#title is from The Prophecy by Taylor Swift

[lapsusophobia]

Lighting in a bottle

Status: scrapped/unfinished (possibly forever)

TW: Implied/Referenced Character Death/Suicide

Pair(s): Implied/Referenced Raoulstine (altho I wouldn’t really count it)

Note: what better way to celebrate my comeback than by posting an unfinished piece of POTO one shot which has been laying in my Google Docs for two months and a half now?

loosely inspired by this scene from Final Lair from the Romanian 2023 production (I will never shut up about how much I love the Romania production)

one day, hopefully, I’ll find the inspiration to write a more in depth piece surrounding this scene and maybe even a full fic based on this production. anyways, enjoy. xx

“I want you to be my one and only. . .” Eurydice sang as tears began to form in the corners of her stormy gray eyes, but pressed them shut as she stepped back to the gates of Inferno, almost as if she didn’t want him to see those salty crystals of sorrow dancing in her gaze. He felt his heart cracking when the metallic sound of the gates closing made it to his ears, biting his tongue so he wouldn't scream in agony. Or talk at all, because if he did he wasn’t sure he would have achieved anything good.

“Tell me where you wish to go, and I will follow you. . . ” already up a few good stairs, Orpheus offered his hand to his beloved one, ready to take his loved one home.

Then the gates shut closed, yet unlocked, and like a prisoner he found himself crawling to the bars, only to catch the most horrendous view his damned eyes had ever laid on.

Eurydice took her lover’s hand, her cheeks red and swollen with tears.

“Let us share a day, a year, a lifetime. . .” Eurydice ended their duet in a woeful manner, her voice trembling as she embraced Orpheus and they climbed back into the Living World together.

Orpheus triumphed. He saved his adored Eurydice from the Underworld. They were going to spend the rest of their lives in bliss and joy, bathed in each other’s love forevermore.

And he would rot in these damned cellars for the rest of his miserable existence.

‘Come back to me.’ he wanted to say. ‘Come back to me and I promise I will be good. I will cherish and adore you like my most valuable possession. I will swallow you in the most ethereal tunes possible by daylight, and at night I will sing you to sleep. I will love you, but I will try to do it good this time: I will try to love you like a man, I will try to love you as he does! I will love you better than him! I will do anything! I will get you everything your golden heart desires and lay them at your feet! I will wipe away those poisonous tears that had dared sheed across your beautiful cheeks! I will make you happy! I will. . .’

I will love. I will set your wings free. I will mold myself into a man for you. But not a single I should’ve done better. I should’ve been better. I should’ve listened. . .

He rose from the ground, knees shaking, his own eyes trembling and glassy as he held back his own tears. Then he gazed at the rope only feet away from him, hanging in the middle of the cellar. Tied in a perfect, round loop, tight enough to steal one’s breath and never give it back. It was a merciful way to take one’s life, he thought. It spared the man of the cold blade of a knife, the painful kiss of a bullet at the temple of the head. It was a human death, something which was not granted anymore, not even to the less guilty ones. Nowadays even being born was considered a crime if your eyes or hair color or lips weren’t of the liking of your own parents. Or if your face was the result of all human catastrophes put together, no matter how full of love your very heart was.

No pain. Only for a moment, and then it would pass, fade away into the abyss of the unknown and drag his soul along with it. His fists wouldn’t clench anymore, his brows wouldn’t frown anymore in anger and envy and hatred would finally stop pumping life into his miserable heart.

He would finally be pure.

‘. . . I will even cease to exist for your own peace .’

[fingertipsmp3]

Finally listened to the anthology songs and they’re so fucking good omg. I don’t know if I can rank them, I just love all of them

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

[12triceratops]

Where the rubber meets the road.

These two didn't just have a relationship, they had a (soul)utionship. "The Prophecy" Hand on the throttle Thought I caught lightning in a bottle...

What these two had was magical. There is no debate that Karlie Kloss and Taylor Swift were electric: (I am using past tense for the moment, I will refer to them in present tense a bit later in the post)

Fast forward a decade later to Fortnight. This record did not hit me immediately the way "Folklore" and "Evermore" did, It has almost been a week since its release and I hadn't been fully onboard with TTPD. I was expecting something different, something not familiar and I had quite literally thought maybe Jack Antinoff and Taylor Swift had reached their limit together as collaborators. The music produced by Aaron Dressner had flavors and connections to "Folklore" and "Evermore," while parts of the album was reminiscent of "1989." My next thought that maybe the three of them had done all they could do.

And then the Matty Healy conversation exploded across the net (le sigh), and I just about gave up on the record.

I damn near had a sanguinary struggle within myself over The Tortured Poets Department (I know, that is very dramatic lol), and then I finally got it. The brilliance of this woman is unmatched.

The last song "The Manuscript." Now and then she rereads the manuscript Of the entire torrid affair

"The entire torrid affair" meaning the last decade (probably longer, but I am sticking with 2014-2024). The title isn't lost on me and many others - The Man-U-Script.

The last segment of the song

The only thing that's left is the manuscript One last souvenir from my trip to your shores Now and then I reread the manuscript But the story isn't mine anymore

She is closing the chapter on all of it. It's over, the countless theories, the stories we all have created about her. They're our stories now, we built them into a formidable, monstrous entity that took on a life of its own. "The last souvenir" are her words to us on this album. From the Swifities, to the Gaylors/Kaylors, to the haters, critics, industry, fans, media. She won't play this game anymore. Taylor gave enough clues on this album to make EVERYONE'S theory plausible (Karlie, Joe, Matty, Travis, Harry, Kim etc). She connected threads to come full circle, which brings us back to "1989," that 1980s syth-pop (hello! "I Can Do It With A Broken Heart"). This is why she and Jack Antonoff brought us back to where it all began, Karlie Kloss and #Kissgate (Dianna Agron, too, who can forget "Wonderland). Aaron Dressner summons moments within this records of the two albums that fractured my soul, F & E. That folky-pop melody that gets into your skin to change the DNA. No joke, I sobbed listening to "Folklore" and "Evermore."

With TTPD, Taylor comes in like a thrashing, tumultuous storm; at times seething and others admonishing. She is singing to herself, for herself and without need of approval from the mainstream radio (or anyone else). TTPD is messy, too much, not enough, vulnerable, real, relatable and she is tired of our collective shit.

Back to "The Manuscript" This Era has come to an end and she is leaving us with the ruins, the aftermath of what she went through: being forced to hide who she really is, having to placate the rabid fans who believe the stories of every boy she has ever dated. She has had zero privacy and the only safe place Taylor has ever had was her music, she is the ONLY one who knows to whom she sings. Does she love her fans, of course, but Mother is tired and done. She is ready to come clean and live the life she has crafted to keep in secret in order to protect the innocent.

The beards, NDAs, slight of hand, she is smashing all that we know. It's not her reflection she seeks to shatter, it's the illusions. In "Fortnight" the nurse, a woman (cannot convince me that it's not Karlie. A doorframe is 6'8" and that nurse is about 5" shorter that frame, which would make that person 6'3" :), comes to save her, gives her the key to set her free. The men in the video are the ones who are torturing her. Like the last 10 years, The poet has been tortured by the department of men: Joe, John, Conner, Jake, Harry, Calvin, Tom, Joe, Matty, Travis, Scooter, Scott, and the list goes on.

It's "Robin" that has got a choke-hold on me.

Buried down deep And out of your reach The secret we all vowed To keep it from you in sweetness

She is singing to a child, a kid, and I am going to say a little boy. Is this song about Levi? I am going to say yes. Hands down the gem of the album, and our cue to realize she is telling us what is next, her family, the loves of her life: Karlie and the kids. That is what she wants and that will be her next chapter. We struggle to interpret the Taylor that is always ten steps ahead of us. Her Eras Tour, this will be the last one for a while. Once it has wrapped, I wouldn't be surprised if she disappeared for a spell. Will she produce more work, sure. Perform, probably, but this last decade has taken a toll, and this tour has been a herculean effort. Hence, its wild success. Could she retire (FLORIDA)? It's possible, but she would never tell us, we would have to figure that out for ourselves.

I have more to say, but it's late and I am sleepy. As I get lost in the piano of "The Manuscript" I am reminded of the book "The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo"

Not sure if anyone is going to see or read this, but I needed a place to write my thoughts about this extraordinary album that I almost let slip through my fingers. Good night and sleep well everyone <3

[fairylights-throughthemist]

Eddie Munson as tracks on The Tortured Poets Department by Taylor Swift

Fortnight

Exhusband!Eddie x Jealous!Reader

The Tortured Poets Department

Friends to Lovers to Strangers with Eddie

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

Toxic!Mean!Eddie x Reader

Down Bad

Protective!Mafia!Eddie x Reader

So Long, London

Exboyfriend!Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

(Eddie and Reader have spent lots of time in London during their relationship. Now that it’s ended she never wants to return.)

But Daddy I Love Him

Dad’s Best Friend!Eddie / Older!Eddie x Reader

Fresh Out The Slammer

Ex-Con!Eddie x Reader

Florida!!!

Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

(Reader’s [now ex]boyfriend cheated on her, she went to Florida on vacation to forget about him. At a local bar she meets a certain rockstar touring the country with his band.)

Guilty As Sin?

Exboyfriend!Eddie x Reader

(Eddie broke up with you, yet you can’t stop thinking about him. Not even with another man in your bed.)

Who’s Afraid Of Little Old Me?

Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

(Eddie and Reader just made their relationship official and his fans can’t seem to keep their mouths shut. Haters online compare you to other women he’s been seen with, they make comments about your body and they don’t think you deserve Eddie.) (This description also fits for Delicate from Reputation.)

I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)

Mafia!Eddie x Catholic / Virgin / Good Girl / Shy! Reader

loml

Exboyfriend!Eddie x Reader

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

Situationship!Mean!Toxic!Eddie x Reader

The Alchemy

Hockey player!Eddie x Reader

Clara Bow

Rockstar!Eddie x Actress!Reader

(Reader always getting compared to other actresses, everyone wants her to be bigger and better than anyone before her. Eddie being the only one able to comfort her.)

The Black Dog

Exboyfriend!Eddie x Reader

imgonnagetyouback

Exboyfriend!Rockstar!Eddie x Jealous!Reader

The Albatross

Virgin!Eddie x “Slut”!Reader

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus

Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

(Eddie becoming addicted to drugs, reader trying to help him but giving up when he cheats on her.)

How Did It End?

Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

(No one caring about how you’re doing, only asking about Eddie and asking what happened.)

So High School - my first fic ever!!

Best Friends to Lovers, Eddie x Reader

(Eddie and Reader playing Kiss, Marry, Kill while high, Reader naming people when it’s Eddie’s turn, one of them being herself, leading her to ask “Are you gonna marry, kiss or kill me?”)

I Hate It Here

Eddie x You

(Yes you. We all know you read to escape reality.)

thanK you aIMee

Eddie x Reader

(Based on the title, not the lyrics)

(Think All Of The Girls You Loved Before, Reader thanking one of Eddie’s exes for contributing to the amazing man he is now.)

I Look In People’s Windows

Exboyfriend!Eddie x Reader

The Prophecy

Eddie x Reader

(Post Vecna…)

Cassandra

Toxic!Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

(Reader watching Eddie’s show in the pit and getting sexually harassed / groped by some creep. Not wanting to interrupt the show or cause a scene, she keeps quiet. Anxiety and stress leading up to a breakdown, Eddie being high out of his mind asking if everything’s okay. You snap at him and tell him about the incident at his concert but he doesn’t believe you. The day after your breakdown, Eddie asks you what happened last night, after a quick recap of the events your petty boyfriend chooses not to believe you.)

Peter

Exboyfriend!Rockstar!Eddie x Reader

(Similar to Who’s Afraid Of Little Old Me. Eddie being ignorant and giving half assed advice like “Just ignore it”. He doesn’t show how much he cares due to his newfound love for drugs.)

The Bolter

Eddie x Reader

(Reader being afraid of relationships and attachment. Her trying to bolt from Eddie’s love but he doesn’t let her. Steve and Robin being supportive of Reader and Eddie’s relationship, they felt the need to tell him about her attachment style before it was too late.)

Robin

Dad!Eddie x Mom!Reader

The Manuscript

Exboyfriend!Eddie x Reader

A/N: This is my first time writing anything so please be nice !!!!

[katysfavoritethings]

The Waterboarding Department: The Anthology: Track 1- Fortnight (feat. Post Malone)

Welcome to the Track 1 of the track-by-track review of Taylor Swift’s “The Tortured Poets Department!” You may be wondering or perhaps even be concerned by my prominent use of the word “waterboarding” in these titles. Both reactions are valid. In addition to waterboarding being a method of torture, I felt that I, in a sense, tortured myself with this album.

I went on a sort of journey with this one. On launch day, I was really excited for TTPD. I listened through the first half and decided I would save The Anthology for later. I heard the first two songs and liked what I heard. I continued on, losing steam around track 11, “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can).” I had been most looking forward to it for its title, and then forced myself to listen through to “Clara Bow.” According to my Spotify Wrapped, I proceeded to listen to the first 4 songs of this album more than anything else in 2024, but at the same time, I felt little joy from them. I began to turn away from this album in favor of blog-favorite “Brat” by Charli XCX.

A dear friend of mine told me that she felt The Anthology™ was reminiscent of “evermore,” another favorite of mine. I began again and could not make it past “thanK you aIMee,” due to continued fatigue with this album cycle. I don’t recall when I first heard “The Prophecy” but I was charmed by its melancholic tone and unique conceit. Once I was won over by that, I began to come around to the rest of the Anthology tracks. I, then, was very confused by exactly how mixed my opinions were on this album as a whole. What follows will be my most honest opinions about each and every song in this album cycle. Together, I pray we reach a conclusion about how I actually really and truly feel about “The Tortured Poets Department.” Amen. Gesundheit. Onward!

1. Fortnight (feat. Post Malone)

Fortnight is a mid-tempo neo-80s synth track featuring America's second-favorite tattooed white guy (with Pete Davidson being in first place.) I truly feel like Posty’s involvement was a wasted opportunity. We hear his trademark warble only a handful of times on this song, and it really bums me out. I love how much texture there is to his voice and on a decidedly sad number such as this, it really could have been another “exile feat. bon iver” moment.

Okay, so not enough Post Malone. What does that leave us with? A very lyrically involved song describing a fairly simple situation. “I love you; it's ruining my life,” Taylor sings as this song’s main thesis. A failed love affair that the speaker is not yet over, despite ostensibly years passing. Enough time has passed that the object of the speaker’s affections has a wife, and she, a husband. But, “for a fortnight there, we were forever,” which I feel is meant to set the precedent for the rest of the album: we were forever, until we weren't.

Across the space of the following tracks, she is down bad over the smallest man who ever lived, and here she lets us in after the fact. The love affair has ended and she's, by the sound of the music, passively dejected over it all. “My husband is cheating; I wanna kill him” she sings listlessly. I proffer that, from what we come to know later, the intensity of this relationship has burned her out. In this moment, she has no more tears to cry but only because she wept so profusely. She has a checked list of American Dreams, moving to Florida and the car she wants, but it's all for naught. “It won't start up till I touch you.”.

Melody-wise, I see what Taylor is going for. The tune wanders up and down again in small intervals, and with her vocal delivery, it's giving “I'm burned out from all this drama.” Unfortunately, I don't find it all that riveting as a song. I really appreciate the aforementioned neo-80s synths, but I am a melody girlie. I need more unexpected turns in the tune to keep me interested. I think it's more a matter of repetition that I know all the words to this song, rather than from me singing it again and again. It really feels as though the melody was second fiddle to the lyrics and production value. I find this song to sound very expensive, but without much flavor.

Over the course of this review series, I will be numerically rating the lyrics and music separately, which will give us a total song score. I'm also going to keep a running average of total song scores, which will ultimately get us our final score at the very end. For “Fortnight,” the scores are as follows:

Lyric Score: 3 / 5. Music score 2.5 / 5. Total Song Score: 2.75 / 5

Running album score: 2.75 / 5

Up next: Track 2- The Tortured Poets Department

[thisselflovecamebacktome]

My Taylor Swift inspired playlists masterpost 4.0.

I’m going to put these under a read more because otherwise this post is going to get super long but the TLDR of this update is that while I was originally planning to wait until I finished another full album, I've finished 22 playlists since the last update, including the Christmas songs which I wanted to release before Christmas. Also, every album has at least one playlist for it now which is cute. So as usual, I will get around to the others when I can, but in the meanwhile, have fun and happy holidays to those who celebrate.

“[album]... but not by Taylor” series:

(all compilations of songs that Taylor has never worked on that give me the same vibes as Taylor’s did on a song by song basis)

Debut deluxe version

Fearless platinum version

Fearless vault songs

Speak Now deluxe version

Speak Now vault songs

RED deluxe version

RED vault songs

1989 deluxe version

1989 vault songs

Reputation

Lover

Folklore deluxe version

Evermore deluxe version

Midnights lavender version + 3am tracks

The Tortured Poets' Department: The Anthology

Song Inspired playlists:

The Tortured Poets Department:

But Daddy I Love Him (Dealing with unwanted criticism)

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart (Faking it until you make it through the post break up grief)

Clara Bow (Every artist I've heard someone call 'The new Taylor' regardless of if I agree or not)

So High School (Songs I was obsessed with back when I was in high school)

The Prophecy (Desperately praying for love)

The Bolter (Always being the first to leave)

The Manuscript (Recovering from an age gap relationship)

Midnights:

You're On Your Own Kid (Where I am is a journey of all the steps I've taken and I take responsibility and am proud of that while still wishing I was kinder to my younger self)

Vigilante Shit (Sometimes anger and revenge is the answer)

Bigger Than The Whole Sky (The hole that death leaves behind)

Would've Could've Should've (Something happened at too young a age and it's led to nothing but anger)

Evermore:

Willow (Finding love when you least expect it)

Champagne Problems (Wishing you were in love with someone you loves you)

Gold Rush (The love that never eventuated)

Tis The Damn Season (Leaving the love of your life but wishing you could stay)

Tolerate It (Questioning an unstable relationship)

No Body No Crime (Getting revenge against your murderous best friend’s ex husband and his mistress)

Happiness (Accepting that both your ending relationship and what comes next did and will bring you happiness)

Dorothea (Missing your first love who you dated in the 2000s/2010s)

Coney Island (The sadness that comes with knowing you are the reason a relationship ended)

Ivy (Cheating/Going after taken people is bad... but these songs are all bops)

Cowboy Like Me (Songs that make me wish I believed in love)

Long Story Short (Songs that make me feel good about myself/my journey)

Marjorie (Songs that were written about family)

Closure (Moving past people you know will never truly be sorry)

Evermore (Love will always guide you through the toughest times)

Right Where You Left Me (Feeling stuck and left behind in life)

It’s Time To Go (Knowing when to choose yourself first and walk away)

Folklore:

The 1 (When you can’t forget that one person from your past)

Cardigan (Knowing your worth when someone comes back to you after wronging you)

The Last Great American Dynasty (The highs and lows of finding yourself)

Exile (Different gender duet songs I like)

My Tears Ricochet (Fuck Scott Borchetta)

Mirrorball (Breaking free of needing validation)

Seven (Songs with an age in the title)

August (First teenage heartbreak with someone you thought was your person but who didn’t love you back)

This Is Me Trying (Picking yourself up after a depressive episode)

Illicit Affairs (Being the other, younger woman)

Invisible String (Everything will turn out okay)

Mad Woman (Feminist songs)

Epiphany (Societal based songs)

Betty (Accepting you have to move forward after hurting someone)

Peace (Songs that make me feel a sense of peace)

Hoax (Holding on for far too long)

The Lakes (Wanting to escape from reality with your partner)

Lover:

ME! (Songs with at least one queer artist on them)

Reputation:

I Did Something Bad (Refusing to be emotionally present in your relationship as an act of self preservation)

Gorgeous (Having a chance encounter with someone you fall for while still in a relationship with someone else)

1989:

Welcome To New York (Songs with locations in the title)

RED:

Run (I clearly like songs with 'Run' in the title far too much)

Speak Now:

Last Kiss (If I had a nickel for every singer I liked that allegedly wrote bangers about Joe Jonas, I'd have 3 nickels which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened 3 times)

Fearless:

Untouchable (Covers I like just as much as the original song)

Taylor Swift:

Tim McGraw (When I think Tim McGraw country music, just know I think of these)

Our Song (Songs with the same titles as Taylor's songs)

Non album songs:

Beautiful Ghosts (Songs from musicals I have seen)

Christmas Tree Farm (Christmas songs - Happy version)

Christmas Must Be Something More (Christmas songs - Religious version)

Christmases When You Were Mine (Christmas songs - Sad version)

[willesredlights]

Snippet of "The prophecy" chapter 1

It's only when the bandmembers introduce themselves that he realizes he only remembers Simon's name. “Hej Wilhelm, I'm Simon”, Simon introduces himself with a wide smile. Wille’s heart starts racing when he shakes his hand. His skin feeling soft against his, Simon's cold rings in contrast with his warm and clammy hands. “Hej, Simon”, he tries to bring out but he is starstruck by Simon’s eyes boring into his. He diverts his eyes, looking at Simon's outfit. He is wearing a purple shirt with a checkered flannel that's matching the purple color. Underneath he is wearing some black jeans and white all-stars that are a bit worn out but make his look complete. His eyes go up again, meeting Simon's eyes who is smirking slightly. Again he feels like he got caught and his face heats up again, turning a bright red. Come on Wille, concentrate. Don’t fuck this interview up.

So, I have been writing this story for a few weeks now. It's a popstar Simon! x journalist Wille! story, where they meet at an interview. So basically it will be a non-royal au. I'm now busy writing the fifth chapter so I was thinking about starting to post this fic soon on ao3. Fic title comes from the Taylor Swift song, The Prophecy.🩷

[likeadevils]

Rank Taylor songs which are titled starting with The?

a lot of these probably change day by day but for right now:

The Archer (song of all time cried for four hours listening to this on repeat the day it was released and almost cancelled plans with friends because i didn’t think my mood could recover)

The Black Dog (i’ve said it before but platonic ideal of a taylor swift song. woman has a talent for revealing heartbreak in small everyday moments that seem simultaneously intensely specific to one person but are in fact universal)

the 1 (don’t have words for how good this song is because like. it’s just self evident. it’s a good song)

The Story Of Us (you ever see me listening to this and the plagues from the prince of egypt on repeat assume i am plotting murder)

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived (the BRIDGE?)

The Bolter (avoidant attachment style representation!!!!!!!)

The Outside (i feel like it’s revealing how high this made it on the list)

The Best Day (again just self evidently a good song idk what to say)

The Last Time (fun fact one of my dad’s favorite taylor swift songs. so. i guess this is the parent part of the list)

The Way I Loved You (BOP. BOP OF ALL TIME. FEARLESS DESERVES SO MICH MORE LOVE IN THIS FANDOM)

the lakes (good song!)

the last great american dynasty (if i can be evil for a second. i knew this was about her house the second she said “rhode island set”. so there’s my intensely niche intensely weird spot of pride)

The Manuscript (the perfect way to end the album tbh)

The Prophecy (“a lesser woman would’ve lost hope. a greater woman wouldn’t beg.” is one of her best lyrics it’s understated it’s efficient it packs a hell of a punch good job taylor)

The Great War (DISEL IS DESIRE YOU WERE PLAYING WITH FIRE)

The Very First Night (bop. lyrics make no sense but i forgive her because they make me chuckle)

The Other Side Of The Door (i will never turn down taylor ranting)

The Lucky One (might be my favorite intros of hers. like just production wise? gets me hooked every time)

The Moment I Knew (good song. ajay’s reaction to this means everything to me. personally don’t listen to it a ton)

The Albatross (again i like it i just dont listen to it a ton. but the verses are fantastic)

The Man (a weird case because most of the time i actively dislike it but i’ll listen to the bridge sometimes because like i said, will never shun a taylor rant)

The Tortured Poets Department (i don’t. like this song. i dont dislike it. but its a skip)

The Alchemy (again i don’t like. dislike it? it’s just kinda there.)

[jasongracedefenseattorney]

here’s my full review of the tortured poets department: the anthology by taylor swift. i’m just going to start off by saying this is a grown ass woman and a billionaire and if you believe her music is above reproach just because she embodies girlhood or you liked the album or whatever just keep it trucking because i get to say whatever i want here.

first here’s the songs i like:

the black dog (what girl hasn’t checked a location, i ask you?!?)

chloe or sam or sophia or marcus (it could be traffic sounds and my name being in the title will still make me like it)

the alchemy

clara bow (this one makes me go 🎀🧚🏻‍♀️💕)

thank you aimee (grandchild of mean)

the albatross

peter (really mostly just the ending)

the bolter

the manuscript

the smallest man who ever lived (i will never hate a song that is about how matty healy sucks)

i can do it with a broken heart (corny but i have already seen edits with it and the right edit could make me like any song plus certain parts remind me of yoyok)

guilty as sin?

my boy only breaks his favorite toys (specifically for the line “im queen of sandcastles he destroys” which i like)

but daddy love him (she’s real for saying cut the fucking whining)

the prophecy (me coded)

fortnight (post malone’s positive affect on my enjoyment cannot be overstated)

now for my opinions:

many of the songs aren’t BAD just completely unmemorable like i remember nary a lyric or tune of cassandra or the prophecy or robin etc etc

jack antonoff should be strung up! the only good things he’s done are 1. melodrama by lorde, and 2. inspiring margaret by lana del rey (plus the occasional good taylor song like getaway car and sweet nothings but whatever) honestly the two have outgrown each other and their music apart is way more interesting than anything they do together. aaron dessner is a hero.

i have no technical issues with florida!!! but as someone who has spent quite a bit of time in florida it feels like someone romanticizing newark, new jersey and that feeling stretches so deep that not even florence + the machine could make me enjoy what is otherwise a really fun song

there must be something about british men bc people dating british guys write so american by olivia rodrigo and paper rings and people who have broken up with british guys write so long, london

who’s afraid of little old me feels like the perfect example of every criticism taylor gets. she is the most powerful voice in hollywood, is extraordinarily litigious, and has won in every way that matters but still she acts like every criticism of her is an attack on girlhood and feminism. like she is a grown woman writing “i’m just a girl” music about how not being universally adored is such a huge tragedy and it just feels so corny

i look in peoples windows and down bad are both songs i’m sure i’ll love two months from now

the line about 1830 without the racists is CRAZY. even without the racists that was not a good time!

overall a very weak album. it’s like she’s stuck in some sort of perma-youth where she is unable to mature beyond “all of my exes are either the devil or taylor lautner” and it shows how very insular her adulthood has been. she’s been famous her entire adult life and her music sounds like the kind of lyric a teenager writes in their notes app. like i don’t hate the music but it’s all just so extraordinarily mid. every song on this album could be on any other album of any other pop girlie and i wouldn’t blink. taylor is supposed to be one of the strongest lyricists of our time and we’re getting lyrics like “touch me while your bros play grand theft auto”

[regancastlelion]

i asked y'all to drop your OCs lore, now drop your OC's Taylor Swift song and why.

Reggie's would 100% be The Prophecy. l just— MMMMM, eat it up every time I hear it.

"Please, I've been on my knees, change the prophecy. Don't want money, just someone who wants my company. Let it once be me."

Reg, as my MC, has been prophesied to be Aideen incarnate by the Keepers of Aideen. She's also descended from them Jorvegian/German Earl that once lived in Machenghast Castle, thus making her an heiress to that title.

Girl is tired.

Everyone's flooding to her side either because she's Aideen or a future countess, and she's flooded with money she has no clue what to do with.

So everyone should fu—

Half the time she doesn't even get to see her "sisters" because either she's training with the Keepers or she's doing a public event, likely in Goldenhills Valley. She rarely sees her sisters anymore, much less establish a romantic relationship with anyone.

She's seen her sisters fall in love and form bonds with people that will always care about them for them; Linda and her aunt, Lisa and Carl, Alex and Maya, Anne and Derek.

Reggie adores Mastermind, her Soul Horse, she really does. But even Mastermind knows that sometimes she just needs human companionship.

"A greater woman has faith, but even statues crumble if they're made to wait. I'm so afraid I sealed my fate. No sign of soulmates, I'm just a paperweight."

Reggie sees the last countess, her grandmother, everywhere in the castle. She'd been a great countess, as she heard from the townsfolk. Her grandmother had faith that her son—Reggie's father—would produce an heir, had faith that their noble line wouldn't die with him, who had died soon before Reggie was born.

The countess' statue, given the decades of neglect, has started to crumble.

Reggie, having sworn off people since she was 17, is terrified that her family's nobility will die with her, especially since she can't find anyone to love. Or anyone to love her, for who she truly is.

She hopes for a soulmate, but waits for the next most suitable match so she can bare herself an heir.

Reggie hates it, that she must do all this to secure her family line, but even she knows it must be done.

Despite her wanting to change the prophecy, she knows it can't be done. No matter how hard she wishes.

[ao3feed-destiel-02]

A Greater Man Wouldn't Beg

A Greater Man Wouldn't Beg https://ift.tt/h7SuJ5l by the_oncoming_stormageddon After the finale, Dean gets put under the spell of a djinn, and Castiel is real and alive again, if only in this dream-world. Staying just one night won't hurt, would it? Title taken from "The Prophecy" by Taylor Swift Words: 3281, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 64 of alfie's destiel oneshots Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Castiel (Supernatural), Dean Winchester Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Additional Tags: POV Dean Winchester, Djinnverse (Supernatural), Im assuming thats the right tag anyway, its a djinn au, Post-Canon Fix-It, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, eventually, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Suicidal Thoughts via AO3 works tagged 'Castiel/Dean Winchester' https://ift.tt/34vWnqa November 17, 2024 at 06:56PM

[citrus-swirls]

I have a playlist for Something About Blood Feeding the Garden. I associate music with books/fics a lot of the time and would love to hear if anyone has any songs they associate with my fic, or what songs you associate with other fics (parx or not!).

The order to this playlist is not in order of how I see it in the fic, but rather how I like how it sounds lol. There is a lot of my thinking behind plot points and behind the scenes stuff below too if you are interested :) I never want my author's notes to be very long so hopefully someone out there is interested in these rambles.

Pesticides Remix - Moselle & Matt Hip. This is where the title comes from, and is the ethos of the fic. Even though it's from Geoff's POV, to me I feel like Awsten is still responsible for the inciting actions and this is Awsten's song. I was interested in writing about the grief process, and how that differs from person to person and how we handle how other people mourn. I heard this song for the first time when V and I were outlining the story, and this just felt like fate and really shaped the story I wanted to tell.

my tears ricochet - Taylor Swift. This is Geoff's grief song. I think he feels very stagnant, especially in part 2 and most of part 3. This song also was a good theme for when Awsten and Geoff weren't speaking to each other.

Are You Really Okay? - Sleep Token. This song comes mostly into play in parts 2 & 3 as well. "And I cannot fix your wounds this time / But I don't believe you when you tell me you are fine".

This Empty Northern Hemisphere - Gregory Alan Isakov. This song inspired the radio station, with the lines "While you were sleeping I was the turning the dials / And I walled up your kingdom with radio wires / And the bells of the choir came in low and rumbling ". Fun fact there was originally going to be a radio station at the Zoo; I had imagined Great Uncle Joseph as this very eccentric old man with a million hobbies, and I wanted Awsten to start running the station and Travis & Jawn hear them and try to find them. But I quickly ran into the issue of...how would Travis & Jawn know where to find a random radio station in backwoods Texas lol.

Something in the Orange - Zach Bryan. This song is for right after Otto and Geoff's kiss in part 1. "If you leave today, I'll just stare at the way / The orange touches all things around / The grass, trees and dew, how I just hate you / Please turn those headlights around"

The Prophecy - Taylor Swift. Ugh, what part of this song ISN'T perfect for this fic? This song is mostly for part 6, with Awsten desperate to change the tides.

Gilded Lily - Cults. This is Aria's theme song actually. I was hoping someone by now would comment on it but nobody has haha, Aria and Owen are meant to be a direct mirror of Awsten and Otto. Desperate, crazy, stupid, with ill conceived plans but enough love to make it worth it.

Dinner & Diatribes - Hozier. I'll be honest this one is mainly because it sounds good audibly with the rest of the playlist and it helps when I listen to music while writing. Take that as you will.

Mylo Xyloto and Hurts Like Heaven - both by Coldplay. This entire album (also called Mylo Xyloto) has influenced this fic so badly I had to include it. Mylo Xyloto is an intro song that flows into Hurts Like Heaven, and Hurts Like Heaven is the first song they hear in part one on the CB radio. I wanted them to have something joyous and magnificent and hopeful and loving. I love listening to this album full blast driving down the highway with the windows down.

Who'll Stop The Rain - Creedence Clearwater Revival. This song has been on every zombie apocalypse playlist I've ever made, and it's never named but it is the second song they hear in part one on the radio. This song is included mostly for vibes.

Button On Brown - Alan Gogoll. Another song for vibes/background for writing.

Soon You'll Get Better (feat. The Chicks) - Taylor Swift. This will come into play......later. :)

As the World Caves In - Matt Maltese. Another vibes song that works for apocalypse/dying romance setting.

Spiral - Flyte. This album (The Loved Ones) is one of my all time favorites. This is Geoff and Awsten in the sunflower hut in part 3, kissing for the first time.

Killing Me - Conan Gray. I feel this is part 3 when Geoff & Awsten aren't talking. Originally there was going to be a huge part where Geoff feels jealous how Awsten has been mourning Otto, and feels he can't compete for his love. And then I was like well that is stupid. But the song stays because it's great.

The Very First Night - Taylor Swift. This is like Geoff and Awsten's love for Otto basically. "I wish I could fly / I'd pick you up and we'd go back in time / I'd write this in the sky / I miss you like it was the very first night"

I Know The End - Phoebe Bridgers. Classic apocalypse playlist song, really.

Polarize - Twenty One Pilots. I'm not sure I realized how long this playlist is until right now. This song is very Geoff to me.

Swim - Maggie Miles. This song was at V's request for Otto. It's a banger. "Roamin' through a dream with an unfulfilling motive / Say you're better now but your mouth fills with poison"

Swimming In The Glow - Joywave. Another song at V's request for Otto. This kind of feeling of perpetual waiting.

Little Lion Man - Mumford & Sons. This song just sounds good with the rest. Filler. I suppose you could argue this is another Geoff song but that was not its purpose to me.

Vignette - Twenty One Pilots. THE Zombie Otto song. This song inspired Otto having an inner world, this and the movie I Saw The TV Glow which honestly is not a movie I enjoyed much but it did remind me of a fanfiction I read on Livejournal when I was maybe thirteen of a similar plotline, where someone was sick and had an elaborate ongoing fantasy to cope.

Pink Skies - Zach Bryan. This song comes into play in part 6. :)

You And Whose Army? - Radiohead. Vibes song.

Jesus From Texas - Semler. A friend recently recommended this to me and I sobbed thinking of Geoff in this au.

Fable - Gigi Perez. Another very recent add. It reminded me of Nick, strangely enough, which is a perfect segue into my OCs. I love these OCs I have created. I know OCs aren't everyone's cup of tea, and to be frank I normally despise OCs in fics and think they are annoying and filler, but I needed a better balance to make this world truly feel like an apocalypse. I needed a family we didn't know for the Zoo so Awsten & Geoff could mourn safely, I needed a compound of migrants who settled around a military base because that is something that would happen. I needed a matriarch, I needed children, I needed characters who are coping just fine and others who haven't coped at all. So I hope you love them, because I do. And if you don't, well. The fic is almost over haha.

I hope you enjoyed this! Would love to chat if you have any thoughts or suggested songs, or if you have your own fic playlists. Also sorry for the numbering issues, Tumblr made me break them up for character limit reasons.

[livvyofthelake]

now that we’ve been sitting on it for four months i need to rank the tortured poets department for real… it means nothing to rank an album two days after it comes out like that’s pointless fr let’s take this seriously

guilty as sin. this is an insane song. unfortunately i read a book the week this album came out and this song is permanently attached to that book in a small part but as we all know i did my absolute best to remain chill neutral and only weird about tsc at the time of this album drop so it all balanced out in the end and none of the songs are particularly associated with anything cringe. except two. but not this one i only brought up the book because it’s a little bit associated. you understand. the song is a slay of epic proportions on its own of course. i’ve mentally made this one about so many fictional guys it’s crazy… we have fun huh

my boy only breaks his favorite toys. this one was my instant favorite she’s not going anywhereeeee

but daddy i love him. some people don’t understand it but i do… i love her…

the alchemy. honestly? who are we to fight the alchemy…. literally!!!!

the albatross. sort of like who’s afraid of little old me if it was a song i liked more!

so high school. what more is there to say than truth dare spin bottles you know how to ball i know aristotle brand new full throttle touch me while your bros play grand theft auto it’s true swear scouts honor you knew what you wanted and boy you got her brand new full throttle you already know babe…

florida. cunty! florence + the machine!

the black dog. aforementioned two songs. well we knew this would be one. like we knew that the whole time. what could i possibly have done to save this one… genuinely what could i possibly have done. we saved the album in time i know but i mean. we all knew this track was a goner. nothing to be done. it’s a great song though like genuinely let’s be honest… one out of 31 is a great ratio. april 18th me was expecting a much worse percentage tbh

down bad. i just like it :)

who’s afraid of little old me. mildly over saturated. but kinda deserved the hype she slays

fresh out the slammer. one of aforementioned two songs that kinda got ruined. this song is about cbs drama fire country forever there’s nothing to be done. it’s not a huge loss this song is a little mid if i’m being honest. i think it’s too short i don’t fuck with it heavily

fortnight. my husband is cheating!! i wanna kill him!!!!

the prophecy. song that makes you cry…

the smallest man who ever lived. crazy ass bridge. rest of the song. well.

i can fix him (no really i can). i like that this song title is formatted like a fanfiction title that’s a lyric to a taylor swift song…

imgonnagetyouback. like. cute fun song sure yes. cannot get it out of my head that me personally if i had asked for writing credits from olivia rodrigo on a song that sounded nothing like my song, i personally would not have released this. me personally…

how did it end. crazy song that makes you go damn her life suckssss for real… yikes!

i can do it with a broken heart. not even a bad song it’s just the popular one with swifties and i hear it all the time without my consent.

the tortured poets department. can i be honest. sometimes taylor swift writes songs that would be awesome if not for one utterly batshit ridiculous lyric that embarrasses me so bad i can’t even fuck with the song. this has happened many times she’s an embarrassing celebrity to like everyone knows this. it’s not even the “you smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate we declared charlie puth should be a bigger artist” that’s actually fine. it’s what comes directly after that. “i scratch your head you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” taylor. 😐 i can’t. i can’t even talk about this actually. also i can’t stand the lucy dacus and jack antonoff name drop lyrics at all like taylor please stop embarrassing me….

i do not actively listen to any of the other ones anymore so i just didn’t include them because why would i rank songs i don’t even listen to let’s take this seriously… they’re fine. the only one i might describe as a song i actively dislike is chloe or sam or sophia or marcus. like i do not care for that one at all