#Looking for Full stack Developers

[fancyyoutharcade]

full stack web development training in chandigarh

[dreamswillbeyourwintermeat]

People at my new job keep trying to talk to me about databases and I wish they would stop. I am a frontend girlie first and foremost and as far as I'm concerned data comes from a magical black box called Database Land and the details are simply not my concern.

[reiding-writing]

Heyy!! i was wondering if you could perchance do a drabble with dad!spencer and mom!bau!reader where they've gotten into the rhythm of calling each other mommy and daddy in front of the kids and one of them accidentally slips up and does it work without realising. And then the team is like "hold on 🤨" (probably morgan) and they have to defend themselves. Just something i've been thinking about and i don't have the artistic ability to right it myself but you do! Thank youuuu! xxx

SLIP UP. /spencer reid/

your at-home naming habits find their way into the office.

bau!mom!reader 1.1k fluff masterlist.

a/n | this is so funny i love it.

The bullpen hums with its usual energy—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, conversations weaving through the space.

It’s late, and exhaustion weighs on everyone like a heavy fog. Cases have been stacking up, the paperwork never-ending, and you’re all running on caffeine and whatever sugar-laden snack Garcia has left in the breakroom.

You and Spencer, despite being used to sleepless nights—courtesy of two small children at home—are still feeling the burn.

Parenting while profiling is a delicate balance, and some days, it feels like you barely hold it together. But you've found ways to cope, to slip into a rhythm that works.

Spencer leans over his desk, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he scans a report. His hair is slightly disheveled—likely from running his hands through it—and his tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up. He looks exactly how you feel, drained.

You, seated across from him, are going through another file when you sigh and reach for the next document. “Pass Mommy the file, please,”

The moment the words leave your mouth, the bullpen stills. For a brief second, no one reacts. Not even Spencer, who doesn’t hesitate to slide the file over to you, his tired brain not even registering what just happened.

But then—

“Hold on, what?”

Your head snaps up so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. Across the table, Morgan is staring at you with wide eyes, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. JJ’s eyebrows are raised nearly to her hairline, and even Rossi has paused his paperwork, looking mildly amused.

Hotch looks like he’s trying very hard not to react.

You glance at Spencer, who is blinking rapidly, his brain trying to catch up with what just happened.

And then, it hits you.

“Oh my God.” Your stomach drops. Heat rushes to your face. “I didn’t mean—”

Morgan leans forward, elbows on the table, his smirk growing. “Did you just refer to yourself as Mommy?”

Spencer makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “It’s— It’s not—”

“Because I swear I just heard that,” Morgan continues, clearly enjoying himself.

JJ covers her mouth, eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. “It’s not what you think,”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly what I think.” Morgan chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Reid, you calling her Mommy at home?”

Spencer makes another choked noise, shaking his head furiously. “No! I mean— yes, but not like that!”

JJ snorts, and even Hotch finally cracks, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s debating whether or not to intervene.

You lift your head, groaning again. “We have two kids under four. There’s a lot of third-person referencing, okay?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, amused.

Spencer, still red-faced, starts rambling. “It’s a psychological phenomenon, actually. When individuals—particularly parents—are frequently addressed in a particular way, their brains develop an associative response, reinforcing the use of the terms even in situations outside the expected context. It’s entirely innocent. Just an unconscious linguistic habit.”

Morgan whistles low. “Damn, Pretty Boy. You really just tried to profile your way out of calling your wife ‘Mommy’ in front of us,”

Spencer groans, burying his face in his hands.

Your face feels impossibly warm. “We’re tired, Morgan. We haven’t had a full night’s sleep in—” You glance at Spencer. “How long has it been?”

“Three years, three months, and sixteen days,” he answers automatically.

Morgan lets out a low whistle. “Damn,”

Emily places a hand over her heart. “That’s actually kind of adorable,”

Garcia practically vibrates with excitement. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need to hear more,”

“There’s nothing more to hear,” Spencer says, shaking his head quickly. “It’s just a habit. Strictly innocent,”

“Oh, we believe you,” Rossi says, the corners of his mouth twitching. “That doesn’t mean we’re going to let it go,”

“Not a chance,” Morgan agrees.

You groan, dropping your head into your hands. “This is never going away, is it?”

“Nope,” JJ says cheerfully.

Spencer sighs, rubbing his temples. “Great.”

And just like that, the teasing begins.

For the rest of the day—and likely for weeks to come—you hear variations of:

“Daddy, can you pass me that report?” from Emily.

“I don’t know, Mommy, what do you think?” from Morgan.

Garcia, of course, takes it the farthest, occasionally referring to you both as “Mommy and Daddy dearest,” complete with exaggerated winks.

By the time you make it home that evening, you collapse onto the couch with a groan, Spencer falling beside you.

“I’m never going to live this down,” you mumble.

“At least they think it’s funny,” Spencer says, leaning his head back against the cushions.

You sigh. “This is your fault,”

He turns his head to look at you, eyebrows raised. “My fault?”

“You didn’t even hesitate when I said it. You just handed me the file like it was totally normal,”

His lips twitch. “To be fair, it is normal,”

You nudge him with your foot. “Not at work, it isn’t,”

He chuckles, then tilts his head, considering. “Maybe if we just… pretend it never happened, they’ll drop it,”

You snort. “You really think that’s going to work?”

“…No,”

“Exactly.” You groan again, rubbing your hands over your face. “I’m never going to hear the end of this,”

Spencer smiles softly, reaching over to squeeze your hand. “At least we’re in it together, Mommy,”

You open your eyes just to glare at him. “You better not start doing that on purpose,”

He presses his lips together, trying to suppress a grin.

“Spencer,” you warn.

His grin widens. “Yes, Mommy?”

You grab a throw pillow and smack him with it, and his laughter fills the room, warm and familiar.

Exhausted as you both are, you wouldn’t trade this—your life, your family, the teasing from your team—for anything in the world.

[bookshelf-dust]

promise to take care of my heart

carmy berzatto x fem!reader

gif by @emziess

word count: 1,830

warnings: nothing? a little swearing, but this is pure fluff and that’s all

synopsis: carmy wants to cuddle with you for the first time.

a/n: hi! new character, i know. but i’ve become rather attached to carm in the past few months and i had a cute idea for him and here we are. he’s bringing me so much comfort right now and now i’m gonna share that with you <333

————

“Why don’t you pick out a movie or somethin,’ bub?” 

“If I could find your damn remote, Carm, I would.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes on his hands where they sit deep in the dishwater below. Good luck, he thinks. 

You scan the coffee table, the rug below the shabby couch. It’s not like there’s any use checking the tv stand because it’s still a fucking table tray. You know he doesn’t even own the full set of four table trays? He’s just got the one? That knowledge keeps you up at night. Just like how he doesn’t have a ceiling fan pull and has to get tweezers to change the speed.

You find the remote nestled in a stack of freshly organized books. You helped Carmen assemble a very simple bookshelf so that his stash of cookbooks wouldn’t have to live on the floor anymore. 

Just getting to help him turn his apartment into something other than a place to sleep brought you a contagious giddiness. Carmen’s chest aches with how much he’s laughed since he met you. 

Look at all my muscles, Carm. I’m practically ready for my dick now, don’t you think? 

Where’d you even get these? He’d looked down at the little allen wrench in your hand and said I don’t know, they were just here one day. 

Now you have a bookshelf, Bear. What a grown up. 

Carmen wouldn’t let you help him with the dishes after he cooked you dinner. He’d just kissed your shoulder and said, “Let me take care of it, alright?” with that little raise of his brows and quirk of his lips telling you not to argue because you’d never win. 

And when Carmen tells you to let him take care of something, well…you listen. 

You haven’t been dating very long, but it’s been enough that you’ve both developed this rhythm, this way of moving around and with each other and you just…work. 

He doesn’t understand how you can dial his shyness, his hesitance, so quickly, how you can make him feel like a human again so easily. But you do. 

You settle against the back of the couch, flipping through the tv guide (because Carm has never subscribed to any streaming services) until you find something worth listening to. It’s already a few minutes in, but you’ve seen the movie enough times that it doesn’t really matter. 

The overhead light in the kitchen switches off and Carmen pads out to the living room, socked feet dragging on the hardwoods. Your biggest pet peeve is people who don’t pick up their feet, but somehow it’s more tolerable when it’s him. 

He sits down on the edge of the couch. Just sits. On the edge. That means he wants to say something. You give him the time to psych himself up. 

Carmy chews on his thumb nail and rubs his nose before he turns to you, placing his hand on the couch. His blue eyes burn into yours, and the intensity of his gaze, trained on you, makes you feel like the most important person in the world. 

“H-hey, um…can we—could we snuggle, maybe?” He flushes at the fact that he just used the world snuggle. Richie would have his ass so quick if he’d heard him say that. 

Your grin is brilliant. You’ve never cuddled properly with Carmen before. Maybe a head on a shoulder or a leg tossed across another, but never a real cuddle session. “Fuck yeah, we can, Carm.” You giggle and the sound softens that bubble of fear in his chest. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, letting out the barest laugh. 

“How did you want t-to lay, Bear?” You blink at him. “Were you just gonna—” 

He starts to nod. “I was just gonna lay on your chest, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Y-yeah.”

You snort. “Lemme’ stretch out for you and then you can be a teddy bear.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Carmen shakes his head at you. He lets you pull that shit because he likes it. Secretly.

When you have a pillow under your neck and are laid out on your back, Carm slips beside you against the back of the couch and clumsily settles on top of you. He doesn’t want to crush you or anything, so he settles between your legs, only allowing the weight of his torso to envelop you. 

One arm wraps around your back, the other cradling your hip, his curls brushing your chin. He turns his head to face the tv and lets out a satisfied sigh. 

On instinct your hand threads through his tangled hair, scratching at his scalp gently and sorting through any piece that feels knotted. 

“What is this?” Carmy asks, nodding in the direction of the screen. 

“The Wedding Planner. It has Jlo and Matthew McConaughey in it.” 

“Chick flick?”

You hum in agreeance. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t hate it. Jlo’s character is like you but if the restaurant was a wedding planning business and you were, you know, a chick.”

He laughs lightly against your stomach and you can feel the puff of air over your shirt. 

The weight of Carmen’s body on top of yours is easily the most calming feeling you’ve ever experienced. You can’t get enough of him. 

“This okay?” you ask, scratching his scalp a little more for emphasis. This is a new way of showing affection. Uncharted territory. 

“Hm?” He looks up at you briefly, blue eyes fluttering closed. “Oh yeah, feels nice. I like it.”

You grin and continue to play with his hair. He’s right. It does feel nice. It is. 

The next few minutes go by without any conversation, just silence. But it’s so comfortable. Carmen’s tired gaze is on the tv. You can feel him breathing, feel the way he scratches over your back absently. You don’t know if he’s aware he does it, but he nuzzles his nose against the soft of your stomach every now and then like it’s keeping him safe. 

“You know I thought about being a wedding planner?”

Carmy pushes up onto his elbows, looking at you with the smallest smirk playing on his lips. “Really?”

You playfully bat at his shoulder and he moves to lay back down, but not before pressing a kiss to your sternum over your shirt. “Mhm. Still think about it sometimes.” You pause, but Carm doesn’t say anything yet because he knows you aren’t finished with that thought. 

“I guess I just thought it’d be nice to help put things like that together? The organization would make me feel…complete, I guess. And you know I don’t like to help people in such an extroverted way? I like to be behind the scenes.” You laugh, a little self-deprecatingly. “Does that make sense?”

Carmen squeezes your side. “‘Course it does. And then you could come home and tell me stories about all the family drama you eavesdrop on.”

You giggle, and Carmy loves that he can feel it where he lays on your chest. He can feel your joy, and that’s fucking cool. “That I could.”

He rubs your back in small, gentle circles. “And you know, I happen to have some friends who make pretty good food and would be happy to help if you ever needed.”

“Oh, do you? Well, that’s very helpful, Mr. Berzatto. You’ll have to give me their number.”

Carmy laughs into your chest. A pure, genuine laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound, and you truly think you’d have it tattooed all over your body if that was even remotely possible. His glee makes you laugh, and then you’re both snickering like you’re teenagers doing something that’ll get you in big trouble. 

You reach for his hand, the one that’s resting on your hip now, and he lets you lift it towards your face. He bites his cheek, fighting the smile that rises when you press your warm and chapstick covered lips to his knuckles. 

“You have such pretty hands, Carmy.”

He pinches your back. “I still don’t get why you’re so fascinated by them.”

“Because they’re pretty. And, look—” You hold yours up to his. “—they’re so much bigger than mine. And I like your tattoos, obviously. I like that I know how talented you are with your hands and how capable. I’m very lucky to hold such capable hands, Bear.”

“Capable, huh?” He gives you a look, one that makes you want to both tackle him and smack him on the arm. Instead you roll your eyes and he raises up to kiss you. 

“Capable of being the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”

Carmy laughs. It’s that little chuckle, light and airy and like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but he wants to hear more anyway. He flops back down on your chest, making you let out a rather loud oomph. 

You take Carmen’s hand in yours again, rubbing over the dry patches on his knuckles, the scabs on the insides of his fingers, the scar on his palm. His whole life is written in these hands. 

You start massaging the pads of his fingers without even thinking about it. No one’s ever been that gentle with him—definitely not with his hands—and a little part of him melts at the feeling. 

You kiss the tattoo on the back of his hand and just look at his skin. You’re determined to memorize each line and freckle and fucked up cuticle he’s got. 

“At least your nails don’t look like Richie’s, Carm.”

His chest moves with the giggle that travels throughout his body. 

“Trust me, they didn’t look like that when he was still with Tiff.”

You grin, your eyes falling back on the television. Maybe Carm would be open to setting it on the bookshelf? That table tray has put in a lot of work. It deserves a break. 

Carmen can see why you’re so fond of this movie. It’s one of those that doesn’t require much thought, that has humor and feels more human than most. He knows he shouldn’t think it, but you having said what you said before makes him wonder if you’ll plan your own wedding…with him. 

Shut the fuck up, he tells himself. But maybe we’ll get there. 

You catch him smiling when they fuck up the statue in the garden and pretend not to notice. You both keep quiet now, but Carm reaches up and puts your hand back on his head.

Your fingers thread through his curls again, scratching at his scalp gently. Your other hand does the same thing to his back. You know it’s going to lull him to sleep. 

When you say it, he’s already dozed off. But you are so happy that you get to make him feel safe. That he’s comfortable enough to sleep on you like this. Lucky is an understatement. 

“Thank you for letting me in, Bear. I don’t think my life has ever been this beautiful.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!

[mortish-writes]

You wake in a frozen wasteland, abandoned, hungry, and with no memory of who or what you are.

Two dark and powerful men find you in the snow. They take you in and keep you warm. Try as you might to resist them, it isn't long before you lose your heart and your virtue.

As your past unravels, the mystery surrounding you only deepens. They tell you you're one of them: a darksinger, immortal and god-touched, cursed with a lust for blood and a barren womb.

If that's true, how is it that you are carrying their children?

The Bride of Shadows rework is now starting on the public build. While the story will feel familiar to players of the former version, it has gone through a comprehensive restructure. Former save games no longer apply.

Choose from a variety of physical characteristics that impact your narrative. Human skin tones or the blues and purples of a shadewalker? Slender or voluptuous? Short or tall? The love interests and the world will respond to your unique appearance. 

Craft a personality profile that grows with you. Are you bold and opinionated, or calculating and adaptable? Do you take control of your fate, or is the deck always stacked against you? No choice is wrong—each trait unlocks unique dialogue and opportunities.

Can't decide between the love interests? They don’t mind sharing. Dive into a dangerously passionate romance with all three and explore their tangled, fiery bond.

Choose your romantic dynamic with each love interest. Play hard-to-get or melt in their arms. Your love story and their behaviors will adapt to your choices.

Journey through a vast Scandinavian-inspired dark fantasy region. Discover a rich, immersive world brimming with hidden lore, moral dilemmas, and centuries-old rivalries. 

Experience pregnancy and motherhood through the perspective of your MC. What will your children be like, and can you raise them to be virtuous in a dark world?

Tailor your explicit content. Are you provocative, bold, and adventurous in the bed furs? Or is your MC demure, preferring to be shyly led as her lovers take the lead? Do you want MMF intimacy, or do you prefer to be center-stage in MFM love scenes? Same rules apply for MMFM scenes.

Bride of Shadows is a female-protagonist interactive romance novel intended for readers 18+. It is a text-based game with explicit content. It is a work-in-progress and currently playable through Night II, approximately 19,000 words. New updates on Itch will be rolling out every 1 to 2 weeks. Huge thanks to the patrons who made this possible, both with allowing me to write full-time and providing crucial feedback to improve the narrative and gameplay.

[Play the Public Build]

[Delve Deeper on Patreon]

Fated Mates Route ★ Contains everything in the classic storyline, but the MC will experience an intense mate bond with Valdricht. Serax and Valdricht will not be romantically involved. Your MC can develop a friendship or antagonistic relationship with Serax. Kerach will keep his distance. MF only. Darker than Classic. Ideal for dark fantasy aficionados who prefer monogamy. Currently playable up to Night 3.5.

Dark Maiden Route ★ Everything in the classic route, but darker. The choices are limited. Serax, Valdricht, and Kerach will expect the MC's complete submission. Love looks a lot like Stockholm's syndrome. MMFM only. Kerach paternity included. Not for general audiences. Ideal for veteran dark romance readers looking for a more sexual, intense submission & breeding romance. Currently playable up to Night 3.25.

All patrons receive access to both additional routes and the ability to customize the genders of their children. Darksinger and Duskweaver members receive 1 week early access to new content.

[cupidstrace]

Rated PG (for potentially gut-wrenching)

Summary: Your boyfriend cries at kids’ movies, and you fall in love a little more each time. Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader

The first time it happens, you think he’s messing with you.

You’re sitting in a mostly empty theater, paper bucket of popcorn between you and massively oversized soda cups balanced in the armrests. It’s Sunday afternoon, and the movie is meant to be background noise. Something soft and harmless to fill the space between brunch and bedtime.

But somewhere around the part where Miguel sings “Remember Me” to his great-grandma, you glance over and catch Satoru swiping at his eyes.

“Are you..” you whisper, leaning in.

He turns just enough for you to see his lashes, wet and catching the light. “Shut up.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re crying?” “I said shut up.”

Except his voice cracks on the last word, and now you’re laughing quietly, clutching the armrest like it’s keeping you grounded.

“Babe,” you murmur, fiddling through your purse to get him one of those compact tissues you keep on hand. “It’s rated PG.”

He sniffs. “I’m a kid at heart.”

And maybe that’s the moment. The one that melts itself beneath your ribs and attaches to your heart. Because Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, absolute menace of a man, is crying over a boy playing guitar for his great-grandmother.

And you’re not even surprised. Not really.

Not when you know the way he talks to old women like they’re royalty. The way he puts your phone on the charger when you forget, or leaves painkillers beside a glass of water when he hears you muttering about a headache. Not when he insists on holding your hand through every flight, even though he doesn’t mind turbulence, just because he knows you do.

He does plenty of grand gestures, too. Stands on the street outside your apartment window, waiting for you to look outside and see the absolutely gigantic bouquet held in both of his arms. 

But it’s more than what he does. It’s who he is.

You lean over and kiss his cheek.

He lets out a shuddering exhale. “If I die, promise me you’ll remember me. And you’ll write me a song with a guitar that people will listen and cry to so I’ll remain super popular forever and ever.”

You snort.

On the ride home, he asks you to play the song again.

You make a habit of it after that.

Once or twice a month, when the world gets too loud or his shoulders start to carry too much, you buy tickets. Always animated. Always sweet. No gritty realism, no grey areas. Just magical families and memories and robot hugs.

He plays it cool in line. Wears shades like he’s not going to stack 3d glasses on top of them in five minutes. Acts like the arm around your waist is for your protection, and not to guide you to the concession stand.

Acts like he's not going to cry. He will. He does.

Sometimes, it’s a single tear, rolling down his cheekbone like it has somewhere to be. Sometimes it’s a slow unraveling, a shaky breath, a hand that searches for yours in the dark. One time it’s full-on sobs, shoulders trembling while Bing Bong fades into the nothingness of the Memory Dump. 

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back without a word.

But on the drive home, he’ll talk about it.

“He let himself disappear so Joy could get back,” he mutters, eyes on the road.

You glance at him. “Did you like it when he said ‘Take her to the moon for me’?”

He shakes his head, brow furrowed as if he’s processing a detrimental, life-changing development. “No. Because what kind of animated fever dream has the audacity to hit you with a cosmic metaphor for life, death, and self-sacrifice disguised as a pink elephant in a cotton candy wagon? What were the writers smoking and where can I get some so I can finally understand my feelings?”

You laugh and take his free hand, intertwining your fingers, arms resting on the center console. “You’re soft.”

“You love me.”

You do.

He hesitates, then speaks again, quieter. “You’re the Joy to my Bing Bong.”

You turn to him, eyes trailing over his expression. “..you’re Sadness, Toru.”

“Hey!”

You start to notice it after the third or fourth movie.

The way he sighs a little too long at the happy endings. The way his hand lingers on yours just a second more than usual when the lights come up. The way he stares straight ahead without a word when the credits roll. No laughing. Not even a tear. Like he’s trying to memorize the moment, the feeling, before it fades.

“Hey,” you say once, nudging him gently. “You okay?”

He blinks, smiles, and holds your hand a little tighter. “Yeah. Just.. thinking.”

“About?”

He shrugs. “Time. People. Stuff.”

You raise a brow. “Ominous.”

“You’d hate if I got specific.”

You don’t push. You figure it’s just a bad day. One of those lingering shadows from missions he never talks about.

But later, when you’re back home and he’s watching the city lights through the window instead of sleeping, you hear him whisper, like it’s not meant for you at all. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

You don’t understand what he means. Not yet. But you feel the same way.

Sometimes, when you have free time and don’t want to go to the movies, you sit on the couch with him and put on his favorite. Big Hero 6.

He tries to hold out. Really, he does.

But the moment Baymax says, in that soft, robotic voice, “Are you satisfied with your care?”, and is left in the portal, Satoru lets out a broken little hiccup that turns into a full-body sob.

You blink. “Babe–?”

He lifts a hand to cover his eyes, the other still wrapped tightly around you. “He just wanted to help.”

You bite back a smile. “I know.”

“That’s all he wanted,” he says, voice thick, and now he’s sitting up and wiping his face with the hem of his hoodie. “That’s literally the only thing he was made for, and he still– he still–”

“Died,” you finish gently.

He wails. “And he didn’t even get to finish his sentence, are you kidding me?”

You press your hand to his forehead and lie his head down on your lap, fingers threading through his hair. “You’re gonna short-circuit if you keep crying, Toru.”

He settles into your lap before responding. “That line should be illegal.”

“It should, Toru.”

A beat passes. Then he whines. “Like, am I satisfied with my care? No! I’ll never be satisfied again! He was a robot, baby! His brother made Baymax for him to help, and he just– he kept helping, he went out helping–”

You smile and pinch his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous for making me watch this again.”

“You asked me to put it on.”

“Because I forgot how much it hurts.”

You laugh. “He’ll rebuild Baymax, babe.”

“..I know.”

And maybe he’s still blubbering a little, and maybe you’re still laughing. But the way he clings to you, like the ache of the world softens when you’re close, is the real ending. The quiet epilogue.

So when he mutters, all teary and trembling, “I just want to help, too,” you whisper, “I know.”

Because he does.

He always has.

And when he leaves for that Shibuya “work trip” – the one he swears won’t take too long, the one he jokes about, promising to bring back weird vending machine snacks – you still play the songs. Still buy the tickets. Still keep the tissues in your purse, even if the reason for the habit is gone.

The theater lights go dim. The screen glows to life. A boy strums a guitar, or a robot hugs a child, or a princess finds her way home. You watch and smile, just barely, like you're saving the moment for his hiccuped sobs. You like to imagine he's somewhere in the emptiness of the seat beside you, somewhere you can't reach or see.

Sometimes, you reach over anyway. Just in case. Hoping your hand will catch something, anything, to prove he's still right beside you.

And when the movie ends, you stay seated.

A part of you hopes that if you wait long enough, he'll turn to you again, eyes shining as he says something like "the pink elephant is a metaphor for self-sacrifice."

But he doesn't.

So you whisper it for him.

Because now, love is nothing more than a lingering echo of his voice in the dark, asking are you satisfied with your care?

And no, you don't grab a guitar. You don't write a song.

But you remember him. You always will.

And when the lights come up and no one's there to squeeze your hand, you cry. As if the grief can bring him back, somehow, somewhere in the breath between the last scene and the credits.

[amourquinn]

( short fic ) everything

pairing : boyfriend!quinn x fem!reader wc. 1.2k

genre : extreme fluff no warnings

summary : you and quinn spend christmas eve together and it ends with a beautiful surprise

the apartment smelled like sugar and cinnamon, warm and inviting. the faint hum of a christmas playlist played in the background, filling the air with soft jingles and cheerful tunes. it was december 24, and your favorite tradition with quinn hughes was in full swing: decorating cookies.

you sat cross-legged at the kitchen island, armed with piping bags filled with brightly colored icing, sprinkles scattered across the counter. quinn stood across from you, wearing an apron he’d claimed he didn’t need—though his flour-dusted hands and icing-streaked cheek suggested otherwise.

“alright, quinn-casso,” you teased, pointing at the lopsided tree he’d just decorated. the green icing was uneven, and the star looked more like a blob.

he held it up, feigning offense. “what? this is art. you just don’t get it.”

you laughed, snapping a picture with your polaroid camera. the flash caught him mid-eye-roll, flour still smudged on his cheek.

“add it to the collection,” you said, shaking the photo and setting it on the counter to develop.

the collection was an assortment of candid photos you’d been taking all month—quinn tangled in christmas lights, the two of you picking out a tree, him wearing the santa hat you’d forced on him. the pictures were scattered on the fridge, a chaotic but charming timeline of your holiday season together.

“fine,” quinn said, grabbing another cookie. “but if you’re going to document this, i’m going to make the best-looking snowman you’ve ever seen.”

you leaned on your elbow, watching him carefully pipe white icing onto the cookie. his tongue poked out slightly in concentration, a detail that made your heart swell.

“not bad,” you admitted as he added tiny sprinkle buttons.

“‘not bad’? that’s perfection,” he said, placing it on the tray with a satisfied grin.

you shook your head, laughing softly. “i guess i’ll give you that one.”

the two of you worked through the tray of cookies, decorating everything from candy canes to reindeer. you captured moments on your polaroid as you went: quinn sticking sprinkles on his nose to make you laugh, you holding up a cookie shaped like a heart, and the tray of finished cookies, a chaotic mix of skill and whimsy.

when the cookies were done, you both collapsed onto the couch with mugs of hot chocolate. the christmas tree twinkled softly in the corner, the ornaments catching the glow of the lights.

“i think we outdid ourselves this year,” quinn said, holding up a cookie shaped like a stocking.

“speak for yourself,” you teased, holding up one of your own. “mine are way better.”

he rolled his eyes, nudging your shoulder with his. “you’re lucky i love you.”

you smiled, leaning into him. “i know.”

⋆˙��

as the night wore on, the stack of polaroids grew. quinn had taken over the camera at some point, snapping pictures of you mid-laugh or caught off guard. one photo in particular made you laugh—a close-up of your face, icing smeared on your cheek.

“quinn! i wasn’t ready for that one!”

“that’s the point,” he said, smirking.

eventually, it was time for the part of the evening you both looked forward to the most: exchanging gifts.

“okay,” you said, hopping off the couch and grabbing a small, neatly wrapped box from under the tree. “you first.”

quinn set his mug down, his eyes lighting up as he took the box. “you know you didn’t have to get me anything, right?”

“yeah, yeah,” you said, waving him off. “just open it.”

he carefully unwrapped the box, lifting the lid to reveal a vintage hockey puck encased in glass. his jaw dropped.

“is this…”

you nodded, grinning. “it’s from your first-ever college game. i found it online, and the guy who had it was willing to sell. i thought you’d want to have it.”

he stared at it for a moment, his fingers brushing the glass. “this is amazing. thank you.”

his voice was soft, and when he looked up at you, his expression was full of gratitude. he set the puck down and leaned over to kiss you, his lips warm and lingering against yours.

“alright,” he said, pulling back. “your turn.”

he stood and grabbed a box from behind the tree. it was big, wrapped in shiny gold paper with a perfectly tied bow.

“wow,” you said, taking it from him. “someone went all out.”

“just open it,” he said, his grin mischievous.

you tore into the paper, lifting the lid to reveal… a polaroid camera. not just any camera, though—it was a custom design, your initials etched into the side, and the strap was embroidered with tiny snowflakes.

“quinn,” you breathed, running your fingers over the details.

“i know how much you love taking pictures,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “so i thought you’d like something a little more special.”

you set the box aside and threw your arms around him, holding him tightly. “it’s perfect. thank you.”

for a moment, the two of you just stood there, wrapped in each other. the night felt perfect, like something out of a storybook.

“actually…” quinn pulled back slightly, a nervous edge to his voice.

“what?” you asked, your brow furrowing.

he reached into his pocket, and he took out a neatly wrapped box. it wasn’t the biggest gift, but there was something about the way he held it, his expression a mix of nerves and excitement, that made your heart race.

“quinn…” you started, but he cut you off with a small smile.

“here.”

you unwrapped the box carefully, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate silver ring. It wasn’t flashy, but it was beautiful, a small diamond set into the band, understated and perfect. your breath caught in your throat.

“it’s not what you think,” quinn said quickly, rubbing his left arm. it’s not… you know, that ring. not yet, anyway.”

you looked up at him, your heart pounding. “so it’s—”

“it’s a promise ring,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “i know we’re not there yet, but i wanted you to know how serious i am about us. that i want this—you—for the long haul. this is my way of saying i’m all in, even if we’re not at the finish line yet.”

tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you stared at him, at the boyish grin on his face and the sincerity in his eyes.

“quinny…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“i love you,” he said, reaching for your hand. “and i just wanted you to know that.”

you nodded, a tear slipping down your cheek as you let him slide the ring onto your finger. “i love you too. so much.”

he let out a breath, relief washing over his face as he pulled you into his arms. for a moment, the world outside disappeared, leaving just the two of you wrapped in each other.

when you finally pulled back, you held up your hand, admiring the ring. “this is perfect. you’re perfect.”

quinn smiled, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “i wouldn’t say perfect. my cookies were… mediocre.”

you laughed, swatting his arm. “hey, don’t ruin the moment.”

the night went on, filled with more moments that you knew you’d treasure forever. and as you sat there, leaning against quinn with the soft glow of the tree around you, you couldn’t help but think that this christmas was everything you’d ever wanted—and more.

© amourquinn

[therosebookshop]

An Unhealthy Obsession

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Warnings/Contains: Dead dove? Yeah, dead dove; yandere, yandere, yandere; not cringy yandere, if you’re looking for yansim type yandere you will not find that here; stalking on both sides; mentally unwell on both sides yeah duh; gender neutral pronouns and reader as always; you’re aware you’re fucked in the head and why, but therapy is expensive; an ‘accidental’ murder; I hc sol to have a tongue piercing because god knows he should’ve had one, that creep from the arcade but this time bbg Sol is there to save you first <3

A/N: um hi I got sucked in by sol and for any followers sorry I’ve been absent I have ✨burnout✨ so

Inspo: a tumblr post and the title came from ‘An Unhealthy Obsession’ by The Blake Robinson Synthetic Orchestra

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Yandere.

A mix of two words- yanderu, “to be sick,” and deredere, “lovestruck.” Most of the time, yandere are portrayed to be sweet, caring, and innocent before switching into someone who displays an extreme, often violent or psychotic, level of devotion to a love interest.

You know you have a problem. Something wrong in your brain, having developed from your childhood abandonment and neglect. The need to be loved turned into an obsession with a boy in kindergarten. You’d thought he would be perfect for you, because he seemed so sweet and caring. And well.. that girl you’d pushed into traffic one day after she’d given him a flower and they’d sat together at lunch had been an accident, of course. A horrible, tragic one.

Your obsessions had never been this bad. Of course, some of them had been over fictional characters. Some had been over real boys in school, but they had never returned your feelings. And you’d cried your heart out after the rejections. You simply didn’t understand why they didn’t love you. You’d stalk them to see what they liked, change your clothing and your personality and everything, just for them. To be their type.

But this obsession��� had turned so bad.

He plagued your every thought. His gorgeous eyes, pretty hair, nice hands. His lips, his arms, how tall he was. Everything about him was so perfect. He was perfect. The fact that he didn’t seem to have many friends.. well, that was okay. When you finally got him as yours, he wouldn’t need anybody else. He’d have you.

You’d gained a reputation as a weird kid, one that had apparently followed you to your new college. There was a boy at the back of your class, who was nearly always accompanied by a boy who was about a head shorter, blue hair. You were jealous. But you weren’t stupid. No, you had to plan carefully to dispose of the boy.

Years. Painful years, of learning about the object of your obsession. You had a whole wall in your closet covered in Polaroids of Sol, each one neatly dated on the back in a green marker that matched the green in his hair. You had shoeboxes full of Polaroids of him, too, all of those neatly dated in legible handwriting and stacked by date. You followed him home once to set up a camera in his bedroom, complete with a mic, right near his bed to hear him sleep. You recorded it once, for if you ever needed the comforting sounds of your darling to sleep and he wasn’t available. Surprisingly, it was hard to learn anything about him just from searching his name- a lot of the kids here were from richer families, more popular families. So you simply stalked him, learned everything about him you could, and kept note of everything about him in a black hardcover notebook, kept on your person at all times.

Every little tick, nervous habit, anything. Noted. How his tongue prodded at hot food before taking a bite. The absolutely hot looking tongue piercing he had. The cute way he fiddled with his sleeves sometimes, or tapped his foot. When people were being annoying he rolled his eyes, or crossed his arms. He had a sibling-like relationship with his best friend, and you had a few pictures of his cute little pout when he was teased.

You learned from careful observation that he was in the nurse's office every other day, so you started to give yourself little injuries to be in the office too. A cut, a bruise, other injuries.

Little did you know he was obsessed with you too. You'd heard this town could be dangerous for pretty young women at night, but you hadn't ever had any issues. Because he followed you home every night. Why would you need a recording of him sleeping when he climbed into your room through your window and spooned you every night? He knew about all the Polaroids and everything. And it made him more obsessed, that you felt the same way about him.

You started to leave him little gifts- cute ones like a tiny bouquet of geranium blooms held together with twine placed on his desk (he knew about the flower box in your living room), a hoodie casually tossed over the back of his chair (it smelled like you and was oversized, so fit him well). Or bigger gifts- a horse plushie, snacks. All of them were from you, he knew they were. It was obvious, how you'd always be at your desk, which was just a couple away from his so you could inconspicuously look at him, before he was in the classroom. How you'd watch eagerly as he put the hoodie on, or slipped the snacks or plushie into his backpack to take home.

Then came the day in art class- three Expressionism drawings. You weren't an artist in any form (unless taking a lot of photographs of one person counted, and it probably didn't) and anyway, even if you were, you didn't want to spend a lengthy amount of time with anybody but Sol.

Everybody moved around to their partners, and you were the only one left without one. And, as your eyes fastened on Sol... he didn't have a partner, either.

You went over, sliding into the seat beside him. "You don't have a partner, right?"

You'd never spoken to him before. Not once. You'd heard his voice so much, but now, actually face-to-face with the object of your obsessions and sleepless nights, your heart was beating out of your chest.

"No. I don't. He ditched me." He said. And god, is his voice hot.

"Well, I don't either." You have to remind yourself to breathe, even though your knee is bobbing under the desk. "Want to be partners?"

His eyes don't miss the rapid, nervous movement of your knee bobbing, heel tapping against the floor. The corners of his lip twitch slightly. Adorable.

"I don't see why not." He says finally, eyes focusing on yours, and you have to remind yourself again to breathe. His eyes are so gorgeous. Like warm honey. You could fall into them and be trapped, like a fly in amber.

"Great." And the word comes out a little breathless, a little flustered. "I'm (user), by the way." You offer your hand to shake. "What's your name?" Like you don't already know it.

He stares at your hand for a minute, as if contemplating. Then he shakes your hand. "Solvian Brugmansia. Just call me Sol."

His hand is warm and bigger than yours, unsurprising because of his height. You can't help but grin. "Nice to meet you, Sol."

You talk a little, ideas of what to draw. He had a sketchbook open on his desk, and to see it without straining your neck, you scooted your chair over, leaning into his personal space bubble. But for such an introvert, he didn't seem to mind one bit.

He smells so good, you think. Comforting. Like paper and something akin to blood- an irony smell. And something under that, something so distinctly him you want to bury your face in his neck. You want to rest your head against him, maybe put your hand on his thigh for 'balance'. To touch him in some way.

He shifts, clears his throat, and when you glance up at him you realize his cheeks are flushed, and he looks down at you. You realize when you can see the faint blemishes on his face- oh so pretty- that you're very, very close.

You lean away, flustered and embarrased. You don't think you blush- he can see faint pink on your cheeks- but you do grin like an absolute idiot. You've learned this through playing dating games (a way to familiarize yourself with relationships, to be as good a partner as you possibly can for your future darling). You're not grinning as wide as if he had flustered you with his words, but you've still got a smile on your face.

And almost without thinking, his hand squishes your cheeks between his fingers to tilt your face up. You're so pretty, he thinks, those eyes never looking away from his, eyes that he could spend hours staring into. With the faint blush coloring your cheeks and the smile on your lips, you could be a perfect subject to draw.

"Stay like that for me." He murmured softly. "I'm going to draw you for this project."

Your lips parted, cheeks growing red, even if you couldn't feel their warmth. He opened up a page of his sketchbook, releasing your face to start sketching. He tells you how to pose- your chin on your palms, head tilted slightly. You watch him as he sketches, how focused he is, his lower lip caught with his teeth. Your eyes soften. He's gorgeous like this, pretty eyes occasionally flickering between the page and you.

Your eyes unfocus, simply staring at him. When he looks up his eyes lock with yours. He can practically see hearts in your eyes, adoration in your gaze. His cheeks turn red. You're adorable this way, oh-so-pretty. Stunning, really.

There's not enough time to finish the drawing within class, so while everybody files out he makes you stay there, finishing the sketch. When he's done he closes his sketchbook and stuffs it into his bag. "I'll show you when I color it in." He says as you grab your stuff and exit the classroom.

Out in the hallway, the two of you stand off to the side. "Since we're, um, gonna be partners, we should exchange numbers. To keep in touch and talk about projects and stuff." You add.

Please, please, please-

“Yeah. Here, put your number in.” He pulls out his phone and opens the contact app before handing it to you. You couldn't stop grinning as you typed in your number and handed his phone back. Your phone went off- a text from an unknown number, no doubt him.

You changed his contact nickname to 'Darling ♡ ' in your phone, grinning to yourself. You're so much shorter than him, he can easily see your phone screen, and he smiles to himself. He's added your contact name as 'Pumpkin'.

The obsession was so obvious.

Over the next few days of the project, the two of you ended up hanging out a lot. Usually at each other's apartment. You even went to the arcade with Sol while Hyugo went and saw a movie nearby.

It was really a cute arcade date, and you dressed as cute as possible that day- oversized sweater, baggy pants, oversized chunky boots that you sometimes lost your balance in... but it was fine, because you always had Sol to lean into for balance.

At the arcade, you played games together, laughing. Sol went to get more tokens and you insisted on sticking by his side. Somebody brushed past you, and in your horrible balanced fashion, you stumbled.

Sol caught you by the waist, steadying you. "Are you okay?"

He seemed to realize what he'd done and cleared his throat, moving his arm, but you stopped him, lacing your fingers with his, begging he wouldn't freak. His cheeks went bright red but he didn’t pull away, and you grinned to yourself as you went up to the counter with him, giving him a cute little side hug while he bought some more tokens. His cheeks were even redder now. It was adorable seeing him like this.

The cashier smiled at the two of you. "How long have you been a couple for?" You hastily released him. Sure, you knew that could be considered slightly romantic, but-

"Not long at all." His arm loops around your waist to tuck you into his side. Your face flushes a bright red. He looks down at you, noticing your blush, and his cheeks turn a pretty pink.

When you get more tokens you go to plushie machines. One of them has horse plushies. You give Sol, who's at a claw machine with plushies of your favorite animal in it, a quick look before going to the machine and putting in a token.

You're laser focused on it, cheering when you get the plushie. You don't even notice when an unfamiliar man comes up to you with a sleazy look, his two bodyguards in tow. He throws an arm around your waist, and you startle away from him, horse plushie clutched in your arms.

"Hey there, pretty. You alone?" He reeks of tobacco, and your nose wrinkles.

"No, I'm here with my boy-" You try to back up, but you bump into one of his bodyguards that blocks your way.

"What kind of boyfriend would leave a pretty thing like you all by yourself? C'mon, come with me, pet. I'll show you a good time." He starts to try to pull you away, but you stomp on his foot, hard, and run. Sol was nearby, he can protect you-

You collide right into Sol, and he keeps you from falling, eyes darting over your face with concern. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" The cute little pet name slips from his lips without him even realizing.

"This man- he grabbed me- he wanted me to go with him but I ran-" You're shaking, Sol can tell, the horse plushie still clutched in your arms. His eyes literally darken in anger, looking up and around for the man who dared to touch you without your permission.

I'm gonna kill him.

He gives you a hug, and you hug him back tightly, the horse plushie held in your hand, the bag of other prizes you two had collectively won bumping against your back as he held it in his hand. "It's okay, I'm here now."

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering. You smell amazing. He should find out what scent you wear, so he can buy one for himself.

But he should focus on the situation at hand. He runs his fingers through your hair. "It's okay. Let's go, yeah?"

So you walk home with him, and he holds your hand, keeping you close. Your hands are cold, and he pauses, setting the bag down at your feet and holding your hand to his mouth. His cheeks redden as he kisses the back of your hands, and you blush too.

He's so pretty. And so, so close. His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same sort of adoration and obsession in his eyes that are often in yours when you look at him.

And it makes your breath catch. He feels the same way. That's what that look has to mean.

He holds your hand the rest of the way to your cozy little apartment and you invite him in. He accepts, of course, acting like he's never been inside your apartment- he knows it like the back of his hand.

And maybe you do kiss him that night. Maybe he stays over, cuddling in your bed with you. Maybe more happens. But you're his. And he's yours.

But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—

[connectinfo1999]

Here's a breakdown of the key responsibilities and areas of expertise that Full Stack Developers typically cover

[just-dreaming-marvel]

The Librarian & The Wolverine ~ The Library

THE LIBRARIAN & THE WOLVERINE MASTERLIST

Word Count: 5,125ish

Request: Logan x fem!reader. Reader is the school's/mansion's library. She's real smart, educated, knows her way around books and stuff, but is not a mutant - it's more like her power is just her being book smart lol. Logan meets her when he's sent to the library to do research for the class he'll be teaching. He spends a few days there doing his research, she helps him finds good sources for his classes, he helps her move some heavy boxes full of new books. She's a little awkward but ridiculously funny, very quiet, always has her head burried in a book. Logan's grumpy but he's funny when he wants to be, he's helpful, he's curious about her interests and thinks her being all smart like that is kinda hot. They have a crush on each other - which develops once Logan keeps coming to the library for more research and to ask for book recs for fun instead of work. They talk about books, he brings her coffee when he comes over for work, she keeps a table always clean for him in a secluded corner of the library. There's a fire at the mansion and the library is damaged, but no one gets badly injured. She's inside the library with some students, she manages to help them get out and then part of the hallway collapses and she's trapped. Logan rescues her but she inhaled a lot of smoke. Logan visits her in the infirmary and brings her a book (some classic romance novel), they make plans to go get new books for the library once reconstruction is done. They go get new books, get some coffee, set up the new library... it all feels like a big date. So Logan asks if they can do it again but now without a fire and now as an official date. She says yes, they go out, choose books for each other, lots and lots of kisses. They're the cutest couple, everyone at the mansion loves them as a couple and think they're the cutest.

Warning(s): injuries, fire

Notes: The reader does have glasses. Also, I would definitely be down with doing a part two with these two.

“Logan, if you’re going to teach history, maybe make sure you understand it all,” Storm said.

“I do understand it,” Logan huffed. “Hell, I lived through most of it.”

She shook her head. “You understand it from your point of view. You might need to head to the library to do some studying this summer before next semester.”

“Library?”

Storm laughed. “Yes, Logan. The library. It’s on the first floor, it’s like the whole right wing. We have a librarian and everything. She’s really sweet. You might even like her.”

So Logan went to the library for the first time. And that’s when he finally met you. You were sitting cross-legged behind the main desk, glasses slipping down your nose, buried in a stack of books taller than some of the students. You didn’t even notice Logan until he cleared his throat loud enough to scare the daylights out of a nearby student.

“Oh!” You exclaimed, looking up at him, glasses skewed on your face. “Sorry, uh— hi! How can I help you?”

Logan stared for a second, caught off guard by how sweet you sounded and how fast you talked. He glanced at the sign on the desk— Librarian: Miss L/N— then looked back at you. “Uh, Storm said I should do some ‘research for the history classes I’m teaching. Can you point me to those sections?”

“Of course!” You hopped up. “History would be aisles six through seven,” you started walking. “Except…” 

You paused. Then you suddenly shook your head and darted into another aisle. Curious, Logan peered down the aisle to see you grab a book and come back and join him.

“Students,” you mumbled, waving the book. “They do try to test me. Anyway, history is aisles six and seven. But if you want government records, then those are eight through ten. Or there’s the good stuff— the personal accounts, diaries, things that feel like people talking instead of textbooks— I’ve got a stash in the room behind my desk.” 

You stopped in aisle seven, which was labeled on the bookshelf, and slipped the book you found into place. Then you led Logan over to a corner table.

“You can do your research here,” you offered. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Then you were gone.

~~~

That night, Logan caught Storm before she headed to bed.

“Hey, ‘Ro,” he called, “how long as that, uh, librarian worked here?”

“For almost a year,” she replied. “Y/N is her name, if you didn’t ask that today. She sticks mostly to the library and isn’t included on any missions.”

“Why? What’s her powers?”

“You could just ask her, you know?”

“Storm.”

“Fine. She kinda has two powers. First, she’s a living index. She can mentally categorize and track the location of any item in her vicinity. Books, objects, even people if she focuses, but that takes a lot of energy from her. She also has something called bibliomancy. She can instantly understand and retain any written material— in any language— just by touching it. And with some focus, she can even see the emotional imprints left on historical documents. It what makes her the perfect librarian.”

Logan nodded, realizing that he had witnessed come of your power in action today.

“She would be a good resource for your lessons, Logan,” Storm said with a smirk. “Or maybe, good for you.” Then she slipped into her room.

~~~

The next day, Logan found the corner desk cleaned up and left with pencils, pens, highlighters, and various sizes of sticky notes. All neatly organized. There was also a book on the desk with a sticky note on it. He leaned over and read it.

A good place to start your research. - Y/N (the librarian)

Logan couldn’t help but form a small smirk across his lips. That’s how it all started. Logan expected to hate being in the library, but somehow you made it bearable. You weren’t pushy, just passionate and kind of ridiculous, in an endearing way. You talked fast when you got excited. You tripped over your words sometimes, apologized too much, and made strange little jokes under your breath that you didn’t think anyone heard. He heard all of them and they made him smirk when he thought about them later.

The corner desk was freshly cleaned and organized each day before he arrived. So Logan begun brining you coffee. You always took it with both hands like it was an extra special gift.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said bashfully, the third day in.

He grunted and looked away. “Didn’t want you fallin’ asleep on the Dewey Decimal System.”

That made you laugh and your laugh tugged at Logan’s heart.

~~~

Logan continued coming daily as the weeks came back. He always said it was to look for more lesson material, but deep down you knew he was coming to see you. Sometimes you’d sit with him when you had nothing else to do. You’d show him the historical documents you had and allowed him insight into your powers. One day, you started ranting about the emotion you felt in a mutant journal you had in the library. Logan simply leaned back and listened like it was the most important thing in the world.

You, in turned, noticed things about him. Like the way he held books gently, like they mattered. Especially if you’d talked about it before. Or the way he pretended to be gruff, but always checked in on those students who were staying for the summer. You caught him reading a book you recommended in the kitchen once, brows furrowed, so into it he didn’t notice you passing by. You smiled for the rest of the day.

Months went on like that, small moments mostly shared in the library. You had helped Logan create a curriculum for his class, yet he still kept coming. Not that you were going to complain. You begun recommending different books to him— not just history— and it shocked you when he read them.

Sometimes, you caught him watching you from the corner where he ‘worked’— books opened, but barely touched. You’d glance up and find him with his arms crossed over his chest, brow furrowed like he was studying you.

“You reading me or the book?” You teased.

“I’m pretty sure the book doesn’t taught when I drop a pen,” he grunted. 

You ducked your head, flushed. “I was trying to laugh quietly.”

One time, you were reaching for a massive volume on the top shelf of the archives— precariously balancing on an old wooden ladder— when Logan walked in and just lifted you down without a word.

“Logan!” You yelped. “I had that!”

“Uh-huh,” he said, effortlessly grabbing the book himself. “And sone strong gust of wind would’ve had you in the infirmary.”

You crossed your arms. “You know, for someone who walks into danger for a living, you’re weirdly obsessed with safety.”

He hands you the book with a smirk. “Yeah. When it comes to you, I am.”

You forgot how to speak for a full thirty seconds.

One late evening, you dozed off at your desk— open notebook beside your hand, glasses askew. He found you like that and didn’t wake you. Instead, he took off his flannel and gently draped it over your shoulders. The next morning, you immediately noted the scent of cedar and firewood surrounding you. You kept the flannel with you for the rest of the day.

~~~

It had been a long day. The fall semester had just started and Logan had spent most of it trying to teach a room full of mutant hormonal teenagers why revolutions started. Most of them couldn’t even spell the word revolution. He was one paper cut away from quitting when he stalked into the library that afternoon. Everything immediately softened.

You were sitting at your desk, glasses low on your nose, a pencil tucked behind one ear, and a mug of some lukewarm liquid forgotten beside you. You were writing notes in a notebook with one hand while the other rested on a leather-bound journal. You looked up when you heard him and smiled.

“Rough day?” You questioned gently, noticed how tense he was.

He grunted. “Understatement.”

You nodded. “You want your table?” 

Logan didn’t answer right away, you were already standing. He watched you, the way you moved— careful, graceful in that absentminded way of people who lived half their lives in their own heads.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. Table’s good.”

You walked slightly ahead of him, not pressing him to talk. You placed a fresh copy of The Old Man and the Sea on the table like a peace offering.

“You said you liked the way Hemingway doesn’t waste time on flower language,” you said, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “This one’s short. Barely any metaphor.”

He narrowed his eyes at the book. “That code for ‘sad ending’?”

You shrugged. “That’s for you to find out.”

He sat down and you lingered, like you weren’t quite ready to part just yet. And then— out of nowhere— you dropped a little fact like you always did. Something random and useless to most people.

“Did you know Hemingway wrote the last page of this in one sitting?” You said. “He rewrote the rest almost fifty times, but that last page? He never touched it again.”

He stared at you and something clicked inside of him. It wasn’t loud or dramatic or like lightning. It was simply a quiet little truth, settling into place. He was falling for you. For your quiet voice and your messy notes. For the way you lit up talking about old books and dead authors. For your ridiculous facts and your kind eyes and your complete inability to walk past a shelf that’s not perfectly organized. Logan didn’t say anything to you, just looked back at the book.

“You do this on purpose,” he muttered.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Make me care about this stuff. Books. Characters. History.”

You smiled. “Maybe.”

He huffed and opened the book. You didn’t walk away. You sat down near him, grabbed a different book and began reading. The two of you sat like that for almost an hour. There was no talking, just the soft turning of pages. Logan never felt more at peace. He didn’t know what this was exactly between you, but he knew he’d do whatever he could to keep it safe.

~~~

You didn’t notice at first. It happened slowly— like ink spreading across the page. You were resolving poetry books. Logan was at his usual table, pretending to read. He had one leg propped up with glasses (that you suspected were fake) perched on the bridge of his nose. 

Suddenly, he held up a paperback— some beat-up crime novel you recommended— and muttered, “This guy solves a murder in 200 pages and still makes time to fall in love. What the hell am I doing wrong?”

You snorted, not even looking at him. “Being emotionally unavailable and allergic to open communication?”

You meant it as a joke, he knew that. But he still paused.

Then, quietly, he said, “I’m workin’ on that.”

And your heart— your poor, quiet, book-loving heart— did something completely stupid. It skipped. You looked up. His face was open, honest, and vulnerable. You realized that he meant it. He was trying for you.

That night, after he left,, you sat alone at your desk for a long time. You were falling for him. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way you often read about. But in the quiet and comfortable way that has built up over the months since he first stepped foot in the library. You were falling for the man who carried your books without asking. Who somehow remembered your favorite quotes. Who watched you like you were worth listening to. No one had every done any of that. And that scared you.

~~~

It started on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, a few weeks into the fall semester. The library was humming— low voices, shuffling paper, the soft thud of books. It felt safe, untouchable. You were near the back, working with a few students. One was hopelessly lost in MLA citation. Another was trying to translate Shakespeare into slang. You smiled as you juggled questions, your voice calm and steady.

Then the lights flickered. Once and then again. Everything stopped and everyone looked up. And the the fire alarms screamed. It was the kind of sound that split your bones. It was shrill and immediate and telling you that something was very wrong. The students jumped. Smoke began curling out from the air vents— thin at first, but growing fast. You smelled burning plastic, insulation and wires. It was an electrical fire. Fast, unpredictable, and deadly.

You forced your voice to stay calm even though your hands had gone cold. “We’ve practiced this,” you told the students. “Remember what we do. Single file. Stay low. Go.”

You moved quickly, but not frantically. You were steady and in control. You counted heads and kept your voice even. The students needed calm. If they saw you panic, they’d fall apart.

The smoke thickened and something cracked overhead. You heard a distant explosion, the building groaning under its own heat. Somewhere, a student shouted and another screamed.

“Go!” You urged the students. “Jamie, come on!”

But Jamie didn’t move. The boy stood frozen, near the center aisle, eyes wide with panic. Sparks flickered around his fingers— uncontrolled and crackling. He was overloaded, his mutation reacting to his fear. You needed to get the other students out.

“I’ll be back for you, Jamie!” You shouted, ushering the others towards the exit.

~~~

Logan was in the gym. His wrists were wrapped as he used the punching bag. He was trying to turn through the restless energy that never seemed to leave him. Then he heard the alarms and the screaming.

“Fire!” Someone shouted from the hallway. “In the library!”

His heart stopped. He dropped everything and ran. He didn’t wait for orders or to ask who was helping, because you were in there. And he couldn’t handle if anything happened to you.

The hallways were chaos. Smoke filled the upper floors. Students were pouring down the stairwells, coughing and crying. Teachers shouted orders. Storm shot past Logan in the opposite direction, calling for the mutant students who could help calm the flames. Logan sprinted towards the library. He turned the last corner and saw you. You were shoving the last student through the doorway, soot staining your face, with one arm held over your mouth. Your eyes met his, but you were already turning to head back in. The ceiling had already began to collapse between Logan and the library.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice ragged, smoke already eating at your lungs. “Jamie— Jamie’s still in there!”

He didn’t think or hesitate. “I’m comin’!” He yelled. “Just wait!” But you didn’t. “Y/N— damn it!”

Logan’s claws slid out with a sharp shnk, glinting through the dark. He charged in. The heat hit him like a wall. Wood burned, and the walls and ceilings buckled. He cut through his way and found you a second later, kneeling beside Jamie, trying to coax him with a shaking voice.

Logan scooped the boy up in one arm and ordered, “Go. Now!”

You nodded, stumbling after him, one hand against his back to keep balance. You were halfway to the door when it happened. The ceiling groaned. Logan stopped mid-step. A massive beam broke loose from above. Wood and plaster shattered around it. The beam crashed down between you, throwing you backwards and blocking your path to the exit. The shelves near you tipped, collapsing in a chain reaction, pinning you, one leg trapped beneath splintered shelves, the heavy support beam burning at one end. 

“NO!” Logan roared.

“Logan!” You shouted, voice breaking. “I’m stuck!”

Logan shoved Jamie towards the door. “Someone get the kid!” Then he turned back and charged into the fire. He jumped over the beam and crouched beside you. “Don’t move. I’ve got you. I swear.”

You looked up at him— eyes wide and scared and full of trust. “Please… Don’t— Don’t let me die in here.”

“Never.”

Logan wrapped his arms around the beam. It was heavier than it looked and heating up with the fire. It seared his skin where it touched him, but he didn’t stop. He roared and lifted, muscles shaking. With a final, desperate yell, he threw it aside. You practically collapsed forward into him, coughing violently, body going limp in his arms.

“I got you,” he breathed, catching you. “I got you, sweetheart. You’re alright.”

And then, another crack sounded. The entire floor behind you dropped a foot with a thunderous boom. Logan didn’t think. He scooped you into his arms, turned, and leapt just as the last of the ceiling gave way. The world came down behind the two of you. He hit the ground hard, shielding you with his body as flaming debris rained across his back. Pain flared but his healing kicked in and his grip never loosened. 

“Over here!” Scott yelled. “We’ve got them!”

But Logan didn’t move. He stayed on the floor, arms around you, breathing hard.

“Get me a damn stretcher!” Hank shouted.

You stirred. “Lo—Logan?” You whispered, his name barely making it past your lips.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered roughly. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your hand curled weakly into his shirt before your eyes fluttered closed again, body sagging. And Logan— battered, bloody, and breathless— held you tighter.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he whispered into your hair, voice breaking. “Don’t you ever…”

They had to pry you from his arms. He followed behind the med team like a ghost— soot-streaked, jaw clenched so tight his teeth shed. His shirt was burned straight through in places, but he didn’t notice or feel it. He only saw you, laying on the stretcher, limp and unmoving.

“You said she’s breathing,” he growled at Hank once you were in the infirmary. “So why the hell won’t she wake up?”

“She inhaled a lot of smoke,” Hank told him gently. “Her body’s in shock. She just needs rest.”

But Logan couldn’t rest. Not while you were laying there with machines practically breathing for you. Not while your cardigan— the one you always wore that had ink smudges on the sleeve— was cut down the middle and tossed in a bin like it meant nothing. You were always so careful, so prepared and so calm. He should’ve gotten there faster.

~~~

Hours passed. The infirmary emptied. Students checked in, then shuffled back to bed with minor burns or bruises. The library and a few offices were the only parts damaged by the fire, thankfully. Everyone said you were a hero. That you kept your head, got the kids out, and went back for one. 

Logan couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t stand the praise. Not when he had the image of you pinned until the burning ceiling like his worst damn nightmare come true. He paced outside your room like a caged animal. Then eventually, he stepped inside. You looked small in the bed, swallowed by white sheets, wires, and tubes. Not to mention, the cast on your leg from where you had been pinned. He finally sat beside you, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

“You should’ve let me get him,” he muttered. “You should’ve run.” 

No answer, just the hiss of the oxygen line. He stared at the floor.

“You weren’t supposed to be in danger,” he continued, voice cracking. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I was supposed to— damn it… I was supposed to protect you.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers digging into his eyes. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things. I’ve seen people die. I’ve killed people. And I’ve walked away from it every time. But I saw that ceiling start to fall and I thought—“ His breath hitched. “I thought, if I don’t get to her, if she dies in front of me—“

Logan couldn’t finish his thought. He looked at you then, really looked. Your lips were parted slightly. Your brow twitched in sleep. Your chest rose and fell so faintly it made his throat close.

“I don’t know was this is,” he whispered, reaching out and gently taking your hand. “You and me. But I need it. I need you.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve lived too long and lost too much to sit here and pretend like I’m not— like you down’t matter to me. You matter so damn much.”

He gave your hand a slight squeeze before standing. He began pacing against, too raw to stay still. 

“I’ve been through wars, Y/N,” he continued. “Literal wars. I don’t panic. I don’t break.” He turned towards you, eyes wild. “But when I heard you scream my name— when I saw you trapped— I didn’t feel like the Wolverine. I felt like a man who was about to lose the best damn thing in his life.”

He paused, letting the silence swallow the confession. Then, slowly, he sat beside you again, taking your hand.

“I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your hand twitched, just barely. He froze and watched your fingers curl ever so slightly around his.

Then your lips moved, cracked and dry. “Logan?”

His head snapped up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

You blinked slowly, eyes hazy but warm. “I knew… you’d come…”

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. “You’re damn right I did.”

~~~

The first few days after the fire were slow. You drifted in and out of sleep, lungs sore, throat raw, and muscles weak. Logan never left. He dozed in the corner in a chair far too small for his frame, arms crossed like he was trying not to fall apart. He read silently when you slept. Sometimes your favorite books, sometimes books you recommend him. He dog-eared the pages now, though— something you’d once jokingly told him was a criminal offense. You forgave him.

And when you stirred, no matter how late it was, his eyes opened instantly.

“You good?” He would ask, low and gravelly.

You would nod.

Then he’d pour your water, help you sit up, and tuck a blanket around your shoulders like it mattered.

~~~

It took four days before you were allowed to walk with crutches, only for a few feet. Hank suggested that you wait for a nurse. 

Logan shut that down with a grunt. “I’m helping her.”

You leaned on him. You had crutches under your arms and his hand warm and steady against your back. Each step felt like a mile, but he didn’t rush you. He matched your pace without complaint, murmuring encouragement into your head like it wasn’t tearing him up to see you this fragile. 

“You’re doing great, darlin’,” he murmured. “One more step. I got you.”

You did better than expected. Until you caught sight of your reflection in a hallway mirror. You paused and took yourself in. You looked like a ghost of yourself.

“I look awful,” you whispered. 

Logan stepped in front of you immediately. “Hey.” You wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Hey.” He tilted your chin up with two fingers. “You look like someone who ran into a fire to save your students and lived to tell the tale. You look like someone who fought like hell. And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in days.” You looked at him, stunned. “I’m not just sayin’ that to be nice.” You leaned into his chest then, and he held you without hesitation. “Let’s sit for a bit. You’ve earned it."

~~~

When you were strong enough to leave the infirmary, the first place you asked to go was the library. Or, what was left of it. Logan pushed your wheelchair through the blackened archway. Most of the debris had been removed. The air still smelled faintly of smoke. One half of the room was under reconstruction, while the other half was a staging area for what survived. Like your desk. It was charred at the corners, but still standing. 

“I thought it would feel worse,” you whispered. “But it just makes me want to fix it.”

Logan smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Then let’s fix it.”

And you did. Not all at once, but slowly and together. Logan handled the heavy lifting— shelving, building, and hammering. You directed, sorted books, and drafted up a new cataloging system from scratch. You insisted on doing it right. He insisted on carrying every single box, even when it meant trips back and forth for hours.

One day, Logan caught you trying to lift a stack of reference books by yourself.

“What did I say about heavy lifting?” He reprimanded, taking the books from you.

You pouted. “That I shouldn’t do it.”

“Exactly. Now go back to bossin’ me around like you’re good at.”

You snored and flopped into the chair he kept beside your desk just for you. “Fine. But you’re doing the labeling next.”

He groaned dramatically. 

~~~

The library was almost finished. The last shelves had been installed that morning. The paint on the walls was fresh, faintly smelling of cedar and hope. Books were still waiting to be shelved— new, old, and salvaged. But tomorrow, the doors would open again. Students would come back into the space. 

Logan found you sitting in the middle of the library— on the floor, back against the last bookshelf, with a half-unpacked box of hardcovers beside you. You weren’t moving. He hesitated behind a shelf at first. He took in the sight of your shoulders hunched forward, hands gripping your sleeves, face buried in your arms. Then he heart the sound, soft and shaky. You were crying. He crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside you.

“Hey. Hey—“ His voice was gentle. “Talk to me.”

You lifted you head slowly, eyes red and glassy behind your glasses. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, wiping at your face with your sleeve. “I didn’t want anyone to see—“

“Too late… what’s wrong?”

You looked around the room. At the new shelves, at your desk that Logan had fixed up, and the corner you claimed for him. “I should be happy… I got it back. We rebuilt everything. But I keep thinking about that day. About how close it was. I smell smoke in the carpet still. I still dream about the beam coming down. About not making it out.”

He was quiet for a beat and then, “You almost didn’t… I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t think or stop. Just ran. And I was still almost too late.” Another tear slipped down your cheek, and Logan caught it with his thumb before you could. “I almost lost you. And I never—“ his voice cracked, “I never told you what you mean to me.” 

Your breath hitched.

“You’re the first quiet I’ve ever liked,” he continued softly. “The first calm I didn’t want to run from. I come in here and it’s like… everything in me stops trying to fight… I kept tellin’ myself I’d wait. That you needed time. That maybe I was imagining it. But then I saw you lying there and I realized…” he swallowed. “I love you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. “I love you too.” Logan froze. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had. It was so good— safe. But every time you walked in with a drink or fixed a shelf without being asked or quote Jane Austen just to make me smile—“ you laughed, “I fell a little more.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath since the fire. And then he pulled you in. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, just home. His arms wrapped around you, anchoring you in the silence, and you melted into him, face tucked under his chin. He kissed your temple, then your cheek, and then your lips. It was a soft, slow kiss, full of everything you’d both been too scared to say.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against your lips. “Always.”

You nodded, arms tightening around his waist. “And I’ve got you.”

~~~

The next morning, you stood at the front desk, one hand wrapped around a still-steaming mug of coffee (from Logan, of course), the other smoothing down the table displays you’d been arranging since sunrise. A small vase of fresh flowers sat in the center, also from Logan though he hadn’t admitted it out loud. Just grunted and muttered something about ‘color’ before setting it down.

Logan came back just after seven, leaning in the doorway with a lopsided grin and another coffee in hand.

“You open yet?” He asked.

You smiled. “Always. At least for you.”

He strode over and set his coffee down, then pulled you gently into his arms. His hands curled agains your back, grounding. You leaned into his chest and closed your eyes. You breathing him in.

“Feels different,” you murmured.

“It is,” he said. “You’re mine now.”

“Took you long enough.”

He chuckled. “Took us long enough.”

~~~

The first few kids trickled in quietly. They looked around with reverence, whispering to each other about how it didn’t even smell like smoke anymore. Then came the regulars. Jamie was the first to say it. He paused in front o your desk and stared at Logan, who was pretending to organize the display table but was actually hanging around way too casually.

“Are you two, like, together now?” Jamie questioned.

You froze, but Logan didn’t flinch.

You cleared your throat. “Jamie—“

“Because if you are, that’s awesome,” Jamie grinned. “You guys were, like, a slow burn romance novel. Everyone knew. You just didn’t.”

Logan gave a small shrug. “Told you we weren’t subtle,” he muttered under his breath.

Jame waved a few other kids over. “Guys! It happened! They’re official!”

Soon, a small crowd of amused, excited students gathered around the front desk. They whispered, giggled, and pointed between the two of you like it was the best gossip of the year. You buried you face in your hands while Logan just crossed his arms and smirked.

“Alright,” he said gruffly, but not unkind. “You got ten more seconds to gawk before I assign everyone a ten-page paper on 20th-century revolutions.”

Groans echoed immediately before they scattered in seconds.

You blinked at him. “You wouldn’t actually—“

“I might,” he shrugged. “But they’re right.”

“About what?”

He reached over and pulled you into him. “You and me? Best damn slow burn I’ve ever read.”

next: The Love >

[heartavenue]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤThings To Script: Parenting Edition 🍼

Long awaited request from anon, I got two requests that were very similar so I decided to combine the two. This "things to script" will be very lengthy so just bare with me. So sorry that it took me so long to finally make this but I hope that you like it anon(s)!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤBaby's Health & Development

╰┈➤. 2 Months

Calms down when spoken to or picked up 

Looks at your face 

Seems happy to see you when you walk up to them

Smiles when you talk to or smile at them

Makes sounds other than crying 

Reacts to loud sounds 

Watches you as you move 

Looks at a toy for several seconds 

Holds head up when on tummy 

Moves both arms and both legs 

Opens hands briefly 

╰┈➤. 4 Months

Smiles on their own to get your attention 

Chuckles (not yet a full laugh) when you try to make them laugh 

Looks at you, moves, or makes sounds to get or keep your attention

Makes sounds like “oooo”, “aahh” (cooing) 

Makes sounds back when you talk to them

Turns head towards the sound of your voice 

If hungry, opens mouth when their sees breast or bottle

Looks at their hands with interest 

Holds head steady without support when you are holding them

Holds a toy when you put it in his hand 

Uses their arm to swing at toys 

Brings hands to mouth 

Pushes up onto elbows/forearms when on tummy

╰┈➤. 6 Months

Knows familiar people

Likes to look at self in a mirror

Laughs

Takes turns making sounds with you 

Blows “raspberries” (sticks tongue out and blows) 

Makes squealing noises 

Puts things in their mouth to explore them

Reaches to grab a toy they wants

Closes lips to show they doesn’t want more food 

Rolls from tummy to back 

Pushes up with straight arms when on tummy

Leans on hands to support herself when sitting

╰┈➤. 9 Months

Is shy, clingy, or fearful around strangers 

Shows several facial expressions, like happy, sad, angry, and surprised

Looks when you call their name 

Reacts when you leave (looks, reaches for you, or cries) 

Smiles or laughs when you play peek-a-boo

Makes a lot of different sounds like “mamamama” and “bababababa” 

Lifts arms up to be picked up 

Looks for objects when dropped out of sight (like his spoon or toy) 

Bangs two things together 

Gets to a sitting position by themselves

Moves things from one hand to her other hand

Uses fingers to “rake” food towards themseleves

Sits without support

╰┈➤. 1 Year

Plays games with you, like pat-a-cake 

Waves “bye-bye” 

Calls a parent “mama” or “dada” or another special name 

Understands “no” (pauses briefly or stops when you say it) 

Puts something in a container, like a block in a cup 

Looks for things he sees you hide, like a toy under a blanket 

Pulls up to stand

Walks, holding on to furniture 

Drinks from a cup without a lid, as you hold it 

Picks things up between thumb and pointer finger, like small bits of food 

╰┈➤. 15 Months

Copies other children while playing, like taking toys out of a container when another child does

Shows you an object they like

Claps when excited 

Hugs stuffed doll or other toy

Shows you affection (hugs, cuddles, or kisses you)

Tries to say one or two words besides “mama” or “dada,” like “ba” for ball or “da” for dog 

Looks at a familiar object when you name it 

Follows directions given with both a gesture and words. For example, they gives you a toy when you hold out your hand and say, “Give me the toy.” 

Points to ask for something or to get help.

Tries to use things the right way, like a phone, cup, or book

Stacks at least two small objects, like blocks 

Takes a few steps on his own

Uses fingers to feed herself some food 

╰┈➤. 18 Months

Moves away from you, but looks to make sure you are close by 

Points to show you something interesting

Puts hands out for you to wash them

Looks at a few pages in a book with you

Helps you dress them by pushing arm through sleeve or lifting up foot 

Tries to say three or more words besides “mama” or “dada” 

Follows one-step directions without any gestures, like giving you the toy when you say, “Give it to me.” 

Copies you doing chores, like sweeping with a broom 

Plays with toys in a simple way, like pushing a toy car

Walks without holding on to anyone or anything 

Scribbles

Drinks from a cup without a lid and may spill sometimes

Feeds himself with their fingers

Tries to use a spoon

Climbs on and off a couch or chair without help

╰┈➤. 2 Year

Notices when others are hurt or upset, like pausing or looking sad when someone is crying

Looks at your face to see how to react in a new situation

Points to things in a book when you ask, like “Where is the bear?” 

Says at least two words together, like “More milk.” 

Points to at least two body parts when you ask them to show you 

Uses more gestures than just waving and pointing, like blowing a kiss or nodding yes 

Holds something in one hand while using the other hand; for example, holding a container and taking the lid off 

Tries to use switches, knobs, or buttons on a toy

Plays with more than one toy at the same time, like putting toy food on a toy plate

Kicks a ball

Runs 

Walks (not climbs) up a few stairs with or without help

Eats with a spoon

╰┈➤. 30 Months

Plays next to other children and sometimes plays with them 

Shows you what they can do by saying, “Look at me!” 

Follows simple routines when told, like helping to pick up toys when you say, “It’s clean-up time.” 

Says about 50 words 

Says two or more words together, with one action word, like “Doggie run” 

Names things in a book when you point and ask, “What is this?” 

Says words like “I,” “me,” or “we” 

Uses things to pretend, like feeding a block to a doll as if it were food 

Shows simple problem-solving skills, like standing on a small stool to reach something 

Follows two-step instructions like “Put the toy down and close the door.” 

Shows they know at least one color, like pointing to a red crayon when you ask, “Which one is red?” 

Uses hands to twist things, like turning doorknobs or unscrewing lids

Takes some clothes off by themselves, like loose pants or an open jacket

Jumps off the ground with both feet 

Turns book pages, one at a time, when you read to them

╰┈➤. 3 Year

Calms down within 10 minutes after you leave them, like at a childcare drop off 

Notices other children and joins them to play 

Talks with you in conversation using at least two back-and-forth exchanges 

Asks “who,” “what,” “where,” or “why” questions, like “Where is mommy/daddy?” 

Says what action is happening in a picture or book when asked, like “running,” “eating,” or “playing” 

Says first name, when asked 

Talks well enough for others to understand, most of the time 

Draws a circle, when you show them how 

Avoids touching hot objects, like a stove, when you warn them

Strings items together, like large beads or macaroni

Puts on some clothes by themselves, like loose pants or a jacket

Uses a fork

╰┈➤. 4 Year

Pretends to be something else during play (teacher, superhero, dog) 

Asks to go play with children if none are around, like “Can I play with Alex?” 

Comforts others who are hurt or sad, like hugging a crying friend

Avoids danger, like not jumping from tall heights at the playground 

Likes to be a “helper” 

Changes behavior based on where she is (place of worship, library, playground) 

Says sentences with four or more words 

Says some words from a song, story, or nursery rhyme 

Talks about at least one thing that happened during her day, like “I played soccer.” 

Answers simple questions like “What is a coat for?” or “What is a crayon for?” 

Names a few colors of items 

Tells what comes next in a well-known story 

Draws a person with three or more body parts

Catches a large ball most of the time

Serves themselves food or pours water, with adult supervision

Unbuttons some buttons 

Holds crayon or pencil between fingers and thumb (not a fist)

╰┈➤. 5 Year

Follows rules or takes turns when playing games with other children

Sings, dances, or acts for you 

Does simple chores at home, like matching socks or clearing the table after eating

Tells a story they heard or made up with at least two events. For example, a cat was stuck in a tree and a firefighter saved it 

Answers simple questions about a book or story after you read or tell it to him 

Keeps a conversation going with more than three back-and-forth exchanges 

Uses or recognizes simple rhymes (bat-cat, ball-tall) 

Counts to 10 

Names some numbers between 1 and 5 when you point to them 

Uses words about time, like “yesterday,” “tomorrow,” “morning,” or “night” 

Pays attention for 5 to 10 minutes during activities. For example, during story time or making arts and crafts (screen time does not count) 

Writes some letters in her name 

Names some letters when you point to them 

Buttons some buttons 

Hops on one foot

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDuring Child's Life

Your child gets accepted into the best schools.

Doctor visits always go well with your child, the doctor is sweet and listens to all of your concerns.

Your child sleeps soundly throughout the night.

Your child does not get any nightmares.

They don't throw temper tantrums.

They don't go through the "terrible twos."

They can't poop, pee, or vomit on you.

They can't spit on you.

They don't always ask for your food when you're eating (unless you want them to them sure!)

They understand when they need to give you some space.

Other children, hell even adults, can't bully them.

Your child is free to express themselves however they like without judgement.

They don't throw things like food and toys (especially at other children)

They don't get into fights with other children.

They always make you cute crafts from school!

They don't mess up their hair for picture day.

People are kind and respectful to you and your child.

Random people (or people you do know) don't kiss your child and pick them up without your consent.

There are a multitude of educational and fun programs for kids to enjoy (think of PBS and Sprout) that CANNOT get cancelled or defunded.

There are activities in your area that are meant for kids (fairs, carnivals, etc)

People don't hate children and make it their entire personality.

Your child is great at communicating how they feel.

Your child can't bully other children.

Okay I did my best, but I will continue to add to this as I think of things. For this things to script I used this website from the CDC, and this website by the "girl with the list" (@/yuniquethoughts on tiktok)

[slashire]

Tuesday

Summary: you accidentally grab at the same book as another, turns out it's the reason why you look forward to every tuesday. You and Spencer, after meeting, enjoy each other's space in the little bookstore, it escalates to him asking you out to dinner.

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn, a tiny trauma dump from spencer

WC: 2219

an: I'm working on part 3 of the black butler one, but I'm currently in between moving so Idk when I can post it! :(

The first time it happens, it's raining, light, misty rain, the kind that's more whisper than weather. The air smells faintly of damp pavement, crushed leaves, and the orange peel you tucked into your coat pocket on the walk over. You duck into the little bookstore nestled between a florist and a vintage clothing shop, your usual Tuesday sanctuary, and shake the rain from your sleeves as the door swings closed behind you with a soft, familiar chime. The sound feels like punctuation, a gentle full stop at the end of whatever outside noise you've left behind.

Inside, the bookstore hums in its quiet way, old jazz murmurs from a corner speaker, blending into the rustle of pages and the soft scuff of someone moving between stacks. The place is warm with the scent of old paper and wood polish, with something slightly citrusy you've never quite been able to identify. You follow the creaky wooden floorboards instinctively, stepping around a table stacked with faded Penguin Classics, past the fiction aisle, and into the back corner, where Psychology lives, tucked between political theory and poetry like some strange venn diagram of the human condition.

You reach for the book without thinking, Cognitive Development and Psychopathology.  It's dense, unflinchingly clinical in parts, but you’ve been circling it for weeks. There's something in the way it weaves together early development, trauma theory, and behavior patterns that fascinates you, how it reads more like the anatomy of memory than an academic text.

And then, as your fingers touch the spine, another hand reaches for it at the exact same moment.

The contact is brief- cool fingertips brushing yours- but it's enough to make you glance up.

He's taller than you, but somehow he manages to take up less space than he should, like he's trying to shrink himself to fit the bookstores hush. His hair curls slightly from the humidity, soft and unbrushed in a way that suggests he might have run here through the rain without an umbrella. He wears a navy cardigan over a mismatched shirt and tie, the pattern of the tie slightly crooked. He looks surprised, blinking at you with warm, honey-colored eyes behind wire-framed glasses.

He pulls his hand back immediately. 

“I-sorry. You go ahead,” he says, his voice low but clipped, as though he's used to recalibrating mid sentence. “I've read it before. Several times, actually. Though I find I never quite retain the same interpretation twice.”

You pause, glancing down at the book again and then back at him. “Sounds like memory reconsolidation.”

That makes his eyebrows lift, sharply, delightedly, as if you've just said the exact right thing on accident.

“Exactly. Yes. that's actually-well, it's the core of the problem, isn't it? That every time we retrieve a memory, we alter it. It's not like a file you open and close. It's more like…like clay. Always being reshaped. Dr. Vass even argues that therapy, at its best, is just carefully controlled memory destabilization. But of course, her sample sizes were too small and skewed toward outpatient populations, so..”

He trails off, blinking again. Then he lets out a breath and offers a shy, crooked smile. “Sorry. I ramble.”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “It's refreshing.”

He glances at you as if he's trying to determine whether you mean it. Then his smile deepens, just slightly.

“You have good taste,” he says.

“Likewise,” you reply, this time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh, something barely audible but genuine.

He offers you his hand, like the thought just occurred to him. “Spencer Reid.”

You shake it, noticing the precision in his grip, the careful way he measures touch like he's learned to be cautious with his presence in the world. You give him your name in return, and he repeats it softly, almost to himself, committing it to memory.

Something shifts then, something subtle. Like two books leaning gently into each other on a shelf, no longer strangers.

You think that will be it. But the next Tuesday, he's there.

You spot him first, seated in the philosophy aisle, one leg curled under the other on the faded armchair near the back. He's reading again, The Denial of Death by Becker, but looks up the moment you enter, as if he's been listening for the sound of your step.

“Hi.” he says, the word a little breathless, like he didn't realize he'd been holding any until just now.

That day, you talk about Carl Jung. The week after, it's Virginia Woolf. Once, your conversation spirals from Plato to neurolinguistics to the way children invent private languages and how that might intersect with trauma encoding. He speaks in long sentences, hands moving in rhythm with his thoughts, building out entire structures of ideas in the air like he's mapping galaxies. You never feel lost, though. He pulls you into the orbit of his mind with ease, always pausing to check if youre still with him, always listening as intently as he speaks.

He starts bringing you books, ones he thinks you'll like, secondhand copies with his thoughts scribbled in the margins. You bring pastries from the cafe down the block. On rainy weeks, he brings tea. It becomes a ritual. You become ritual.

Sometimes you sit in silence, reading side by side. Other times, the words don't stop until the shop closes and the clerk politely flicked the lights. The world outside shrinks into irrelevance when he's across from you, head tilted, brow furrowed in thought.

You learn how he cracks his knuckles when he's nervous. How he won't interrupt, but his eyes light up when he's holding back a thought. How he listens, really listens, with the kind of reverence that makes you feel like what you say matters, like it's being gently stored away somewhere sacred.

He tells you things you know he doesn't tell most people. That he's been called a genius, but he doesn't always feel like one. That he used to hate silence, but lately, he's been learning how to sit with it. That he never had a favorite place in D.C, not really, too transient, too loud, but this bookstore, he says one day, without looking up from his book, “feels like breathing again.”

You don't answer. You just smile and turn the page.

Five months after that first accidental brush of fingertips, he gives you a book.

He doesn't say anything. Just place’s it on the table between you. A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet, soft-edged and underlined. You open it without thinking, and a folded piece of paper falls out.

Your name is written on the front in careful, narrow handwriting.

Inside the note reads:

I've found a rhythm in these Tuesdays.

A stillness I didn't know I needed.

I used to believe connection was accidental.

Or infrequent.

But then I met you. And it didn't feel

Accidental at all.

I was wondering,

Would you like to have dinner with me?

No pressure.

Just one more conversation.

-Spencer

You sit back slowly, heart thudding in your chest, the soft sound of pages turning somewhere in the store now impossibly loud. When you look up, he's not pretending to read. He's watching you, quietly, hands folded in his lap, eyes full of uncertainty that doesn't match the brilliance of his mind.

You smile, small, certain, and hold up the note.

He straightens, blinking once.

“I'd love to,” you say.

The smile that breaks across his face isn't perfect. It's not suave or practiced or cinematic.

It's real.

And just like that, the story turns another page.

The dinner is set for the following friday. He chooses a quiet, tucked away place, of course he does, a little family-owned bistro with books stacked on its windowsills and flickering tea lights on each table. He texts you the address precisely, three days in advance, and follows up on Thursday to confirm with a slightly self conscious, “Still okay for tomorrow?” 

You reply yes, and he sends a single reply back: looking forward to it. Very much.

The phrase plays on a loop in your head as you dress.

You arrive first. The table is already reserved, near the back, half-shielded by a tall shelf of antique hardcovers. You glance around at the soft lighting, the quiet music playing in the background. It doesn't surprise you that Spencer found this place. It feels like him: thoughtful, hidden in plain sight, full of depth and charm you only see when you slow down.

When he walks in, you spot him immediately.

There's something about the way he carries himself tonight, more upright than usual, but still with that signature nervous energy he never quite masks. He's wearing a dark sweater and blazer, and his hair is a little more carefully styled than usual, though it still curls loosely around his ears. His eyes land on you, and the second they do, his shoulders drop just a little, like he's been holding something in and finally remembers how to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, pulling out your chair for you, and then his own. “Im...Im really glad you came.”

“So am i,” you answer, and his lips tug into a smile that takes its time spreading, like it's blooming rather than appearing.

The conversation is easy. Of course it is. You talk about books at first, he asks if you've started The Body Keeps the Score, and when you say yes, he leans in, visibly excited, launching into a soft but passionate explanation of how somatic trauma therapy has reshaped the way we understand memory storage. He stops himself three times mid-ramble, apologizing with flushed cheeks and glancing down at his hands. You touch his wrist gently once, just to steady him. “I like listening to you,” you say, and he glances up at you like that's something he doesn't hear very often but wishes he did.

Over pasta and shared wine, the conversation deepens.

He tells you about his mom. He doesn't launch into it the way he does with literature or statistics, it's slower, careful, like unwrapping something delicate. He talks about her schizophrenia, about the sharpness of her mind before the illness settled in, about how he used to read her poetry and scientific papers out loud just to keep her anchored. You don't interrupt. You just let the quiet stretch when it needs to, holding space for the weight he's always carried.

“I used to think I had to fix everything,” he says, voice low. “That if I just knew enough- read enough, understand enough- i could make it all go away. But some things aren't puzzles. They Are…ongoing.” he pauses, then looks at you. “You make it feel okay to have some of those pieces still unresolved.”

You say his name then, softly, and his gaze flickers to yours with something unguarded, something that's not just gratitude but recognition. Like he sees something in you he didn't expect to find, but can't quite let go of now that he has.

You talk for hours, until your plates are cleared, until the wineglass between you is empty, until the candle burns low and the lights dim just a little more.

Outside, the air is cool and still. The rain has passed, leaving behind the shimmer of wet pavement and reflections in puddles. He walks you to your car without speaking at first, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. You match his pace naturally.

“I…don't really do this,” he says suddenly, stopping just before you reach your door. “Not just the dating thing. But the part where i…care this quickly.”

You feel something shift again, like the pause before a page turn.

“I haven't either,” you say. “But I do.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, the world shrinks to the narrow space between you. He doesn't lean in. He doesn't rush. He just looks at you, and it feels like a long-held breath finally being released.

“I'd like to see you again,” he says. “Outside the bookstore. Not that I don't love the bookstore- I do. But I'd like to know what your laugh sounds like in other places. What you look like in the morning light. What you think about on a Sunday when no one’s asking you questions.”

The words are so Spencer- half poetic, half exact, more honest than most people are allowed to be.

“I'd like that too.” you say.

And then he smiles, and it's the real one, the one that  starts in his eyes and unfolds all the way through him, like he's not sure what's happening, only that it feels like something he doesn't want to stop.

He brushes your hand with his before he leaves. Just barely. But it's enough.

Enough to know this is only the beginning.

Enough to know the next chapter is already writing itself in quiet, deliberate ink.

[shadesofmauve]

Alliance Normandy SR2 interior redesign: Introduction

The Normandy is a sexy sexy spaceship, but the interior we see is defined by game play: corridors are extremely wide so Shepard doesn't get stuck on the scenery, the crew is sparse because animating crew members takes resources and NPCs are also obstacles Shepard could get stuck on, you need larger spaces for camera angles, etc.

I wanted to see if I could redesign the space to fit a crew of 70–90... ...and I got carried away.

This post covers the rules I set myself and the basic process. Each deck will get a separate post (check back for links):

Intro

Loft

Command deck

Crew deck

Engineering deck

Hangar deck

Design rules

Keep major elements in basically the same places. This is the Normandy as she exists in my fic Sunset & Evening Star, and readers shouldn't have to study a floorplan!

Use only space that's 'available' in the game. If we can access it as the player, it's fair game. If it's a mysterious void in-game, I assume it's full of Important Spaceship Parts and the only access is for ship maintenance.

The elevator shaft is vertical. No Willy Wonka/ST turbo lift shit.

*There are inertial dampeners; if there weren't none of this would work. But as an author I like to imagine that any system can be overloaded.

Step one: Align & scale the deck maps

I aligned the deck maps around the elevator, the only element that shows up on every one. Each is shown at a different scale, so I eyeballed their relationship based on furniture, which is the only thing required to have a relatively consistent size. This is a big assumption; game designers resize whatever they need to! Shepard's bed, for instance, has pillows about a meter square. Presumably they needed room to made the pixel dolls have sex. Shepard's bed can therefore not be trusted, and to a lesser extent neither can anything else.

(There are also floor panels that look a lot like standard 4'x8' construction sheet stock, but A) developers can re-size those as needed without the player noticing, and B) If we're still using imperial units to construct spaceships in 2184 I hope the reapers eat us.**)

**...that said, I used a scale of 1px:2ft to draw this. I'm so sorry. I'm American and I've done construction, it's easy for me to visualize. (The scale was two inches to the pixel, if you're curious.)

Step two: Redesign over the existing space

This is where I saw how much I could fit in the space the game design allowed (given my guesses on scale). Y'know, the fun bit that I thought I'd be spending most of my time doing!

(I was so wrong).

Redesign goals

The Alliance refitted the Normandy for an Admiral. Admirals don't captain their own ships, so I needed to account for an Admiral and their staff as well as the captain and crew.

Align bunks fore-aft, so that the most common major inertial vectors* will hit sleeping crew in the least dangerous direction.

Plumbing should be stacked when possible. (I don't know spaceships but I know about plumbing columns. Glamorous!)

Step three: Adjust to the hull

One modeler figured the ship had to be ~370 meters long to fit the decks as-is, which would leave them using only ~20% of the length. One dev is quoted as saying she's 170m. Fan estimates comparing it with other ships suggest somewhere from 210–230 meters.

The hangar deck is the one*** place the interior aligns with the exterior for certain. The hangar needs to fit two kodiaks in the space between the bay door and the elevator, and each kodiak needs to fit 12 people plus the pilot. Additionally, as the lowest deck the hanger is limited in width by the inward curve of the hull (and that limit changes based on how low you go, which is why the drawing above includes a front elevation).

***Yes, we also see Joker piloting right up in the nose. This is impossible to achieve and also stupid, so I've elected to ignore it.

Sizing it to the smallest reasonable hangar — and after drawing a rather stubbier kodiak — I managed a 194 meter hull; ~217 if you include thrusters. At this size the liveable area takes up just over a third of the hull length. It's still an awful lot of nose, but that nose means 136 meters for the main gun, which for my purposes is still a rail gun (so size matters). Sadly it can't be a hull-length gun; it would run into first the elevator, and then the eezo core.

I did NOT pretend to figure out where the Make Spaceship Go parts are, or the Keep People Alive parts. There's a LOT of 'wasted' space; assume it's all in use and accessible through engineering access-ways, though how comfortable or safe they are is questionable.

———

Thanks to @swaps55 for the amazing high-res screenshots of the game maps, and to @faejilly and @sheepishwolfy for the long-ago talks about crew size that started all this!

[p0orbaby]

We No Speak Italiano

summary: you’ll never miss a day of Duolingo again

warnings: are language barriers and miscommunication warnings?

a/n: based on this request ! also thank you to @onsomenewsht for inflating my ego and helping navigate italian !

word count: 2.1k

-

Alexia looks at you like you’ve just dropped the biggest bombshell in the history of bombshells. Her eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape, and she’s got that look, like she’s trying to figure out how to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture with no instructions and half the screws missing.

“Estoy embarazada,” you say again, because you’re pretty sure that’s the right way to tell her you’re mortified after spilling your entire glass of wine on her brand-new sofa.

Your high school Spanish teacher would be so proud.

But instead of the expected response, maybe a nervous laugh or string of expletives, Alexia gasps, and her hands fly to her mouth like she’s just heard the Virgin Mary is back for round two. Her eyes flick down to your stomach and back up to your face. The calculation going on behind her eyes is something like 2 + 2 = 5, but you have no idea why.

“I… Oh my God,” she says, her voice all wobbly, like she’s about to cry. “I didn’t… I mean, this is… Are you okay?” She’s speaking in slow, deliberate Spanish now, like you’re suddenly a toddler and not a grown-ass woman who just spilled wine.

You blink at her. “Sí?”

“Madre mía”

-

It starts with a breakfast that makes no sense.

You wake up to the smell of something cooking in the kitchen, which is odd because Alexia barely knows how to operate a toaster without supervision. You stumble out of bed, groggy, and follow the scent of food.

What you find in the kitchen is nothing short of alarming: Alexia, apron-clad and concentrating so hard that she’s actually sticking her tongue out a little, is stirring something in a pot while a blender whirs ominously next to her.

“Buenos días,” she sings out when she notices you standing in the doorway. She’s all smiles, too bright for this early in the morning, and you immediately get suspicious.

“What’s going on?” you ask, eyes narrowing as you take in the sight of an overfull fruit bowl, a plate stacked with multigrain toast, and what appears to be an entire carton of eggs scrambled and ready to be eaten.

“Sit, sit,” she insists, pulling out a chair for you like you’ve suddenly developed a bad back and need assistance. “I made breakfast”

“You… made breakfast,” you repeat, eyeing the smoothie she pours into a glass and slides over to you. It’s an unsettling green color, like pond scum, and you’re not sure it’s fit for human consumption.

“Sí. You need to start your day with lots of nutrients.” She’s practically bouncing on her toes, like a Labrador eager to please.

You blink at the smoothie, then back at her. “Since when did you learn how to use the Nutribullet?”

She doesn’t answer directly, just gives you an encouraging smile that feels a little too close to a grimace. “Drink up. It’s good for you”

You take a tentative sip, and it’s like drinking liquid grass mixed with what you can only hope is kale. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No!” She’s almost offended, but there’s a hint of nervousness in her voice that you can’t quite place. “It’s full of vitamins. Good for… energy”

You stare at her, but she just stares back, eyes wide and almost… expectant.

“Okay,” you say slowly, deciding to let this weirdness slide, for now. Maybe she’s on a trendy new health kick. Or maybe it’s an early birthday surprise gone wrong. Either way, you down the smoothie in a few brave gulps, trying not to think about the fact that it tastes like lawn clippings.

Alexia beams at you when you finish, like you’ve just accomplished something monumental. “Bien, bien. Now, sit tight. I’ll get the rest”

She practically skips back to the stove, where she starts piling eggs and toast onto a plate. You don’t even bother asking why she’s suddenly turned into Martha Stewart; you’re too busy wondering if you’ve somehow walked into a parallel universe.

It’s only later, after you’ve forced down an absurd amount of scrambled eggs, that she starts talking about how “important it is to stay healthy” and how she’s “going to take care of everything from now on,” which sounds sweet but also vaguely threatening.

You brush it off, chalking it up to some kind of weird phase. After all, everyone gets weird sometimes, right?

-

By day two, you’re starting to suspect that something is seriously wrong.

It begins with a confrontation over laundry, specifically, the fact that you’re not allowed to do any. At all.

“I’ve got it,” Alexia says, practically wrestling the basket out of your hands when you attempt to head for the washing machine.

You try to grab it back, but she holds it over her head like some ridiculous game of keep-away. “What is with you?”

“You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things,” she says, so earnestly it makes your brain short-circuit for a second.

“It’s a basket of clothes,” you argue, “not a sack of bricks. And I lift heavier things at the gym every day”

She shakes her head, not budging. “No. Let me do it. Just relax”

You gape at her, watching as she carries the laundry to the washing machine like it’s a ticking time bomb. She’s being weirdly gentle, placing the clothes in like they might shatter if she drops them too hard.

Then there’s the vitamin situation. You’re sitting on the freshly cleaned sofa, flipping through channels, when Alexia plops down beside you with a clatter of bottles and packages.

“Take these,” she says, handing you an array of supplements that looks like it belongs on the shelf of a pharmacy. There are multivitamins, folic acid, omega-3s, and some other pill you can’t even pronounce.

“What is this?” You hold up the folic acid like it’s a foreign object. “I’m not trying to hatch an egg here”

“Just take them,” she insists, pushing the bottles toward you. “They’re good for you”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing these are good for is draining my will to live,” you mutter, but she gives you that look, the one that’s all big hazel eyes and soft smiles, and you end up taking them just to get her to stop hovering.

When you try to go for a run that afternoon, she practically tackles you at the door.

“Maybe you should rest,” she suggests, like she’s trying to steer a toddler away from a busy street. “You know, take it easy for a bit”

“Take it easy?” You raise an eyebrow. “I’m not 80. And since when do you care about rest days? You’re usually the one dragging me to the gym at 6 AM”

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again like a fish gasping for air. “It’s important to be careful”

“Careful of what, exactly?”

She hesitates, and you catch a flicker of something in her expression, nervousness, maybe? Fear? Whatever it is, it’s weirding you out. “Just… you know, careful”

You’re about to argue, but she gives you a kiss on the forehead, all soft and sweet, and you end up staying in just to avoid making things even more bizarre.

-

By day three, you’re done. Absolutely, 100% done.

It starts with the breakfast smoothies, again. This time, it’s a vibrant pink concoction that tastes like liquid chalk mixed with berries, and you’re pretty sure it’s the same smoothie you saw in a TV ad for pregnancy supplements once.

When Alexia starts lecturing you on the importance of hydration, while handing you a liter of water with electrolytes, you decide it’s time to get to the bottom of this.

“Alexia,” you say, setting the water down with a definitive thud, “we need to talk”

She glances at you, clearly nervous, and you know you’ve hit the jackpot. “About what?”

“About why you’re acting like I’m a fragile little baby bird that needs to be protected from all the big, scary things in life,” you reply, crossing your arms.

Her face flushes, and she avoids your gaze, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “I just-, I want to take care of you”

“I appreciate that,” you say, softening just a little, “but you’ve gone full-on helicopter mode. And it’s freaking me out”

She looks at you for a long moment, then sighs like she’s been carrying the weight of the world.

“You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice soft like she’s whispering state secrets. “How long? I mean… when did you find out?”

You stare at her, a mental Rolodex flipping through every interaction you’ve had over the last few days, searching for the moment when you apparently lost your mind. “Find out what?”

“That you’re…” She trails off, wide-eyed, and then whispers, like she’s on a soap opera, “Pregnant”

There’s a beat of silence. And then another one. You feel like someone just turned off the power in your brain. You’re pregnant? No, no, no. Last you checked, you were just really bad at pouring wine.

“Wait,” you finally say, holding up a hand to stop her from offering you yet another pillow or maybe a foot rub. “Pregnant?”

Alexia’s eyebrows are practically in her hairline. “You said you’re embarazada”

Oh. Oh. Oh no.

“Alexia,” you say slowly, enunciating like you’re the one explaining the IKEA instructions now. “I said I’m embarrassed. Not pregnant. Embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated because I thought I ruined your sofa with a ten-euro bottle of red”

She looks like she’s buffering, trying to load what you just said. “Embarazada… means pregnant, in Spanish”

Ah, the joys of faux amis, false friends, words that sound like they should mean the same thing but are actually waiting to sabotage you like linguistic landmines. Your high school Spanish teacher can take a hike.

You wipe away a tear, trying to catch your breath. “Alexia… I told you I was embarrassed. Imbarazzato doesn’t mean pregnant in Italian, it means mortified. Humiliated. Just how I felt when I spilled that wine and thought I ruined your furniture”

“Wait,” Alexia says, her brow furrowing in that cute, confused way you’d normally find adorable if she weren’t in the middle of thinking you’re harbouring a tiny human in your uterus. “So you’re not…?”

“No!” You laugh, a little hysterically because, seriously, how did you get here? “I’m not pregnant. We’re both women. How would that even work? I mean, unless there’s something about human biology I missed in school, I’m pretty sure that’s not in the cards for us”

Her eyes widen as the realisation hits, and then she groans, burying her face in her hands. “Dios mío, I’m such an idiot”

You’re still laughing, but you manage to pat her knee reassuringly. “An adorable idiot, but yeah, kind of”

“Well, you did say ‘embarazada,’” she points out. “How was I supposed to know you just meant you were embarrassed?”

You shrug. “Maybe when I didn’t start eating pickles and ice cream? Or asking for your jersey for when the baby arrives?”

“Touché.” She’s still grinning, that big, beautiful smile that makes you forgive her for thinking you were about to drop a baby bomb on her. “So, you’re just embarrassed”

“Yes. Very. And I’m also very much not pregnant. I’m sorry for confusing you”

She sighs, exaggerated like she’s relieved, and you both start laughing again, the awkward tension from the past few days melting away. But there’s still a mischievous glint in her eye, one that makes you a little wary.

“What?” you ask, knowing full well you’re about to regret it.

“Well, since you’re not pregnant,” she says slowly, leaning closer with that flirty smirk you love and hate in equal measure, “how about we do something about that embarrassment?”

She wiggles her eyebrows, and you roll your eyes. “Oh, so now that I’m not a fragile incubator, you’re all over me?”

“Exactamente,” she says, pulling you into her lap with surprising ease, even for someone who regularly benches more than your body weight. “Besides, I have to make sure you’re really not pregnant”

“Alexia,” you say, trying to sound stern but failing miserably when she starts nuzzling your neck, “that’s not how this works, remember?”

She grins against your skin, pressing a teasing kiss to your collarbone. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You push her back just enough to meet her eyes, raising an eyebrow. “But if you want to keep treating me like a queen, I’m not going to complain”

“Deal,” she says, her voice softening, her hand resting on your cheek. “But next time you’re embarrassed, can you please just say it in Italian, or English?”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to her lips. “Sure, but only if you promise not to freak out the next time I spill something”

“No promises,” she murmurs, pulling you closer, “but I’ll try”

[secretbigboylover]

Buffet Date

CW: Weight gain, rapid weight gain, teasing.

Trevor was trying to ignore how full his belly was and how good it felt. His big belly spilled over his lap and pushed his favorite button up shirt to its limit. It was a sky-blue shirt with yellow rubber duckies dotted all around it. His boyfriend, Max, had picked it out as a gift when they first moved in together. The same Max that confided in him that he liked his men chunky, the same Max that kept buying Trevor’s favorite snacks even though Trevor was on a diet. The same Max that innocently suggested a buffet for their date night.

Trevor knew he’d over eat, but couldn’t help himself and he was sure Max did too. The food just smelled amazing. There were so many options from pizza to pasta, stakes to hotdogs, every fried savory food he could think of, and the desserts were so mouthwatering. Trevor didn’t used to be a big guy, but boy did he have a big appetite. He had played football in high school and in college. Trevor had a wide build that made him the first pick on any team. He even had the good looks to make any man swoon or at least he used to. Now, thanks in part to dating Max, Trevor felt he had lost some of that. He was still broad and tried to be athletic, but had started developing a bit of a gut. Sure, some of his gym buddies when through bulking phases and got a bit chunky before getting ripped, but Trevor didn’t do any body building stuff. He liked to keep a lean muscle look. Now staring at an orb of a gut he groaned. He was so full and the food was so good. Rubbing his taught stomach only showed just how much of a pig he made of himself, but it also felt good. He didn’t want to admit it, but a part of Trevor really liked this feeling of being over stuffed. It was a good excuse to let Max dote on him while he just digested. He knew he should be more active, but Max always looked so happy when Trevor ate too much. Maybe it was time to give in? That though vanished when he looked down at the sad state of his favorite shirt.

The day he had gotten the shirt Max had taken him on a magical date to the winter fare. They had gone ice-skating, Trevor had tried to win Max a stuffed animal, they had hot chocolate, and road the Faris wheel. They had stopped by a little boutique before going home. It was filled with all kinds of crazy and goofy shirts. When Trevor saw the rubber ducky shirt he fell in love and he was over joyed when Max bought it for him. They took it home right away. Trevor was so swept up by how cute it was that he didn’t realize it was a size too big. Max had ensured him that he still looked cute in it and the bigger size only gave him room to grow.

Now diamonds of doughy flesh poked between the buttons. Trevor leaned back and stroke his belly. He couldn’t imagen taking another bite. He had already stuffed himself with four full plates. Trevor vowed this would be the last buffet date for the year. He would get back on his fitness grind and fit back into his favorite shirt. Once Max came back, he would tell him his master plan about getting his summer beach bod ready.

Max came back with three plates, one with a few slices of pizza, one with a slice of cheesecake, and the other stacked with two slices of strawberry cheesecake and warm brownies.

          “Sorry for the wait. I heard they were bringing out a fresh batch of brownies and I know how you love them.” Max said.

Trevor completely forgot about his aching belly the second he smelled the brownies. They were so rich. He could smell the semi-sweet chocolate and could almost taste it. His summer body forgotten he chowed down on the brownies. They were even better than he imagined. So dark and rich, with the perfect smooth fudge texture. They practically melted in his mouth. Trevor inhaled the last few and the cheesecake. Without a second thought he got up and raced towards the brownie station.

They had set out two massive sheets, still steaming. Like a child possessed, he quickly loaded his plate high with brownies. As he walked back to his table he had to peak over the mountain of brownies and had missed Max’s massive grin. Max was full on laughing by the time Trevor came back to the table.

“What, did I take too many?” Trevor said.

“No baby, your shirt.” Max said as he tried, and failed, to keep in his laughter.

Trevor looked down and saw two buttons in the middle of his shirt had popped off, his soft belly exposed to the air. He turned the deepest shade of crimson and hid behind his tower of brownies.

“Aw baby, no need to be embarrassed. I think you look very sexy with that soft belly.” Max said.

“Then why were you laughing?” Treavor said.

“Because I got an email that your new shirt had arrived.” Max said.

This did not quite answer Trevor’s confusion and Max recognized that and continued.

“I know how much you love that shirt and I know it has been fitting a little snug recently. So, I found out that store had a webpage and, on a whim, bought it the next size up. I’m just laughing because right as I got the email your buttons flew off.” Max said.

Trevor was still embarrassed but touched. He looked down at the plate and a had a wicked idea.

“Well let’s see if you can pop the rest of my button’s off.” Trevor said.

Now it was Max’s turn to be flustered.

“Wait what?” Max said.

Trevor wasn’t sure what came over him. He still wanted his lean summer bod, but loved seeming Max flustered and new this would do the trick.

“Yea, just feed me till I pop.” Trevor said as he pushed the plate of brownies towards Max.

Still flustered, but now definitely horny, Max picked up a brownie and popped it in Trevor’s mouth. Instantly Trevor was in heaven. The brownie was still as good, but the extra edge of having his sexy boyfriend feed them too him was doing wonders. Trevor knew in that moment his new shirt wouldn’t last very long.

[riewritten]

QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS ˚ · . READ ON AO3

『JOHAN LIEBERT x GENDER-NEUTRAL!READER』

˚ · .─ SYNOPSIS: Set a decade after the monster's last havoc in Runenheim; he managed to settle someplace nobody knew him, resolute to wander alone until his questions were answered. Needless to say, a companion who'd be willing to stay amid his solitude was the last thing he expected on this journey.

˚ · .─ TAGS: post-canon, developing friendships, romance, fluff, soft johan (whew), pining, domestic bliss, acts of service, johan acting like a male wife when he's just a friend lol, johan is soft but his unremorseful tendencies still show itself if you squint hard enough. ˚ · .─ WORDS: 5.8k

⭒ ⊹ ⭒ hapee holiday season, everyone! here's a christmas gift for my johan lovers:)

You come by Johan's crib after a long day of work. The door's open and there’s a faint albeit very comforting scent of smoke oozing out of the kitchen—your favorite soup. You knock softly (as if Johan didn't already sense your arrival with the clanks of your feet from the hallway; he had come to memorize your footsteps at this point). You find him by the stove, stirring something, movements deliberately slow.

“Smells good,” you say, voice light but sincere.

He doesn’t turn immediately, focus maintained on the pot. "It's just a simple dish. I thought you might be hungry."

He says it as if it's nothing. As if he just coincidentally thought of cooking your favorite dish. You smile, walking over to the table where a fresh and warm buttered loaf of bread awaits.

“You always know exactly what I need.”

Johan almost lets out a small, almost imperceptible chuckle, still not looking at you. "I'm learning."

The first time you met Johan, it was in the bookstore you both frequented, the perfect place to disappear for hours in the quiet maze of shelves. You got to know him by the murmurs first then speaking to him second. It was the constant whispers of the librarians and regulars about a blonde man who seemed to have nothing in his closet but turtlenecks and trousers, yet the awe in their voices spoke volumes—albeit in hushed tones—as it tipped from intimidation to admiration. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” one of them had said once, “like straight out of a painting.” “I know,” replied the companion, her voice barely above a whisper. “But doesn’t he feel… untouchable? I wouldn’t dare.” You’d followed their gazes and caught the sight of him for the very first time. Seated by the large window in the philosophy section, he was a picture of quiet solitude. His blonde hair caught the sunlight like spun gold, but it was his stillness that struck you most. Calm and composed—indeed he must be carved from stone. Since then, you’d noticed the way others seemed to orbit around him, drawn in by his presence but never daring to get too close. “I hope someone gets the gall to talk to him,” you overheard one of the librarians mutter once. “It’s a pity seeing him alone all the time when he spends most of his days here. I get he might prefer it that way, but still…” The words had stuck with you, stirring a strange kind of curiosity. Who was he, this man who seemed to command so much attention yet cold enough to remain distant? Oh, if only you knew what the future holds for you two, you wouldn't be so nervous about it.

“Why are you laughing?”

When you snap out of it, the stove’s already closed and Johan’s attention is full at you. Needless to say, you’re flushed, but you at least manage to smile and say, “Nothing. Just remembered something funny.”

“Great,” he blankly muses as he carries the food to the dining area. “At least we’ve got something to talk about over dinner.”

The first time you gathered the needed gall to approach him yourself was when you were wandering the aisles. He was in his usual spot with a small stack of books aside. His posture was relaxed, one hand cradling a book while the other resting on the arm of his chair. The whispers you had heard didn’t do him justice. He was striking, indeed, but there was something else, something intangible—a quiet volume in his presence hiding beneath the tranquility. It was the same volume that made you hesitate, and so you lingered by the shelves first.  It wasn't until the librarian’s words echoed in your mind. “It’s a pity seeing him alone all the time…” Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward and blurted out (casually, or so you hoped), “What are you reading?” When his gaze met yours, you felt the air shift. His eyes were the clearest shade of blue you had ever seen, perhaps akin to a lake hiding depths you’ll never reach. Looking back at it, you might’ve been right during that moment, for there are still so many things you don’t know about Johan even now. Going back, Johan took his own time, as if weighing your question, and for a fleeting second, you think he might ignore you entirely. Fortunately, he tilted the book slightly so you could see the cover. “Being and Time,” he said, voice as quiet as the space around you. You’d expect his voice to be deep and manly, but his soft-spoken tone didn’t disappoint you either. In fact, you might’ve liked it more than you imagined. “Heidegger,” you say, mostly to fill the space. “That’s… a lot to unpack.” A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It is.” Then he closed the book in a manner so poised that it felt almost reverent. “Have you read it?” You shook your head. “Not yet. Philosophy’s always been a little intimidating. Too many questions, not enough answers. Not my thing.” For a brief moment, however, you thought it'd be nice to pretend you liked it just so you could talk to him longer. His smile lingered, softer this time. “That’s the point, isn’t it? The questions.” “And you like that?” you took a small step closer. “Questions without answers?” He leaned back slightly, considering you with a quiet curiosity that mirrored your own. “I think it’s better than answers without questions.” “Not really.” He raised his brows, and it didn’t take him too long to signal his hand on the spare chair in front of him, inviting you to his table so you could expound on your answer. You realized then that talking to Johan means having to deal with his words hanging often in the air, and even now you still find yourself caught between wanting to unravel his meaning and simply basking in the way he says it. Amid his tranquil is a tension, that invisible string pulled taut just before it breaks.

And, with that said…

“You don’t talk much about your past,” you start, voice almost shy. “I respect that. But I think I need to understand. Not for me, but for you. We’ve been friends for a while now.”

Johan doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers are wrapped around his cup, staring at the dark liquid inside as though it could offer him the answers. You’re right, all you know about him is that he’s named Johan. He’s past his thirties. He seems to like your company over dinner or while reading his daily dose of books. He likes spending the rest of his day in the library where you two first met after he’s done with his informal job of tutoring children around the neighborhood for a small price—because to quote one parent, “Mr. Johan is good at children! They love him,”—which almost made him chuckle sardonically at one point, only if he wasn’t with you at the time it was said.

He has always been careful with his words, but this time, he seems to hesitate a little longer than usual. Finally, he speaks, albeit his voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

“I’m not the person you think I am, you see…” he starts, and with that simple remark, he's able to deduce that he's not ready to talk about it at all. "...but the past is a weight deplorable people like me are not willing to carry. 

Not that he ever would be ready to talk about it, with you no less. Johan had spent so much time hiding his true self for the past decade not any more thrilled to see the reactions of others who’d come to know who he really was, even more not willing to see your reaction once you learn all of it, too.

But needless to say what he just said is progress. This is the first time in a decade that he has admitted out loud that he is a deplorable being. And that couldn’t be truer for him because even now as you talk, Johan still has no plan to carry the burden of his sins the way his victims would want to. 

He is, in fact, stuck in here, wandering aimlessly, still struggling to understand the need for it, still wanting to see the world the way those people had seen it. The vision doesn’t appear to him no matter how many books he reads, how many buoyant children he tutors, or how many happy parents he comes across. 

Then why does he allow you to see him little by little if he fails to understand it all?

“What only matters for me right now is what’s here,” He gestures around, eyes briefly meeting yours. “This. You.”

You don’t know what to say, but the fire starts feeling a bit warmer after that remark.

On Johan’s end, he seems to have formed some kind of enlightenment with his remark, too. 

Here, in his little crib, with you by his side, he’s slowly but finally allowing himself to be seen (in ways he can and knows how) for the monster that he is, and it's all thanks to your presence. His growing fondness for you has the potential of freeing him from his aimless wandering. And if this fondness, perchance, starts developing for other people as well (to your neighbors, to the kids he tutors, to the parents trusting him, to the librarians doing favors for his books), he believes he could finally start seeing the world the way those people have seen it.

“But I don’t need to know what you’ve done or whatever it is that makes you ‘deplorable’," you quote in the air. "I just want to know you."

And his questions will be answered. And, in time, Johan can finally face the weight of his sins with full understanding.

He looks at you then, his gaze steady and calm. “You already do.”

On the second, third, fourth, and perhaps even fifth time you two came across each other at the library, you had always pretended to see him coincidentally (feigning shock with a high-pitched “Oh hi there, Johan! Didn’t know you were there! It’s been a while! How are you?” that you prayed he didn’t find annoying) because, little did Johan know, your intrigue had been keeping you up at night. You frequented the library—with all sorts of books and topics diverse—to quench your curiosity about lots of things. But with this blonde man, how could your curiosity about him be quenched if not through this? At times, you thought he’d seen through your friendship scheme, but your inner demons brushed off the thought. After all, how could he tell that these moments were, in fact, not coincidental when you two were known by the librarians for frequently requesting library cards because the old ones had been too full to fill up? You glanced at the stack of books beside him and realized that they have a rather eclectic mix—existentialism, psychology, classic literature. “You have a theme going,” you say, nodding toward them. He followed your gaze. “These authors had… interesting ways of seeing the world. I like to understand how people think.” The faintest edge to his voice, however, made you wonder if he was speaking about others—or himself. “Do you ever agree with them?” “Not always, but understanding isn’t about agreement. It’s about perspective.” You nodded then, rendered into silence, unsure how to respond. There was a weight to his words that felt out of proportion to the simplicity of the conversation. But you didn’t mind. If anything, it makes you want to keep talking to him.  “I’m sorry—” you said suddenly, realizing you had been standing there for far too long. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just couldn’t help but notice. I’ll be off then! Have a great time.” When his gaze met yours again, there was a flicker of something softer. “It’s not an interruption,” and for the first time, his voice held a hint of warmth. “Sometimes, a conversation can say more than a book.” You smiled at that, feeling a strange, inexplicable comfort in his words. “Well, if you ever need someone to talk to about… questions without answers, I’m around!” He didn’t respond immediately, but his expression shifted, the faintest trace of curiosity mingling with something you can’t quite name. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said at last, and though his words are polite, there’s a quiet sincerity to them that makes you believe him.

After dinner, the quiet hum of the night wraps around you as you sit in Johan’s small, meticulously organized living space. The fire dwindles to a much softer glow, casting long shadows across the room before you notice Johan's gaze flickering between the firelight and you. His hands rest loosely on the arm of his chair, seemingly content in the silence. His stillness betrays a quiet attentiveness though—for he's always aware, always considering.

“You didn’t eat much,” says Johan, proving your musings. It's not an accusation either, just an old flat remark on his end.

You shake your head, smiling softly. “I wasn’t that hungry earlier.”

He gets up without a word, movements unhurried as he disappears into the small kitchen. You hear the faint clink of a ladle against a pot and the gentle hiss of steam as he pours something. Moments later, Johan returns with a steaming bowl of soup and a slice of bread.

“Eat."

You hesitate for a moment before picking up the spoon, letting the warmth of the soup seep into your hands. “You don’t have to take care of me like this, you know?”

“I know,” he says simply before meeting your eyes, the usual coolness softened by something you couldn’t quite decipher. 

The soup is more than perfect, though—rich and comforting as always—and he knows you'd feel guilty if you don't eat it. “I don’t know how you do it,” you mumble in between, “but you always make things feel… manageable? I don’t know.”

He tilts his head slightly, as though considering your words. “Do expound."

"I’d rather not."

The chuckle he lets out with your statement has made it more difficult for you to hide your fluster, but much to your relief, Johan doesn't press you further.

The same chuckle wraps every crevice of your body with warmth. Oh, to have a friend taking care of you like this. His solitude can be dreary, but so utterly comfortable nonetheless.

Making Johan live next to you will always be one of the proudest decisions you ever made.

It was approximately three months after those fateful (intentional) encounters, that the library had become a haven for you both. Your quiet camaraderie grew into something akin to a routine. You’d share the same table, absorbed in your respective books, the soft rustle of pages turning creating a rhythm that felt comforting in its simplicity. Occasionally, you’d catch Johan glancing at you, and there would go his unreadable gaze for a moment before returning to his book. That time, you were engrossed in a novel while Johan seemed to be studying Hegel. The silence between you was companionable, feeling like you had carved out your own little world amidst the whispers and movements of the library. But the spell broke when Johan spoke, “May I ask you a favor?” Not that it annoyed you. It actually did quite the opposite. Johan, this guy, asking you a favor? He rarely initiated conversations in the first place! Still, you tried to be calm about it, settling down your book with poise and all. “Of course, what is it?” “I’ve been considering moving to a quieter neighborhood. The place I currently reside in… lacks a certain tranquility.” You tilted your head, “Quieter, huh? You don’t strike me as someone who’d tolerate noise for long.” He gave you a faint but genuine smile. “It’s not the noise itself. It’s the... atmosphere. I’d prefer somewhere where the days feel less hurried.” “I might know a few places. My neighborhood is pretty quiet, actually. There’s a lot of greenery, and the people keep to themselves. It’s the kind of place where you can choose to go weeks without bumping into your neighbors or talk to them to your heart's content.” His eyes lit up very slightly, but that rare glimmer of interest in his face made your heart skip. “That sounds ideal. Do you happen to know of any available apartments?” You hesitated, mind racing. The apartment beside yours had been vacant for months. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was cozy, with a small balcony overlooking the courtyard. The thought of Johan living next door—of sharing more than just library visits—has kept your tongue tied for a while. “A-actually… there’s a place right next to mine.” But hey, at least you were still trying to sound casual about it. “It’s quiet, and the landlord’s a nice guy. I can give you the details if you’re interested.” “That’s very kind of you. If it’s not too much trouble, I’d appreciate it.” “Not at all!” you replied quickly, perhaps too eagerly. “I can show you the place after we leave here if you’d like.” “That would be helpful. Thank you.”

And now, as you go back to the present, you wonder why you’ve been feeling a bit too nostalgic lately, though it doesn’t stay unanswered when you glance at Johan’s calendar.

This day, last year, was the time you started sneaking on his spot at the library to initiate a talk. Reflecting on it now, your stupid tactics will never be something you’ll regret. He’s one of your closest friends now. 

Johan’s friendship isn’t one for grand gestures, but it becomes clear that his acts of care are his way of expressing what he’d prefer not to put into words. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing has appeared on his coffee table. A small vase of daffodils now sits on the windowsill the next time you visit. His dinners are always for two, even when you show up unannounced—and if, for instance, you try to ask him about it, he’d just casually shrug and say, “I just ended up cooking a lot. Eat it while it’s hot.” More, and more, and more. It’s as though Johan is slowly turning his house into your own, too.

The same goes for the stuff you accidentally leave at his place. Your scarf? You’d see it neatly folded on the chair by the door the day after. Feeling a bit too cold during the evening? There, he has a blanket ready before you could even ask. 

One night, you arrive at his house later than usual, steps heavy from a particularly grueling day. The door's unlocked, as it has been when he expects you.

“Johan?” you call, shrugging off your coat.

“In here,” comes his voice from the kitchen.

You follow the sound and find him standing by the stove while stirring a pot. The dim light casts a warm hue over him; his sharp features soften along the way.

He glances at you briefly, offering a small nod. “Long day?”

You lean against the doorway with a tired sigh. “You have no idea.”

Without a word, he turns off the stove and begins ladling soup into a bowl. He sets it on the table, gesturing for you to sit.

He sits across from you, his own bowl untouched. Then there goes his gaze, lingering on you, unintrusive but steady, as though he's reading every line of exhaustion on your face and filing it away.

“You should take a break."

You smiled wryly. “From what? Life?”

“From pushing yourself too hard."

His words hang in the air, simple yet profound. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Johan’s protection of your peace became a natural extension of his care for you. He never pushed you to do anything for him. He never asked for more than you were willing to give. But he shows up. Every day. Quietly. Steadily. 

The warmth of this dinner where Johan casually asks about your day, muses about his, shares the books he had read, makes you chuckle at the tomfooleries of children he has tutored, and more has been consuming you. It doesn’t take long until you finally work up the courage to ask a question that’s been lingering in your mind for quite some time.

 “Why do you do all this for me?”

Johan looks at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you think he might deflect, as he so often does when conversations edge too close to vulnerability. But then, he answers, his voice quieter than usual.

“Because you stay.”

The simplicity of his words struck you. Johan, who has always been careful, always guarded, is telling you more than you realize.

“I stay because I want to."

His gaze doesn’t waver, but you notice the subtle shift in his expression—a faint, almost imperceptible relaxation.

“I know,” he replies, and for the first time, there's a hint of something like certainty in his voice.

With the winter deepening and the night growing colder, the warmth inside Johan’s home never falters. The conversations drift to lighter topics—books you’d read, places you wanted to visit, small dreams you’d never share with anyone else. Johan listens intently, his focus unwavering.

“I think you’d like the mountains,” he says at one point. “Quiet. Peaceful.”

You smile. “You make it sound perfect.”

“Well, it could be.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual. “Don't you think so?”

There's something in his tone—something unspoken, undecipherable, and yet undeniable. You realize something that made your heart ache and swell all at once: Johan isn’t just taking care of you. He's allowing you to take care of him, too, in the only way he knows how: by letting you stay. And, just like what happened just now, his likes and preferences will slip out of his mouth without him noticing from time to time, albeit much of them still projected as something you might like instead.

It's not easy for him, you know. But every bowl of soup, every blanket, every quiet moment shared in his little home is his way of saying what he couldn’t bring himself to say outright.

And for now, that is enough.

Johan’s care remains consistent, though you begin to notice small changes in his interactions with you.

His gaze often lingers a second longer, softening in ways you don’t know how to interpret—maybe it even softens a little too much especially when you’re telling him about your days. And his voice—oh, his voice that has bewitched you since the first time you had heard it in the library—recently it lowers in an almost tender way, his tone more perceptive of what you need even before you realize it yourself. 

Then there goes the gestures. An extra blanket he drapes over your shoulders on particularly cold nights. A cup of tea that spawns on the table whenever he notices your mood falter. A brush of his hand against yours when he steadies you under the weight of too many things. All these moments feel small, insignificant even, and yet they’ve become harder and harder to ignore. 

Maybe it’s a you problem (even though you tried your very best to stop the thoughts, to be fair) but oftentimes you can’t help but ask, has he always been this way?

No way Johan could like you, that much you know. But if we’re talking about you and the things under your sphere, the feelings that you can control, what would you answer if he came one day to ask if you still like him as a friend, or if it has progressed to something more dangerous—what would you tell him, then?

Fortunately, the Christmas season has brought a whirlwind of gatherings—giving you the space that you need from your colleagues. And for the night of Christmas itself, you’ve chosen to attend one with your friends instead of having dinner with him. It’s not that you don’t enjoy his company; you do, perhaps a bit too much, even, but you thought a change of pace would help clear your head.

You never intended to get yourself wasted, but the way you kept thinking of him during the gathering, spacing out, wondering if he managed to cook his own dinner or if he ‘accidentally’ made it again for two. At one point you even considered excusing yourself early just so you could go back home—to him. Oh god, you’re doomed indeed.

Hours later, the cold night air hits you as you stumble back to your apartment, the warmth of good food and too much wine still buzzing in your veins. While fumbling with your keys in the dark, you notice a figure standing at the door next to yours.

Johan.

His posture is impeccable as always, but his face is unreadable, bathed in the soft light of the hallway lamp. His sharp eyes meet yours, flickering briefly to the keys trembling in your hand.

“How long have you been—”

“You’re late.” His voice is rather calm, but there’s a note of something you can’t quite place.

“Merry Christmas, Johan,” you smile softly, the silly intoxicated mind finding his concern oddly amusing. “But oh, wait! Sorry, you told me you don’t celebrate holidays, right? Silly me,” you sway slightly. “Still, I bought you a gift, but I—hic—I left it inside. Maybe you can accompany me inside so y—you could, uh… what was I gonna say again?”

“You’re drunk,” he states the obvious with eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“No, I’m, hehe, not.” Though your keys clatter to the floor as if your body is mocking your denial. “Shit. I don’t have a spare key.” Disappointment so palpable as if the keys falling to the floor renders it unusable.

Johan sighs, bending to retrieve them with effortless grace. Without another word, he steps forward, unlocks your door, and gently guides you inside.

The warmth of your apartment envelops you, and you’re too tipsy to protest as Johan helps you to the couch. He disappears momentarily and returns with a glass of water.

“Drink.” His tone leaves no room for argument. You comply, sipping obediently, though you can’t help but watch him as he hovers nearby, his movements ever careful and deliberate, as though he’s weighing every action. When you finish, he takes the glass from your hands and sets it aside. “You should lie down.”

You nod. But then, Johan doesn’t accompany you to your room. He instead readies himself to leave. Why would he leave? He turns off the lights, assuming you are indeed on your way to your bedroom, and then bids you good night.

No.

The room spins slightly as you try to reach out to him. You fail miserably though, but Johan’s fast reaction steadies you immediately. He picks you up by the arm before you can even fall, “You okay?”

“Don’t leave.”

Johan squints his eyes, his thoughts lurking towards something. “Did something happen at the gathering? Did someone perhaps—”

“No, I—” you stammer because Johan’s proximity seems to have sobered you up. He gently sits your flailing body on the floor. He’s crouching, though his hold on your shoulder didn’t cease. “I just…I just realized something.”

He hums, waiting for you ever so gently to respond.

The same gentleness that pushes you off the edge.

“I like you.”

But the lights are off. You wouldn’t see Johan’s reaction.

The silence stretches painfully, and it doesn’t take long until you feel a pang of regret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond, and you think he might leave. But then he speaks, his voice quiet, almost strained. “You didn’t disappoint me,” he says finally, and you find it strange how that simple—perhaps even empty—clarification plucked out a thorn in your vein. “It’s just that you don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

“I do,” you insist despite the haze in your mind. Your eyes scan everything else but his face above, trying to articulate it in a way he’d believe. “I’ve liked you since we met at the library. I pretended to come across you accidentally just so we could have something to talk about. I—I used to sit there for hours just hoping we’d talk. It kept me awake at night… thinking about you, about the way you look when you read. I thought I was just like that because I wanted to be your friend so bad, but I—” you exhale, ragged, exhausted. “I don’t think it passed even when we became close. There go your habits, and how you’re so kind to me… I can’t deny it any further and pretend I just want to be friends.”

Your words trail off, and the silence thereafter has felt suffocating. Johan remains unmoved, his posture rigid, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside his head.

“Let's talk about it tomorrow…” Johan starts. “When you’re sober.”

“Okay…”

And yet, no one dares to move.

You finally look up after five minutes or so, and there you catch Johan’s gaze lingering on you—not piercing, but steady, contemplative. His hands rest loosely on your shoulders, yet you notice the slight tension in his fingers, the faint clench, and release as though he’s holding something back.

“You’ve been quiet,” you finally say, voice softer than intended, eyes up at him and nothing else.

“So have you,” he replies, and though his tone is even, there’s something in the way his eyes flicker to yours, then away, as if he’s caught in something too raw to name.

There goes the silence again, not because it’s awkward but because something has changed. Your body can sense it—the urge to move just a bit higher so you can reach his face, perhaps cup his cheeks just a bit, and maybe a small kiss on the forehead too…? Your heart flutters like a bird aching to be let out. Your feelings for Johan have been climbing higher than you ever intended tonight. And yet, the way he looks at you now, guarded but searching, makes you wonder if he feels even a fraction of what you do.

“Johan,” you say, voice trembling, “I…”

He looks at you again but in a manner quite different from how he usually reacts whenever you call his name. Still, you don’t let it scare you off. 

“I don’t care if you can’t carry the weight of your past,” you say, the words spilling out like water from a dam. “I just want to be with you, and… maybe—”

It’s just that you don’t get to finish.

Johan leans in fast; you feel the time pacing a bit quicker, perhaps so it could cater to your shock. His hold on your cheek is gentle and controlled, but the way he meets your lips fervently speaks the urgency of it, as though he’s been waiting for this moment longer than he’s willing to admit.

And so when you do more than push him away, your hand tentatively reaching for his arm instead—he deepens it further, his restraint crumbling just enough to let you feel his response to your confession. After all, what Johan lacks in words he always compensates in action. His care has always been consistent and predictable in its subtlety and restraint, thus making his lack of control and patience right now unusual and out of character. But even then, his lips have a careful precision that still feels so him.

Oftentimes you'd wonder how Johan's skin would feel against yours. He barely looks alive so you thought he'd feel cold. But oh how wrong you are. His hand languidly slides to your back, and then he abruptly pulls your body towards him. It's warm, perhaps too much that it overwhelms you. His heart is beating fast, the needed confirmation that this affects him just the same.

Johan’s movements feel as though he himself is unfamiliar with this feeling—as if this is the first time he's had this reaction. Your mind then races with questions. Does this mean he feels the same? Or is this meant to keep me guessing? What happens after this? 

The thoughts melt away when he pulls away, eyes lidded, lips puffed. “Johan, what—”

Only to kiss you harder again. Perhaps he did because he felt your attention drifting away from him. It’s as if to say you wanted this to happen, so relish it without thinking about anything else. This sudden assertion after keeping himself subtle is doing something in your brain.

Johan seems to take pleasure in your reactions, too—the way you pant as your lips pressed together, your hands clinging onto the waves of his hair, and when you slip out a little moan because his hands slide into your shirt to feel the heat of your back, you feel him smile. Then he becomes more passionate. More desperate. More longing. And in this moment, Johan feels more reachable, more understandable.

Perhaps his lack of usual poise also says a lot about how he’s still doing everything in his power right now to hold back, and he’s asking you to cooperate.

Johan pulls back for good in a rather slow, deliberate manner, just in sync with your panting breaths. His forehead brushes lightly against yours as he stays close. 

“I told you, hadn’t I?” His eyes, now open but still lidded, seemingly search your face for something—fear? Regret? Understanding? What is it? “We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re sober. You’re not listening to me.”

You open your mouth to say something but his fingertip presses gently to your lips.

“Don’t,” he whispers, his voice softer, reminding you of his restraint. “Not yet.”

But I just want to say that I liked it and I want more.

“Please,” he adds as if he just read your mind.

What a sight to see.

The way his face looks right now makes you feel his inner turmoil. The weight of his past he claims a deplorable being like him will not be willing to carry is making him more reluctant to let himself have this—to have you.

He needs time, doesn’t he? And so you finally nod, temporarily ceasing the itch to have your questions answered.

Johan sighs in relief, sounding genuinely tired as if this night has taken all of his energy and willpower. He doesn’t forget to usher you up, and when he realizes you’re not wobbling that much anymore, he nods, taps your cheeks, kisses your forehead, and repeats his good night.

As soon as the door closes, you slowly walk to your room. Eyes wide, fingertips touching your sore lips, and you plopped on the bed unceremoniously. 

For now, in the quiet of your apartment, with the taste of him still lingering on your lips, at least you can now assure yourself that for the first time since you’ve known each other, he finally let himself be vulnerable, even for a moment. And that is more than you ever could have asked for.

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