#don’t forget to decode the message!!

[deltasaviorthemaker]

Als'w xlex mr xli amrhsa?

[sidemari]

• Bun in the oven •

Some texts about you telling them that you’re pregnant and some headcanons about how they’re during the pregnancy. 

Characters included: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, Keegan P. Russ, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick, König, Nikto and Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!Reader 

TW: Mild angst, mentions of abortion and insecurities, implied smut. But everything works out in the end. 

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

You call him from the corner of the room, that nervous smile on your face. Soap knows right away that something big is coming — he feels it, like he senses danger on the field… But this time, it’s something different. Something good.

“Johnny… Do you remember the night you came back home after being away for so long due to that mission?” You tested the waters by avoiding telling the truth right away.

“Yeah… How could I forget that night?” He smiled warmly, his mind flashing with the images of that day. “What about it, hon?” 

“Well… You know we got carried away and…”

“And…?”

“We’re having a baby.” You finally share your secret. 

He blinks. Once. Twice. His usual playful smile disappears for a second, replaced by a stunned look, as if he’s trying to decode what he’s just heard.

“Are… are you serious?” You nod, and he… explodes with joy. He literally lifts you into the air with a surprised cry, almost laughing and crying at the same time.

“Oh my God! We’re going to be parents?! Aye, fuck, baby, is this really real?”

He kisses your forehead, then your belly, even though it hasn’t even changed yet. He murmurs a bunch of sweet things in that warm accent — promises, plans, dreams. And then he whispers very softly, just for you to hear:

“I swear I will be the best father in the world… to our baby. And the best man to you. Always.”

When the morning sickness starts, he becomes your personal bodyguard against any suspicious smells: “What the hell is that in the air?! It smells like poison, honey. Close that window!”

He researches everything about pregnancy and becomes the most emotional “expert” on the planet. He sends you messages like: “Did you know that the baby already has little fingers today? LITTLE FINGERS, BABY!”

He talks to your belly every day, telling them about his missions, his friends on the team, and asking if the baby prefers soccer or rugby: “If you kick now, it’ll be rugby, okay?”

He starts to become obsessed with photos. He takes a thousand selfies with you and your belly, even while you’re sleeping. 

He refuses to let you carry anything, literally: “Not even the bag. Not even the remote. Let me carry it, honey.”

He massages your feet every night, and even develops a ‘military relaxation technique’ just so you can sleep better.

He has a hospital bag ready with 30 unnecessary things, like three types of chocolate, a teddy bear, and a mini speaker to play Scottish music for the baby.

He’s always reminding you how beautiful you are, even when you feel uncomfortable and insecure. “No matter how big your belly is, you’ve always been the love of my life, and now you’re carrying our little miracle. And no, I don’t give a single fuck about those stretchmarks. You’re nurturing a life inside your womb and your body is adapting itself because of it. I still think you look damn hot and I’m forever thankful that those pregnancy hormones shifted you into a little insatiable thing.”

He gets touchy-feely, sometimes hugging you in the middle of the night just to say thank you. 

He makes up nicknames for the baby while he’s still in the womb, like “Little Soap”. 

He gets really emotional during the first ultrasound. He holds your hand tightly and tries not to cry… but fails miserably.

He makes special playlists with soft Scottish music, movie soundtracks and even records himself talking so the baby can hear at night.

He buys miniature army clothes, but also absurdly cute ones, like animal costumes, because “he needs to have style in the nursery”.

One day he shows up with a crib set up in the middle of the living room just because “he wanted to see if it would look nice in natural light”.

He learns to cook your favorite foods (even if it turns out to be a disaster) just so you can eat what you want safely.

He keeps notes with the dates of the first times: first kick, first time their heartbeat was heard, first photo of your belly. He’s creating a secret “dossier” of love.

He swears he’s going to be the most present father in the world. No matter how much life changes, he will always be there for you two. 

It was a quiet night at home. The sky was clear, with a million stars shining through the open window. You were sitting on the couch, with a cup of hot tea in your hands, and Soap was lying next to you, with his head on your lap, apparently tired from the intense mission of the day. The conversation was calm, but you knew it was time to tell him the news. He was so focused on caressing your stomach as you played with his hair, that he didn't notice how nervous you were.

"Did you know you're going to be the best dad in the world?" You said softly, feeling your heart race. Soap looked at you with a crooked smile, his eyes shining with evident affection.

"I have no doubt about that, love. But what do you mean, best dad? If I'm not, who will be, huh?" You laughed, but you were feeling overflowing with happiness. Suddenly, the moment was there, and it was as if time had slowed down just so he could hear your words.

"Well… I can't say who's going to be the best father, but you're the best for me, and… Our daughter is going to be very lucky." There was a pause. Soap stood up quickly, looking at you, confused, as if he hadn't quite understood. His eyes were curious, but his smile stubbornly wouldn't leave his face. 

"Wait… What?" He asked, his eyes shining even brighter. You laughed, feeling the heat rise to your face. 

"I… we're expecting a little girl." Soap's eyes widened for a moment and he was silent, processing the information. When it finally sunk in, he leaned forward, with a dazzling smile.

"A little girl?" he repeated, his voice full of disbelief. 

"Yes, a little girl," You said, your heart almost jumping out of your chest. "You're going to be the father of a little girl." And then, he simply laughed. A genuine, happy laugh, one of those laughs that seemed so honest that you felt your soul warm. He stood up from the couch, holding your hands tightly before he jumped close to you, not caring about the teacup that almost fell to the floor.

"Are you sure about this? A real little girl?" He asked again, his eyes shining with happiness.

You laughed then, finally, the feeling of nervousness disappearing. He was more excited than ever, and his happiness was contagious.

"I'm sure!" You answered, laughing along with him, the two of you hugging each other tightly. "We're going to have a daughter, Soap." He ran his hand over your belly, still not fully believing it, but with a sparkle in his eyes that didn't fade. 

"I promise that I'm going to be the best dad in the world. It's going to be a pleasure to watch our little girl grow up." You leaned back against the couch, feeling your heart beat faster. 

"I know you will." And as he continued to rub your belly, smiling like a fool and in that moment, you were more certain than ever that he was the kind of father who would do anything for her. 

Keegan P. Russ 

You hadn’t planned to tell him like this. You wanted something elaborate, symbolic… maybe a candlelit dinner, a note written in your nervous handwriting. But there, sitting on the couch, with his hand resting on your thigh and his eyes intently watching a movie, you felt the right moment — a comfortable, intimate silence, just the two of you.

“Keegan…” You began, your voice low, almost as if you were keeping a precious secret between your lips. He turned his face to you right away. He always did that — when you spoke, he listened. With his eyes, with his whole body. It was a habit of his to offer you his total presence.

“Is something wrong?” He asked immediately, already with that protective look that always came when you hesitated.

“No… it’s just...” You took his hand and brought it to your belly, as if that would be enough. Maybe it was. For a moment, he didn’t understand. He looked back at your face, at your eyes filled with unshed tears, at his hand under your still flat stomach, but which held a secret growing in silence.

“Are you...?” He didn’t finish the question, but his eyes said it all. You nodded, with a shy, uncertain, but hopeful smile. The air between you changed. He didn’t say anything for a second too long — but you saw it. His shoulders relaxed as if he had been waiting for this news without knowing. His eyes watered, and his mouth opened slowly, a whisper coming out between his lips:

“Are we becoming a family...?” The way he hugged you that night was different. It was a protective, reverent grip. As if you were made of porcelain. As if the most important miracle of his life was inside you — and it was.

The focused, meticulous soldier appeared in a new form: in nutrition spreadsheets, reminders on his phone with alarms for his snacks, vitamins, and appointments. He went with you to all of them—even when he was exhausted, even when he had just returned from a mission the day before. He sat next to you, held your hand, and listened intently to every word the obstetrician said.

Keegan was the type of person who didn’t say much, but showed it all through his actions. He learned to cook healthy meals even though he didn’t know how to cut a tomato properly at first. He would run his hands over his belly before bed every night, with a caress that felt like a silent prayer.

And when the symptoms got tough — the nausea, the aches, the bloating — Keegan didn’t run away. He showed up with tea (and if you refused to drink them, he’d force you to, saying it was for the good of the baby you were nurturing), warm blankets, and concerned eyes. He sat on the floor beside your bed when you didn’t want to talk. He was just there and it was enough. 

Sometimes, during the night, he would wake up just to check if you were still sleeping well. He would run his hand over your forehead, carefully adjusting your position, as if he could protect you even from nightmares.

Keegan, during your pregnancy, was as firm as steel and as gentle as a cozy blanket. He became your safe haven, your silent and constant guardian. He slept with his hand on your belly, talked to the baby when he thought you couldn’t hear, promised he would be there, always, that he would take care of you, that no one would ever hurt you both. 

You found him in the kitchen, cooking your latest craving: berry pie.

“Baby,” You called, leaning against the door frame. He looked up immediately, a small smile forming when he saw you there.

You walked over to him slowly, your heart racing, and pulled out the small pair of blue booties you had bought that morning.

“For when he gets here.” You said, placing the booties in his hands. A cheesy way to reveal the gender of your baby, yes, but those booties were just too cute for you to ignore. 

Keegan frowned, confused at first — until understanding dawned on him. He blinked a few times, in disbelief.

“A little boy?” He asked, almost in a choked whisper.

You nodded with an excited smile. He laughed softly, shaking his head as if he was still processing it. Then he pulled you slowly closer, resting his forehead against yours before spinning you around slowly and carefully to not make you nauseous.

“My little boy… Our little boy!” He murmured, his voice cracking with joy.

When the time arrives, Keegan is incredibly calm on the outside, but inside he is a whirlwind of emotions. He has never been so scared and so happy at the same time. He held your hand through every contraction, whispering “You can do it,” “I’m here,” “It’s going to be okay” like a mantra — as if his voice could protect you from the pain. When he heard the baby cry for the first time, his eyes filled with tears instantly. He tried to hide it, but the emotion overflowed in his eyes and in the way he smiled at you and when he held his son for the first time. He was completely mesmerized: his big fingers touched the little body with the greatest delicacy in the world, as if he was afraid of hurting his own son. 

Keegan refuses to sleep while you rest. He sits in an armchair with the baby on his lap, just observing every little detail of the newborn. When the medical team came back and found him with the baby sleeping on his chest, and you sleeping in bed, they said it looked like a scene from a movie. 

He talks to the baby even though he knows he doesn't understand: "You have your mother's eyes... And you'll be strong like her too." 

Takes pictures of the tiny feet, of the baby grabbing your finger, of you breastfeeding him, bathing him and sleeping with him and keeps them all in a folder that only he has access to.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

You realized something was wrong when you woke up with an upset stomach for two days in a row — and without having eaten anything heavy. The smell of the breakfast you loved started to make you nauseous… and that was the first warning sign. Kyle even jokingly commented: “Are you abandoning me in our sacred coffee ritual?” — and you forced a smile, pretending you weren’t worried. A few days later, you realized your period was late. A week. Then ten days. And then fifteen. And then, sweet fear hit deep in your chest.

You bought the test by yourself, on a quick trip to the pharmacy, and hid it in your purse as if it were a state secret. On a cold, slow morning, you took the test while Kyle was still sleeping. The silence in the bathroom was almost deafening as you waited the five minutes that the package indicated. Two lines. Two lines that changed everything. You stood still for long minutes, in the same position, holding the test with shaking hands and teary eyes. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. You did both. The first thing you thought was: "How am I going to tell him?" — and right after: "Will he want this with me?" 

You tried to plan a cute way to tell him. A special dinner, a little box with the test and a note. But anxiety got the best of you. You told him in a simple way, on a normal afternoon, when it was just the two of you, sitting together. He noticed something different about you, and when you shared the secret you were carrying alone, time seemed to stop.

He was sitting on the couch, his eyes softly focused on you as you walked slowly toward him, your hands clasped in front of you, as if trying to contain your racing heart. He could tell right away — you were nervous.

“Are you okay, love?” He asked, his voice low, full of affection.

You nodded, but your throat was dry. You took a deep breath, then walked over and sat down next to him. His hand came naturally to yours, his warm, firm fingers wrapping around yours as if to say ‘I’m here, talk to me.’

“Kyle…” Your gaze met his, and there was so much tenderness there it almost hurt. “I’m pregnant.” For a moment, the world seemed suspended. His smile froze mid-smile, his eyes wide with surprise. You saw the emotion building there — first confusion, then a wet gleam in his eyes, as if he’d just heard something sacred.

“Are you… pregnant?” He repeated in a whisper, as if he was afraid to break the moment.

You nodded, with a small smile. His answer came in the form of a soft, almost breathless laugh, before he pulled you into a hug full of warmth and reverence. He held you as if you were made of glass, but at the same time with such intensity that your heart seemed to fit into his.

“We’re going to have a baby… Fuck’s sake!, that’s so amazing...” He whispered against your neck, as if he still couldn’t believe it. 

“Kyle… No swearing around the baby.”

“Copy that.” He smiled. “I'll be here. Every step, every beat of this little heart… I want to live it all with you.” After that, he placed his hand lovingly on your lower belly, as if he could already feel the new life you had started together. And in that moment, between soft smiles and slow kisses, the whole world seemed to fit between his arms.

He became obsessed with learning everything: he read medical articles, downloaded three different pregnancy apps, and asked the internet if certain strange food cravings were normal. 

He created a ritual: every night, he would lie with his head on her belly and whisper stories, just to “familiarize the baby with his father’s voice.” He would always say proudly: “Our baby will be born hearing the most beautiful accent in the world, honey.” 

He was so protective, but in a sweet way —  accompanying you to every appointment, carrying healthy snacks in his bag, and talking to doctors like you were a secret agent on a mission. 

When your belly started to grow, he bought funny “Loading… Baby 50%” T-shirts and forced you to wear them just to see your grumpy little face. No need to tell him they look awful, he’s already taking pictures of you. 

One day, he found you crying watching a random video of a stray dog being adopted and he just sat down with you, hugging you tightly, and getting emotional too, without even knowing why. 

He insisted on putting the crib together with his own hands. He made several mistakes, got his fingers stuck, and cursed the manual — but in the end, the crib was perfect.

When the contractions started, he went into military mode in 0.1 seconds. He grabbed the hospital bag, checked the checklist, warned everyone and took you to the hospital as if he was on a mission.

During the birth, he held your hand the whole time, letting you crush his fingers without complaining as he kept murmuring something along the lines of “Breathe with me. I’m with you.”

When the baby was born and cried for the first time, he cried too — the kind of silent, emotional cry that comes from deep in the chest.

He was paralyzed for a few seconds when he saw the baby in his arms, with teary eyes, whispering: “We did it. Look… we did it.”

You waited to find out the baby’s sex until the birth. It was a huge shock when the obstetrician said that a little boy had been born: “Hell yeah!”, he celebrated. “My little boy,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Our son...”

König

He finally returned from that mission that seemed to have no end. 

You call him by name with that soft voice that makes him feel weak to his knees. He notices something in your tone. The blue eyes fixed on yours with attention… and a hint of anxiety. “Was ist passiert, mein Schatz?” (“What happened, my love?”)

You take a deep breath, smiling with a nervousness that he immediately picks up on — and you finally say three words that change everything: 

“I am pregnant.” For a moment, he freezes. Not with rejection. Not with anger. But as if the world had gone silent. His eyes widen slightly, he takes a step back as if he’s been shocked, only to then approach you again with visible hesitation in his hands. The mask covers half of his reaction, but his eyes say it all. Pure vulnerability. The doubt of whether he deserves this. The desire to believe he still deserves to be happy. 

“Is it… mine?” He asks, his voice lower than ever.

“Of course it is, König!” 

When you say that — of course he knew it was his — König lets out a shaky sigh and puts his hands on his head, walking a few steps as if he doesn’t know what to do with his own body. Then he stops and he comes back to you. He kneels and he hugs your still-flat belly, pressing it against his face with an almost religious reverence.

“Mein Gott (My god)… you gave me a new life.” He murmurs, his voice hoarse and muffled.

Then he looks down at you, with teary eyes — the intimidating giant now looking like a lost, happy boy — and says something you would never forget:

“I never thought I would have something so precious. I will take care of you. The both of you. Even if the world falls apart… you will be safe.” 

In the first few months, König is on constant alert. Every moment of nausea, every different expression on your face, makes him stop everything to check if you are okay. 

He obsessively researches pregnancy in silence, on his cell phone, reading scientific articles, forums, and even mothers' groups — all in secret, with his eyes fixed on the screen as if he were studying military tactics. 

He tries to cook for you (with… variable results), just because he read that certain foods help with morning sickness. 

When your belly starts to grow, König starts talking to you when he thinks you are sleeping. He lies down next to you, his head resting gently on your belly, murmuring in German with a sweetness that seems unthinkable for such a huge man. "Dein Vater liebt dich sehr, mein kleines Wunder..." ("Your father loves you very much, my little miracle...") 

He starts to accompany you to every medical appointment as if they were a mission, paying attention to every comment from the doctors and nurses as if his life depended on it. 

When your belly is already heavy and your steps are slower, König starts carrying you to any place that involves stairs. Literally. He doesn't even ask. He just picks you up with the greatest care in the world, as if you were made of glass. 

When you start having false contractions, he goes into a state of absolute focus—the hospital bag has been packed for weeks, the routes have been planned, the emergency numbers are posted on the fridge. But despite this, he is always kind, always calm with you, even though he is seething with nerves inside.

He has internal crises of insecurity, but he never burdens you with them. He writes everything down in a hidden notebook, as a way of letting off steam. 

You find him on the balcony, the sky tinged with gold by the sunset. König’s back is turned, still, silent, as he usually does when he’s thinking too much. His large hands are resting on the railing, his broad body almost blocking the light. He turns when he hears your footsteps, and his soft gaze immediately lands on your belly with an almost reverent affection.

You smile, and he responds with that shy little smile at the corner of his mouth, his eyes still seeming to search for more signs that you’re okay.

“What did the doctor say?” He asks in a low voice, waiting for each word as if they were sacred.

You walk towards him, slowly, feeling your heart beat faster — not from nervousness, but from excitement. Then you take one of his hands and guide it to your belly.

“She’s fine,” You begin, looking into his eyes. “And yes... I said she.”

König’s eyes blink, as if it took him a second to process.

“She...?” He whispers, almost in disbelief. You nod, smiling even wider.

“We’re having a little girl.” His breath catches for a moment. His blue eyes — usually so restrained, so trained not to show too much — shine with immediate moisture. He kneels, letting his forehead touch yours while his hands wrap around your belly with a delicacy that doesn’t match its size.

You run your fingers through his hair, feeling him snuggle closer, his arms around your waist as if he wanted to protect the two of you from the entire world.

“She’s already so loved, König. By me… and by you.”

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready. But I’ll give everything. Everything. For both of you.”

“You’re already everything she needs. And everything I need too.” 

Nikto

The truth is that you found out you were carrying his child only in the third month of pregnancy. The missions, your dangerous job, the obligations, plans and goals, your own complex relationship with Nikto… all of this was too much for you to handle. The days became weeks and the weeks became months as you just ignored the symptoms, thinking that the nausea and exhaustion would pass. But they remained very present, and your suspicion only increased.

You took a pregnancy test, which came back positive. And to be sure, you also took a blood test some days after and then, an ultrasound, which finally revealed the baby's gender: a little boy was coming into the world. You did all this without saying a word to Nikto, fearing that he would hate the news. You weren't stupid, you knew he would soon realize something was out of place. Your body was changing, your symptoms were still present, and you even avoided exposing yourself to any kind of risk, as much as possible, unlike before.

He suspected the possible reason why this was happening, but he never forced you to admit anything. Not until you were ready.

When you told him the news, at first he reacted with silence and a hard look, trying to process the information. He’s not the type to show emotion easily, so you thought he was angry or indifferent… But inside, he would be conflicted. Part of him would feel vulnerable — the idea of ​​having created a new life would hit him harder than he expected. Another part would be on edge, worried for your safety and that of the baby, since his world is too violent for something so innocent.

But he wouldn’t shy away from responsibility. He just wouldn’t know how to show he cares in the traditional way. You’d see him more protective, more present, but also more silent. His love would be shown in actions, not words.

The base was silent that night—just the hum of the generators and the occasional sound of boots echoing in the hallway. He was sitting at the table, cleaning his weapon with the meticulous precision of always, his mask pushed up to his forehead, revealing those hard eyes… but that always softened when they landed on you. You walked in slowly, your fingers intertwined in front of you, your heart beating fast.

He noticed it instantly. He dropped the metal piece on the table and watched you silently. Not like a soldier, but like a man. Your man.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, standing up immediately, his tone low but attentive.

You shook your head, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“It’s not that. But… I need to tell you something. And it’s important.”

His eyes narrowed. He crossed his arms, his body firm as steel, but his gaze… almost nervous.

“I’m pregnant, Nikto.”

The silence that followed was as thick as the darkness outside. He didn’t answer. He just stood there, motionless, as if time had frozen. What did you expect? A scream? A sigh? A “how did that happen?”?

None of that came.

He walked towards you, slowly, as if he were stepping on unknown land. He stopped so close that you could feel the heat of his body. His gloved hand rose to your face — it hesitated in the air for a second — and then landed with a delicacy that no one would ever imagine that man was capable of.

“My son?” He murmured, his voice so low that it seemed like a secret between you and the universe.

Son… And he even had guessed the baby gender right.

You nodded, tears in your eyes, but smiling.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was something there. It wasn’t fear. Or anger. It was… instinct. A raw kind of love — unconditional, protective.

"How do you…" You hugged him, and that took him by surprise. It took Nikto a few seconds to hug you back, but when he did, he stroked your hair with affection. "How do you know it's a boy?"

"Is it?"

"I mean… yeah."

"Perhaps it was just my intuition." He kissed the top of your head, wanting to protect you from the world.

“You will not leave my sight.” His voice had returned to its firm tone. “I will take care of you both. From now on.” And then, for the first time since you met him, Nikto knelt down, making himself vulnerable before you. Lifting your shirt, he pressed his lips to your slightly swollen belly, so gently that it barely seemed real. But it was. It was his promise. No pretty words. Just presence. Just surrender.

Nikto was already a controlling person by nature, but from the moment he found out about your pregnancy, he became a constant shadow by your side. He checks safe routes before you go out, monitors the environment where you sleep, and leaves discreet trackers on everything you wear “just in case.” He doesn’t say, “I’m afraid something will happen,” he just acts—as if he could take on the whole world for you and the baby.

He’s not the type to say, “You look so beautiful carrying my son” but out of nowhere you find a soft blanket on the couch, hot tea on the table, or maternity clothes in your size neatly folded on the bed. When you ask him if that was his doing, he just answers curtly, “Maybe.” But if you insist, he might say, “I like to see you comfortable.” (And he looks down, because that was the most vulnerability he could show that day.)

If you’re lying down and you let out a whimper of pain or discomfort, within seconds he’ll be there, kneeling beside the bed, pressing his hands firmly against your back. He never comments anything, he just keeps going until he feels you’ve relaxed. When you say a weak “thank you” he’ll give you a quick nod and maybe — just maybe — press a kiss against your forehead before leaving the room.

At night, when you are dozing on the couch or in bed, he will slowly come over and, if he is comfortable doing so, he will rub your belly while speaking to the baby in Russian. They are short, almost military phrases, but sweet in his own way: "Your mother is stronger than anyone. You will get this from her." Or even: "You will not know war. I swear."

Even with all his confidence, he sometimes stays silent for long periods, staring at you from afar. When you ask him, he ends up saying something like: “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this. I only know how to fight.” It’s at this moment that you see his most human side. He’s not afraid of war, but he is afraid of failing you. And when you hold his hand and tell him he’s already doing more than enough, he doesn’t respond. He just squeezes your hand tightly — and doesn’t let go.

Simon “Ghost” Riley 

Hot and intense nights became common when the pressure of the world became great enough to suffocate you both.

You sought refuge in sex, night after night indulging your most primitive and sinful desires as a relatively effective, but twisted, way of enduring the horrendous reality of serving the country.

Even though you knew that being careful was relatively far from being part of your routine, you felt the world fall apart when the first symptoms began.

Nausea, fatigue and insecurity had become part of your essence and the fear of the future permeated your soul.

You tried to hide your pregnancy for as long as possible, not wanting to tell Simon, much less your team members.

Bringing an innocent life into the hell you lived was a senseless act. Then why did you feel so much love for someone who hadn't even been born yet?

You were almost four months pregnant when, during a mission, you fainted for no apparent reason. You weren't taking care of yourself enough — eating little, sleeping little and keeping so many secrets to yourself... It came as no surprise to anyone when your body couldn't handle all of that.

"Stay with me... Hey! She needs medical help!" Ghost shouted, looking around desperately, protecting your body as if you were the most fragile thing in the world at that moment.

Your consciousness slowly returned, and you realized that you were being carried by him to a safer place.

"I'm sorry." You stammered, feeling guilty for having interrupted the gathering of such important information.

"Don't apologize. I've never seen you so pale and weak like this, not even on worse missions." You were finally in a calmer place, still alone with him, and before other people entered the room to check on you, you decided it was time to tell him the truth.

"Simon, I..." You hesitated, wondering for a moment if being honest with him was really what you wanted.

"You...?" He encouraged you, squeezing your thigh affectionately, as usual.

"I... I'm pregnant." His eyes widened, and his grip on your thigh tightened, almost hurting you.

"What...?" He mumbled to himself, slowly fitting the pieces of the puzzle together and everything made sense — your extreme sensitivity to the tastes and smells that you usually liked, your endless naps, your hurried and unannounced trips to the bathroom, your lack of complaints about cramps, almost as if you hadn't had your period that month... It all made sense, and his head almost exploded.

"How did I not notice?" He whispered, pulling you close, hugging you tightly as if he wanted to protect you from all the evil in the world. "How far along are you?"

"Almost four months." You mumbled against his chest as he stroked your hair lovingly. "I think it was on your birthday..." 

That night... That fateful night.

"How are you feeling about this?"

"I... I don't know what to think..." Your hands involuntarily went down your body, caressing the slightly swollen belly due to the life that was developing there. "But I love them so much already..."

He smiled against your hair, hugging you tighter, a genuine happiness slowly forming inside his heart.

"I'm scared, Si." You admitted. "I'm scared of bringing them into this world only to suffer and see horrible things like the two of us."

"Hey, don't say that. Even in hell I found you. I found someone worth fighting for and waking up to everyday. Life isn't all bad, you taught me that yourself." You didn't answer, but he understood what you meant.

"Regardless of your decision — whether you’re keeping them or not — I will support you and stay by your side. Until my last breath." And he kissed the top of your head.

You couldn't muster the courage to abort that life. They were the fruit of the love between you and Simon and they were the best thing you had.

So you decided to keep it, to face the consequences of your acts, to carry the responsibility of bringing a life into this world. 

Months passed without you wanting to know the baby's sex, until Simon convinced you to investigate it.

"Guess." You murmured against his lips, your hands cupping his cheeks.

"Hmm, I have a feeling it's a girl." He secretly longed for one. You guided his hand so he could feel the baby moving, kicking you weakly every now and then.

"It's a girl! We're having a little girl, Si!" His heart fluttered with joy.

"Bloody hell, love... Fuck, I love her so much already. I can't wait to finally meet her."

He has a habit of murmuring sweet nothings your swollen stomach as his fingertips caresses the skin of your belly.

He doesn't let you lift a finger to do almost anything and he even asked captain Price not to allow you to leave the base for any more missions. He couldn't bait to lose both of you.

He helps you with your craving and pregnancy pains —  his massages are divine and melt away any tension you may be feeling.

Close to delivery, when you can no longer bear the weight of your very own stomach, he holds your belly gently with both hands, slowly freeing you from the weight of your little girl for a few seconds — seconds that relieve you absurdly.

Actually cries when he sees his baby for the first time — she's just so tiny, all wrapped around a blanket and her baby clothes, her foot is barely the size of his thumb and she's a little carbon copy of him in appearance. He's utterly glad you decided to keep her over five months ago. He couldn't imagine a world where you three didn't exist anymore.

He is completely disarmed by his daughter. He can face any enemy without hesitation, but if she cries in the morning or asks for something with that look in her eyes, he simply melts.

Protection is his second name. He checks locks, cameras, and sleeps lightly, as if he was still in the field. But the truth is that he just wants to make sure that nothing will hurt the two people he loves most in the world.

As your husband (fucking finally, right?), Simon is silent… but constant. He doesn't need big words; he shows it with actions. Coffee ready, blanket pulled up in the middle of the night, arm around waist without saying anything. He is simply perfect.

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ camisado

"can't take the kid from the fight, take the fight from the kid, sit back, relax, sit back, relapse again"

Part 1 | [Part 2]

cw: GN!reader. Pure angst for this one baby, literally zero comfort (I'll make it up to you in pt 2 xx). Talks of addiction, taking drugs, anxiety + panic attacks and withdrawl symptoms. (pls let me know if i missed something!!!). Both reader and Spencer sort of cannot communicate and are not slaying but they mean well a/n: this started as just a character study but I kinda fell into the deep end and got quite caught up in it so its inadvertantly a LOT more than just a character study, sand so I divided it up into something more cohesive. w/c: 5.4k

It’s impossible to prove a hypothesis.

You can run an experiment a thousand times, collect a thousand successful results, only to watch the 1001st experiment fail. Empirical data only takes you so far, giving the illusion of certainty. Until it doesn't.

Science deals in probabilities, assumptions – not guarantees. Spencer Reid knows this better than most.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when he started thinking of his addiction like a science experiment.

Maybe it was easier that way. A coping mechanism – reduction as self-defence. He could lessen the weight of it, condense something so vast and devastating into variables and charts and numbers in a feeble attempt to soften the struth. An attempt to strip it of its emotional weight and file it away under “manageable.” As if the cravings could be measured or quantified. Understood.

He frames the parameters in his mind with clinical precision. Independent variable: the drug. Dependent variable: his behavior. Control group: the version of himself from months ago, when the spiral hadn’t yet begun. Before the late nights. Before the secrets. Before the lies.

Addiction is just a problem like any other. A system which he can study, decode and master.

He creates his hypothesis: he can control it. He can use one more time, and still be fine. Each addition to his hypothesis only strengthens his willpower:

If I time it right, no one will notice. If I maintain structure, I won’t lose control. If I’m careful, my life will reman intact.

But addition doesn’t care for logic, nor does it follow the rules of scientific inquiry. It doesn’t operate within a sterile lab, patiently waiting to be measured.

There are no constants. No peer-reviewed journals to validate his pain or explain it away. There’s only the truth: the shaking in his hands, the crawling of his skin, the nausea that comes in waves, the sleepless nights that stretch into oblivion. Only the raw data of his descent: chaotic, unquantifiable and unforgiving.

The data never replicates, and the experiment keeps failing.

Again. And again. And again.

The variables start to mutate. The outcome blurs. The method falls away.

Still, he clings to the process. Records the collapse like data points, hoping objectivity will save him.

Day 6: Forgets to eat.

Day 9: Lies to Garcia about the bags under his eyes.

Day 12: The first time he brings it into the building. Doesn’t use. Just wants to know its there.

Day 16: Snaps at Prentiss mid-briefing. Doesn’t apologize.

Day 19: Blanks on a case. Morgan has to cover for him.

Day 22: Tells you it’s “just anxiety.”

Day 25: Uses before a profile. Feels sharper. Lies to himself and says it helps.

Day 28: Uses again. No excuse this time.

By now, he knows he can’t control it.

Fine. He can create a new hypothesis.

Compartmentalization. He tells himself he can seal the chaos in a box, keep the infection contained. Let the rest of his life remain untouched.

His work. His friends. You.

Especially you.

He tells himself that love and addiction can coexist, as long as they don’t overlap. As long as the two worlds remain separate. He can maintain the boundaries.

But love isn’t a constant either.

And addiction… it leaks. It slips through the cracks to taint everything it touches.

He forgets to reply to your messages. Forgets what day it is. Forgets to tune in when you speak.

He tells himself he’s tired. You tell him you’re worried. He smiles. Lies. Makes promises. You both watch as love falls into the contamination zone, becomes tangled in the variables he can’t control.

Watch as it starts to fail.

It starts like most mornings.

Spencer wakes to sunlight bleeding in through the blinds. Amber-toned light, catching dust motes in midair – it makes the room look almost serene. The sun streaks across the hardwood, illuminating coffee stains and the faded outline of where a rug used to be. Gentle, unassuming. The morning is pretending like nothing is wrong.

Outside, early traffic hums. A low, steady drone overlayed with birdsong and the sharp, impatient honk of a horn. Somewhere inside the apartment, a faucet drips in an uneven rhythm. He thinks of it like an erratic metronome, counting down time he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

He shivers. The sheets are tangled low around his legs – his doing, no doubt. He’s been tossing again. Restless, even in sleep. Maybe even more so in sleep. Dreams come with sharp edges now. Inescapable.

Your leg is resting lightly over his calf. Casual. Trusting. As if your body still believes in him, even if your mind has started to doubt.

You stir beside him, just a stretch. Your fingers graze his hand in a featherlight gesture, asking a question without a voice. He curls away in response. Rolls onto his side. Pretends to be asleep.

You don’t press. You never do. Not anymore.

You just rise, silent and soft, padding across the cool floor toward the bathroom. There’s the familiar clink of your toothbrush, a muffled yawn, the gentle hum when you finish. He used to join you for this. Brushing teeth side by side, heads bowed under the mirror light, elbows bumping and smiles shared. He always thought that was one of the most intimate things a couple could do – a quiet, unspoken routine shared between two people.

Today, he just stays in bed, weighted by guilt. Anchored to the mattress, hoping it’ll keep him from drifting. The drug is still in his system, softening the world and smoothing the edges that keep cutting him open.

You move to the kitchen next. Cupboards creak and mugs clink. The coffee machine whirs, beginning its little dance. The scent of coffee reaches him moments later. Overly sweet – his favorite. You always remember. He never asks.

He pushes himself upright, legs over the edge of the bed and feet meeting the cold floorboards. He imagines walking into the kitchen with you. Imagines wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder the way he used to. Imagines you leaning into him, whispering a song under your breath.

Instead, he stays where he is. Elbows on knees, head in hands. The light seems colder now that he’s facing it directly. Less gold, more white-blue. Less morning, more mourning.

He strains to hear you. The soft thud of your footsteps, the sound of cups and cabinets, your soft breath. The peaceful repetition of a ritual he used to be a part of, but now avoids and observes from afar.

Spencer wishes you would hate him. It would make things simpler. Cleaner. He wishes you’d scream, or cry, or slam the door and tell him to go to hell. Wishes you’d throw a mug just to watch it shatter.

But you don’t. You never do. You just remain; quiet and present.

Hopeful, maybe. Or resigned.

Last night had been bad.

The tremors came again, starting in his fingers and crawling up his hands and arms like static. He blamed the case. Said he felt “off.” The lie came so easily, as they all did lately. He crawled into bed, trying not to vomit or shake the mattress.

You didn’t say a word. You left a glass of water o the nightstand. Crawled in beside him. Pressed a kiss to his shoulder. The gesture broke him a little more.

He could hear the unspoken questions, the palpable worry in your body despite you saying nothing.

But what help can you offer someone who won’t accept it? How can you save a man who insists he isn’t struggling?

His mind feels quiet now, though. Usually spinning in overlapping questions and unrelenting memory, it’s finally still. False peace. A chemical silence.

He tells himself that his planned retreat is love. Letting you go before he destroys you completely.

He’s rehearsed it in his mind like a script. Over and over. A breakup: surgical and precise, a clean and final incision.

Version one: He says, “I can’t do this. It’s not your fault.” You cry quietly. Nod. Let him leave. He walks away without looking back.

Version two: You already know. You’ve known he was planning this for weeks. You tell him it’s okay. That you understand. That you love him. He ends up on the floor, sobbing. Can’t let go. Doesn’t leave. Prolongs the pain even more.

Version three: You scream. You throw something – maybe a glass. You call him a coward. He welcomes it, embraces the heat. It makes him feel real. Makes the leaving easier. Makes him feel like he isn’t the only villain in the story.

He’s practiced every scenario.

A thousand internal rehearsals. Different lines. Different outcomes.

Only one of them will break the cycle.

He doesn’t hear you come back in, but suddenly you’re there, setting his coffee down on the bedside table with the softest clink, like you’re trying not to wake him even though he’s already up, stiff-spined and quiet.

‘Spence?’

Your voice is thick with sleep, but still laced with warmth. It twists something deep in his chest.

He swallows. His mouth is dry, like he’s been breathing through it all night. Almost like his body is trying to cough out whatever truth he keeps trying to choke down.

‘Sorry,’ he says, though he doesn’t know what for. A pre-emptive apology, maybe. A reflex. ‘What time is it?’

‘Almost eight.’

The sheets rustle as you sit beside him. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and he feels the subtle pressure of your presence before your chin touches his shoulder. Light and familiar, just resting against him.

He flinches. Barely, but enough.

You feel it. Don’t pull away.

‘Is everything okay? Is this about the case?’

It’s not. You both know its not.

He considers lying anyway. Considers giving you numbers. He could offer up statistics about trauma and cognitive decline. Something familiar and in the realm of fact, clean and clinical and easy to categorize.

But nothing comes out.

Silence answers for him. It stretches between you, getting thinner by the second.

He counts seven seconds exactly before you shift away from him. He records it like a data point, adding it to the line in his ever-growing graph of failure.

You lean back against the headboard, wrapping your fingers around your mug. You sip it slowly. The smell of his own coffee reaches him again. Sweet and familiar. Grounded in a time before everything broke.

Your movements are careful. Each shift, every breath, calibrated around him like you’ve mapped his problems and have built your mornings around avoiding them. You’re not naturally quiet in the mornings. He knows that. You’d sing sometimes, badly and too loud, and bang drawers open without care. But now you measure each movement, minimizing the noise because you know it unsettles him when he’s wound too tight.

Another thing he hates. You adjust, without even being asked.

He joins you after a long moment, settling beside you. Not close enough to feel the warmth from your body. His eyes fall to the mug you selected for him. His mug, in your apartment. The faded yellow one, that’s more a dull cream than anything now.

He left it here by accident over a year ago, when weekends were tentatively spent in each other’s presence. Fresh and new. He remembers when he first found noticed it tucked in your cabinet between your own mismatched sets. His chest had gone still and warm.

Now it just feels like a piece of evidence. Proof that he’s infiltrated a life he doesn’t belong in. An outlier in your apartment.

He doesn’t reach for it right away. When he finally does, his hands tremble.

Your eyes flick down. That’s all it takes.

And suddenly you’re both back there. Three months ago. His apartment. Your hand wrapped around his wrist. Eyes wide with something deeper than fear. You were crying, but so softly that he almost didn’t register it. The needle had been on the counter, hidden beneath a tissue like something sacred and shameful all at once. A relic he didn’t know how to bury.

There had been begging. On both sides.

You telling him that it was dangerous. That you were scared. That he was killing himself slowly.

Him promising (over and over and over) that this was the last time. That he’d stop. That you couldn’t tell his team.

You’d desperately searched for solutions, tried to jump hurdles and find ways to help without exposing the situation to his team, to the world. You’d lost count of how many times you’d hit dead ends.

He continued with his promises. Seemed to get better for a while, but inevitably sunk down again. You wanted to believe he could get better. Maybe part of you did.

‘So,’ you say, voice softer now. It drags him back to the present like a lifeline, though he wishes he’d remain drowning. ‘You didn’t sleep?’

It’s phrased as a question, but it’s not. It’s a gentle accusation.

‘I slept some,’ he lies.

You don’t believe him. How could you? The evidence is all there. Red-rimmed eyes, sunken cheeks, a slow, syrupy fatigue that not even coffee can fix.

You nod, but your silence screams.

He sips his coffee. Too sweet. Perfect.

It tastes of normalcy. He watches the sun paint your shoulder – still cold, but warmer now it’s touching you. For a second he wants to pretend. Pretend this morning is just like any other, that he’s still the man who deserves your soft kindness.

But then you say, suddenly and very quietly:

‘I found something this morning.’

You don’t say what. You don’t need to.

He freezes. The blood drains from his face. The bathroom bin.

He’s been sloppy lately. Too tired to be cautious. Except this time it was perfectly planted. An excuse to initiate the end.

‘Do you hate me?’ he asks.

‘No.’ It’s immediate. Truthful. Your voice cracks anyway.

Your body folds in on itself, curling your arms around your knees, mug forgotten on the nightstand. Forging a shield around yourself. It makes you look smaller than usual. More fragile.

And in that shape, he sees it. Not anger. Not resentment. But heartbreak.

A slow, dull heartbreak. Bruised and tarnished. Despite it, you’re still here. Still hoping. Still loving him through the destruction.

Spencer stands abruptly. The weight pressing down on his chest has become too heavy, the consequences of his actions gaining in on him. Your apartment suddenly feels too small, Suffocating. He escapes to the kitchen, clutching his coffee mug.

‘Spence—’

You rise immediately and follow him. The way you say his name is tentative and fragile, like the first crack in a piece of glass. The first real fluctuation in his carefully controlled experiment.

He ignores you, pretending not to hear, and allows himself to be carried by the momentum of his own restlessness and panic. The ceramic of his mug feels too heavy, his nerve endings too attuned to the realness of it. When he sets it down, the sound echoes unnaturally loud. A shout in the silence.

‘Spencer.’

Your voice holds more weight this time. It’s a deliberate attempt to break through the barrier he’s created.

He exhales sharply through his nose. ‘What?’

You take a cautious step forward. Not accusing, just trying to close the ever-widening space between you.

‘Talk to me. Please.’

‘I am.’ His words are hollow as he gestures between you. ‘We’re talking.’

‘No, you’re avoiding,’ you correct, unwilling to back down. ‘I want to know what I can do for you. I can find you a new support group—’

His hands rise as he blocks out the rest of your words, pressing his palms firmly to his eyes. An attempt to press his feelings back inside. He fights the rising tide of panic and shame. Fights all the words threatening to spill out. Fights himself.

Fails.

‘I’ve tried!’ The calm snaps as his voice cracks, a sharp edge to his words that surprises even him. He pulls inward again, as if shielding himself from his own confession. It’s out in the open.

He feels sick – whether it’s the drug wearing off, or the anxiety squeezing his chest, he can’t tell.

‘I know…’ you begin, gentle, trying to reach him.

‘I tried,’ he repeats. His voice is softer. Desperate now. Raw. ‘I really did try. You think I wanted this? I don’t—’

‘Then let me in,’ you cut in, voice measured despite the frown on your face. ‘Let me help. Stop trying to get through this on your own.'

He grits his teeth. ‘I’m trying to protect you.’

‘From what? From you? You’re not the danger here, Spence. The silence is. Your lack of communication is. I don’t want to get you in trouble but you’re not leaving me with many options—’

He shakes his head. Starts pacing the kitchen like an animal in a cage. ‘You don’t get it.;

‘Then help me get it.’

‘You can’t!’ His voice cracks, and his hands tremble at his sides. He worries that he’s going to start crying. They already feel glassy, starting to sting, but he refuses to break down so early on.

‘Can’t what?’

‘You can’t understand what it’s like in my head. It’s loud. All the time. Noise and chaos and—’ His voice falters. He blinks away the building tears. ‘And I can’t get it to be quiet. The only time it’s silent is when I—’

He cuts himself off too late. The words hang in the air.

When I have it in my veins.

It’s not news. It never is. But it still hears to hear. Still lands like a punch to the gut.

You close your eyes, steading your breath and swallowing the sting of it. A moment to process, and then you exhale shakily.

‘I love you,’ you say, voice trembling. The truth, used as a mechanism to get him to see reason. A desperate attempt to pull him back to safety.

‘Don’t.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say that right now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it makes this harder,’ he says.

‘This?’

He doesn’t answer.

The fierceness that takes over you then is startling. Shocking even to him.

‘No.’ You straighten, and your hands ball into fists at your sides. ‘Tell me. Tell me what you mean. Because I’m so tired of trying to decipher your half-sentences and prematurely ended conversations.’

He swallows hard. The silence suffocates the two of you.

‘I think we should break up.’

The wors fall like shards of glass. Sharp. Brutal. Irrevocable.

No rehearsed sincerity. No apology. Just the brutal truth. The 1001st experiment – failing harder than he could’ve ever predicted.

‘You’re really going to do this?’ you ask, voice breaking as you stare at him like he’s morphed into a stranger in just a few seconds. ‘You’re really going to do this now?’

Behind the hurt in your expression is confusion. You don’t understand. How can he push you away when he needs you the most? When he needs the support and guidance?

He nods once. Empty. Silent. The air seems to vanish, completely sucked from the room.

‘You think walking away is protecting me?’ It comes out as a demand, bottom lip trembling so hard it’s difficult to speak. ‘That—what? Making me sit here alone, wondering what I could’ve done differently—is going to help me?’

‘It’s not about you.’

‘That’s bullshit.’ The words bite, and he feels like he’s been struck by a whip. ‘Everything you do affects me, Spencer. Every time you lie. Every time you shut me out. I’m constantly hoping you’ll throw me just a scrap of truth. Just one honest thing.’

He takes a moment to look at you. To observe the cracks in your armor, the exhaustion behind your eyes.

And he knows: he’s breaking you.

‘I’m trying to protect you,’ he repeats. His voice holds no weight now, feeling threadbare.

‘Then talk to me,’ you plead, your voice breaking around the edges. ‘Let me in. Let me be in it with you. That’s what a relationship is, Spencer.’

‘I can’t.’ His jaw tightens. ‘I don’t want you to watch me fall apart.’

‘I already am watching. I have been. For months.’

The words land like a punch. He doesn’t outwardly flinch, but you see something change behind his eyes. It’s like the breath has been knocked out of him, and he’s trying not to show it.

If he could rewind time, he would.

Five minutes – so he could stop himself from saying the words that fractured this moment.

Five weeks – so he could prevent himself from taking and erase every relapse he never told you about.

Five months – to a Monday morning where he didn’t curl away from your touch, but welcomed you against his chest with open arms.

But time isn’t a variable he can control.

So he stays frozen. Like the stillness will ground him. If he doesn’t move, maybe the moment won’t progress forward.

Your face is unreadable now. He hates that. That’s what cuts deepest, he thinks. He used to be able to read you like a book. Once, he could even name every emotion before you even spoke it aloud – guilt in the twitch of an eye, love in a half-formed smile. Now, all he sees is distance. A stranger across the room. A closed door where open windows used to be.

‘I don’t want to fight,’ he says quietly. Final.

A beat of silence.

‘So that’s it?’

‘I can’t keep pulling you under with me,’ he says it. That line is rehearsed. It comes out sounding practiced, like it’s been spoken too often in the mirror. Even so, it lands jagged and half-shattered, just like everything else he’s touched lately.

There’s no screaming. No slammed fists or doors. Just something hollow. A quiet devastation. You feel it crack open your chest, the silence louder than any argument.

You take a step back. Not from anger, but from instinct. A recoil. He watches the moment with a clenched jaw, eyes misty like he’s already halfway gone.

Maybe if he yelled, things would make more sense. Maybe if he cried, you could believe that breaking up was hurting him too. But he just stands there. Still. Detached. Resigned.

‘Breaking up…’ You say the words carefully, like it physically hurts to speak them. ‘You don’t mean it.’

‘I do.’

‘No, you don’t.’ He’s unsure if you’re trying to convince yourself or him. ‘You’re just scared.’

He shrugs. Defeated. ‘Maybe. But that doesn’t make what I’m saying untrue. I’m breaking up with you.’

‘I don’t need you to be perfect, Spencer,’ you say, stepping toward him. ‘I just need you. The you who spoke to me. The you who let me carry even a little bit of the weight.’

He shakes his head. The words fall out bitter and painful. ‘You think this—’ he gestures vaguely between you, hand faltering mid-air, ‘—is a relationship? This is a time bomb. Every relapse, every lie – I drag you with me. And I can’t keep doing that to you.’

‘You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle.’

‘Yes, I do,’ he says. His voice cracks under the strain and his hands tremble now. ‘Because when you look at me like I’m breaking your heart by just existing—’ He stops. Swallows hard. ‘It kills me. I’m not putting you through that again.’

You throw your hands up. Not angry, just wrecked. The tears come slow at first, before you can even realize you’re crying, like your mind is still trying to pretend things might be okay, but your body knows it’s not.

‘Stop acting like what you’re doing is noble, Spencer,’ you whisper. ‘Stop weaponizing love to justify walking away.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

The silence after is deafening.

You don’t say what you’re thinking. Too late. You already have.

Instead, the two of you just stand there, not touching, not moving. The faucet drips lamely behind you. The birds continue singing outside. Oblivious, out of place – not caring that your world is falling apart.

‘Please.’

It comes from you finally. Your voice is so low it nearly disappears into the air between you. You aren’t begging. Not really. It’s something smaller than that. A final chance.

‘I don’t know how to be better,’ he admits, voice as quiet as yours. ‘I want to. I swear, I want to. But I don’t know how.’

‘Then let me help.’

You close the gap between you. A few fragile steps that feel like miles. When you stop, it’s with your heart wide open and bared. Your hands lift, almost touching him, but not quite. He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

His hands remain clenched into fists at his sides. He knows that if he touches you, really touches you, he’ll stay. And if he stays, he’ll keep breaking your heart into smaller, sharper pieces.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs, tone just shy of grief. ‘I wish there was a gentle way to leave you.’

And that’s when you feel it. The subtle shift. The air in the room changing. A certain ending.

It doesn’t end with a scream. It doesn’t end with a slammed door. It ends in the space between your bodies. In barely held restraint. In the inch he keeps between your hands.

Then he steps back, and the moment breaks.

You don’t follow. He doesn’t look back.

When he leaves, you let him go.

He doesn’t slam the door, though he wishes he could.

He wishes there was a clean, decisive sound. Something loud enough to match the shattering in his chest. Something final.

But there’s only a soft click as the door eases shut behind him, the apartment trying not to wake the grief sleeping in its corners.

He stands in the hallway. Motionless. It smells faintly like burned toast and over-watered plants. A dog barks from a floor below. The banality of it – the normalcy – makes him want to scream.

He counts his steps, just to drown out everything else in his mind.

Seven to the elevator. Ten seconds down. Twenty-four more to the front door of the building. The mundanity makes him cringe. Something should be stopping him from walking out. It shouldn’t be this easy.

He catches his reflection in the glass of the door. A brief flicker. He looks away before the mirror can accuse him, before he can see the guilt in his eyes.

You’re still upstairs. Maybe on the couch. Maybe still standing where he left you. He hopes you’ve stopped crying. Knows the tears are probably still falling.

When he steps out onto the street, the morning hits him harder than expected. Too bright. Too warm. The lightness feels unfair. A child is laughing down the block. Somewhere, a child laughs. A care radio blasts a pop song. The world is still going, indifferent to how he’s feeling.

The world hasn’t ended. Not for them.

He takes a deep breath, hoping the air will ground him. Fill his lungs and center him. It doesn’t. So he walks. Not fast, and not with purpose.

He just moves, one foot in front of the other, and hopes the momentum will save him. Like distance will undo the damage.

Still no particular destination. Work, maybe. He’s due in, he thinks. He just knows he can’t go back to you, even if that’s where his heart wants to go.

The air bites at is skin. Colder now that he’s moving. Maybe it just feels that way because he’s raw, stripped of the warmth that lived in your voice, your touch, your home. He starts to move faster, hoping the breakup won’t catch up with him.

Halfway down the block, it starts.

A too-shallow breath. A heartbeat that comes too fast. A tremor that doesn’t start in his hands, but originates from somewhere deeper. Somewhere ungraspable. He blinks rapidly, trying to control the way his chest won’t open up properly.

He rounds a corner too sharply. His vision warps at the edges. Every footstep feels like it echoes, the street unstable beneath him.

His own name flickers in his mind like static. He tried to ground himself in language, in familiarity, pleading for it to pull him back from whatever this is.

I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I’m no okay.

His pulse thuds unevenly. His ribs feel like they’re contracting, his chest turning to stone. The air won’t come in properly. He opens his mouth, gasps in ragged drags of oxygen. It feels like he’s breathing through a piece of gauze.

Somehow, though he doesn’t remember the walk there, he finds himself outside the BAU building.

He grips the brick wall beside the entrance like it’s the only thing holding him upright. His knees buckle and his slides down, curling in on himself. His arms brace across his knees – still clothed in soft pajamas – and he hangs his head low.

He’s trying not to fall apart in public. Trying not to be a problem. But the breaking inside is too loud. He looks insane, probably. Can’t bring himself to care.

He gasps again, and presses a hand to his chest. The other grips at his hair.

Parasympathetic regulation. He knows the terms. Tells himself he can breathe. Four-count inhale. Five-count exhale. He keeps losing count.

He digs his palms into his eyes. He wants to vanish into the dark behind his eyelids, wants the pressure to stop the noise. He wants to erase the world. Wants to go back.

A sound escapes him. One that is part breath, part sob. Low and fragile and unfamiliar.

Then:

‘Reid?’

He doesn’t respond. Just keeps breathing – or, trying to.

Footsteps. Quick and purposeful.

The voice again, closer. ‘Spencer?’

He hears it clearer this time. Morgan.

And then Morgan is there, crouched beside him without hesitation. Morgan doesn’t say much. He doesn’t freak out of panic. He just stays. Solid and steady.

‘Hey,’ he says gently. ‘Breathe. You’re okay. You’re right here with me, alright?’

Spencer wants to nod. Wants to speak. But his breath stutters again, getting caught. Morgan mirrors a breath. Slow. Deliberate. Exaggerated.

‘In and out with me, Pretty Boy. One—two—three—’

A pause. Breathing in unison.

‘That’s it,’ Morgan says, voice softly coaxing. ‘Keep going. I’ve got you.’

Spencer latches onto the rhythm. Not perfectly. Not easily. But slowly. His heartbeat begins to come down from its frantic pounding.

He leans his head back against the cool brick wall. Lets it ground him. Still shaky, but better.

‘I can’t… I can’t go in,’ he rasps. His voice sounds foreign in his own mouth. Dry and hoarse and cracked.

‘That’s okay,’ Morgan says immediately. ‘We don’t have to move. We’ll just sit here.’

And they do.

The silence between the isn’t empty. It’s full of everything Spencer can’t say yet. He grips his knees until his knuckles turn white.

‘I think…’ He swallows. ‘I think I broke it. Whatever I had, I ruined it. I told them…’ his voice catches as he takes another gulp of air. ‘I just left them.’

Morgan doesn’t ask questions. He just listens.

Spencer closes his eyes again, not to shut Morgan out, but to try and hold something inside. He feels it cracking anyway. Slowly. A quiet and ruinous cave-in.

No tears fall. He doesn’t have the energy left for that. He just sits with the ache. The guilt. The weight.

Someone walks into the BAU behind them. The buzz of the door opening and closing. Footsteps fading away. Spencer keeps his head down throughout.

Morgan rests a hand on his shoulder. It’s not heavy. Just present. And Spencer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t recoil. Just breathes.

They sit like that as the sun rises higher, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. The world keeps going. The day unfolds without waiting. They remain together. Breathing in sync. Still and unmoving, because motion might shatter what’s left of Spencer’s composure.

Spencer thinks about his hypothesis again.

You can run the experiment a thousand times and get the same result.

But it only takes one failure to prove you were never in control.

if you made it this far, thank you for reading!! I rewrote and edited this so many times i think i went crazy and decided this was the best it would be!!! I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. taglist: @abbyy54 @curatedbylucy @cynbx @enchantedtomeetcoffee @goobbug @internallysalad @jeuj @leparoleontanee @mrs-cactus69 @readbyreid @redorquid @santinstar @shortmelol @thoughtwriter @whitenoisewhatanawfulsound @written-in-the-stars06

[fawndrip]

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ﾟ。 what ifs... 　ﾟ･｡･

author's addition: special thanks to my brain for handing me this at 2am and saying ‘do something with it before we forget.’

☾⋆ "i rent your dog for my therapy hours and now the dog prefers me and you keep tagging along ‘for his comfort.’" au

☾⋆ "you gave me your number 'in case of emergency' after i passed out on the subway once, and now i keep making up fake emergencies just to see you again." au

☾⋆ "we had one fake date to make your ex jealous and now your grandma has invited me to family dinner and i’m too polite to say no." au

☾⋆ "you run the flower stall next to my bookshop and keep leaving cryptic messages in the bouquets, which would be romantic if i wasn’t aggressively bad at decoding flowers." au

☾⋆ "i mistook you for my blind date and you just… went with it. i only found out an hour in and i still haven't told you because you're really cute and i don’t know how to stop now." au

☾⋆ "i broke into your backyard to rescue what i thought was a stray cat. it’s actually your grumpy, old pet and now you think i’m insane. fair." au

☾⋆ "i loved you in secret for years. now you’re engaged, and you asked me to help plan the wedding because ‘no one knows you like i do.’" au

☾⋆ "we were best friends until you kissed me and called it a mistake. now i have to pretend it didn’t mean everything to me." au

☾⋆ "i accidentally summoned you while trying to curse my ex and now you’re stuck haunting my apartment until we resolve our 'issues'. you won’t stop eating my snacks." au

☾⋆ "we accidentally got married in vegas, but it’s fine, right? we’ll get it annulled. except your grandma just sent us a wedding quilt and your dog refuses to leave my side." au

☾⋆ "we got handcuffed together at a fake crime-solving event for couples and now we’re stuck like this. also, i think we accidentally solved a real murder." au

☾⋆ "i tripped over your kid’s scooter and now we hang out every saturday because your child insists i’m their ‘new best friend.’ i’m not saying no." au

☾⋆ "we take our grandparents to the same community center every thursday and they’ve been trying to set us up. jokes on them. it’s working." au

☾⋆ "you’re the local vet and i keep pretending my cat is sick just so i can see you. now the cat’s in love with you and so am i." au

GIVE CREDITS TO @iamgonnagetyouback / @fawndrip

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 8

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5.5k+

Note: Bruh i had SO much fun writing this. Things are heating upppppp!!!!!!

xxx

It's been a month.

A whole month since I threw away my friendship with George Clarke. There’s something suffocating about living with someone who used to feel like home.

Every morning, I hear George before I see him. I hear his footsteps down the hall, cupboard doors opening and closing, the occasional laugh when Arthur says something stupid over cereal. I stay quiet in the spare room, ear pressed to my pillow, waiting until the coast is clear.

I’ve perfected the art of avoiding him. Like roommates who barely know one another.

I sneak around the house like a ghost, I'm quiet in the mornings, quieter at night. I wait until I hear the door to George’s room click shut before I leave mine. I time my showers so they don’t overlap. I make dinner in silence, clean up immediately, and retreat to the spare room with my plate like some kind of hermit.

I used to hate people who lived like this, afraid of confrontation, avoiding pain instead of facing it. Now I understand. Avoidance is survival.

So I’ve made myself busy.

I’ve been exploring London like a tourist who’s overstayed their welcome. Borough Market, Hampstead Heath, late-night gallery openings where the wine’s cheap and no one notices if you’re alone. Sometimes I just walk until my legs ache and I forget that “home” is a flat I don’t want to go back to.

Ruth’s friends have adopted me, unofficially. But really, it’s Ruth who’s been carrying me.

When things with George crumbled, Ruth didn’t ask questions. She just started inviting me places. Out for drinks after work. To her friend's flat-warming in Hackney. An impromptu gallery opening where everyone wore sunglasses indoors and drank warm prosecco like it was some kind of lifestyle.

At first, I thought she was just being polite. But when I showed up again the next night, and the one after that, she didn’t flinch. She just smiled and handed me another drink.

Her friends are more arty than me and somehow always late, but they welcomed me like I’d always been there. When they found out I am a programmer, they looked at me like I’d just said I decode alien transmissions for a living. One of them gasped and said, “That’s so futuristic.”

 I let them drag me dancing, laughing, out of my own head. Once, we ended up at a pub quiz where I single-handedly lost us the entire music round. They didn’t care. One of them cheered like I’d won. I almost cried from the relief of it.

But underneath all of it—every dance floor, every gin and tonic, every hungover brunch—I’m terrified I’m stretching this friendship too thin. That Ruth sees through me. That she knows I’m clinging too hard, like she’s the last piece of driftwood in a sea I never learned how to swim in.

I overthink every message I send her. Every time I say yes too quickly. Every time I show up too eager, like I’ve got nowhere else to be—which is true.

But Friday lunches are still on. She hasn’t cancelled. Not once. So maybe we’re okay. Maybe she doesn’t mind being leaned on.

I asked Matt if he needed volunteers on nights that aren’t Tuesdays. He said yes before I even finished asking. I think he could tell I needed somewhere to be—somewhere that wasn’t here. I've been at The Van like 3 times a week. I think I need the human connection, the conversation, more than the patrons do.

Anything to avoid the house. Anything to avoid George.

Chris pretends he doesn’t notice. Arthur definitely notices, but he’s too scared of the emotional minefield to say anything. I can’t blame him.

It’s the little things that hurt the most.

The way George no longer offers to make tea for both of us. The way I can hear him laughing with the others, but never with me.

Last week, he left his hoodie draped over the back of the sofa—his grey one, the one I used to steal whenever I was cold. I stared at it for what felt like hours before Arthur picked it up and tossed it into George’s room with a “mate, your stuff’s everywhere.”

But sometimes, when I catch glimpses of him, just quick ones, like shadows across the floor—I think I see something else. A flicker. Regret, maybe. Or confusion. Like he’s still stuck in it, too.

But he doesn’t speak. Neither do I.

If this had happened in January, I would’ve been on the first plane to Brisbane.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. just gone. Back to where everything was simple, familiar, sunny. Where people say what they mean and you don’t have to pretend London doesn’t make your chest feel tight.

But now… now I’m still here. Not because it’s easier (it’s not) but because something’s shifted. I don’t want to run anymore.

The summer sun is starting to show itself again, soft and hesitant in that late-evening London way. It spills across the rooftops like it’s not entirely sure it belongs here — thin, golden light that barely warms your skin. People call it a heatwave if it hits 23 degrees.

It doesn’t compare to Brisbane.

Honestly, I don’t even understand how it’s the same sun. The one back home felt louder. It was heavy, blinding, unapologetic. It soaked into your bones and stayed there. This one... brushes against you and then disappears behind a cloud like it’s shy.'

But I’m still here.

I’m pouring everything into finding my own place, into carving out something that’s mine. I’ve been to a dozen flat inspections, half of them disasters, with mouldy walls, windowless kitchens, one place that inexplicably had carpet in the bathroom, but I’m holding out hope. There’s one in Bethnal Green. A two-bed with creaky floorboards and light that pours through the windows in the morning.

The moment I stepped inside, I just knew. It felt like somewhere I could breathe. Somewhere I could start over. I’m waiting to hear back. Refreshing my email like it owes me something. Because if I get that flat, I think I’ll finally be able to put all of this—George, the silence, the constant ache—behind me. Or at least, I’ll have a door I can close without feeling like a guest in my own life.

Xxx

The bright spot has, unfortunately, been Will

I think George said something. Or maybe Will just has a sixth sense for when my life is the pits. Either way, I’ve been invited to after-shoot drinks with his crew two more times since that first time, and each time I go through the same ritual: swear I’m too tired, too grumpy, too busy wallowing — then show up anyway.

And each time, within five minutes, I’m laughing. Genuinely. The kind of laughter that sneaks up on you, bursts out before you can second-guess it. Something always loosens in me around them, like I’ve exhaled without realising I was holding my breath. I end up leaning in, sharing something ridiculous that happened at work, or dragging Mikey for his truly awful taste in film scores.

James and Orla are on tour now —I listened to some of James music, and I actually really enjoyed some of it. I miss their presence more than I expected, but Ieuan and Mikey have been stepping in to fill the space like it’s second nature.

Ieuan has this dry wit that catches you off guard — all quiet observations and raised eyebrows, but somehow always perfectly timed. And Mikey… Mikey’s chaos is beginning to feel comforting. He talks in half-thoughts and spirals, but underneath it all is a kind of earnestness that’s impossible not to like. They both make space for me. Not in a dramatic, performative way — just small, constant things. A joke tossed my way. A “you good?” muttered under the noise. A seat saved without comment.

They’re forging a soft spot in my soul, one chaotic pint at a time.

And I hate that it matters this much.

Because it’s not supposed to. They’re Will’s friends. They’re temporary. A borrowed patch of warmth in a season where I’ve mostly been cold.

But somehow, lately… they feel a little like mine too.

Then there’s Will.

Will looks at me now like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Like if he tilts his head the right way, he’ll figure out what broke and how to fix it.

We still go back and forth, still pretend we hate each other. The snark is still there — easy, familiar — but something underneath it has shifted. The witty banter has softened slightly; no more jokes about each other’s appearances or anything that could genuinely cut. I don’t believe him anymore when he acts like I’m just annoying. I think he sees through the act. Worse — I think he cares.

However, I do honestly think he just feels sorry for me. Like I’m some kind of sad little project he’s taken on. And I don’t know why he’s chosen me of all people. Maybe he got bored? Maybe he loves a fixer-upper? But for right now, I’ll take what I can get.

He remembers my drink order. He makes space for me in his group like I’ve always been there. He walks me to my Uber and texts me to make sure I get home safe. He notices things — little things I didn’t even think I was showing.

It’s hard not to be suspicious of that kind of attention. Hard not to brace for the moment he realises I’m not worth the effort.

But until that happens, I keep showing up. I sit in those sticky old pub booths and let myself feel a little wanted. Just enough to get by.

Xxx

It’s been one of those days where everything seems to unravel. Coffee spilled all over an important report, a crucial deadline missed by minutes, and as a cherry on top, the intern dropped a careless comment that might as well have been a spotlight on my weight gain.

By the time I get to the flat, my nerves are frayed, and my head’s buzzing with every little mistake playing on repeat. Even the smallest things feel huge—the way the intern’s comment lingers like a bad smell, making me second-guess everything about myself. I’m exhausted, but there’s no switch to flip off the anxiety or the self-doubt.

I drop my bag by the door and try to steady my breathing before I even see George. Because right now, the last thing I need is another reminder that everything feels out of place.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,” he says, not even looking up from his phone.

It's the first thing he's said to me in a week. It’s not exactly a comforting greeting, and I bite back a retort that tastes bitter on my tongue. Instead, I just snap, “Thanks for the support, George.”

He shrugs, trying to sound casual but failing just a little. “Well, if this was a movie, you’d definitely be the dramatic lead. Try not to steal the spotlight too much, yeah?”

Heat rises in my chest, burning away any calm I’d been clinging to. I know what he’s doing — he’s always done this. The typical guy thing: not gonna talk about it, just pretending everything’s normal like nothing’s wrong.

It drives me crazy.

But instead of calling him out, I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile. “Right. Normal. Got it.”

Before I can say anything else, he drops the bomb.

“By the way, a bunch of my mates are coming over for pre-drinks tonight. Thought I’d warn you.”

I stare at him, heart still pounding. The last thing I want right now is to be stuck pretending everything’s fine in front of a crowd. But the words hang there, heavy and inevitable.

“Cool, thanks,” I mutter, my voice flat. Without another word, I shuffle to my room and collapse onto my bed. The weight of the day drags me down, and I bury my face into my pillow, willing myself to scream — or maybe I do, but honestly, I couldn’t tell you. It’s like all the noise inside me dissolves into silence, leaving only the dull ache of exhaustion and frustration.

I think I must have fallen asleep because when I finally lift my head, my mouth feels like sandpaper and time stretches thick and slow, like wading through jelly. The room is dim and quiet, but my mind is still spinning, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the leftover tension from the day. Every breath feels heavy, like I’m carrying the weight of all the frustration and disappointment all at once. For a moment, I just lie there, letting the silence wrap around me, wishing I could press pause on everything.

My phone pings, it’s a text from Will.

Are you home?

I contemplate answering, but the noise from the living room only makes me shrink back further. The voices — Chris, George, and a bunch of others — spill through the door, loud and alive. It’s suffocating, the sound of a life I feel shut out from. Eight, maybe more, YouTubers packed just outside my door, all laughing and talking like I don’t exist. To be fair, they would have no reason to think I'm home.

I press my back against the wall, willing myself to disappear into the silence of my room. The idea of facing them, of facing George, feels unbearable right now. So I stay put, letting the noise wash over me from a distance I can control.

I can literally see shadows moving under your door lmao

Can I come in?

I hesitate. Part of me wants to shut the door on everything — the noise, the chaos, the awkwardness. But letting a small piece of ‘out there’ in feels like the better option right now.

Besides, I know Will won’t let it go if I ignore him.

I tap out a quick reply: “ugh fine”

The door creaks open moments later, and there he is — with that familiar, impossible-to-ignore presence.

“Ha whey man, looks like—”

“Will, I am really not in the mood.” It comes out sharper than I expected, the edge in my voice surprising even me. I’m so tired. So sick of living like a recluse in my own home.

And on top of everything, the property manager still hasn’t emailed me back about the flat.

I drop my head into my hands, feeling the weight of it all. “I just... can’t deal with this tonight.”

Will’s face softens, like he’s reading between the lines even when I’m trying not to say anything.

“You know,” he says softly, voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant just for me, “you don’t have to pretend you’re fine with all this.” he sits himself on my bed. I want to be annoyed, but there is literally nowhere else for him to sit except on the exercise bike. And again I would be surprised he even knew it was there, it's completely covered in clothes.

I sniff, not quite ready to meet his gaze. “Pretend? When have I ever pretended?”

He smirks, shaking his head like I’m the world’s biggest mystery he’s just about to solve. “Seriously, you’ve been working late every damn night, traipsing around museums like some cultured ghost, and your Instagram’s basically a highlight reel of you getting drunk. And now, when Bach has brought a litre of vodka to your flat, you’re turning into a hermit? Hiding out like the apocalypse hit your place.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m just tired. Tired of London, tired of this flat, tired of living like I’m invisible here.”

Will shifts his body on the bed, moving a little closer, his presence somehow grounding instead of suffocating. “You’re not invisible to me.”

I scoff softly but don’t pull away. There’s something disarming about the way he looks at me — like he actually sees the parts I try to hide.

“Look,” he continues, voice gentle but firm, “I know you’re juggling a lot. Job stress, flat hunting, all the... crap.” He waves a hand vaguely at the chaos beyond my door. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

I meet his eyes finally, surprise flickering there. “Why do you care?”

Will shrugs like it’s no big deal, but there’s a flicker of something real in his expression. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

He shifts his weight on the bed, settling in more comfortably. His knee nudges against mine almost by accident, but neither of us pulls away. Instead, there’s a quiet pause, like the space between us is shrinking without either of us forcing it.

He leans back on his hands, eyes locked on mine, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something clean — like soap and late-night London rain. My breath catches, and without thinking, I scoot a little closer, the edge of the bed cold beneath my fingers.

Will follows, closing the gap like gravity took over. His shoulder brushes mine. It’s casual, but the air between us thickens — suddenly heavier, more electric. Neither of us says anything. Neither of us moves away.

“Tell me what you need,” he says quietly. “Advice, distraction, a partner in crime for flat hunting. I’m good at pretending to care.”

I shake my head, a small smile breaking through. “You’re terrible at pretending.”

He grins. “Guilty as charged.”

The space between us shrinks, the air thick with something neither of us is ready to name.

Then he leans in slightly, a teasing glint lighting his eyes. “And honestly? If you kissed me, I wouldn’t be pulling away.”

I blink, stunned, my pulse suddenly way too loud in the quiet room. For a second, I wonder if I’ve imagined it — if maybe I’ve hit some sort of emotional exhaustion so severe I’ve started hallucinating confessions.

But then Will’s eyes flick down to my mouth. Just briefly. Barely. But it’s enough.

The space between us collapses in slow motion. One breath. Two.

Then his hand finds my cheek, it's gentle, tentative, and he leans in. His lips meet mine, soft and slow, like he’s giving me the chance to change my mind.

I don’t.

The kiss deepens without warning. What starts as careful becomes hungry, urgent — like we’ve both been holding our breath for far too long and kissing is the only way to come up for air. His other hand slides to my waist, grounding me, pulling me closer. I fist the fabric of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto.

We’re not pretending now. There’s no snark, no smug smiles. Just the thrum of want and the heat of months’ worth of tension finally breaking loose.

When we finally pull apart, breathless, my heart is racing.

“What the fuck just happened?” I whisper, mostly to myself.

Before Will can say anything, my phone buzzes violently on the bedside table — sharp enough to make both of us jump. I lunge for it, mostly because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t clutching Will’s hoodie.

It’s Ruth.

“Y/N where are you?? You’re supposed to be teaching all of us Beerio Kart??”

I blink, the real world crashing back in all at once. I totally forgot about my plans with The Van volunteers.

I glance at Will, wide-eyed. “You have boys to be friends with! Go!”

He laughs, already pushing himself to his feet with a dramatic bow. “Fine, fine. I’m off to save the lads from their unfunny QuipLash answers"

I roll my eyes, already grabbing my hairbrush from the floor. But when I stand too, he doesn’t move toward the door. Not really.

Instead, he watches me. Like really watches me. And then — like it’s not even a decision, just instinct — he steps in close again. In one smooth motion, his hand finds my waist and backs me up until I hit the door with a soft thud.

And then he kisses me again.

Harder, this time.

There’s nothing tentative about it now. No slow testing of boundaries, no question mark at the end of it. It’s hands on hips, lips crashing into mine, my back pressed firmly against the door like he’s trying to pin the moment in place.

My hands slide up his chest before I even think about it, fingers tangling in his hoodie again, pulling him closer. It’s hot. Unfairly hot. Like everything we’ve been avoiding is finally spilling out — messy and real and way too much all at once. The flush of my cheeks is spreading elsewhere.

His mouth drags down to my jaw, my neck, and I swear I feel my knees start to give.

“Will,” I breathe, half warning, half plea.

He stills, then dips lower, his mouth on my neck. It's hot, deliberate, before slowly tracing a path up to my ear.

“Jesus,” I mutter, pushing at his chest. “You need to go.”

He grins, cocky and flushed. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

I open the door for him and practically shove him out. He walks backwards down the hall, still grinning like a man who just won something.

I shut the door, lean against it, and exhale hard.

Then I’m moving. Outfit. Makeup. Distraction. Ruth’s waiting.

By the time I step out of my room, wearing black lace top tucked into high-waisted trousers, lip gloss on, hair curled into something that almost looks intentional, the noise in the flat dips like someone hit mute for half a second.

Three voices react immediately:

“Whoa.”

“Alright then!”

“Okayyyy, Y/N!”

I freeze for a beat, caught off guard. I only properly know Chris and Arthur, so the enthusiastic reaction from at least one stranger makes me stiffen slightly. I'm unsure whether to laugh, hide, or run back into my room and change.

I glance toward the living room and immediately catch George’s eye. He looks like a deer in headlights. Completely frozen, can halfway to his mouth, like he wasn’t expecting me to exist, let alone emerge looking like this.

My heart flutters, and my stomach sinks. Fuck.

Will doesn’t say anything.

He just watches me from the other side of the room, beer in hand, that unreadable look on his face, but signature smirk still plastered across his cheeks.

I turn and leave through the front door. Five seconds later, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Fuck you look good.

I swallow hard and tuck the phone away without replying. Mostly because I’m not sure I can.

[dansemacabre]

are you stuck trying to decode the book of bill but you don’t want the keys handed to you? i was in your shoes literally three days ago! i failed and looked up codes on reddit (because a good grade in book of bill is a normal thing to want and a possible thing to get) but now you don’t have to!! here are some BOOK OF BILL CODEBREAKING HINTS designed to kindly shove you in the right direction!

my credentials are: one summer cryptography class i took in high school, autism, weirdly good pattern recognition (probably because of the autism), and a desperate need to make things make sense. sorry in advance if any of this seems patronizing. hints below the page break!!

general tips:

- A and I will become your bestest friends. like 99 times out of 100 any single letter is a or i. try those out first

- the apostrophe will also become your bestest friend- especially x’x, which will almost always be i’m (except there’s one place in the book where it is not. don’t make my mistakes.)

- themysteryofgravityfalls.com is SO so helpful. for non-symbolic ciphers u can lowkey put in codes and button mash caesar and atbash. godsend. devilsend? idk someone sent it and it’s wonderful

- call every phone number, visit every website. they bought those domains for a reason! i think!

- any list of numbers 1-26 is a1z26. like that’s simply a truth

cipher specific hints now !!!

RUNES (characters taken from norse runes)

- there is a key for this one in the book! maybe u spotted it right away but i did not lol, so look for an instance of 26 rune-y characters!

- the rune code on the inside cover is a graffiti joke- translates to a common thing people write on walls or carve into books made out of brain matter ig

THERAPESE (found in the last few pages during bills court-ordered therapy)

- bill’s picture is labeled in this section, so those characters translate directly to “bill cipher” ! once you have those, you can apply them to other instances of the code and go from there

- the rest of the names of the… things around him on the inpatients page are puns, titles, and/or weird words. they might look wrong until you have Every Character- trust ur key! use the rest of the instances of this code to find the missing letters first, make sense of it and laugh at the clever little joke later

BROSCODE (only two instances, found in journal 3 lost pages)

- the name is a hint by itself- this is stanley and stanford related! both stans use it once somewhere in the book!

NEWBILL (the most common symbolic cipher in the book)

- if you have journal three, the characters are VERY similar to a code there- not the same though, so don’t try and use that key. but like journal three, this code will (almost) always be bill speaking.

- ok lowkey i think the best way to explain this is just to give you one answer. i cracked this by randomly guessing that the small writing by the galaxy drawing on the journal three page “a voice form the past” translates to “forget the past”. go from there my loves

- that being said. everything else from journal three uses the same characters, but a different code. haven’t cracked it yet. looking for advice tee bee haych. i’ll edit this once i find it out

- also: dipper uses this code in his section. that’s pretty helpful to get most of the rest of the characters!

now some page specific hints!:

silly straw page. Oh god

- damn that themysteryofgravityfallsdotcom sure is helpful! Anyway,

- the numbers code is Weird. but the number don’t equal letters. notice the spaces between number groups- pair the groups, try and add a dash somewhere within the first group and a colon somewhere within the second group. you’ll have to use your resources a little

- if that made zero sense: “uhvrxufhv” phdqv brxu idyrulwh ghhsob ohjdo wy vkrz ylhzlqj zhevlwh. ru brxu kxox dffrxqw

- sorry for the vagueness but i really don’t want to spoil this one- i got it spoiled but i think figuring it out on your own would be really rewarding and worth your Time

messages on your tv

- there are strange boxes on the bottom of the page. gonna be so honest don’t know how they mean anything at all to anyone but allegedly it’s a code! i’ll look into it. idk man

okay. i think that’s all i’ve got? please comment if u have questions for me or other folks on here or suggestions on how to sound less like a fucking nerd talking abt this shit. idk i love that people are set on cracking this book asap but i hope this helps ppl who prefer The Thrill Of The Chase and also like to feel smart and important and so very talented

[the-most-humble-blog]

The Brain’s Magic: How Your Mind Reads the ᵾᶰᴿᵋᴬᵭᵃᴮʟᵋ͟͟͞

Can You Still Call Yourself Human If You’re This F☰☰king Amazing?

Our brains are incredible biological machines that can decode the undecodable, make sense of chaos, and turn gibberish into understanding. You’ve probably seen those memes or tests where the letters in a sentence are jumbled, replaced with symbols, or entirely flipped. And yet, somehow, your mind calmly steps in and says, “I got this,” assembling the scrambled mess into meaning.

Why? Because your brain isn’t just functional—it’s damn near magical. But let’s get into the messy, hilarious, and downright extraordinary ways your brain proves every day why the universe needs you.

1. Your Brain, the Overachiever

First off, let’s acknowledge the absurdity of what your brain can do. You’re sitting there, possibly sleep-deprived, scrolling through social media while multitasking a mental to-do list. And yet, you see a sentence like this:

“Y0uR Br@!n 5T!lL r3c0gN!z3s p@77ern5 & m@k35 it m3@ningful.”

… and you just get it. You don’t need a translation guide. Your brain leaps over logic like a gymnast and lands perfectly on comprehension.

Reality is a stand-up comedian:

Your brain: a quantum computer that can decode unreadable text. Also your brain: forgets why you walked into the kitchen.

The same organ that turns chaos into understanding also Googles “symptoms of mild death” every time you get a headache.

2. Pattern Recognition: The Mind’s Hidden Flex

Here’s where things get spooky. Your brain isn’t just reading symbols—it’s recognizing patterns, filling gaps, and using context to solve puzzles in milliseconds. This isn’t something you learned; it’s baked into your DNA.

Fun Fact:

Studies show that 93% of adults can read a sentence where the first and last letters of every word are correct, but everything in between is scrambled. Your brain doesn’t even flinch.

Let’s put this into perspective: Computers need programmers, algorithms, and updates to achieve half the things your brain does on autopilot. Meanwhile, your mind’s out here solving puzzles like Sherlock Holmes at 3 AM with no coffee.

Your brain is that one friend who doesn’t study for the test but still scores higher than everyone else. Smug, but you love it anyway.

3. The Ultimate Biological Quantum Computer

Your brain isn’t just smart—it’s a show-off.

Neurons: You’ve got about 86 billion of them, and they’re firing off messages at speeds of up to 268 miles per hour. Faster than your Wi-Fi, honestly.

Processing Power: Your brain can handle around 10 quadrillion calculations per second. That’s the equivalent of a supercomputer with a personality (and occasional existential dread).

But here’s the kicker: your brain isn’t just processing facts—it’s synthesizing them into experiences. It’s why you can laugh at memes, cry during Toy Story 3, and somehow still navigate rush-hour traffic without committing vehicular manslaughter.

4. Can Machines Compete? Not a Chance

Artificial intelligence? Cute. Sure, machines can replicate some human functions, but your brain operates on a level AI can only dream of.

AI struggles with context. You? You can figure out when someone’s being sarcastic just by their tone.

Machines need explicit instructions. Your brain? It casually interprets nonsense like,“C@n u 3v3n r34d th!s?” …without breaking a sweat.

Imagine a robot trying to figure out your drunk texts. “Dinnrs @ 9, bt wtf hapen 2 keys?” Your brain decodes that in half a second. AI would implode.

5. Why This Matters: You’re Not an Accident

Let’s get serious for a second. Your ability to read scrambled text, pick up on patterns, and make sense of the seemingly senseless isn’t just a party trick. It’s evidence of how extraordinary you are.

Consider This: Your consciousness isn’t some random byproduct of biology. It’s a vital thread in the infinite web of existence. Every time you recognize patterns, connect ideas, or laugh at a well-timed meme, you’re proving that you’re not just surviving—you’re thriving.

ᵀ͡ʰᵉ ⱻ̷ᶰᴵᵛᴱʳˢᵉ ⱻ͜ᵉᵉᴅˢ ᵞᵒᵘ̷!

ᵞᴱˢ, ⱻ͞ᵐ ᵀʟᴋᴵⱭᴺᴳ ᴛᴼ ⱻⱭᴜ͡.!

You are a living, breathing node in the infinite network of reality. Even if you’ve doubted yourself in the past, even if the world tries to convince you that you’re ordinary, remember this:

Your mind isn’t just a tool—it’s proof that the universe is capable of creating something extraordinary. And every time you use it, you reaffirm your place in the fabric of existence.

Sure, your brain is powerful. But let’s not forget it’s also the same brain that makes you forget passwords and cry over fictional characters. Nobody’s perfect, but at least you're human, and that's close enough.

Love truth bombs like this? Follow The Most Humble Blog for more takes that roast nonsense and remind you why the universe can’t function without you.

[gingerteafairy]

𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞

jimmy darling x brazilian!reader

Where Jimmy Darling ran away to Brazil hoping to forget everything about the freak show, discovering that it was a whole new world that welcomed him just the way he is.

tags n warnings: fluff, brazilian sentences are translated here, little self insert. word count: 2.6k

A/N: It's carnival here in Brazil and I had to write something about it. The only character that came to my mind was Jimmy, my poor baby needs a holiday from that life.

Jimmy was in awe, his ankles moving awkwardly as his head followed his eyes, trying to absorb every detail of the place. He had never imagined that traveling to Brazil for such a grand party could be so fascinating. The streets were filled with people dancing with energy; the beat of the drums seemed to pulse in the heart of every reveler, while confetti and glitter danced in the wind, falling over their clothes.

But the biggest surprise of all was that no one seemed to care about his hands. Not in an indifferent way, but as if it were a normal characteristic, as if he were not a stranger. Despite the colorful costumes and unusual outfits, he didn’t feel like he was at a Halloween event. He felt, in a way he couldn’t quite explain, as if he were home.

"Oi, bonitão Dá licença aí, por favor. [Hey, handsome. Excuse me]," a woman, dressed in the feathers of an exotic bird, gently touched Jimmy's shoulder, causing him to turn quickly. The lights from the costumes reflected off the streets so intensely that it felt like they were transforming the night into day.

"What?" He stepped a bit closer, trying to understand, but the pounding music and the harsh Portuguese made communication difficult.

"Eu pedi licença, tá bloqueando o caminho. [I said excuse me, you’re blocking the way]," she spoke louder between a laughter, pointing ahead of Jimmy. It was then he realized he was standing in the middle of the path. Without hesitation, he stepped aside, watching her dance with a lightness almost ethereal, as if she were floating.

"É lindo, não é? [It’s beautiful, isn’t it?]" You interrupted Jimmy's admiration, his gaze still lost in the colors and sounds around him. He turned his face, confused, trying to grasp the message being conveyed.

You noticed the strangeness in Jimmy’s eyes, his attention clearly focused on your lips, as if he were trying to decode the words coming from them. The silence that followed made the atmosphere feel even more awkward for him, until he realized his own behavior and adjusted his beret on his head, trying to return to normal.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Portuguese,” he smiled shyly, trying to rise above the deafening music while stepping back, more aware of his personal space.

"Oh..." You exclaimed, a sudden idea popping into your head. Maybe it was the perfect moment to practice your English. "I should’ve guessed. There’s a lot of gringos this season."

Jimmy's eyes lit up, and he stepped forward, his expression brightening with recognition. “Yeah. It’s a famous party. Are you Brazilian? You speak english way better than me.”

"You’re joking, right?" You laughed, enjoying Jimmy’s ease. He seemed so at home in this place, even though he didn’t fully understand the language. "Where are you from?"

“Florida, USA. Do you know it?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about that place.” Your curiosity grew, and your eyes sparkled as you looked at him. But as you fixed your gaze on Jimmy’s hands, you noticed the hesitation in him, a small, almost imperceptible movement that betrayed discomfort he was trying to hide. Realizing this, you decided to shift the conversation to something lighter. “Do you see things like this in Florida?”

"No, nothin like that." He laughed with a mix of surprise and delight, looking up at the sky where giant dolls, tethered by ropes, floated above the crowd, and parade floats with bands of different styles passed by cheerfully.

“Me neither. I usually stay at home, but my friends convinced me to come because one band I like is here, and they were amazing.” You commented, as if the idea of going to parties and chaos was a rare thing for you.

“Wait, you live here… in Brazil, and you’re telling me you don’t enjoy all of this? That's insane.” He exclaimed, surprised, pointing at the colorful chaos around him, the party overtaking the streets with revelers flashing exuberant smiles.

"Yeah, some of us prefer to stay at home," you responded with a light, playful tone, which made Jimmy laugh, clearly more impressed by your attitude. He never imagined someone could be so relaxed in the middle of that madness.

"Hey, can I ask you something? If it's okay, of course."

"Sure." You leaned in slightly, allowing him to speak closer. Your arm brushed against his, and for a moment, Jimmy felt flustered by the closeness, as if it was something unusual for him. But when he remembered that this kind of behavior was natural in Brazil, he allowed himself to enter the conversation, leaning closer to your ear.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked, a little hesitant, afraid of being rejected because of his hands, but you smiled warmly and without hesitation.

"Sure, but the bars are closed at this hour. Only a few markets are still open." You explained, and he nodded thoughtfully, trying to find a solution. "I know a place we can hang out. Come with me." You suggested, your smile widening as you pointed in the direction for him to follow.

You held Jimmy's hand firmly, guiding him through the winding streets toward a market you remembered being open at this hour. Halfway there, your eyes widened when you saw the man with glasses closing one of the iron doors, and without a second thought, you let go of Jimmy’s hand and ran toward him.

“Ei, seu Neto. Não fecha ainda. meu amigo e eu queríamos uma cervejinha. [Hey, Mr. Neto, don’t close up yet. My friend and I are looking for a cold beer],” you called out, stepping closer to the man, who stretched his back and looked at you in surprise.

“Oh, minha linda. Tá aqui uma hora dessa? Pensei que tu era mais caseirinha. [Oh, gorgeous. You're still out at this hour? I thought you were the type to stay home],” he joked, grinning as he took a few steps toward you. In one smooth motion, he pulled you into a quick, warm hug before turning his attention to Jimmy. “E quem é esse aí contigo? É teu namorado? [And who’s this guy? Your boyfriend?]”

“He’s asking for your name,” you pointed to Jimmy, who was standing off to the side, hands shoved in his pockets, silently observing the scene around him. You noticed the slight tension in his posture—his body language subtly showing he wasn’t quite at ease with the interaction.

“Jimmy. I'm Jimmy Darling, sir. I'm from the USA... a… gringo, like you say here.” He took a step forward, offering a firm handshake, but Neto, with a mischievous grin, pulled him into a side hug instead, clapping him on the back before stepping back. “Sorry for taking your daughter,” Jimmy mumbled, his face turning a bit red as he realized his mistake. Neto let out a hearty laugh, slapping him on the back.

“O que ele falou, minha fia? [What’s he saying, darling?]” Neto raised an eyebrow, still holding Jimmy’s hand with a playful glint in his eye.

“Ele acha que sou sua filha [He thinks I’m your daughter],” you replied, laughing at the confusion on Jimmy’s face. “No, Jimmy. He’s just a guy who works here at the market. He’s not my dad.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry! I thought... You guys are so close. Sorry.” Jimmy stammered, his face flushing deeper as he realized the misunderstanding, while Neto continued to laugh, giving him another slap on the back.

“Não precisa desculpa não, amigão. Entra aí, vamo tomar uma cervejinha que é bom demais nesse calor. [No need to apologize, buddy. Come on in. Let’s have a little beer, it’s so good in this hot weather],” Neto said with a grin, making a sweeping motion toward the market. He stood between you two, guiding you both inside. “Pega aí o que cês quiserem que é por conta da casa. Ratinha nunca sai da toca, isso é motivo pra comemorar [Choose whatever you want, it's on the house. Little mouse never leaves home, this deserves a celebration.]”

“What is he saying?” Jimmy asked, leaning in closer to you, his curiosity piqued, his smile still a bit shy.

“He said it’s on the house because I stay home too much, and he’s happy that the little mouse is out partying tonight,” you explained, your eyes catching his for a brief moment as you pulled open the fridge. You felt a soft chill as your fingers brushed against the cold cans, feeling the slight hum of the night around you.

“So ‘little mouse’ is your nickname because you’re quiet?” Jimmy asked, a playful glint in his eye as he took a beer from the fridge, following you toward the door.

“Yeah. Tchau, seu Neto. Obrigada aí e bom carnaval [Bye, Mr. Neto. Thanks, and have a great carnival!]” You waved, putting a plastic bag over your shoulder, slipping the beers into it. The market was quiet, the only sounds the faint chatter and the occasional hiss of cans opening, as the three of you stood there.

“Tchau, querida. Se cuida aí fora [Bye, sweetie. Stay safe out there],” Neto called after you, adjusting his glasses and waving with both hands in a comical gesture. “Bye, my friend Jimmy. The book’s on the table.”

Jimmy tilted his head, confused, then couldn’t hold back a laugh. “What? Why did he say the book’s on the table?”

“It’s a joke when Americans come here. It’s like the first sentence we learn because of an ad. I’ll show you later,” you explained, cracking open your own beer and taking a long sip, letting the cool liquid slide down your throat. Jimmy, still trying to make sense of it all, did the same, opening his can with a smile.

“Woah, this one is good,” he exclaimed, tipping his head back and finishing his first gulp quickly, as though he was used to drinking like that.

“Hey, take it easy, big guy. The beers here are tricky. They’re sweet and taste weak, but before you know it, you’ll be passed out,” you teased, watching him closely as he gave the can a curious look.

You both walked down the street until you reached a quiet square. The music still reverberated in the air, a distant echo of the party you’d just left, but the energy here was completely different. The yellow streetlights created soft shadows, giving the place a warm, cozy atmosphere.

You sat down on a bench, and Jimmy followed suit, sitting beside you. His eyes darted around the park, marveling at the children running after a ball, others playing an impromptu game of volleyball, and some simply laughing and playing games he'd never seen before. Elderly people played chess under a tree, while women strolled by with dogs of every shape and size. The scene was so vibrant yet so ordinary—completely new to him.

It was late, but the street was still full of life. Everything felt so far removed from what he knew. He still looked around with wide-eyed wonder, a silent observer in the midst of a culture he didn’t fully understand yet somehow already felt a part of.

“Everyone is so happy here,” Jimmy said, his eyes moving over the scene, as if the energy of the people around him was seeping into him.

“Not exactly,” you sighed, taking another sip of your beer while glancing at him. “I mean, it’s a great country. It’s beautiful, full of happy people, great food—but there’s a lot of problems here. We just know how to have fun.”

“I just said that because I got here, and no one asked me what the hell is wrong with me,” he murmured, pulling off his glove and revealing his hands. You felt a wave of empathy for him and leaned in to listen better. “I ran away hoping to be anonymous, but everyone here is so nice. Like you. You didn’t say anything when you saw my hands.”

“I think you’re much more than your hands, Jimmy,” you said softly, your gaze sincere, and a small, shy smile tugged at his lips. “Besides, why the hell would anyone be mean to you because of your condition?”

“I don’t know, they just do... I’m a freak there.” He shrugged, his eyes focused on the beer can in his hand before he took another quick sip, as if trying to drown his discomfort. “Are you a freak too?”

“Aren’t we all freaks?” you smiled, gently nudging his shoulder in a playful way. “I’m usually misunderstood here because I’m really shy and quiet and don’t like to party. I’ve been called a freak several times, but I’ve noticed that everyone’s a freak in their own way. You know?”

“You don’t seem shy. Actually, you seem like a total extrovert, nailing this conversation,” he teased, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah, tell me about it. I’m shy by the standards here.” You smiled back, now looking at Jimmy with more focus, your eyes tracing the soft contours of his face. How could anyone be so cruel to someone so kind and beautiful? “Hey, where are you staying?”

“Oh, at a hotel nearby,” he pointed toward a tall building in the distance. You nodded, recognizing the place.

“I know that hotel. It’s pretty good.” You smiled, meeting his gaze once more. There was something in his eyes that made you want to know more, a kindness hidden behind the layers of uncertainty. “Hey, if you don’t have anything to do tomorrow, you could come over to my house. My family would love to meet you.”

“Wait, seriously?” He seemed surprised, his face lighting up with a wide grin. He looked at you as if still unsure whether you were being serious. “Won’t they find it weird, a gringo with strange hands coming over?”

“Relax, it’s fine. They’ll love you. You’re way kinder than most boys in my neighborhood,” you joked, making a sweeping gesture around you as if comparing him to every guy in your neighborhood. “So, we’ll meet here at ten, and we can have lunch at my house. My family is making a big barbecue to celebrate the holiday.”

“Lunch? Oh, God. I’m in,” he laughed, raising his hand for a high five. The connection between you both was palpable when your hands met, a brief but meaningful touch that made Jimmy’s heart skip a beat. “Hey, can you at least tell me your name so I don’t keep calling you ‘little pretty mouse’?”

You felt a little flattered by the nickname. “Pretty, huh? You’re starting to sound like a local, Jimmy.”

“C’mon, you know you’re pretty. You’ve got this insufferable charm in your eyes; it’s gorgeous.” He complimented you, giving a playful wink that made you laugh, his charm hard to resist.

“I like you, Jimmy. I hope you can really make it here with us,” you said softly, and your words seemed to touch him deeply. He felt a warmth in his chest, like a soft light was igniting inside him. His hand went to his cap, lifting it off his head, his fingers running through his hair with a shy smile.

“Just don’t get too pissed if I show up at your house unannounced, okay? I’m kinda clingy,” he teased, shrugging casually, his eyes full of that easygoing warmth.

“I’m used to it.” You shot back with a smile, leaning in for an awkward hug over the bench. Jimmy hesitated for a split second, but then placed his hand gently on your back, ruffling your hair in a tender gesture. It was like, in that moment, he had finally found his place—where he belonged. This was the place he had been searching for all along.

A quiet silence settled between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable; it was a moment of mutual understanding, a silent exchange of acceptance and the promise of new possibilities. Under the soft streetlights, with the distant echo of the party, Jimmy felt a stirring in his chest, like maybe life could be different here. Maybe, for the first time, he could find the peace and belonging he had been chasing all his life.

[foxydemon666]

Another message for all the gravity falls theorists: don’t forget to take breaks every now and then, from decoding the book of bill. There are hundreds of secrets hiding within that book, it’s probably going to take us a couple of months if not years to fully find and decode all of it. Please don’t give yourself burnout!

[aoelustious]

hi yes i’m back with another unhinged self-drag because apparently my favorite hobby is psychoanalyzing myself in public and calling it “processing.” anyway. let’s talk about how i am a paradox in a trench coat with 37 unresolved issues and an alarming amount of self-awareness.

i want to be included so bad. i want to be chosen. not casually. not “oh yeah you can come if you want.” no. i want to be the person someone thinks of first. i want to be the name people text when they’re putting a group together. i want to be missed when i’m not there. i want someone to say “where’s ___?” and sound a little sad about it.

but also? if you try to get too close to me without a signed emotional contract, i will flinch like you just swung a sword at me. i will back away, mentally scan you for threat levels, and assign you a vague social label like “acquaintance” so that if you hurt me later i can say “it’s fine we weren’t even that close.” i crave closeness and also emotionally bench anyone who tries to get close. i am a friend collector with trust issues. i hoard love and ration vulnerability like i’m preparing for the apocalypse.

and don’t even get me started on object permanence. if you’re not actively talking to me or standing within 10 feet of me, i will literally forget you exist. like my brain closes the tab. you’re not even in the recently opened section. it’s not personal—it’s just that i am running on 2 brain cells, 6 existential crises, and no working short-term memory. BUT!!! the moment i remember you again i’ll be like “wow they don’t even talk to me anymore. guess they hate me.” like i’m not the one who disappeared.

i want people to chase me, but i’m also emotionally evasive and weirdly selective about who gets to be in my space. i want unconditional love but also want to feel like i earned it. i want you to want me but i also want to feel superior to you for wanting me. i’m not a red flag i’m a red constellation blinking in the dark like a warning system even i can’t decode.

i cry when i’m left out but roll my eyes when someone gets too emotionally close. i long for a group chat where i feel safe but refuse to engage in one unless it was handcrafted by God and curated to my exact sense of humor and trauma compatibility. i am touch-starved but intimacy-repellent. i am a warm smile guarding a locked vault. i am the life of the party and also the emotionally withholding cryptid in the corner refreshing my texts like a feral raccoon looking for scraps of proof that i matter.

no you can’t sit with me. yes i want you to beg. no i won’t start the conversation. yes i’ll be sad if you don’t. no i won’t call you my friend. yes i’ll be devastated if you don’t call me yours.

anyway, i love you, please don't leave me, but also don't expect me to initiate. or remember birthdays. or answer texts unless you double-message. or maintain object permanence. or be consistent in any capacity whatsoever. i am but a glitching tamagotchi of a person with too many tabs open and no notifications turned on.

[j0eyj0rdis0n]

SONGS THAT REMIND ME OF THE CREEPS

with playlists (ofc)

MASKY

Happy Pills - Weathers

Heavydirtysoul - Twenty One Pilots

Trouble - Cage the Elephant

Morph - Twenty one Pilots

Down In A Hole - Alice in Chains

Numb - Linkin Park

Breaking the Habit - Linkin Park

This Is How I Disappear - My Chemical Romance

Stalker - Badflower

Duality - Set It Off

HOODIE

Another Way Out - Hollywood Undead

Fairly Local - Twenty One Pilots

Message Man - Twenty One Pilots

Sucker for Pain - Various Artists

My Blood - Twenty One Pilots

Cut My Lip - Twenty One Pilots

Breezeblocks - altJ

Nearly Witches (Ever Since We Met…) - Panic! At The Disco

Hypnotized - Set It Off

Church - Fall Out Boy

“TICCI” TOBY

Don’t You Dare Forget The Sun - Get Scared

Medicine - Hollywood Undead

I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead - Set It Off

Pain - Three Days Grace

Keep Myself Alive - Get Scared

Never Too Late - Three Days Grace

Animal I Have Become - Three Days Grace

Horrible Kids - Set It Off

Mama - My Chemical Romance

Back from the Dead - Skillet

CLOCKWORK

Shatter Me - Lindsey Sterling, Lizzy Hale

Decode - Paramore

I’m So Sick - Flyleaf

I Miss the Misery - Halestorm

Enemy - Imagine Dragons, JID

Playground - Bea Miller

Catch Me If You Can - Set It Off

Ironic - Alanis Morissette

Rhiannon - Fleetwood Mac

Body Talks - The Struts, Kesha

EYELESS JACK

From The Ground - Hollywood Undead

Get Out Alive - Three Days Grace

Monster - Skillet

Dead Bite - Hollywood Undead

The Phoenix - Fall Out Boy

My Demons - STARSET

Sarcasm - Get Scared

Pet - A Perfect Circle

Somewhere I Belong - Linkin Park

Twisted Transistor - Korn

JEFF THE KILLER

Chalk Outline - Three Days Grace

So Called Life - Three Days Grace

I Can’t Decide - Scissor Sisters

Killer - The Ready Set

Sweet Dreams (Are Made Of This) - Marilyn Manson

Kill Everyone - Hollywood Undead

A Little Piece of Heaven - Avenged Sevenfold

To Catch a Predator - Insane Clown Posse

Dark Side - Blind Channel

Just Pretend - Bad Omens

JANE THE KILLER

Bring Me To Life - Evanescence

Damage - Fit For Rivals

Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge

Tourniquet - Marilyn Manson

Unbreakable - Fireflight

I’m Gonna Show You Crazy - Bebe Rexha

Hit and Run - LOLO

Get Jinxed - Djerv

La Seine - Vanessa Paradis

Let’s Kill Tonight - Panic! At The Disco

NINA THE KILLER

Heather - Conan Gray

Get Well - Icon For Hire

Oh No! - MARINA

Pretty Little Psycho - Porcelain Black

Partners in Crime - Set It Off, Ash Costello

Backstabber - Kesha

DONTTRUSTME - 3OH!3

You’re So Creepy - Ghost Town

This Little Girl - Cady Groves

Guys My Age - Hey Violet

BEN DROWNED

Turbulent - Waterparks

Pretty Fly (For A White Guy) - The Offspring

Dirty Mind - 3OH!3

Riot - Hollywood Undead

oops! - Yung Gravy

Fashionably Late - Falling In Reverse

parents - YUNGBLUD

Hell of a Ride - Bo Burnham

Teeth - 5 Seconds of Summer

Bad Girls Club - Falling In Reverse

SALLY WILLIAMS

Hayloft - Mother Mother

Tag, You’re It - Melanie Martinez

Little Game - Benny

Teen Idle - MARINA

Where Do I Go - Anna Blue

Silent Scream - Anna Blue

Lolita - Lana Del Rey

Dollhouse - Melanie Martinez

All The Things She Said - Poppy

Burning Pile - Mother Mother

[mattlvr03]

Something, Somehow, Someday

Matt Sturniolo

Genre: Soft angst / slow-burn romance

Chapter 2: The Way You Looked at Me

The night after the roof of the car, Matt couldn’t sleep.

He lay in his bed, hoodie still smelling like your perfume — faint but maddening — and stared at the cracks in his ceiling like they were constellations he couldn’t decode.

You had said, “Then be scared with me.”

And he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

But fear had a funny way of sounding louder than feelings. It always had.

Matt had never been good at this — not the romance part, but the letting himself be seen part. He was the type to laugh through the pain, to make a joke before letting a thought sit too long. Vulnerability was something he’d only ever shown to his brothers, and even then, only in pieces.

You saw through that.

He hated how easily you read him. How one look from you — that tilted-head, soft-eyed kind of look — made him feel like maybe he wasn’t as broken as he believed he was.

But he also hated how good he was at messing things up.

The night you met, he thought you were just another cool person he'd talk to for an hour and forget by morning. But something about the way you carried yourself — effortlessly detached, but still deeply present — stuck with him. You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just were.

And that terrified him.

So he did what he always did: played it safe. Kept the lines blurry. Gave you just enough to stay, but never enough to really fall.

Until the night on the roof.

You sat beside him, knees tucked close, like you were trying to hold yourself together. And when you said “Then be scared with me,” it was the first time someone gave him permission to not have it all figured out.

He wanted to kiss you then. He almost did. He would’ve — if his fear hadn’t choked him out right when you looked up at him with those goddamn eyes.

Instead, he just held your pinky with his.

Tiny gesture. Huge moment.

And now here he was, hours later, wide awake, with your words echoing louder than any song on his playlist.

He grabbed his phone. Opened your messages.

Typed: “You still up?”

Deleted it.

Typed again: “Thinking about tonight.”

Deleted that too.

Finally, he sent a voice memo.

His voice cracked a little. “Hey. I don’t know if you’re awake, but… thanks. For saying what you did. For not running when I suck at being clear. I wanna try. I’m just slow. But I wanna try — with you.”

He hit send, tossed the phone to the side, and stared at the ceiling again.

Because trying was the scariest thing he’d ever done.

But for you?

Maybe, somehow, someday…

It’d be worth it.

A/N: holy chalupas I got 15 notes and counting. What the frick (Ik it’s not alot but BOY AM I PROUD FOR MY FIRST FIC)

@mattspillowprincess 🤓

[myfairkatiecat]

ok so I read the first tmbs book cuz I saw it in my school library (state testing) and I’m not done but I have some thoughts

Constance is so insufferable, like idc if she’s’ ‘crucial to the mission’ or whatever shit Mr. Benedict had up the wazoo, she’s still really annoying. However, that could be a cool vantage point for character growth. Also the whole idea of special children being chosen was kind of pretentious in my opinion, but I may have misinterpreted it, with the kids just being alone and that’s what made them special, so in that case I like the ‘alone’ interpretation better. I adore Kate, she’s such an interesting character.

I feel like Mr. Benedict knows more about that one guy (bodyguard, forget his name) than he’s letting on. Sticky also has room for character development, which is great and I can’t wait to see it. However, I feel like Reynie is kind of a Mary Sue, and his backstory is kind of boring compared to the others. I do wanna hear your thoughts though. I’m on pg. 130, so no spoilers please!

Constance is fascinating. She goes through the craziest and wackiest developments of them all, but I would definitely say she grows as a character as well. She’s also… young. Really young. But I shan’t spoil.

The kids were chosen because they were alone and needed a team, and also because they don’t watch tv/radio and therefore they don’t get the secret messages delivered to their brains. Additionally, they all have something specific to offer! Kate has all the street smarts, Constance is… you’ll see eventually, Sticky has encyclopedic knowledge, and Reynie is a riddle solver. People who have a weakness for competency would definitely love this series because they each are astounding at what they do individually, but what makes them a good team is they have to lean on each other. The others don’t have Kate’s acrobatic abilities or street smarts. They’re knowledgeable but don’t have sticky’s photographic memory. Reynie’s ability to decode and solve riddles sets him apart with a special form of intelligence. I can’t spoil Constance yet—it’s just too good!!

They all passed the test in different ways. Kate with her distraction method that showed incredible on-the-fly thinking, Constance with her obstinance and refusal to follow rules (which, admittedly, is a good trait to have when going into the evil boarding school), Reynie by figuring out the test was a puzzle, and Sticky by knowing impossible facts.

Hm. I wouldn’t say Reynie is a Mary sue, but I also wouldn’t say TMBS is big on exploring character flaws and complexities in the main cast (aside from in their backstories, which are all fascinating). Reynie is an interesting character to me, but remember, part of his character description is that he’s perfectly average in every way except for his untapped intelligent mind, of which he is perfectly unaware until the series begins. He grows into his role as he gains more confidence in his abilities and intelligence!

I would say these are fascinating thoughts and that I recommend you keep reading. It’s a fantastic book series. I hope you enjoy the rest!

[durarara-brain-rot]

pssst... do u mind sparing some shizuo hcs for the class? mine are:

- he can't watch any shows with overly-philosophical ramblings because they remind him of izaya (death note kinda and eternal sunshine of the spotless mind)

- this might actually be canon but bro ONLY wears a scarf with his bartender suit in the snow

- cat person? dog person? he's neither. he probably likes bunnies or mice... despite the fact that he gets associated with dogs a lot...

- he's touch starved.

I have many head canons about Shizuo!

- 10000% touch starved

- I feel like depending on how cold it is he might add a sweater or a beanie on over the bartender outfit. How ever when he’s in his normal clothes outside of work (the few times he wears them) I feel like he would bundle up a bit. Scarf, sweater, beanie, gloves, boots!

- I think he’s an animal person in general because they don’t stress him out. How ever I don’t think he would ever own an animal because he’d be too scared to hurt the animal. If he does get one after some therapy I feel like he’d adopt like a stray animal or like an animal would just break into his apartment.

- I believe a guilty pleasure of his is watching cartoons he used to watch as a kid with his brother! I don’t think he watches much tv but if he can’t calm down I think he does have to play

- I feel like Shizuo likes how he looks in the color red mainly cause of the bow tie he has and the fact that a lot of art have him wearing the color but I feel like he actually likes the color blue and yellow more

- Since Shizuo’s Japanese voice actor can sing you bet your ass I’m head canoning he can too but he is too shy to do it in any major way so he mainly hums and sings along to songs in the privacy of his apartment. I feel like he accidentally forgot Celty was visiting once and started singing along to a song or humming and she was stunned and he was so embarrassed he made her promise not to tell anyone

- He forgets how tall he is sometimes and smacks his head on things. This leads him to being extra self conscious and aware when he’s around shorter/smaller people or kids and is why he usually crouches down to their level so he doesn’t scare them.

- absolutely wants a family but doesn’t think he deserves one or would be a good partner or parent so he just lets that dream curl up in a corner of his mind

- can not dance to save his life but will bop his head back and forth a bit when he really likes a song.

- this one might be projecting but I feel like he’s like me where medication doesn’t work because he naturally has a high tolerance for it. Really sucked for him when he was breaking his bones!

- after he starts to get control of his anger and strength he starts to get muscle and joint pain from years of abuse catching up, needs to wear knee braces on really bad days.

- was so excited to have a little brother when he was a kid and then almost dropped him the first chance he got to hold him. He still thinks about it sometimes and feels guilty. Sends his brother a text to check in when he does.

- Speaking of texts this man hates emojis and gets pissed trying to decode Shinra’s messages. Erika gets a pass because she is too straight forward with her emoji use. And when she’s not she explains it before he can even ask.

- has butt dialed about all of his friends the second he got a smart phone because he can’t remember to put a password on his phone and he moves around a lot so it gets jostled easy.

- doesn’t drink like at all because he doesn’t like the taste and is scared he’ll be a mean drunk but was once convinced to try some fruity drinks that he liked… he’s a lightweight with alcohol some how and got wasted. Was a very giddy and happy drunk and everyone agreed to treasure the moment and to never tell him in hopes he’d drink again. He still has not drank a single drop since.

- a girl once confessed to him in highschool and he thought she was making fun of him and just walked away without saying a word. Was labeled cruel after that and girls avoided him like the plague after that.

I could go on but I won’t cause this is already a lot!

If you ever want to request head canons or even one shots I’m open to them! It might take a minute but I’ll get on them as soon as possible! I love durarara so much and I miss writing and talking about it!

[slavicviking]

In the fall of 1983, Nancy Wheeler rejects Steve Harrington, thus sparing him from the terrifying world of the Upside Down. Until Summer of 1985, that is, when what was supposed to be mind-numbingly boring two months of slinging ice cream promptly turns into a task of decoding a secret Russian message with his two closest friends and a strange kid that never shuts up. Or, an alternative universe in which Steve Harrington gets to live his normal life for an additional year and a half, grow as a person, make new friends and fall in love along the way.

Project 212 for @steddiebang ❤️

author: @slavicviking

artist: @hullomoon

betas: @humangerbil, @lemoneight

↓ Read the snippet from the first chapter below ↓

Something strange is happening in the Royal Court of Hawkins High.

It’s in the air, Eddie can smell it walking down the cramped hallways,can feel the tension weighing down on the flakey paint scrubbed down the walls, pulling all the way down into the concrete floor below. Something is off, Eddie detects it in the fervid anticipation setting electric jolts at his fingertips. It tends to bring anything but good news for folks like him. Eddie is still curious.

The jocks seem even more intent on hating themselves and those around them. It’s clear in the way they impressively compensate for what they lack with bull-like posturing, shoulders set straight and rigid, lips molded into a permanent scowl that you can barely see with the way they keep their heads shoved so deep down their own asses. A dense cloud composed solely of varsity jackets sits itself at the usual table in the middle of the cafeteria, something that surprises no one except for the fact that one key element is missing.

Steve Harrington walks into the room a moment later, looking as though he’s seeing it for the first time in his life (maybe, in a way he is, his recent absence there has been noted), and instead of making a beeline towards his loyal subjects, sits himself by the only empty table, just next to Eddie’s DnD club, Hellfire.

Eddie silently raises one eyebrow at the rest of his table. Mutiny? Lover’s quarrel?

Whatever it is, it bounces from Hagan to Harrington and back, though it’s Hagan who seems intent on making his disdain and superiority known more than anyone else. 

Eddie wants to laugh. For the sake of keeping his face arranged the way God intended, he does not.

“Word on the street’s that Harrington got kicked out of the basketball team,” Jeff unsubtly whispers in lieu of an explanation, hand cupped around his mouth loosely.

Huh, is Eddie’s only thought but, the lunch break goes on and as much as he’d deny it till his last dying breath, his eyes are glued to Harrington’s measly form peeking from between Jeff and Grant. A part of him that he would like to bury deep within himself, that betrays the Munson Doctrine’s complete and total disregard to jocks and their inconsequential drama, feels…a bit bad for Steve Harrington. Eddie would like to forget that thought crossed his mind at all but, alas, the pathetic way in which Harrington’s usually perfectly puffy hair falls lifelessly over dark eyebags does something horrible and unexpected to his squishy insides. He does not like it one bit.

So – what? One popular guy doesn’t get what he wants this one time and Eddie should care…why?

Cry me a river.  

Except, Eddie can’t do that. Maybe because he knows how much it sucks to be suddenly so alienated and excluded from people he thought were his friends. Maybe because he can empathize with Harrington losing something he clearly enjoyed doing. Maybe simply because, at that moment, Steve Harrington doesn’t resemble the King Steve who roamed around Hawkins High for three years, head held too high to notice what his newest pair of sneakers trampled on his way to the top. Eddie looks at him, hunched and defensive, and sees something of himself there, too. Not all good but not all bad either.

Steve Harrington is no freak by any means, don’t get him wrong. He doesn’t belong to the Eddie Munsons of this world but, as things stand right now, he doesn’t fit in with Tommy Hagans either. It’s very strange and it seems that, on the following days, the whole school feels slightly off kilter. Harrington stands out like a sore thumb as much as he clearly wishes to be invisible - and isn’t that a thought to mull over in itself. Eddie can’t look away; maybe because, for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington doesn’t seem so terribly dull and lifeless, and Eddie wants to sink his teeth into him, see what flavor it gives now that he seems to have one. 

Tension builds, more and more, like a rubber band ready to snap.

And it does, of course it does. It had to. Eddie just didn’t expect to be in such close vicinity when it happens.

[beacarrot]

Dirty Loves.

You say you're sorry,

But your songs aren't sadder than mine,

So what if they think it was just a short time?

There’s a scar, right in my sternum,

That I covered with ink, with a tatto on a night of excess,

A drunk night,

When I turned eighteen, that alone would be equally eternal, l'd think our love would be blessed,

I swear I see it in my mind,

Walking low, hiding your pride,

"You’re almost sick," you’d reply,

In a daydream behind the lies,

So tell your friends it’s all the same,

It’s winter, like every another game,

You walk past streetlights, nothing's changed,

With the soundtrack of bursts,

Your mind in self-sabotage mode announces a shooting at every step closer to me,

And that’s the issue with dirty loves...

The answering machine's gone silent,

No longer takes messages from my end of the state,

I wonder if it’s too late to repent?

Is it too early to let go for good?

They’re talking marriage, misunderstood,

Sipping bitter coffee, lost in the wind,

The altar, the veil,

"Forever I'll love you," written, but it's just a fucking pretend,

Yeah, maybe I should tie the knot,

Married,

But it’s not her, and that’s your the spot,

And you know what?

I wish it were her, it’d be less of a fight,

Love without having to blow out every candle,

To love you without dimming the light,

But I have irons in my fists and a gag between my teeth,

And I know I’ll still feel each of them being pulled out.

So grab the typewriter, write it down,

And write twenty pages of poems that would go to the bonfire if we were in 1842,

More ten that’d make us drown.

I’m here, naked, tell me true:

Does it hurt you like it hurts me?

I’m here, hopeless, burning slowly, trying to see,

Did fate always hate us both?

Did you never take the promised affection?

Did you never feel the love we had?

Blame the world, your problems, the gods above, but don’t make it bad.

So is it true, a tale poorly spun,

Is a tragedy delayed, and we’re done?

Cover me gently with the cloak of all your addictive lies,

I have a feeling you don’t care for all the precious stones I gave up for us...

Each price that only my side was willing to pay,

That only me bore,

You were scared, I had a passion about to overflow, and I wanted more,

And that’s the issue with dirty loves.

I can’t think straight, but I wish you well,

Be happy,

Just not happier than you were with me,

No like you were with me,

Go find someone,

Twist the knife,

Soften the blade, yeah, do it,

Break the cup into millions of pieces,

Let the glass cut my heart lethally,

Put that ring in her palm tonight,

I don’t hate her, but save a bite,

Save one of the fingers to honor me.

Yeah, I hope you’re happy, it’s bittersweet,

Even if it didn’t end as we’d meet.

I can’t let you go,

Can’t touch you now,

When I think I’m in control,

There’s always something coming,

I can’t forget you,

But what if I could?

I can’t forget, but what if I tried?

Rolling in lies, where dreams collide,

A lonely faith,

Your haunted departure,

My summer eyes, my spark that was only yours,

You’re the love of my life,

But I’m not yours...

The seat is cold, I look down low,

I can’t hang with friends,

They’re yours too,

It should be easy, just a little wall,

But every every narrowed gaze, feels like a fall,

Every crossed word, every unspoken comment,

I stopped everything just to carry on,

I paused to read what’s left behind,

But I read the lyrics kept in the "unfinished songs" folder,

Lyrics in one more folder, twisted and blind,

We knew they’d never be decoded,

Memories captured, love eroded,

The old times,

I wander the city, trying to mend,

Waiting for dust to settle just to throw myself onto it again,

Losing my mind, but never finding my soul,

The one you kidnapped just for yourself,

When you still had me in your palm,

Over every crooked line of your hand.

What was I supposed to do?

Can you fix things when all you see are cracks?

Next year, will you wish me happy birthday?

Will you even care?

How can you forget how we almost had it all?

Every silent "I love you"...

How can you not miss me still?

How can you not recall the thrill?

How do you not miss St. Ermin's Hotel?

My view under the lights of room 1428,

How that eager boy,

Turned into such a cowardly man?

How didn’t you leave me a trace?

Now I’m exposed, not ready to face,

And the feathers that covered our Achilles' heels?

Now I’m back, open for any backstab,

What will I do with that note so cruel?

You loved me first,

But I loved you more,

You fell for me, swearing until your death,

But it was me who fell harder,

And that’s my view,

I’ll still see this until the day I die,

I’ll carry this weight till my last breath,

And when each heartbeat fades away, and there’ll be no regret,

I gave you my all, still think it’s slight,

I killed my ego, and still think not everything was buried,

As if somewhere inside me this isn’t completely finished,

So I look at this writing,

And I can’t get out of bed,

Because now something is dead...

I’m dirty,

You’re dirty,

And all we are together is a dirty affair,

It’s true,

We’re just a case of blue,

And green maybe,

A dirty love,

And that’s the issue with dirty loves.

(This poem is not about me, not even close. It is about people I know from afar, from a beautiful, sad, confusing and never 100% confirmed story. Putting myself in the point of view of a narrator who tells his feelings in the first person that is not me was exciting and challenging. It was like imagining the situation that was given and the "characters" and thinking "What would he say about this situation?". And to be honest, I was even impressed with the result.)

Signed: Beatriz Ranzonni 🩵.