moment together. Here we can appreciate some things regarding both friendships, they show trust, loyalty, sincerity and above all, equality. We could say that it's the type of relationship that Arajin and Matakara should share at this point if they hadn't separated, or in any case, if they had reconciled in a healthy way.

Arajin was so engrossed in how it made him feel to have abandoned his best friend and at the same time betrayed the foundations on which their friendship was based (the principles of a honki person) that he never asked himself how his friend felt about it. Deep down he worries about Matakara, to the point that just remembering what he did to him causes him physical discomfort. Wanting to push him away is not because he no longer cares, but rather an instinctive response of rejection of a trigger related to his trauma.

Matakara, for his part, has his own problems. The story has shown us that he always had a dependence on his brother as he was his only close relative, or at least the one he trusted the most. Then comes Arajin, the only person besides his brother that he allows himself to trust. During that time, Matakara puts Arajin on a pedestal, being (surely) his first true friend and first significant connection outside of his family, but eventually the incident we all know happens and Arajin abandons him. Matakara was most likely so heartbroken that he preferred to blame himself for what happened, reinforcing his feelings of inferiority, dependence on his brother and creating a (perhaps) subconscious fear of trusting other people again (something confirmed by Zabu's face during episode 10, surely realizing that he really didn't know his friend as much as he thought), while at the same time, Arajin's memory becomes more and more mythologized, which only gets worse in the fight between Arajin and Marito, which only confirms his own blindness, making the moment of confession much more painful for him.

Obviously neither of them was psychologically prepared for their reunion, because neither had the tools to open up about what happened, and when Arajin decides to do so, he doesn't do it with the intention of taking that necessary first step towards reconciliation, but rather as a way of distancing himself from the source of his trauma, at the worst moment and in the most hurtful way possible, totally blind to Matakara's suffering, who, seeing himself completely deprived of any support, begins his descent into the abyss.

Many talk about how Arajin must open up and allow himself to be vulnerable in order to save Matakara and reconcile, but that also applies to Matakara, who if we look at it, has strongly refused to do so. Although his friends in Minato Kai worry about him, his first reaction after his brother's incident is to isolate himself. He has always been someone strong, honest and reliable, he is that friend you trust in difficult times, not only because he is like that, but because it's what he feels is expected of him and what he demands of himsel. To be able to be like the Arajin he remembers, for his brother who believes he can become the honki person he wants to be, because he is the younger brother of the legendary former leader of Minato kai. All of this has created an enormous weight on him, which surely helped the shadows that stalked him to remain close to him, even when he seemed to be more stable.

This is where we return to the topic of the other two friendships., Marito and Outa for example. In Siguma, their positions as leader and second in command are clear, however, it's more than evident that between the two there is a relationship of equals, where we can appreciate a complete and unquestionable loyalty towards each other, having a fairly strong and solid bond. Kenichiro and Mitsukuni seem to have a similar relationship, the way in which the second one shares his future plans goes beyond a simple conversation between a leader and his successor, but between two people who understand and respect each other. Both are relationships where, although they do not say it explicitly, share great affection, which is what Arajin and Matakara should aspire to in the future. A friendship founded not on the childhood desire to become a honki person, but on the mutual appreciation and affection that they share.