#Link Between Personality and Handwriting

[forensicfield]

Handwriting And Personality

The technique of #handwriting can reveal an individual's #personality traits through #graphology. Features such as baseline, slant, and pressure can provide insights into #emotional state and #psychological condition. Authored by Madhurima Chatterjee

Continue reading Handwriting And Personality

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

ৎ୭. . . REVENANT ─── Bruce Wayne & Batfamily

Silly Little Bat

⊹ ٬  Headcanon. In a dark mansion, a broken doll becomes the reflection of a man who has lost everything. Bruce Wayne, trapped in his pain, embraces it as a substitute for the irretrievable, while his family watches in horror and desperation. The line between obsession and sanity blurs, and the war for the truth erupts, each word cutting deeper.

⊹ ٬  Word Count.  2,18k

⊹ ٬  Content. MDNI. Dark themes, violence/death, blood, family war, trauma, invasion of privacy, kidnapping (of a doll), Angst, disturbing content, corruption, isolation, paranoia, manipulation, emotional abuse, family conflict, abuse of power, emotional manipulation.

「 a person who has returned,

especially supposedly from the dead. 」

When the doll appeared, no one knew where it had come from. It was in an elaborate package, an impeccable wrapping, with a bow that seemed intended to disguise the horror it contained. The note, written in a handwriting that seemed familiar, read: “For Bruce Wayne.”

Alfred was the first to notice the package. He didn’t want to touch it, but in the end, he did. What else could he do? When he opened it, the expression on his face changed from curiosity to a mix of confusion and dread. He couldn’t help but let out a breath, his gaze fixed on the contents.

“What’s wrong, Alfred? Is it something about Y/N?” Bruce asked, a trace of hope still lingering in his voice.

But as Bruce approached, that hope vanished as quickly as it had come. What he saw before him was more terrifying than any monster he could have imagined.

It was her. Or rather, the cruelest version of what she had been. A doll so identical to Y/N that it seemed as if life itself had been condensed into a piece of plastic, fabric, and hair. The same clothes she had worn on her first arrival at the mansion. Her disheveled hair, as if the chaos of those difficult days had become embedded in her locks. But above all, that empty look, of abandonment, of desolation, as if the only thing left of Y/N was her shadow, trapped in that object.

It was an echo of tragedy, a cruel caricature of that moment when he lost his parents. A macabre mockery.

Bruce’s throat tightened, but he didn’t allow his face to soften. He stood frozen, staring at her, until his body succumbed to a spiral he couldn’t control. Memories assaulted him mercilessly. The dark street. The shadows that enveloped him as his parents fell, helpless to do anything. The violence of that moment, the anguish that still dragged him down, the pain that never left.

Bruce slumped in his chair in the Batcave, turning his face away so Alfred wouldn’t see him. His chest heaved, and with trembling hands, he embraced the doll. He squeezed it desperately, as if it were the only link he had left to the past, to her, to the girl he had once been. He held it as if he could, for an instant, relive those days when everything seemed to make sense.

He cried silently. Tears fell like an invisible river, but the sound that accompanied his weeping was the same as that of a broken city. And so, for a second, he felt like a child again.

Alfred, with a dull expression, left quietly, but he saw it. He saw how that doll was the last drop that spilled Bruce Wayne's sanity.

What Alfred couldn’t foresee, what he couldn’t even imagine, was what happened the next day. When he entered the dining room, while setting the table with the usual routine, he saw Bruce. It was not the upright posture of a man facing the day, but that of someone who had fallen into an invisible trap. With a disturbing stillness, Bruce placed one more plate on the table. A plate that didn’t fit, that didn’t belong in the place it was meant to be. Next to his place, he set it down. The doll.

The butler observed in silence, unsure if what he saw was a macabre joke or the manifest pain of a broken man. The doll was now dressed in clean clothes, her hair neatly arranged with a meticulous care that could only have come from the hand of someone who had too much time to think, too much time to feel. He doubted Bruce was the one who had arranged it, but in the end, he was the only one who knew of its existence. The only one who knew that emptiness.

When the kids arrived, their gazes fell upon the doll. There weren’t many words, just murmurs in low voices, comments under their breaths, attempts to ignore it. But there was something in the atmosphere, a tension that filled it with a presence that refused to be silenced. Everyone, except Damian.

When the little one entered the room, he saw it, and his eyes widened. His gaze didn’t reflect confusion, but pure disdain. As if something in his mind had exploded, as if that scene had become the manifestation of everything he didn’t understand, everything that terrified him.

“What the hell is that thing?” he roared with venom, his voice piercing like a sharp dagger. He looked at his father, then at everyone else at the table with an indomitable fury. “Who was the jokester who dared to make that stupid replica of my sister?”

The air tensed, and time seemed to stand still for a second. Damian's rage was like thunder, but no one was willing to respond. There were no words. However, Bruce's response came as a deadly whisper, cold and definitive, an answer that was for no one but himself, for that abyss within his soul that had always swallowed his fears.

“It’s not a thing,” he said, his voice tinged with an unsettling calm, a calm that froze everything around him. “It’s Y/N. And sit down and shut up. She’s bothered by loud noises.”

The room fell into an absolute silence. No more words. No attempts to contradict him. The others didn’t dare to breathe, as if the air itself could ignite and consume them. Everyone looked down, unable to face the truth hidden in the delicately dressed figure, a figure that represented more than just a toy. It was a reflection of Bruce's desperation, a reminder of the deep cracks that had never healed.

The glass of milk that Bruce poured with a too-calculated precision on the table was not just for the doll. It was an offering. An attempt to feed what could no longer be nourished. The mansion, so big and empty, felt even lonelier in that moment, like a labyrinth with no exit. The anxiety that hung in the air was not just from those present. Bruce was trapped in his own cycle of pain. And the doll, the damned doll, was the only one who understood him.

The others, though silent, understood: the thread that held Bruce wasn't visible, but it was on the verge of breaking.

Days slipped by like shadows, each dragging with it a sense of unease and growing anxiety. The doll was no longer a novelty. It had become just another presence in Wayne Manor, as if it had been there all along, as if its existence was natural. Wherever Bruce went, she was there. In the office, in the Batcave, her small figure sat there, still, with the unsettling perfection of someone who could not move on her own. Though her face held no expression, the doll “played” like a lost child in a world she didn’t understand, simulating a normality that didn’t exist.

During breakfasts, snacks, and dinners, the doll occupied a special place next to Bruce. Her glass of milk, always empty, always vacant. The milk slid down her plastic lips, like a routine, as if it were a ritual that could not be interrupted. Sometimes, Bruce tucked her in to sleep, his trembling hands as he draped the blanket over her. The gesture was strange, almost paternal, but beneath that apparent calm, his mind was a whirlwind.

At first, he thought it would all end there. Bruce and the doll, a tacit agreement between them. The others would search for the real Y/N, the one who should be out there, lost, missing. But, as always in his life, things were never simple, never stayed in place.

It was a gray morning, one in which Bruce couldn’t help but feel trapped in the same cycle of anguish. As every day, the doll was at the table, by his side, with her glass of milk, but something was wrong. Alfred, upon entering the living room, was the first to notice it. A sound, a fragility, as if everything that had been built around the doll had shattered.

When he saw it, his heart stopped for a second. The doll was broken. Her porcelain body was cracked, her hair disheveled, her face a distorted grimace that it had never had before. And there it was, in the middle of the living room, like a brutal reminder of what was happening, of what Bruce had created.

The air cut sharply. A deadly tension spread through the house, as if a bomb was about to explode. Bruce, upon seeing the doll, said nothing. His breathing became heavy, his eyes fixated on the doll's cracks, as if that fracture were a reflection of his own broken self. Something inside him crumbled.

And then, the war began. It was not a war of weapons, nor of blows. It was a psychological war, a war of unresolved emotions and guilt. The members of the Wayne family, those who knew him better than anyone, began to speak. The words crossed, like daggers thrown mercilessly.

“What the hell have you done, Bruce?” Dick said, his voice tense, marked by a mix of fury and concern. “You’re losing control.”

Damian, with disdain in his eyes, looked at the broken doll. “Do you think you can replace Y/N with this? With that?” His voice was cold, cutting. “It’s just a piece of plastic."

Barbara, on the other hand, remained silent, but her eyes spoke more than a thousand words. She knew what was happening, saw the imminent collapse in Bruce. No one dared to say it out loud, but they all knew: Bruce was not just searching for Y/N. He was searching for a way to save himself.

“It’s just a doll!” Tim shouted, the rage evident in his tone. “It’s not going to bring her back!”

But Bruce, with his gaze lost on the broken doll, couldn’t hear. His mind, tormented by guilt, pain, and anxiety, couldn’t process any more. “She’s here,” he murmured, almost like a prayer. “She’s here with me. She’s always been here.”

And Bruce broke.

The war was not about the doll. It was about the pain, about the inability to accept the irreparable. Bruce was fighting against his own demons, a battle that no one could win. The doll, in its broken state, was just a reflection of the fractures that already existed within him. And now, they were all trapped in the same spiral, in the same darkness that he had created

Note ───── This story came to me as an anonymous request, something unexpected but incredibly interesting. I had never heard of such dolls before, but there's something unsettling about the idea that an inanimate object could carry so much emotional weight. As I wrote, I couldn't help but imagine Bruce at his most fragile, holding that doll as if it were all that remained of his humanity.

And honestly, I was more than sure that Bruce would crucify the Batkids for what they did to the doll, especially Damian. He was the one who, in some way, broke it, an act that would only multiply Bruce's guilt. The Batkids would surely never forget that day.

[rottenpumpkin13]

I'm trying to categorize Sephiroth's handwriting using those "what your handwriting says about you" charts bc I'm curious, and here's what I got:

Inconsistent letter size, inconsistency in general: when handwriting flips between large and small, neat and messy it suggests sensitivity to outside stimuli, emotional modulation issues, maybe still sorting through leftover childhood stuff.

Slashing i's instead of dotting them: super self-critical (😭). No patience for failure, especially in themselves, but also probably in others who keep making the same mistakes, I'm guessing it means they're not a people-person. Allergic to incompetence in general.

Wide spacing between letters: craves freedom, hates being crowded, mentally or physically. Wide spacing and disconnected letters can also be a rebellion thing, like someone who was taught to connect their letters but decided nope.

Pointed letters: sharp mind, sharper temper, linked to intelligence, curiosity, intensity.

Narrow "e" loops: not the type to be easily influenced, tends to be skeptical of others and doesn't get swept up in emotional nonsense, trust issues, would not be swayed by another person's emotions.

Closed o's: secretive, reserved, introverted as hell. Doesn't talk about feelings unless dragged through glass.

[axeeglitter]

Christmas exchange 2024: An odd meet and greet

It was Christmas morning, and Evan couldn’t believe his luck. After weeks of entering an online giveaway hosted by none other than Jake Andrich, he’d received the grand prize: a jockstrap worn by his idol. The package had arrived just in time, wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address, adding to its mystique.

Evan was an ordinary guy; someone you might pass on the street without a second glance. At 28, he had a lean but unremarkable build, the kind that came from walking to work and occasionally hitting the gym, though never with much consistency. His dark blonde hair was perpetually messy, no matter how much he tried to style it, and his hazel eyes often seemed to wander, reflecting his shy and introspective nature. Evan wasn’t the life of the party, nor was he the wallflower, he existed somewhere in between, a middle ground of normalcy. He had always been kind-hearted, if a little awkward, and his track record in relationships reflected his struggle to put himself out there. Forever single and hesitant to take risks, Evan spent more time admiring from afar than engaging.

As Evan unwrapped the package, his hands trembled. The jockstrap was immaculately clean but carried a faint, musky scent, a tangible link to the man he admired and fantasize about. An enclosed note, written in Jake’s bold handwriting, simply read, “Enjoy.” The casual tone sent a thrill through Evan; it was as if Jake had personally acknowledged him.

Evan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the item. His heart pounded with excitement and nervousness. This was more than just a piece of clothing, it felt like a gateway to something greater. Unable to resist the pull, he decided to try it on. The fabric felt strange against his skin, warm, almost alive, as though it were pulsing with energy. Evan was getting hard just thinking about his cock touching the fabric Jake’s cock had touch and cum inside. It was a dream came true.

As he as getting more and more chubbed up inside the way too large jockstrap, Evan felt a thirst growing in him, getting stronger and stronger. He got up and went to the bathroom to grab a drink before fully settling in to admire his prize. He wandered into the abthroom, his mind still buzzing with the surreal reality of owning something so personal from Jake Andrich. Reaching for a glass, he suddenly felt a wave of dizziness. His head spun, and he clutched the counter for support, blinking rapidly to clear his vision as the glass fell from his hand and shattered on the ground.

"My head…" he muttered, shaking his head. But as he took a step to grab a groom, a sharp, searing pain shot through his feet. He yelped, stumbling back as an audible crack echoed through the room. Tilting his head down, he stared in horror as his feet began to contort, the bones shifting and stretching beneath the skin. His arches lifted, his toes lengthened and straightened, and the once-average feet became broader and more defined, veins snaking along their surface.

The pain was excruciating. "What’s happening?" he gasped, his voice trembling. The skin on his feet darkened, taking on a deep, even tan, and unfamiliar tattoos began to etch themselves across the tops. The transformation wasn’t gentle; it felt as though his very bones were being crushed and reshaped, only to reform in a grotesque mimicry of someone else’s. Tears streamed down his face as he clung to the counter for dear life, his legs trembling under the strain.

His feet continued to crash and change. The arches lifted, the toes lengthened and straightened, and his once-average feet became broader and more defined. Evan screamed as the sensations surged upwards, his legs trembling. The muscles in his calves began to swell, veins snaking to the surface as his skin darkened to a deep, even tan. His thighs thickened, cords of muscle forming as his body involuntarily flexed, showcasing a power he had never possessed.

“What is happening to me?” Evan cried, his voice cracking with desperation. His pleas were met with silence as the transformation continued relentlessly.

The pain intensified as his bones began to stretch and shift. His hips narrowed, his pelvis realigning and felt totally alien to Evan. His body was changing at high speed and Evan couldn’t stop this from happening. Everything in him was hurting before soothing into pleasant numbness. Evan’s torso lengthened, and his spine arched unnaturally, forcing him upright as his chest expanded. The faint hair on his chest fell away, replaced by the smooth, ink-covered skin Jake was known for. Tattoos emerged like ink bleeding through paper, etching themselves onto Evan’s body with a burning intensity. Each line and shadow mirrored Jake’s intricate designs, and Evan’s screams grew louder.

“Please, stop this! I don’t want this!” he begged, clawing at his skin as if he could peel away the changes. But his hands, now broader and calloused, only betrayed him. His arms swelled with muscle, veins bulging as his biceps and forearms grew to intimidating proportions.

Evan’s face was the next to betray him. His jaw cracked and widened, his cheekbones sharpening. His nose reshaped itself, and his lips plumped, forming a cocky smile he’s seen thousands of times but couldn’t remember where. His eyes shifted, the irises darkening to a piercing shade. Even his hairline receded slightly, reforming into a manly and attractive style. The pain in his scalp was unbearable as his hair thickened and darkened.

“No! This isn’t me!” Evan sobbed, his voice deepening mid-sentence as he heard a faint Canadian accent appearing. The sound startled him; it was no longer his own. The rich, resonant tone was unmistakably Jake’s. He clutched his throat, but the transformation was complete. Evan opened his new eyes and scream in horror as he now recognizes who these features belonged to. He tried to grab the jockstrap to take it off but he couldn’t. It was glued to his newly tanned and perfectly groomed skin. Tears started to fall down his cheeks. Sure, Evan fantasized about Jake Andrich pretty much every single minute of every day, but he loved himself and his life, he didn’t want to be Jake, he just wanted to touch and get fucked by him. As Evan kept on trying to get the jockstrap off, his head started to spin again and he almost fainted out because of dizziness.

The changes became even more excruciating as they swept through the rest of his body. Evan’s skin began to glow with a sickening vibrancy, the tan spreading evenly and unnaturally across his body as if being burned into his very cells. Each pore seemed to sting, a fiery sensation engulfing him as the skin took on Jake’s flawless tone.

The agony intensified as hair sprouted in new places. Evan screamed as his armpits itched unbearably before thick, dark hair pushed its way through the tender skin. The same happened on his forearms and chest where a happy trail grew between his sculpted abs, every follicle erupting with coarse hair that wasn’t his own. He clawed at the hair in desperation, but his nails, now broader and harder, only skimmed the surface. The musky, masculine scent of Jake’s body began to seep from him, overtaking the faint soap smell he’d had moments before.

Evan’s sobs turned to shrieks as his skin felt like it was being pierced thousands of times simultaneously. The intricate designs of Jake’s tattoos began to etch themselves onto him, each line burning like molten steel being drawn across his flesh. He watched in horror as the ink bloomed over his chest, arms, and back, perfectly replicating Jake’s iconic patterns. Tears streamed down his face as he begged for the pain to stop, the sensation unbearable as it spread to every corner of his body.

"Please! Stop! It hurts!" Evan cried. His chest heaved as the tattoos continued their assault, wrapping around his ribs and crawling down his sides. His abdomen tightened and hardened into a perfectly sculpted six-pack, the tattoos framing the muscles like artwork.

Finally, the transformation reached his groin. Evan’s screams turned into gasps of raw shock as his hips realigned, the bones cracking and grinding into a broader, more imposing shape. His penis throbbed painfully, growing thicker and longer with every pulse, while his balls swelled to an almost unbearable size, filling with an unfamiliar weight. The skin there darkened and tightened, matching the rest of his newly tanned body, and a thick patch of dark, wiry pubic hair erupted around the base before regressing back in his skin, proof of regular shaving to maintain it properly. The physical transformation was complete.

Evan collapsed to the floor, his body shaking with the residual agony of the changes. Every inch of him was now alien, an exact replica of Jake Andrich. His tears dripped onto the polished tiles as his mind raced, the pain beginning to ebb but leaving a raw, burning ache in its wake. The transformation wasn’t just physical; the remnants of his identity felt as though they were being smothered by the overwhelming compulsion to obey. A faint but insistent voice in his head urged him to rise, pose, and perform, drowning out his own thoughts. He whimpered softly, knowing he had lost not only his body but perhaps his soul as well.

The transformation moved to his mind. Evan’s thoughts fragmented, his will eroding as an overwhelming compulsion to obey Jake surfaced. Desperately, he fought against it, but his body betrayed him completely. His hands moved upward, seemingly of their own volition, brushing over the hard, sculpted pecs that were no longer his own. The sensation was overwhelming, each touch sending jolts of foreign pleasure through him, yet he could only watch in helpless horror. His fingers traced the edges of his tattoos, lingering on the intricate designs etched into his skin as if savoring their presence.

Tears continued to streak down his face as his hands slid lower, their movements deliberate and teasing. They dipped beneath the waistband of the jockstrap, the fabric stretching as his fingers wrapped around the imposing length of his new, hardening shaft. A wave of shame and arousal crashed over him, his face betraying him as a cocky smirk began to tug at his lips. His reflection stared back in the mirror in front of him, the expression oozing confidence and control, a stark contrast to the terror roaring in his mind.

"No, stop! This isn’t me! I don’t want this!" Evan’s inner voice screamed, but it was muffled under the growing haze of dominance radiating from his new form. His hips rolled forward slightly, his movements sensual and practiced, as though he had done this a thousand times before. Even his breathing changed, deep and steady, punctuated by low, satisfied grunts. His body seemed to revel in its new strength and masculinity, completely ignoring his mental protests.

The compulsion to obey surged stronger, pulling him into a series of practiced poses. Evan’s broad hands explored every inch of his transformed physique, flexing and showcasing muscles that rippled under his flawless, ink-covered skin. His mind screamed in rebellion, but the alluring, commanding presence that now occupied his body silenced it with ease. Slowly, his hand returned to his groin, cupping his newly enlarged balls and stroking himself with an expertise that wasn’t his own.

As he stared at his reflection, his body began to spasm uncontrollably, his muscles flexing and posing as though directed by an unseen force. Evan watched in horror as his hands moved on their own, sliding over his pecs, lingering on their firm curves before dipping lower. He could feel every humiliating moment as his hands brushed against his jockstrap, the tight fabric now stretched taut over his hardening length. His reflection smirked, Jake’s smirk, as his fingers pressed into the bulge, and the overwhelming sensation made his body arch involuntarily.

His mind screamed for it to stop, but his body betrayed him further. His hips bucked, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips as waves of pleasure pulsed through him. The scent of his musky armpits filled the air as his arms lifted, his face burying itself in the crook of his elbow. The mixture of sweat and raw masculinity overwhelmed his senses, and the final thread of his resistance snapped as his body convulsed violently.

A deep, primal growl rumbled from his throat as he came hands-free into the jockstrap, the sticky warmth clinging to the fabric. His reflection flexed again, each pose radiating dominance, and the cocky grin widened. Evan’s thoughts dissolved into static, his identity erased in the haze of submission. In that moment, he forgot who he was, his mind now filled with one purpose: to serve Jake. Evan, or rather Jake, grabbed his phone and a black cap that he put backwards before taking a picture and sending it to an unknown number. He then added it to his contacts as Master.

Miles away, Jake’s phone buzzed. He opened his phone and smiled. A notification read: “Jake v04 is ready to serve Master’s will.”

Evan, now the perfect replica of Jake Andrich, stood before the mirror. He totally forgot who he was, for him, he was a servant to Jake and has to obey his every order in order to make Jake’s life easier. Evan was gone and replaced by Jake. As Evan kept on flexing his biceps and humming his armpits while his cum was drying in his jockstrap, he received a notification from Master:  “Film new content. Post it by tonight.”

Evan’s reflection smiled back at him, but it wasn’t his smile. It was Jake’s. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

______________________________________________________________ Hey guys! Here is my contribution to the Christmas story exchange 2024. This year I was honored to write for @tf-lover. Sorry for the waiting, life got ahead and I got a flue so yea ^^ got me pretty much behind on every schedules ^^ Wish you guys a Happy New Year 2025 and I'll see you soon with lots of new stories!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[bloodchapell]

hiii if its not too much work could I request what’s it like to be high school sweethearts with stanley?

Also side note I LOVE your writing sm especially since there is barely any one that writes for dr stone now these days 😔

highschool lover — stanley s. SIDE A

what to expect: suggestive, so cuteee

your sword's note: thankyu for the request dear anon! i actually have two posts for this request, i will link it here so check it out too (SIDE B). more on my mistresslist

i have two ideas, either you are a goody two shoes or sheer evil, but for this one lets go with the angel on earth, i will do the menace on the side B

you have english together, he hates the teacher but always sees you participating and it kinda pisses him off but he lets it slide because you are so beautiful that he can't even skip the class because he needs to see you there

the teacher asks you to tutor him, so after school you go to your house and you sit in the dining table with the book assigned for class. you sit reading out loud the first part, then you stop and talk with him about it, initially he doesn't get the symbolism or the metaphors, and he is ready to feel embarrassed and stupid, but you help him right away. he feels his heart skip a beat at the tenderness of your voice, he has never been treated so softly

every day after school, you hang out. you tell him that you love books. he can't talk about books with you, so he asks what your favorite is and at your house you lend it to him

once he is home, he opens it. there is a pressed flower in between, and the paper smells like you, page after page he sees annotations on the text with your beautiful script. he reads the book in one sitting.

"i finished the book dolly, let's talk about it." he asks. he loved the book, it changed his whole perception of things. in recess, you sit together and you discuss the book

his grades in english class improve so much that he doesn't need you to tutor him anymore. you catch him purposefully messing up the response of his homework just so he has an excuse to spend time with you. "stan you know the right answers." you tilt your head and so he erases the wrongdoings and writes the correct ones

he is constantly telling xeno about you. he asks stanley if he likes you and he can't even lie. "no, i don't like her, i am in love with her."

one afternoon while you both read in your house, he asks hesitantly. "dolly, this might be odd, but i would like to take you on a date." you agree so fast that it actually makes him laugh

he takes you on a picnic and then to a drive-through movie theater. initially he doesn't know how to act but you remain kind and understanding as always that he simply acts like usual

by the end of the date, when he drives you back to your house, he opens the door for you and walks you to your doorstep, and you give him a kiss on the lips

the next day, he comes by your house. when you hear the doorbell you open the door and find him with a bouquet of flowers and chocolates. you hug him and let him in. despite his meh handwriting, he gives you a letter. since i met you, my life has become like a dream, my poor vocabulary can't even express it, so i will read all the books i have to until i can tell you. xeno helped him redact that. he is not easily vulnerable, but given the type of person he fell in love with, he feels it is only just. if he has to learn, no problem, he can do it.

"be my girlfriend dolly." he asks playing with your hair, you nod immediately and hug him

he is late to all his classes because he insists on carrying your bag for you and dropping you off to every class

you introduce him to your parents on your first month together, and even years later, having been in the military and in special missions that are real danger, he has never been as scared

he has kissed before, but not like he kisses you. of course later on you two star experimenting and kissing gets heated, but on the regular your kisses are tender and full of love, and he is addicted to them

he heard a girl call you a nerd once in the hallway, but since he couldn't beat her up, he put a rat in her locker

stanley introduces you to xeno and he approves of you👍🏻

he thinks you are an innocent sweet pea but while looking through the collection of books in your room he finds the most down bad novellas, he is shocked

people are always saying "no wayyy" to him when he says that you are his girlfriend, what cliche is going on here!?

all the teachers keep joking that you are going to finally fix him. "there is nothing to fix, he is perfect like this, be more respectful." you say. he doesn't know if to laugh at them or cry at your sweet words

he takes you to alongside him to his hangout with xeno at the paintball arena. he teaches you how to shoot the gun and you seem clueless at first but end up winning. it seems feasible defeating xeno, but even before training stanley was already good at guns

he would never attend school dances, but after he started dating you he does, not only because you thought it might be cute but because he wants to show you off and laugh in the faces of his enemies (whatever that means)

he is oddly shy to get handsy at first, even knowing what you would be reading, but after a particularly heated make out session you pull his hands towards your body and he can't help but give in

"are you sure in the car is fine dolly? wouldn't you want something more romantic?" he pants holding your waist in the backseat of his car. "who ever said that?" you play with the hem of his shirt. nonetheless it was on. clothes removed and bruises on his neck, he had imagined that your first time together would be different, but it is just fine to have you ride him in his car. looks like one can learn a lot from reading —stanley's thoughts—

you are king and queen of prom hell yeah !

better believe you guys are lasting forevah

when stanley goes to training it hits you very hard. you send him so many letters that everyone is jealous

in the class reunion, god knows how many years after, people are gossiping about the highschool days. when they see you walking together they sigh, "of fucking course"

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hey! Anything and everything on red string of fate?

Writing Notes: Red String of Fate

Yīnyuán Hóngxiàn (姻緣紅線/姻缘红线)

Also known as the Red String of Fate or Red Thread of Marriage.

An East Asian belief originating from Chinese Mythology.

In the Chinese mythos, the string is tied around both parties' ankles.

Akai Ito or Unmei No Akai Ito (運命の赤い糸)

The red string of fate is also frequently found in Japanese works.

The concept is that two people who are destined to be together are attached by an invisible red string tied by the Yuè Xià Lǎorén (月下老人, "the Old Man Under the Moon"), the old lunar matchmaker god.

In the Japanese mythos, it's traditionally bound from a man's thumb to a woman's pinky finger, but it's more common these days to show both parties attached at the pinky.

As a Literary Trope

Red String of Fate - some perceptible clue that identifies your destined One True Love.

Need not be a literal red string.

It could be a timer counting down to alert you at the exact moment that you meet the perfect person for you.

It could even be an unusually meaningful birthmark showing your destined’s name in their own handwriting.

Whether magic or Magitek (i.e., or "magitech", often appears to combine magic with modern technology or at least something distinctively mechanical), whether you’re born with it or have to have it installed, whether it actively pulls you together or serves only as a passive identifier, the match it suggests for you is your true love Because Destiny Says So.

Examples

In Paulo Coelho's Brida, the titular girl is informed that Witches can recognize who their destined soulmate is because they can see a special twinkle in the eyes, while Mages do so by seeing a star over the shoulder of their destined. Brida, who becomes an aspiring Witch, recognizes the twinkle in her actual boyfriend's eyes and is pleased; but the Mage she initially consulted has seen the star over Brida's shoulder, and is conflicted. This is carried to a long scene where the Mage finally decides to confess his visions and feelings and use the star to try to find Brida in a crowd... and then he finds Brida's boyfriend, who also has the star over his shoulder.

Referenced in DC Comics Bombshells, with Batwoman likening the red string of fate to the red stitching on the baseballs she uses. This turns out to be foreshadowing, as at the end of the series, she marries Maggie Sawyer, a girl she met back when they played together on the same baseball team.

In Jane Eyre, Mr. Rochester: "...it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land, come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly."

In contrast, a red string in India is usually a Rakhi and is a physical demonstration of a bond between a brother and sister. It can be tied to any boy a girl considers to be like her brother and is usually used effectively to kill unwanted romantic/love interests.

The Red String belief is so well known in Japan that this trope is invoked through linguistic gestures: holding up the thumb is used as shorthand for girlfriend and holding a pinky up would indicate a boyfriend.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, here are some information and examples. You can find more in the source linked above. Hope this helps with your writing!

[glossypolaroidkisses]

3/3 - Between Love & Leaving

Part 3/3 

— Final part based on request from anon: “thinking about long-term relationship reader and lu and how their interactions would look like right before he cut contact w/ everyone … “ Grab your tissues.

link to part 1 <3 (appartement’s floor plan is here)

link to part 2 <3

The next morning, you woke up with a light grin on your face as you reminisced on the moments before you had fallen asleep. You rolled over, reaching your arm out expecting it to land gently on Luigi’s strong chest, as it usually does. Your hand falls further than expected, hitting the mattress. Your brows furrow, eyes still closed. You attempt to force them open, the bright, sunny room blinding you as you try to see. All you see are blurry, white sheets. Empty bed. You slowly lift your body, sitting up, rubbing your eyes with urgency. “Baby?” you call out, your voice weak and groggy. Usually if he doesn't respond the first time, you hear the sizzling pan on the stove, or the faucet running for the dishes. Nothing. “Luigi???” you raspily call out, much louder this time. Forcing your tired body to carry its own weight, you stumble out of bed. 

You rush into the kitchen, standing just outside your bedroom door to observe the living space. It’s as if the world is frozen, the way everything is untouched. Everything is still, silent. One could assume you live alone. No dishes in the drying rack, everything clean and tidy. Luigi’s keys aren't hanging and his wallet is gone from the counter at the front, where they usually are.

You take a couple of steps further, your heart beginning to race. The air smells faintly of Luigi’s cologne, but something about it feels wrong, almost like it’s been lingering for so long that it’s become stale. A weight sets in your chest, confirming something must be wrong. You go from practically standing still, frozen, to rushing around the apartment, desperate for clues. 

His toothbrush is missing from the bathroom, weatherproof jacket gone from the coat rack, favourite backpack missing from the closet. His shoes, the ones he always leaves by the door, aren’t there.

In the midst of your panicked search, you rush into the living room and your heart drops. You stop dead in your tracks, almost falling forward. The only room in the apartment that you’ve come across that isn’t perfectly neat or missing items; It has something left behind. 

You sit on the couch in front of the table– where you start every morning –to find your usual breakfast. Morning coffee with jam on toast is made, just how you like it. Next to it, a large box with a folded note on top of it, perfectly centred. Scared to meddle with potentially the last untouched part you have of Luigi, you gently grasp the mug’s handle. It’s cold, so is your toast. 

You take a deep breath, feeling lightheaded, head almost fuzzy. Picking up the note, you slowly unfold. There it is, the sight of Luigi’s handwriting. 

You immediately break down at the sight of his nickname for you, in that writing you’d always make fun of him for. 

Mia stellina,

I don’t know how to explain this in a way that will make it hurt any less. I’ve turned the words over in my mind a thousand times, but there’s no version of this that feels okay. But, you guessed it. I’m not backpacking. Don’t kill me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be back.

I never wanted to lie to you, but the truth felt impossible to say out loud. I have a feeling a part of you already knew. No way to make leaving you feel like anything other than a mistake, even when I know I have no other choice.

How can I explain walking away from the one person who gave my life meaning? How can I make you understand something even if I don't fully understand myself?

What I can say with certainty, the only thing that matters, is that I love you. I love you more than I thought it was possible to love anyone. You’ve given me light in a life that’s known too much darkness, and that light has saved me in ways I can never repay. Being loved by you was the greatest gift of my life. You are my heart, my home, my peace.

And still, I have to leave.

I can’t tell you why. I can’t explain. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t find the words to make it make sense. There are things I have to do, things I can’t let touch you. Please don’t think this is your fault or something you could have stopped. It’s not. This is my choice, and as much as it’s breaking me, it’s one I have to make.

I know you’ll hate me for not saying goodbye in person, for not giving you a chance to stop me. But if I had stayed one more minute, looked into your eyes one more time, I wouldn’t have been able to leave. And I have to go. Even if it kills me. Even if it means walking away from the future we dreamed of.

Last night, as we looked at the stars, I tried to memorize every second. The way your face lit up when you found a constellation. The way your fingers found mine without a thought. It’s all burned into my memory now, something I’ll carry with me, no matter where I go. Just like I will carry the memory of that summer evening at the lake—the two of us sitting on the dock, your feet in the water, my arm around you. I think about that night often—how safe it felt, how you made everything else disappear. Maybe one day, if the stars align again, we’ll meet there. I don’t know if that day will ever come, but if it does, you’ll know where to find me. I will look for you in every night sky.

Also, last night, I’ve replayed the moment a thousand times. When you mentioned our future kids, I should have said something then. I should have told you that I've always wanted that, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. That I dreamt of our life together, of raising children with you, speaking Italian together. But in that moment, I froze. I couldn’t find the words, not because they weren’t there, but because I knew, deep down, I was about to leave. I knew I wouldn’t be there to make that future with you. And I couldn’t bear to tell you that. I couldn’t bear to break your heart more than I already was.

I wish I had said, "Yes, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. A family with you." I wish I had told you how much I loved you, how much I wanted a life filled with laughter, with our children running around, with us speaking Italian in our home, just as you imagined.

Please don’t think for a second that I didn’t want that with all my heart. But the truth is, I couldn’t give it to you. And I couldn’t leave without telling you this now, even though I know it may hurt you.

By the time you read this, I will be gone. I don’t know if we will ever see each other again. Maybe we will, maybe we won’t. I don’t have that answer, and that uncertainty will haunt me for the rest of my life.

But I need you to live. Don’t let this letter, or my leaving, hold you back. Don’t let it steal the light from you that I love so much. Live boldly, laugh loudly—obnoxiously, please—love deeply. Be everything you’re meant to be, and do it for both of us. Do all the things we talked about, even if it’s without me. Live the life you deserve, my love, because that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Even though the thought of you finding happiness with someone else kills me, I hope, with everything in me, that you find it. I need to know you will live a life full of joy and beauty, even if I can’t be there to witness it.

I will hold onto you for as long as I live. Your laugh, your smile, the way your hand fits in mine; they’re all a part of me now, they always will be. No matter where I go, no matter what happens, I will never stop loving you. You are my greatest joy, my only regret, my eternal hope. You are the love of my life.

I couldn’t leave you with nothing, not when you’ve given me so much. I know it won’t make this any easier, but I need you to have these pieces of me, even if they don’t feel like enough.

The hoodie. Yeah, THAT hoodie. The one you always teased me for wearing because I practically lived in it. You’d roll your eyes and say, “Again? Don’t you have any other clothes?” I can hear your voice as I write this. You’d tease and whine, then steal it off me when I wasn’t looking. I saw how you’d wrap yourself in it, how your shoulders would relax like you were safe. So it’s yours now. It’s yours for good. Hold onto it. Pull it tight when you need to feel me close. I sprayed it with my cologne, the one you love, but most of it is just me.

Your top three favourite books. Don’t worry. I bought new, hardcover copies because I know you would hate if I ‘damaged your originals’. I annotated the margins. So, if you ever want to reread them together, my thoughts intertwined with the words, it’s as if I’m speaking to you through them. Whenever you miss me, let’s read together.

The cash—it’s not a gift, and it’s not pity. It’s practicality. I know you’ll try to argue with me, even if I’m not there to hear it. But you’ve got dreams, my love. I want to make sure you can chase them. Whether it’s traveling to all the places we talked about, starting that project you kept putting off, or just giving yourself time to breathe, use it. I beg that you use it. Live the kind of life you deserve, not for me (okay maybe a little for me), but for you.

Also, because I can’t be there to take care of you anymore, I did something you might be upset about, but I don’t care. The apartment is yours. Paid off, in full. No mortgage, no rent. You’ll never have to worry about it again. Consider it my last selfish act, because I couldn't stand the thought of you struggling, of you losing the one place that still smells like us. Keep it. Sell it. Burn it down, if that’s what you need to do. But I wanted to leave you with something more than memories, and this way you have a choice.

Even if I can’t be there, at least this can. 

The ring… I don’t even know where to start. I’ve been carrying it around for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment to give it to you. Clearly there isn’t a perfect moment now. 

It’s engraved with our birthstones and initials on the inside. I don’t know what to say, except that it was always meant for you. Keep it, wear it daily, your ring finger, or not. Throw it into the ocean, wear it on a chain– whatever you need to do. But know that when I bought it, it was with forever in mind.

Okay, my turn to admit to being greedy. I took a few things of yours, too. I know it’s selfish, but I needed something of yours to hold onto, too. Something that feels like you in the most private, unfiltered way. Here goes, 

Your favourite lingerie. It wasn’t just about how beautiful it looked on you. It was about the way you carried yourself in it, the way your confidence would flicker into something soft when I traced my fingers down your spine. I took it because I couldn’t let go of that feeling. A private keepsake of the way we fit together, of the moments that were just ours.

Your sleep shirt, the one you always stole from me.. now it’s my turn. It still smells like you, like the warmth of early mornings and the way you used to curl into me, allowing your body to fully rest within each other in my grasp, before you were fully awake.

Before you get mad, there’s something else. I tore a page from your diary. Just one. Not one of the heavy ones, not the pages where you spilled your worst days or your fears (those are sacred to you, and I would never take them from you). The page I took was different. It was about an ordinary day, the kind you’ve probably forgotten. The way the sun’s warmth felt on your face, the way your coffee tasted just right, the way you caught yourself humming one of those songs you love but never remember the name of, a cute caterpillar you saw. You wrote about how the smallest things made the day feel special, and how grateful you were for moments like that.

I needed that. Your words, in your own handwriting, a reminder of how you see the world. How you find joy in the little things, how you make everything brighter just by being in it. That page is proof that you’ll find those moments again, even without me. I’ll keep it with me always; a piece of your light, folded into my pocket.

I know none of this will fill the space I’ve left. None of these things can hold you when you feel alone. They won’t make you laugh when you need it, or tease you when you roll your eyes at me. But I hope they remind you that I loved you. That I will always love you. That no matter where I go, you’re with me.

I need you to live, my love. To laugh so hard you cry, to wake up and feel like the world is wide open for you. Live for the both of us, okay? That’s the only way I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for leaving.

And if the world bends in some miraculous way, if life brings us back together when we least expect it, you’ll know it’s me when you see someone wearing that one stupid shirt, since the hoodie is yours now. You know the one.

For now, this is goodbye. But you’ll always be my light, my constant, my everything.

If there is a chance for us, a day when fate brings us back together, I will find my way to you. I promise. But if that day never comes, please remember that I loved you more than words could ever say. Our love is the kind of love that I thought only existed in, well, not MY books, but your books. Fairytale love.

I don’t have the words to say goodbye, not really. I was supposed to finish writing five minutes ago. I don’t think there’s a way to end this that doesn’t feel wrong. So I’ll just say this,

You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I’ll carry you with me, always. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Forever yours,

 Luigi 

You were on that couch for hours, a mess. You had no idea you were capable of shedding so many tears, wailing in ways you didn’t know your body could endure. You retraced every piece of Luigi in your life, the moments you shared, the quiet mornings and stolen glances, the touch of his hand, the sound of his laughter. But there was nothing left of him now, just empty space. 

His location, a mystery. Your texts, unanswered. Your emails, unread.

You searched for other missing things, tiny remnants of his presence that might still linger—something, anything, to hold onto. Other things he may have taken of you. For example, a sample of your signature perfume. You noticed because the bottle was out of place on the shelf, a few drops spilled carelessly onto the counter. 

He invaded your dreams, every single night; And you were in his. 

In those dreams, You’re there with him, and somehow, he's there with you, even when you woke up to the empty silence of your room. You couldn’t believe it. Luigi had gotten to say goodbye, and you hadn’t. What you would say if you could just hear his voice again… if you could just tell him everything you never had the chance to say.

Some nights in your grief, you scream out from the balcony. Your voice echoing into the still night, raw and aching. A neighbour always reminds you, shouting from another balcony that you aren’t alone in this world. You get embarrassed, but it doesn't matter. In those moments, you felt like the universe had turned its back on you, and there's no one who could truly understand.

Sometimes, you whisper conversations in the dark, pretending Luigi still beside you. You’d look into the telescope’s eyepiece, pausing for a moment, waiting for him to look as well, as if he were still there, watching the stars with you. You continued to make meals, always enough for the two of you, but the second plate would always sit untouched, always ending up as leftovers in the fridge.

You reread your favourite books, each line a memory of something you had shared. You laughed at the comments you could still hear him saying, written in that handwriting, his voice alive in the words of the stories you both cherished.

You continued your days, waiting. Not fully sure what you were waiting for, or if it was even possible, but waiting nonetheless. You worked through accepting this new reality, and sometimes that meant you were cradling his hoodie, rewatching old videos, or fiddling with the ring on your finger as you fought back tears.

In the quiet moments, something shifted. No answers, no closure, just the faintest possibility that the story wasn’t over. The world moved on, and bit by bit, you did too in the slightest, even if your heart wasn’t ready. You wondered if you'd ever see him again or if the scattered bits of memories and physical pieces would ever come together.

But that was a question for later.

For now, you carried his memory, wrapped in your heart.

a/n: wwwwwooooweeee! see why it took me so long to finish that? LOL omg the amount of times i have cried…. anyways. If you want me to continue this, feel free to comment or send anon requests to how you see it continuing. Explaining why he left, if they’ll reunite. As always, i’m open to any and all feedback. love u guys. hope u enjoyed. mwah.

[it-was-summer]

Come In With The Rain (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hey y'all, I'm so sorry for the late posting. I know that I don't have a new chapter of 'Video Killed the Radio Star' out yet, but stay with me here. This is part one (of two) of my 500 followers post! I want to thank everyone for reading and being so sweet throughout the years. I really hope you all like this first part! The second part will probably be posted sometime this upcoming week. AND IT WILL BE 18+. I'm estimating sometime between Thursday and Saturday. Again, this is not proofread because I never learn. Love you all- Em <3

Link to the Ao3: Come In With The Rain

You are on Part One! -> Part Two

Yee olde masterlist

WARNING: Slow burn ahh fanfiction, emotional cheating, an accusation of emotional cheating, couple fighting, sex mentioned, alcohol mentions, drunk reader at one point, light cursing, babygirl Spencer Reid, suggestion BLINK AND YOU MISS IT SUGGESTION that Reid is Bi, reader is referred to as a woman, she/her/hers pronouns at some parts, and mention of feeling like a burden. AND probably something else, idk.

Plot: Spencer Reid becomes friends with you after bumping into you at a grocery store. Instantly enamored with you he develops a crush. A crush, apparently destined to fail, because why wouldn't you have a boyfriend?

Word Count: 10,365 (That's correct... 24 PAGES)

 Day One 

Almost everyone could agree that Spencer’s job was incredibly arduous. If not arduous, it was strenuous, formidable, occasionally crushing, onerous; the list goes on. Overall, his job –despite all its pitfalls– was something he loved. There was one thing he was starting to hate more than anything, though: he couldn’t seem to keep all his groceries from going bad after a week of back-to-back cases. 

Spencer narrows his eyes at his messy handwriting, looking back and forth between the paper in his hands and the cans in front of him. He just couldn’t find the can that he was looking for. Penelope had loaned him her recipe a few weeks back, and despite his disastrous efforts in the kitchen, he was determined to give it a shot. His mother never taught him how to cook –not that he blamed her, of course– so it was truly an area in which he simply lacked a lot of skill. Given his eidetic memory, he didn’t really need a list, but Penelope said this brand was best for her recipe when they talked last week. He didn’t want to risk it, so he wrote it down. 

He turned his head side-to-side, looking for a nearby worker, but found none. The only person in this aisle was him. He frowned a little before the sound of a sigh passing behind him made him jump. He quickly looked over his shoulder to see a woman standing behind him, staring at a list in hand. He couldn’t help but wonder when you had gotten there and how long you had been standing behind him before your sigh alerted Spencer to the presence of another life form in this aisle. 

Your head tilted slowly, your eyes met his, and Spencer felt his mouth drying. He wasn’t charming around beautiful women like Derek; most of all, he hadn’t expected to run into one at the grocery store. Your eyes stayed on Spencer for a second before they moved towards the cans in front of them. Spencer felt like a warmth had just been pulled away from him in the absence of your gaze. 

He shuffles out of your eyeline as you scan the cans with a soft smile. “Thank you,” your voice was light and airy, carrying a softness that Spencer wasn’t used to hearing. Your body is closer to his as you walk toward the cans and carefully reach up on your tiptoes to grab a can of sauce on the highest shelf. 

Spencer gets the idea stupidly slow: He should get it for you. He clears his throat and maneuvers his body to avoid touching the beautiful stranger beside him. He slides the sauce can off the shelf and hands it to you. 

He’s greeted with a dazzling smile, dimples on your cheeks, and eyes shining bright under the fluorescent lights of the grocery store. “Thank you,” you repeat before you stare at him expectantly. 

Spencer can’t help but feel like his IQ is taking slashes as he stares at that smile, “Spencer,” 

You gave him a gentle nod as you walked the sauce over to your cart, “Nice to meet you, Spencer. I’m Y/N.” You say as you look over your shoulder at him, hair falling into your face. For the first time in a long time, Spencer can feel the ends of his fingers twitching with anticipation at the idea of offering to brush the hair out of your face for you. He gives you a soft smile instead, his eyes trailing back to the list in his hands in an attempt to stop himself from staring. 

Your voice near him almost makes him let out a yelp of surprise as you say, “Are you looking for something? I don’t work here, but I cook a lot.” You say matter-of-factly, suggesting that your cooking hobby somehow made you an expert in the grocery store layout. 

Spencer felt like handing you his list and following you around like a puppy dog for the rest of his grocery shopping if it meant you’d keep standing this close to him. “Yeah, uhm, this brand of chili beans.” 

“Oh, you haven’t looked low enough.” You barely even glance at his list before bending your knees and crouching down to the lower shelf to grab it. You look up from the ground, holding the can of beans for him to take with a bright smile before you say, “You’re so tall you must have forgotten about the lower shelves.” A laugh escapes your lips as Spencer carefully grabs the can from your hand. 

You stand up with a gentle sigh. He can tell that you’re about to say something else when a man’s voice interrupts you. Your eyes grow brighter at the sound, and your head quickly turns toward the sound at the far left end of the aisle. “I got the cheese.” As he approaches, the man shoots the shredded cheese into the cart with a grin. 

You mouth a soft ‘yay’ as the man’s arm quickly wraps around your waist. “Josh, this is Spencer. I was just helping him look for a can of beans. Spencer, this is Josh.” 

Spencer feels his lips draw into a tight-lipped smile as he waves his free hand, “Nice to meet you,” He says with a slight nod. 

“She’s always talking to strangers, I swear. Stop making friends everywhere you go, you little angel.”  Josh says as he pinches your side, earning a melodious laugh from you. Spencer feels a little nauseous.

“Hey, gross.” You chuckle lightly as you pull Josh’s hand off your side, “Anyways, it was nice to meet you, Spencer. See you around.” You grab the handle of your cart with a beautiful smile before rolling the cart out of the aisle with Josh in tow. 

Spencer watches you until you take a right and disappear from his view, and now he can only look at the can of beans in his hand. He sighs at his luck, smiling a little with amusement at the fact that you have a boyfriend. His short interaction made it clear to him that you were easy to get along with. Beautiful, kind, easygoing, of course, you had a boyfriend. 

Spencer silently resigned himself to the fact that he would probably never see you or Josh again as he continued with his unneeded list.

Now, he felt like the fabled gods of fate were laughing down at him as he made the last trip to his car. He was closing the trunk of his car when he heard a familiar voice yell out his name from across the parking lot. “Spencer!” You yelled with bags in hand, panting lightly as you approached him with a light jog. “How funny is this?” 

A sarcastically bitter voice was in his head. Only the Ancient Greeks would find this funny. “Do you live in this building?” he asked as his eyes scanned the parking lot for Josh. His shoulders relaxed as he realized that it was just you. 

“Yeah, third floor.” You say as you readjust the bags in your hands. Spencer gave you an amused smile as he slid his last two bags on one arm, extending his free arm toward you. 

“Need some help?” He offers in a soft voice. You give him a grateful look as you nod, handing him a slightly heavy bag. Typically, you wouldn’t have accepted help from a perfect stranger, but almost everything about Spencer screamed non-threatening, so you let yourself be a little trusting. 

“Can’t believe that we’re neighbors. I'm glad I talked to you at the store; I made a neighbor friend!” Your speaking speed almost matches his when he is going on his excited ramblings. 

Spencer pushes a door open with his back, holding it open for you with his foot as he laughs. “I guess it's plausible, being that the grocery store is as close as it is.” He’s quick to move to the next door, repeating the motion. 

You smile gently as Spencer opens another door for you, this one leading the two of you to the stairwell. “Oh, you’re probably one of those people who doesn’t believe in fate, aren’t you, Spencer?” 

“I would have to say that I absolutely fall within the twenty-nine percent of Americans who do not believe in fate. Nothing is predetermined.” 

“Maybe you’re predetermined to believe that,” Is your quick remark as you walk in front of him on the stairs. 

“Not likely,” 

“So, what? You’re a cynic?” 

Spencer smiles wide at the question, “How does my not believing in fate make me a cynic?” 

You grin, tossing a skeptical look over your shoulder, before speaking again. “Not believing in fate is such a cynical thing to do,” 

“And what does that make you?” 

“Stupid and optimistically in love.” 

Spencer shakes his head, his eyes glancing at the door that leads to the second floor, but he continues to follow you up another flight of stairs without complaint. “I would label myself as a realist.” And a profiler, but he was careful to leave that part out. The cases over the years proved one thing to him: nothing was predetermined. There was an opportunity for change everywhere. 

“Okay, Mr. Realist, what about luck?” You asked as the two of you approached the door marked for floor three. 

He thought for a moment as you held the door open for him, “Maybe,” was all he could say as the memory of when he was struggling with his aim came to mind: killing an UnSub with a shot to the head when he had been aiming for his leg. 

“So you do believe in fate.” You turned your body to walk backward down the hallway with a satisfied, winning smile as you looked at him before slowing to a stop in front of your apartment door. 

“Fate and luck are not the same thing. Luck is usually used to describe an outcome; it’s a notion. It’s circumstantial.  Fate defies logic, science really.” He said as he handed you your bag carefully. His eyes glanced at the number on your door: thirty-seven. “You live with your boyfriend?” Spencer asks before he can stop himself, silently screaming at himself for being a creep. 

The question barely phases you as you reach into your pocket, searching for your keys. “Yeah, moved in six months ago.” 

“Oh, that’s nice.” Spencer hated small talk. Actually, he secretly hated the fact that the first person he found attractive, after months of failed dates, was taken. He also hated that you were living a floor above him for six months, and he hadn’t known about it– hadn’t known about you. Above all, he hated that he enjoyed your company already, especially having only known you for more than a few hours at best. “How long have the two of you been together?” 

“A year and eleven months,” you answer with a soft smile, your eyes giving way to soft emotion as you open your door. “What floor do you live on again?” 

Spencer wants to say that you never asked, but he didn’t want to seem rude. He was sure you couldn’t be rude if you tried, that sweet smile of yours not capable of the act. “Second floor,” he answers as he readjusts his bags timidly. 

With a soft gasp, you set down a bag or two, “Oh! I’m sorry.” You apologize softly as you look up at him, your eyes beautiful and tender. Spencer can’t remember if he is mad when he looks into those eyes. 

Spencer let out a meek and barely audible “It’s okay,” He decides it truly is.

You bite your bottom lip and smile at him, “Well, thanks for your help, Spencer. I really appreciated it. Come up some time and say hi!” As you beam at him, you move a stray hair out of your face. 

Spencer nods slowly, swallowing thickly, and manages a soft smile. His feet move his body back to the stairwell slowly. “Okay, I’ll do that.” 

Day Forty-Two 

You’re laughing over something Josh said. Spencer doesn’t really get it, but you seem to think it is the funniest joke you’ve ever heard. Punchlines usually went over his head, but he was always happy to nod along with a smile on his face. 

Spencer honestly didn’t want to come up and visit you and Josh a month ago. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment. Perhaps he just didn’t have it in himself to stay away from your electric personality—why he visited you and Josh three Saturdays ago was still a mystery to him.

As Josh walks away with a smug smile, you turn to Spencer. He watches as you lean towards him, eyes tracking Josh until he’s out of sight. Your amused smile falls from your face as you whisper a soft, “Did you get that?” 

Spencer is taken aback at the question. You laughed at Josh’s joke; how did you not get it? Why did you laugh so hard if you didn’t get it? He wonders until he’s whispering that same question to you, “If you didn’t get it, why did you laugh?” 

You smile a little cheekily and only slightly embarrassed, “I didn’t want him to know I didn’t find it funny. Sometimes, he falls short of witty humor.” 

Spencer smiles at that, shaking his head as he stares over at the area where Josh disappeared. “Why don’t you just tell him that you didn’t find it funny?” 

“Because,” Your voice sounds offended, but the amused look in your eyes tells him differently, “I’m his girlfriend of two years, and I’m nice. Unlike some people.” You give him a side-eyed glare, making Spencer gasp in mock defense. 

“I’m nice!” He hisses out in a defensive whisper. He briefly falters at your incredulous look before slowly nodding in defeat, “Okay, I’m a little mean sometimes.” 

You smile again and face him, your hands moving as you talk, “Which is funny because you’re perfectly nice when you’re around me.” 

Spencer didn’t have an answer to that one either. After being friendly with the couple for a little over a month, he just could not be friends with Josh. His jokes flew over Spencer’s head, he talked over you (and sometimes him), and he never seemed to take your interests seriously. 

Last Monday after work, you called Spencer, asking him if he wanted to go to the movies with you to see a tragic Italian film. He was quick to say yes, partially because of the excellent movie selection and because he wanted to be around you more. 

When he asked why Josh wasn’t joining them, you simply said that it wasn’t Josh’s thing. That didn’t sit right with him, but he let it go. Then, the day after, you called him again, asking him if he’d be willing to go with you to one of those paint-and-sip places around town that weekend. 

His answer was another resounding yes, and he didn’t even drink. Then the question came again during the class, and you responded with the same thing– it wasn’t Josh’s thing. 

Josh’s thing was going off to work all day and then coming home to ignore you for a good two hours before dinner. Then he was all yours again. At least, that’s what Spencer saw. He understood that everyone needed their alone time and that he was being a little petty and a little jealous toward Josh. 

He wanted to be the bigger person, honestly. It was just so hard when your boyfriend made it so easy for Spencer to hate him. He’d never say that to you, of course. You looked at Josh like he had hung the moon yesterday and then created the stars today. You never missed a chance to talk about Josh around… well, anyone—the precursor to Spencer’s current dilemma. 

Deep down inside, he knew that his inappropriate crush on you couldn’t possibly get worse. So he thought, What’s the harm in becoming close friends with you? If anything, it was likely that seeing more of your personality would pull his rose-colored glasses off his face and force him to see you in a normal, less love-sick light. After all, he had gotten over his embarrassing crush on JJ and saw her almost daily at work.

When Josh walks back into the room, he’s on his phone. He barely glances up from the text as he speaks to you, “Hey, babe, would it be okay with you if I head out for the night?” 

Your eyebrows furrow with confusion, “But Spencer is here, and we were going to finish the movie, remember?” 

“Right, but I already know what happens. I mean, it’s a tragedy, right? Spencer and you always have more fun together doing your nerd stuff. No offense, Spencer. The guys just want me to go out with them.” 

A realization dawns on your face as you realize he’s not asking so much as telling you he’s leaving. You nod slowly, letting Josh kiss your forehead before he grabs his keys and leaves. You look over at Spencer, who is trying to be polite by not watching the scene, looking down at the television remote with a deep interest. 

You smile slowly, sadly, and turn your body a little on the couch facing the television. The rest of the night is spent in your living room with Spencer, sitting next to each other and watching a movie before ending with your head on his shoulder and the soft tone of someone saying they “Liked the movie.” 

Day Ninety-Three

You could feel something starting to slip. It was a familiar feeling; something in the ground was shaking. It shook you, at least. You always noticed it first—a crack in the ship's hull.  You were always the first to address it, too. 

With Josh, it used to be customary for him to apologize for any indiscretion and try to fix the damage. But false promises are like duct tape in the ship’s hull, slipping and sliding against wet wood, water pouring in until the whole ship goes down. 

It wasn’t always like this. Him coming home and ignoring you for hours, only to acknowledge you late into the evening. It was relatively new to your relationship. Well, if you consider nine months new. By now, you could only label it as consistent. Before you lived with your loving boyfriend, he would carve out time in the evenings just to talk with you for hours or take you on dates that sometimes lasted for days on the weekends. 

You knew that living together would take some of that away– everyone deserved to have their private time, and you weren’t going to start demanding day-long dates anytime soon. You just missed the effort he used to put in, the time when he would make days for the two of you– hours for just the two of you. 

A year ago, Josh would have jumped to see that weird new Hungarian horror movie with subtitles for you if you had asked. He would have attempted to stay awake during it, hold your hand during the parts that scared you, something lovely. 

The first crack started when you moved in with him. One evening, you had gotten home from work early and occupied the living room for a few hours, watching some random French movie that had been recommended to you by your best friend. She didn’t like this kind of thing but knew you did, so you were grateful that she had thought of you. 

When he came home from work a little later than usual, he saw you on the couch with a plate of pasta, watching the movie intently. You turned your head towards the door and smiled wide at him. “Hey! I made spaghetti, grab a plate and watch this movie with me? I’ll restart it.” Your hands were already reaching for the remote when a heavy, annoyed sigh cut through the air. You looked over at him again and gave him a gentle, empathic smile, “Hey… did you have a hard day? We don’t have to watch anything we could–”

“Have you ever thought that maybe I don’t want to do anything with you right after I get off work?” Josh hissed out as he threw his keys onto the wooden kitchen table. 

You felt your head reel back a little at the question, and you laughed a little, pushing yourself up to sit on your knees on the couch. “I’m sorry?” 

“Have you ever thought I might want to come home after work and not talk to you for a few hours? I mean, I thought that after living here for two months, you would have caught on, but clearly you haven’t. I come home, and you’re right there, ready to talk. Prepared to force me to sit down and watch some… foreign language film that has some profound meaning that you’ll blabber about for thirty minutes before bed tonight.” 

You blinked a little at his harsh words, which were unlike him. He never seemed annoyed by your passions, hobbies, or ramblings. In fact, he always seemed to encourage them. You tried your best to give him a genuine smile, “Love, you’ve had a long day. Let’s just take a second and get some food in you, and then we can d–” 

“You’re not getting it,” he laughed bitterly, a sound that caused a sick knot to grow in your throat. “Sometimes, I’m tired of it being we, we, we, we. I’m always doing things with you: Cooking with you, reading with you, watching movies with you, sleeping with you, going on dates with you. Ever since you moved in, it's like it's always an ‘us’ task or a ‘we’ task.” His voice was rising in volume, and you felt your breathing becoming shaky. “I feel like you're always on top of me. It’s suffocating! Maybe I just want to be alone for a few hours. Maybe I don’t want to watch your stupid, fucking, symbolic foreign films.” 

“I... I didn’t know that’s how you felt.” You breathed out as you slowly turned the television off and got up with your plate. You wanted him to apologize, you wanted him to soften those brown eyes and start telling you that he didn’t mean it. You wanted him to tell you that work was brutal that day, and he had accidentally lashed out at you. But he just stared at you, panting a little. “I’ll leave you alone some more. I, uhm, I’ll watch this alone in our room.” 

And that was that. You had convinced yourself that you were a problem. You were too clingy, always in his space, always trying to force him to like your hobbies, always trying to share too much of yourself with him, always too much. So you decided that maybe what you wanted to do wasn’t his thing anymore. 

Besides, you had plenty of friends that liked the same things as you did… maybe. Molly didn’t like foreign films, but Alex enjoyed them enough. Molly did like to paint, but her schedule always conflicted with yours. Sabrina was also a fan of painting but had moved to Boston last month. The list of her friends with crazy work schedules could go on and on, as could the list of friends who moved. You had thought about reaching out to some of them, but Josh’s words rattled you to your core, and suddenly, you felt like a burden for wanting to spend time with your loved ones. 

Then, after six months of living with Josh, you met a man in a grocery store—a tall, hazel-eyed, intelligent man. Spencer Reid was unlike any man you had ever met in your life, a rare friend. He was transparent, often going into long, passionate tangents that always had you learning something new. So when he randomly mentioned a foreign film he wanted to see that weekend in one of your conversations, you felt comfortable asking him to come to the movies with you.

Then again, to the paint-and-sip place where the two of you failed to partake in any wine and managed to paint two terrible renditions of sunflowers. Spencer Reid was becoming a friend that you didn’t think you’d burden. Your other friends were quick to explain that you weren’t too much. Still, maybe it was because he had helped you carry your groceries up to the apartment the first day you met him or the way he was so happy to listen to your stories and thoughts. Something about Spencer Reid made you believe him when he said that you weren’t a burden. 

And he was nice to be around. Then, there was the pesky fact of Spencer being attractive. At first, it was more of a passing thought. The way he wore his glasses late at night, how his hair fell to one side, the way his fingers were so gentle with books. He was a good-looking man in a nerdy way. Mix that with sweet, caring, and accomplished; he was a threat. 

A threat to anyone but your loving boyfriend of two years. Sabrina was laughing over something you had said over the phone, her giggles rising in volume as she tried to speak between them, “He’s a.” Giggling. “An adonis of th–” Cackling. “The mind!” She managed before asking, “What does that even mean?” 

“It means he’s a very smart-minded, attractive person.” 

“Oh, so you’re like… crushing on the hot mind guy and fighting with Josh. Got it.” 

“I’m not fighting with Josh, and we talked about it last month. We’re okay now.” 

“Still ignoring you when he comes home?” 

You pause before you let out a slow sigh, “Yeah.” 

“What’s his record?” 

“Four hours and fifteen minutes. He said he will try to be more attentive throughout the week, but he just keeps…” You trail off. You can imagine Sabrina shaking her head on the other side of the line. 

“What about the weekends?” 

“Going out with his friends more, he visited his mom’s last weekend. Nary a date night in sight, not since our second anniversary at least, and that was..” 

“Yeah..” There was rustling, chips maybe, on her side of the line. “Maybe he’s planning something big. Maybe a trip? I don’t know, maybe you should bring it up again.” 

You nod a little, your hands typing away gently on your work computer. “Maybe. The last time I mentioned missing our date nights, he just said, ‘We have dinner dates every night at home.’ That was an incredible feeling.” 

“Something about weaponized ignorance is coming to mind.” 

“Don’t,” 

“Josh has been lacking in good boyfriend points since that stunt with the cake on your birthday,” 

“He got a little icing on my nose!” 

“Don’t,” She dragged out the ‘t’ sound, “Care! The disrespect! Your dress! Ugh, I’m going to get worked up. Talk to me about Dr. Genius.” 

“What about him?” 

“Does he ever, maybe, do something you wish Josh would start doing?” 

You laugh, “What? No…” 

“So you don’t wish that Josh would know the symbolism behind The Red Shoes and go into how… what did he say?” 

“That art was worth dying for, and that Hans Christian Andersen's original story surrounded a sense of morality and religious–” 

“Ah, Ah, Ah, so you don’t want Josh to know that?” 

“He doesn’t need to know that,” your fingers falter in their typing, “Two people can have similar interests and not be in love.” 

“Right, it just seems like lately, you’ve been…” You hate the awkward silence that follows Sabrina before she carefully speaks again, “Maybe replacing Josh with Spencer in your hobbies. I know Josh lashed out and was wrong, too, but this Spencer guy… he clicks with you– your hobbies, at least. And your witty humor, too. It seems he matches your intellectualism and your passion for learning,  exceeds it even, but Josh is steps below you. Josh, he… just always seems so tolerant of your hobbies.” 

“So what are you saying?” 

“Nothing,” a voice calls her name, “Look, I gotta go. Josh is great, and I’m just being silly. Maybe I just have a grudge against him or something. I love you.” 

“I’ll talk to you later. Love you.” You reply quickly before she ends the call. 

You shake your head a little at her words, still swimming in your mind as you go back to charting something on your computer. What did that even mean? Josh is steps below you. He wasn’t dumb. He just lacked… that dry humor you had with Spencer sometimes. A quick, witty remark that had one of you smiling in seconds. Besides, that notion was ridiculous, given you had only known Spencer for three months. Josh made up for it in love… and you did love him. 

All couples went through rough patches, but you were sure that if you raised your concerns again with Josh, things would change. You nod a little at the thought as you sigh, shifting in your chair slightly as you readied yourself to be engulfed in your work. 

Day One Hundred and Forty-Six 

Spencer could feel the bass of some pop song thumping in his chest. It had been a pleasant and slow week at the BAU. While he would have loved to go home and sit down with some book of his choosing, he allowed Penelope and Derek to convince him to go out with them. 

The bar wasn’t too far from his apartment complex, so he didn’t mind. Penelope was twirling her drink's tiny umbrella between her fingers as she pointed towards a pretty red-head dancing in a dark green dress. “What about her?” 

They have been playing this game for ten minutes now. By they, he means Garcia and Morgan. The game is ‘Who does Spencer find pretty at the bar?’ 

“Babygirl, you have a great eye,” Derek says as he points the woman out to Spencer, but before he can say anything else, Spencer decides they’ve played this game past the point of amusement. 

“Why can’t we accept that I don’t feel like talking to anyone tonight, again?” 

Penelope frowned a little, giving Spencer a pleading look. “You said that the last time we took you to the bar, you were willing to participate next time. It’s next time, Reid.” 

Spencer remembers the conversation and groans softly as he sips on his water. He hated disappointing them with his lack of effortless charm. It had improved through the years, but he still struggled to find the right words to say in front of someone he found attractive. 

“Come on, Pretty Boy. Are you going to back out of your promise?” Derek’s voice is teasing as he smiles at Spencer. Spencer can’t help but feel a sense of newfound obligation. He knew what was holding him back and hated himself for it. 

His inappropriate crush on you had grown to be near debilitating, and even though Spencer had told himself that it’d never happen, he kept holding out hope that one day it would. He had gone on dates in the near five months he had known you, but he always ended up comparing his dates to you. They never laughed as sweet as you. They came up with the same academically related jokes you did. They never– they just weren’t you, simple as that. 

“Fine, but someone else. She’s pretty, but I think that girl is her girlfriend.” He pleaded softly, watching as a taller brunette woman spun around the pretty redhead to the beat. 

Penelope clapped and set down her drink, “This next one has to be perfect.” 

“Pretty boy’s future bride,”

Spencer felt his cheeks flush at that, and he nudged Derek with a nervous laugh. Penelope was still scanning the crowd. The bar wasn’t empty or devoid of beautiful women or men for her to choose from, but no one screamed Spencer Reid material. Derek was scanning the crowd with her, always happy to see her passionate about something, even if it was Reid’s love life. 

A gasp slipped past Penelope’s lips as she grabbed Derek’s arm tight, her index pointing toward someone by the speakers. Derek’s eyes landed on who she was pointing at, and he smiled wide, nodding quickly, “Future Mrs. Reid material,” 

Spencer can barely see where they are pointing as he tries to look toward the area that Garcia is pointing at. Then he sees her. It’s you, and his heart drops. He wants to tell his friends he knows that isn’t ‘Future Mrs. Reid’ at all, but Derek and Penelope are already pushing him into the crowd. He glares back at them and stubbles with his footing for a second before walking toward you. 

You’re wearing a beautiful black dress, hugging your curves. In the flashing lights, Spencer thinks that you’re shining. Your hips sway lightly to the beat as you stand near the speakers, alone. 

Spencer gently taps you on your shoulder, and when you turn around, you have a glare on your face before you see it's him. He almost laughs at how you gasp and loudly scream, “Spencer!” Your hands fly out to his shoulders, shaking him gently as you giggle. “Hi!” You’re so drunk. 

Spencer is sure that Penelope and Derek are watching the scene unfold with confused expressions as he laughs softly, your hands on his shoulders gently shaking his body side-to-side. “Hey, where’s Josh?” He yells over the music. 

“Getting drinks!” You yell back in an excited tone. 

He smiles wide and shakes his head a little; he usually doesn’t find drunk people endearing. But right now, in the flashing lights of the bar, your rosy-cheek face and tipsy giddiness have him feeling a little more enamored than usual. 

“Who are you here with?” You ask loudly, your hands falling away from his shoulders. 

“Uh, my friends, coworkers!” he replies as he stands beside you to point out the confused-looking pair staring at them. 

“Can I say hi?” He could tell that your friendly disposition continued even when intoxicated, and he found himself adoring the consistency. He nods gently, and you’re smiling so much. Spencer wonders how someone could be so excited about meeting someone else’s friends. 

He leads you over, your fingers grabbing the back of his button-up as he carefully leads you through the crowd. The gentle pull of your fingers gripping his shirt makes his cheeks burn as he stops in front of Derek and Penelope. “Y/N, Derek, and Penelope. Penelope and Derek, Y/N.” 

You let go of the back of his button-up quickly as you extend a giddy hand, “Hi, I haven’t met any friends of Spencer's yet.” 

Derek looks amused as he shakes your hand, his eyes flicking between you and Spencer, “How do you know the boy genius?” 

“I found him looking lost in the grocery store. We’re neighbors! Well, almost,” You let go of Derek’s hand to point towards the roof, “I’m on top of him.” 

Spencer can feel the breath knocked out of his lungs as he quickly corrects you, “She lives on the floor above me.” He explains before either of them can make a joke. 

Penelope matches your happy attitude as she shakes your hand, “We had no idea that Spencer had a friend in his apartment complex! How long have the two of you been friends?” 

“Almost five months,” You say with a little giggle, leaning toward Penelope slightly. “Spencer comes over to discuss movies with me or books, or we went to a poetry reading last weekend.” 

“He comes over often, huh?” Derek’s voice asks playfully, and you nod quickly. 

“The mothership is always beckoning,” You joke, laughing harder than you should at your own joke. 

Penelope slowly drops your hand, tilting her head, and her flower earrings sway slightly. “And... your roommate is okay with that?” she asks carefully, and Spencer wants to ask why she doesn’t simply ask if you have a boyfriend. 

“Oh, no. Josh doesn’t care. He’s my boyfriend of two years. Nothing can break that security, I’m sure.” You look towards the bar for him and catch his eye. You wave high and wide for him, and he smiles, shaking his head at you as he waits for the drinks.

“So, Pretty Boy here is just a friend.” 

You giggle a little at the nickname and try to cover your smile with your hand, looking at Spencer. “Pretty Boy?” You giggle out. Spencer frowns a little and goes to defend himself, but you’re already nodding, “He is a pretty boy. That’s fitting.” Then, he feels like his body is on fire. 

Derek is about to say something when Josh slides behind you with two drinks. “Always with Spencer,” he teases softly, kissing your cheek before handing you your drink. 

“Josh, these are Spencer’s friends, Penelope and Derek.” You say, taking the drink and happily taking a small sip. 

Josh holds out his hand for them to shake, a charming smile on his face, “I thought Spencer’s only friend was my girlfriend.” 

Penelope doesn’t laugh, but she still manages a polite smile and shakes his hand before Derek does the same thing. Spencer fidgets a little, still beside you. You turn your head up toward him, and you mouth a soft, ‘He’s drunk’ as a way to excuse Josh’s behavior. 

However, recently, Josh has been acting like that sober. He would demand to join the two of you at the movies while complaining about the movie selection. He’d sit between the two of you if the opportunity arose, which wasn’t strange. What was weird was how he’d become more physically affectionate with you in front of Spencer. Spencer hated that– hated looking at it.

Josh quickly grabs your shoulders and says, “We should let you all get back to your night.” It sounds like a suggestion, but he’s already leading you away. You gasp as he guides you away from the three of them, and you quickly smile, wave, and yell out a quick, ‘It was nice to meet you’ before you walk further away with Josh. 

Penelope sips on her drink as a way to stop herself from talking, but Derek breaks the silence first. “So he’s jealous of you.” 

Spencer wants to deny it, but even he can’t deny the facts. “Not at first, but now… I don’t know if I’m not nice enough or if I did something, but yeah, lately, he’s been like that.” 

Penelope sighed and looked toward where you and Josh had walked off to, “She seems sweet,” 

“Yeah, Reid’s head over heels for her too.” 

“Wait, Spencer, are you?” 

His cheeks are flushed, and he’s shaking his head a little, a lame attempt to try and hide his feelings. Derek lays it on thick, “Come on, he doesn’t let just anyone touch him. Did you see how he looked at her when he approached her earlier? Like a lovesick dog with a bone in his mouth.” 

Spencer raises his hands and scoffs, “Okay, I’m working on it, alright. She’s just easy to be around. I’m getting over it.” 

Penelope is swooning over the information, “A forbidden romance,” 

“Her gatekeeper boyfriend and you, the pretty boy genius from downstairs,” Derek adds. 

Spencer sighs, annoyed with their teasing, “Alright, let’s drop it.” The pair gives him a look, and he adds a soft, “Please.” Seeing their friend’s annoyance didn’t usually deter them, but the way he shifted from one foot to the other as he begged them to stop had Penelope and Derek sharing a look before letting all their silent jokes go. Spencer was grateful that evening had returned to normal, his nervous thoughts slowly slipping away with easy conversation. 

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Three 

You’re sure Josh is mad at you for something. You just can't get it out of him. A few weeks ago, he had been nothing but sincere. Soft again, sweet again, him from a little over a year ago. It was beautiful, and it felt like he had finally listened. It felt like he had come back around and somehow repaired the hull. 

Then he started ignoring you again. You had been careful, so careful, not to suffocate him like he mentioned. You make sure that you go out with Spencer on weekends. You distance yourself just enough for Josh to miss spending time with you. Spending time with Spencer was also good for you; he helps keep your spirits high.

He kept you feeling lighter than air. He would text you sometimes on cases with the team when he was out of town. Little reminders, little jokes, and sometimes… It felt nice. You didn’t know how to describe it. Thrilling, calming, extraordinary, and tumultuous all that once. It confused you, pulled at the heartstrings, softly tugging at something deep within you. It unsettled you and made you ache when you looked at Josh in bed next to you. 

But his sweetness distracted you. Erased longing and replaced it with familiar love. You knew his steps, and he knew yours. 

And now, he was angry with you. You didn’t want to ask, and you didn’t want to be a pest to the man you loved. You hoped he would just come right out and say it. You hoped that his cup of secret rage would overflow and spill over.

The sound of heavy footsteps disrupts your stagnant reading. Your eyes kept reading the same sentence. Every time you tried to continue with the following sentence, you found yourself unable to do so. You set the book face down on the bed and smiled a little at Josh as he stood in the doorway. It was Friday night, and Spencer was on a case. Molly was busy, Christina was busy, and everyone was busy. So you stayed home, attempting to read. 

He was drunk, no drunk didn’t even cover it. He looked like death, pale with red eyes and muttering incoherent things to himself. “Josh… are you okay?” Your smile quickly faded, and you moved to the edge of the bed, watching him sway against the door frame. 

He didn’t answer and just laughed a little, which turned into a groan and then a sigh. You push yourself off the bed and walk to him, reaching up a hand to cup his cheek, but before your fingers can touch him, he smacks your hands away with a deep frown. “Josh!” You gasp as you pull your hand away, rubbing at the slightly pink skin. 

“Not right,” he mutters, and you shake your head as you try to understand what he’s talking about. 

“What’s not right? Josh, are you okay?”

He stumbles as he pushes past you, his shoulder roughly bumping into yours as he sits on the bed. You stay by the door. “This. Us, not right anymore.” He roughly puts it together. 

You can feel your heart fall to the pit of your stomach as you turn around to face him, “What are you talking about?” 

“Not right anymore,” his drunk hands are dramatically waving between the two of you, “You’re not,” he motions to his chest lamely, “Here anymore.” 

You can feel the tears threatening to rise in your eyes, your breathing becoming fast as you shake your head. “I’m here, you’re here.” You point your index into your chest, just above your heart. “What are you saying?” 

“Not here,” He repeats loudly. 

“I am here!” you yell back as you walk to him. “I don’t know what happened tonight, but we can discuss it, Josh. We can fix things.” You can feel the weight of the world crashing down on your chest, its weight making it difficult to breathe clearly. 

“No,” 

You’re quick to talk over him, “Yes, we can,” 

“No, we can’t,”

“Whatever it is, it’s okay, we can–” 

“No–” 

“It’s okay, I won’t be mad–”

“I’m in love with someone else,” He yells, his spit hitting your cheek. Your hands twitch slightly at the feeling, but you can’t move. All you can do is stare at him with a gaping mouth, opening and closing repeatedly like a fish. You couldn’t form the words, and your mind was blank. “Don’t give me that.” 

You feel like someone else’s voice is speaking, “Give you what? Shock? Disgust? You’re in love with someone else. How else am I supposed to react? Do you want me to be happy? Oh, Josh, I’m so happy for you and your mistress! I’m so glad that you’re fucking her and me at the same time! I’m so happy, so happy!” 

“I’m not fucking Estelle, she and I,” 

“Your coworker, are fucking you kidding me?” 

“Oh, shut up with the pity party!” He looks sober suddenly, his face red and twisted with rage as he stands up from the bed. Your footing slips a little before you catch yourself walking back from him. “You think these past six months I’ve enjoyed having him over here all the time? Giggling with you in the living room over some intellectual private joke that I don’t get, o-or how about when you disappear with him every weekend you can? Introducing you to his friends in bars, going to movies with you, you didn’t try hiding it from me!” 

“Him? Who are you talking about?” Then it dawned on you, and Josh could tell from how your back straightened and how you looked at him with unsure eyes. “Spencer? You think I’m cheating on you with Spencer?” 

“Not physically, but yes.” 

“Josh, what are you even saying right now? I made a friend who likes the same things I do. I mean… a year ago, you told me that I was suffocating. You told me that you didn’t enjoy my hobbies. Did you just expect me to stop them? How did I cheat on you? Spencer and I we’ve never–”

“It doesn’t matter if you’ve never fucked, or-or kissed him! Emotionally, you gave up on us. You’re only emotionally available for him. He gets you, all your jokes, your kindness, everything. He has it all. You’re always running into his arms!”  

“Running into his arms? Josh, you push me to him. I don’t love Spencer; we are just friends. He’s there for me because he is my friend! What are you going to say now? Th-that I forced you to Estelle, who, by the way, I saw last month at that Holiday party for the office. Are you going to tell me that me being by your side all while having a friend with the same interest as me was too much for you?” You can barely breathe. 

“You know it's more than that, don’t play victim. I can see the way you look at him. You used to look at me like that, and then six months ago, you met him. You didn’t even try.” 

“I didn’t try.” You repeat back before you’re scoffing a little, pacing the room quickly. “You shut me out. You stopped talking to me for months. If anyone has the right to play the victim here, it’s me. I don’t see you for hours. We had the day off for our second anniversary, and you didn’t talk to me until noon. When I moved in with you, did you even want me to be a person? Or did you want a perfectly still doll, interesting only when you want her to be interesting, talkative only when you want to listen, ready for the taking when it was good for you? Go ahead, treat me like a fucking doll.” 

Josh is shaking his head now, his breathing ragged as he slowly runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t,” He pauses, his eyes looking at a photo of the two of you from two years ago framed on the bedside table. “It doesn’t matter anymore? I don’t love you anymore. You can make me the villain. I don’t care. I want you out.” 

You swallow hard at his words and laugh a little, “Where am I supposed to go?” 

“I,” He looks at you, and you see how tired he looks. The part of you that still loves him feels crushed; the other just feels angry. “My name is on the lease. Find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I’ll let you pack a bag, but I want you,” he motions towards the apartment, and you assume he means your presence in the apartment and your things. “Gone.” And he doesn’t let you say anything back, walking out into the living room. 

You stand still; you feel frozen. You don’t know if you want to start crying, start packing, or just call people to see if you can crash at theirs. That feeling, the feeling that he planted in you rises inside you. You’ll be a burden, suffocating, and miserable. But you need a place to sleep for the night. 

Your shaky hands reach for your phone on the bed, randomly calling people. Alex is out of town, you know. Christina just moved and doesn’t even have a couch yet. You call Molly, but she doesn’t answer. You wish you lived in Boston so you could call Sabrina, but that’s unrealistic. You keep scrolling through the contacts and try to think.

As you reach the next contact, your fingers falter, and your mouth feels dry. You hesitate multiple times before hitting the call button. You wait with bated breath as you bring your phone to your ear. 

Ring. 

You should hang up. This is a bad idea. 

Ring. 

Doesn’t this just prove Josh’s point? 

Ring. 

You don’t even know if he’s back in town or when he’ll be back. You should hang up before he answers; call someone else. 

The third ring is cut short as Spencer picks up the phone. Your hands shake as he says a gentle, tired, “Hello?” 

“He-hey.. Uh, are you still in Illinois?” 

“No, we’re an hour out. Are you okay? You sound like you’re upset.” 

You lick your lips quickly as you debate, telling him everything: the fight, how Josh is kicking you out. Instead, you settle for, “I just need a place to crash for the night, and I know it's a big ask, and you’re getting home from a case, but–” 

“Yes, yeah, you can stay at mine.” You let out a slow breath and nod a little, a sense of temporary relief settling over you. 

“Thank you, thank you so much. I… I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be at yours in an hour?” 

“See you soon,” Spencer says before you hang up the phone. You get to work as fast as you can, grabbing luggage from the closet and packing like a mad woman. Anything you can fit into the case, you carefully fold or roll up and stuff inside. 

An hour comes around, and you’re packed enough for a week at the very least. You grab the only thing on the bed that’s yours, a dark green blanket, before slowly rolling the suitcase into the living room. Suddenly, it feels like you’re not in your body anymore, watching the scene from the ceiling. 

Josh turns, a phone against his ear, and you only catch the ends of an ‘I love you’ before he hangs up. He draws his lips in a tight line before asking, “Where you headed?” 

You feel like he knows the answer, “Spencer’s.” 

His lips turn upwards, and he laughs; he laughs so hard that he’s gripping his side. “Ye-Yeah, that's right. Prove me right. Run straight to Doctor Reid. Fucking rich.” He snips at you as you finally feel the tears start to well up in your eyes. “You know what let him have my sloppy seconds.” 

You gasp softly, the comment like a punch in the gut. “Have fun fucking her in our bed. Make sure to put the pictures face down before you give her the most underwhelming four minutes of her life. I’ll be back tomorrow to start packing.” You say as you start stepping through the front door, slamming it behind you. You’re panting lightly in the empty hallway, your mind numb as tears stream down your face. You don’t remember lugging your stuff to the second floor or getting to Spencer’s door. 

The only thing you remember is the sound of your name and gentle hands grabbing your chin and tilting your head up with care. You remember sobbing, hyperventilating out the events of the past evening to him as he helps you inside. And the eventual call of sleep that reaches you on Spencer’s couch. 

Day One Hundred and Ninety

Spencer could hear the soft sounds of your computer playing something in the living room. Last Friday… Well, technically, early Saturday morning, you had your head on your knees outside his apartment door. The sound of sobs had him dropping his dirty go-bag and grabbing your chin to soothe you. 

He listened to everything: how Josh thought that you were emotionally cheating on him with Spencer, how Josh had fallen in love with a coworker, and how he kicked you out. You said you would have stayed, but the lease was in his name. It was a stupid decision of the past catching up with you– your words, not Spencer’s. 

You had told him that it would only be for one night, but Spencer wasn’t going to make you couch surf all week. He insisted that you stay with him until you found an apartment. He let you stuff your boxes of things in his study and was happy to do it. 

The worst part about this arrangement was seeing you like this, seeing you so heartbroken. You went to work a little later than him, came home later than him, ate, slept, and repeated the cycle. He kept catching you with a dissociative look on your face. Too scared to ask you if you were okay, he would awkwardly attempt to cheer you up with your shared hobbies. But that only worked for so long until you were ending the night with that numb look on your face again. 

He lays in bed, wondering if he should go into the living room to check on you. He barely thinks it through before he throws his covers off and slips out of bed. He has plaid pajama pants on with an old CalTech shirt, and when he walks into the living room, he can see you pause what you’re watching on your computer and smile at him. 

“Hey,” you whisper, even though it's just the two of you in the apartment. 

“Hey,” Spencer whispers back before sighing and walking toward the back of the couch. “Can’t sleep?” 

You look up at him before returning to the dimly lit computer screen, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” His quick reply has you nodding a little. You shift a little, pushing yourself up to make room on the couch for him. He takes the unspoken invitation and sits down next to you.”What are we watching?” 

You lick your lips nervously, “Romcom. When Harry Met Sally.”  

Spencer glances at you before he admits, “Never seen it.” 

You gasp softly, and that playful light returns in your eyes for a second. He hasn’t seen that light in a week. “Spencer Reid, you haven’t lived.” 

Spencer takes the opportunity to joke around with you, making a buzzer sound with his mouth. “Wrong. I’ve been alive for many years.” 

This gets a weak smile from you, but still a smile nonetheless. “You want to watch it with me? I know it's late, but… maybe it’ll lure you to sleep if you find it boring.” 

Spencer grins, glancing at the clock to see how late it is. He shakes his head a little, “Maybe we could just talk for a second? I’ve barely seen you this week.” He suggests. You’re quick to nod, shutting your laptop. You lean back on the sofa and bring your legs up to sit crisscrossed. He watches you. Your eyes are no longer red or puffy, but the skin on your cheeks still seems pale, lacking their natural rosiness. 

“I found a great apartment, but I can’t move in until the end of this month.” You break the silence first, hands folding awkwardly in your lap. 

Spencer nods, resisting the urge to hold one of your hands as he speaks. “That’s fine, and I’m not kicking you out anytime soon. You’re stuck with me for three more weeks.” 

You chuckle a little at that, “Ever the gentleman,” You say softly, but your eyes don’t have that light anymore. You seem distracted, your eyes lingering on him briefly before staring at your hands. “Spencer,” 

“Yeah?” 

“What do you do when everything feels like too much?” 

Your voice cracks softly as you ask the question, and Spencer is scared you’ll start crying again. He always feels useless whenever you cry, a genius without answers. He swallows the nervous lump in his throat: “I read, or sometimes I force myself to go out. Whenever I’m overwhelmed, I end up at the public library. Or sometimes, if I have the day, I go to the Smithsonian. But... it’s been a while.” 

You seem to perk up a little at the mention of the Smithsonian, and you give him a playfully little side glance, “Air and Space?” You guess with a small smile. 

He smiles and shrugs, “Sometimes,” he returns the playful sideways glance. “Portrait Gallery?” 

You’re laughing a little as you nod. Spencer feels relieved to hear its soft melody. “Portrait Gallery.” You confirm your pick with a soft sigh. 

Spencer lets warm silence spread for a second, his eyes occasionally flickering over to your serene expression. “What about you? What do you do when you’re overwhelmed?” 

Your eyes meet his as he asks the question, and for a second, you seem a little surprised that he is asking you anything. He wonders if you expected him to keep talking or ignore the tension in the air around you. 

“Well, reading is lovely. Museums, movies,” you pause for a second, and your expression softens. “Music. I love music when I’m feeling overwhelmed, sad, or happy. It’s a universal fix, music.” 

“What kind of music?” He has heard you talk about music before, how you didn’t understand people who hated it. Music helped him escape to childhood memories, the good ones at least. He wondered if it had the same effect on you. 

“Everything. Pop, country, indie, anything that moves me. I like classical too, but only sometimes.” 

“Why only sometimes?” 

“I like it in ballets, plays, movies. I like the visual representation that accompanies it.” Your eyes leave his slowly, “Like a music box with a ballerina inside.” 

Spencer finds that this version of you, the melancholy version, is blunt. You don’t people-please or avoid questions; instead, you would directly state something. He liked how you directly stated your musical likes and how honest they were. He finds himself wanting every version of yourself that you have shown him lately, and he feels a little guilty for it. 

A soft gasp from your lips stops him from overthinking, “Oh shoot,” You mutter as you pull out your phone, looking at the calendar before you curse softly. 

“What’s wrong?’ 

“I, uhm,” You swallow hard and set your phone down, “I just remembered that Josh and I were going to celebrate our third anniversary a little early this year. Our second wasn’t the best, and he promised we would do something I wanted to do. We had tickets to see Swan Lake.” You chew on your bottom lip slowly, getting lost in the thought before you say, “That’s next month. I gotta cancel.” 

Spencer can see how you slump at the thought and how sad it makes you to cancel the plans. He feels himself saying the words before he can even process them: “I can go with you.” 

You turn to him with a soft laugh of disbelief, “What?” 

“We could go together. Make the most of it. I mean, I like Swan Lake.” 

“Spencer, it would be wrong to spend what would be my third anniversary with you. I mean–”

“It wouldn’t be the exact day. You said it was a couple of months early, so it would just be us…going to see Swan Lake. Just friends, seeing a ballet, and getting dinner or something. A night on the town. Something to keep your mind off things,” 

He hopes you’ll agree to the offer, his heart beating loudly in his chest as you stare into his eyes. Your eyes dart back and forth, rapidly looking into his eyes and then at his face. The silence is killing him, a knife in his back as he tries his best to breathe normally. 

Then you’re giving him a slow smile, a little shy at first, before you beam at the suggestion, “Okay,” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, let’s go to the ballet together. I mean, I would do it with or without Josh anyway. Now I’ll be able to go with someone who will actually enjoy it, even better.” Your eyes meet his hazel ones again, and you place a tentative hand over his. “Thank you, Spence.” Your voice is sincere, and Spencer feels his body relax when you touch him. 

“I can’t think of a better way to spend my evening two months from now.” He whispers in the air between you before he slips his hand away from yours and stands. He yawns softly, “Now… let’s get some sleep.” 

You nod, a small smile still on your face as you lay on the couch. “Night.” You whisper as you close your eyes. 

Spencer stands and stares down at you a little longer than he should before he takes a step toward his bedroom. “Goodnight,” he says as he walks into his bedroom. He’s thinking about your genuine smile for another hour before he even closes his eyes.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[deliciousangelfestival]

Another part to Rain and Umbrella? Please lovely ☕️🍪

Of course sweetie

Only The Lonely - By Your Side

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: After Bucky saw you crying and listened to your problems, he gave you something as an answer.

Genre: Romance, Action, Comedy, Slice Of Life

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way I publish my book Arrogant Ex Husband in Kindle. 👉 Now available on e-Kindle Amazon! << here's the link.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

"I'm not okay," you admitted, your voice trembling as you sat on the floor, clutching the mug of hot chocolate. Its warmth seeped into your hands, a small comfort against the coldness inside you. "I’ve been hiding for so long that I’ve forgotten who I used to be."

Bucky leaned against the wall, his arms crossed but his eyes soft. He didn’t push you, just let the silence sit between you until you were ready.

"I want to leave everything behind," you continued, your gaze fixed on the swirling steam rising from your mug. "Before everything fell apart—before my brother drowned in debt and left me to clean up his mess—I was someone else. Someone happier."

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he watched the pain etched into your features.

"I miss my friends," you admitted, your voice breaking. Running away had meant cutting ties with everyone who mattered.

Bucky didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked over and crouched down beside you. His presence was steady, and grounding.

Later, when you excused yourself to rest, Bucky stayed behind. You didn’t know then, but he had already decided to do something about your brother.

****

The next morning, you woke to find Bucky gone. A note rested on the coffee table, the words scrawled in his handwriting:

Be right back.

Your chest tightened as you read it, a mixture of hope and uncertainty swirling in your stomach. You went about your day, returning to work at the café.

"Where have you been?" one of your coworkers asked, concern flickering across their face.

You offered a vague smile, brushing it off with a simple, "I’m fine. Just needed some time."

As the day wound down and you closed up the café, you stepped outside and froze. There he was—Bucky—waiting for you.

"I want to show you something," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Back at his place, the air felt charged. Your heart raced as you stepped inside and saw a third person sitting in the middle of the room.

Your missing brother. Teddy.

He was tied to a chair, his eyes wide with fear. A muffled scream escaped his gagged mouth as he squirmed against the ropes.

"How did you find him?" you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked at Bucky.

He leaned casually against the wall, but there was steel in his voice when he replied, "He used a fake ID, changed his looks, and has been working as a fisherman."

Teddy thrashed again, but Bucky’s presence was unyielding.

Bucky walked over, his movements deliberate, and pulled the gag from Teddy's mouth.

“She paid the price instead of you,” he said coldly, his gaze piercing Teddy’s. “She’s suffered for three years because of your cowardice. Now, you’re going to pay back six times what you owe.”

“That’s more than I owe!” Teddy shouted, his voice shaky but defiant.

Bucky leaned closer, his jaw tightening. “That’s the price for what you’ve put her through. She ran, she hid, and she nearly lost everything because of you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The words you’d longed to hear—someone finally defending you—stunned you. Who would have thought that the stranger from the train could be the one to make you feel seen? In your darkest moment, you found the light in your problem. God knows.

Teddy’s bravado crumbled. His eyes darted nervously between you and Bucky. “I’ll pay,” he stammered. “I’ll pay back everything I owe her.”

Your knees nearly buckled from the shock. After years of struggling, hearing Teddy’s reluctant promise felt surreal. You glanced at Bucky, gratitude welling up in your chest.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

****

The next few days passed in a blur. You resigned and packed your belongings, ready to return to your hometown. It was time to reclaim the life you had left behind.

On the day of your departure, you stood on the platform at the train station, your heart heavy with bittersweet emotions. When you turned, there he was—Bucky.

As you stepped onto the train, you paused in the doorway and looked back at him. "Let’s meet again," you said, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. A small smile played on your lips. "Next time, can you ask me for a date?"

Before he could respond, you leaned in and kissed him. His eyes widened, his body rigid in surprise, but his lips softened under yours.

The train door closed before either of you could say another word, but through the window, you could still see him.

His smile was enough to warm your heart, a silent promise in the way his lips curved and his eyes held yours.

He nodded, his answer clear even without words.

He will ask you next time.

And next time, both of you will step onto the train together, sitting side by side, whether to travel to new places or to return home. The journey wouldn’t matter because, for the first time in a long time, you wouldn’t be alone.

As the train began to move, you kept your eyes on him, and he did the same, his figure shrinking in the distance but never leaving your thoughts. You smiled to yourself, the beginning of something beautiful stirring in your chest.

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[rohvee]

Whoops meant to share this for WIP Wednesday here too yesterday! Some backstory/setup for my Death Stranding AU Jayvik fic 🖤

—

“How is the project going?”

Jayce hesitated for a moment.

Mel never let up about the project. Of course, she didn’t. It was the project of the century. A breakthrough that could reshape civilization—if Jayce could make it work. Another tool in the fight against the Death Stranding.

Long before Jayce was born, Runeterra was a very different place. No one knew what triggered them, but the first explosions—the voidouts, they called them—were unlike anything the world had seen. Detonations more powerful than nuclear blasts shattered the land, swallowing entire regions in moments.

But the aftermath was worse.

They called it the Death Stranding.

The voidouts tore through the boundary between the realms of life and death. And through the cracks, things slipped in. Spirits, creatures, substances that defied natural law. The rain itself could kill now, accelerating time with every drop. Stepping outside unprotected was suicide. The few remaining colonies, scattered across the ruins, were isolated, disconnected.

That was where porters came in. A lifeline. Brave souls hauling vital supplies across the hostile land, linking the last remnants of civilization. Trade was brokered. Humanity adapted. Rebuilt.

But the disconnect remained. The life of a porter was perilous, and trade was agonizingly slow.

That was what Jayce was trying to fix, and the key to it all was chiralium.

A substance originating from the world of the dead, chiralium lingered here as dust in the atmosphere, as jagged hand-shaped crystal formations jutting from the earth. It ignored time, existed outside of it. Its properties were nothing short of magical.

So far, it had been harnessed to make objects levitate, to create self-healing materials, and most importantly, to enable the instantaneous mass transfer of data, sending it through the timeless realm of the Beach; the world of the dead. This enabled them to connect communities in a new way. Sharing information—blueprints, crucial knowledge, culture.

But data was all they could send, for now. Nothing real. Nothing with a soul.

That was Jayce’s big project—figuring out how to harness chiralium to send physical materials instantaneously from one place to another, crossing through the Beach.

It would revolutionize trade. It would save lives. It would connect the world.

“It's not… going great,” Jayce admitted with a wince, his eyes flicking to the tablet in front of him. His calculations sprawled across the screen in increasingly erratic handwriting, a visual representation of his fraying patience. “I can’t even get a working theory down, never mind how to actually implement it.”

Mel didn’t respond immediately. She simply stood there, gaze drifting to the floor, thoughtful in that measured way of hers. Then, with a quiet sigh, she reached up and unclasped the sides of her mask.

The golden mask slipped away, unveiling the sharp contours beneath—the cut of her cheekbones, the golden glint of subdermal implants catching in the dim lab light. She was, in every sense, beautiful. A beauty few were ever granted the privilege to see. A beauty Jayce had once known intimately.

She set the mask down on a nearby workbench and leaned against it, crossing her arms. “Jayce, what do you think about bringing on another person?”

His brows furrowed. “Like… a partner?”

“Yes.”

Jayce frowned. “That’s not necessary. I’ll get there eventually, I just need more time—”

“Things are… strained, Jayce.” Mel exhaled, glancing away. “I can’t tell you much, but the ability to send materials through the Beach would loosen tight cords significantly.”

“And it’ll happen, I just—”

“We found someone.” She met his gaze then, unwavering. “An evo-devo biologist in Zaun.”

Jayce blinked. “Evo-devo—? Mel, this is physics. I don’t need a biologist.”

“He’s an engineer and physicist as well, like you. Perhaps a fresh perspective would help.”

His jaw clenched. Irritation curled hot in his gut, and he tapped his fingers against the desk in agitation. “I don’t need him. Really. I’m on the verge, I know it. I don’t need someone coming in and making a mess of things.”

“That’s too bad.”

“No, it’s fine, actually—”

“Because he’s already on his way.”

Jayce blinked. Alarm spiked through his exhaustion. He pushed himself up from his chair. “You sent for this random biologist to cross through BT territory without even asking me if I wanted this?”

Mel gazed at him neutrally. “I don’t care what you want, Jayce. I strongly feel that this is something you need.”

His hands curled into fists. “You can’t just—!”

“I can.”

A low, guttural sound tore from Jayce’s throat—something between a scoff and a snarl. He turned sharply, raking a hand through his hair, pacing in tight, agitated strides.

The thought of someone else—some outsider—intruding on his project made his skin itch. This wasn’t just research; it was his baby. It was the culmination of a lifetime of work, dedication, obsession. No one understood chiralium like he did. No one had pushed the boundaries of its potential further. He didn’t need someone stumbling in, making reckless assumptions, forcing him to waste time explaining what he already knew wouldn’t work.

And a biologist?

What the hell did he need a biologist for?

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Mel sighed, retrieving her mask as she straightened. She slipped it back into place, golden metal once again obscuring half her face. “Just give him a chance when he gets here.”

Jayce didn’t respond. Didn’t turn to look at her. His jaw clenched, but he knew arguing was pointless. Mel had made up her mind. There was no changing it. With a long, exhausted sigh, he let himself sink back into his chair, fingers pressing against his temples.

Mel took that as her cue to leave. She turned smoothly, heading for the door. As she approached, it hissed open, revealing Sky lingering in the hall, looking anxious.

Jayce finally spoke, voice low. “What’s his name?”

Mel paused, glancing over her shoulder. Her lips quirked in a small smile.

“It’s Viktor.”

[dino-cattivo]

Snirius prompt: Flame

A drabble prompt from the StarPrince Sever. It got a bit too long for the Discord, so I will post it here and link to it. It is just something quick and fun, so there are probably some spelling errors I overlooked.

The quill scratched over the parchment, the letters an elegant cursive that Severus had spent months perfecting when starting Hogwarts, wanting to fit in with his pure-blooded peers. Even years later -  filled with many bad decisions and on the wrong side of a war - his writing is still as pristine as it had always been.

The words, though, had changed from back then. No longer were they refined and checked for every double meaning. Now they were raw and honest, baring all the emotions he usually conceals behind the shields that kept him alive while he was lying to the face of the Dark Lord. Once a year, he allows himself to let go, bare his soul, remind himself that there is a man left under the scars. It is what gives him the power to continue on, day after day, wearing a mask as he continues to be the pawn of Albus Dumbledore, preparing for the time the Dark Lord returns and war will reign over Britain once more. 

Should anyone ever read the letters, they would be surprised to learn who they were addressed to. Not his best friend, he had lost long before her death, now 13 years ago. Nor to his mother, whom he still mourns, or the headmaster holding his leash. No, the letters go to someone no one would expect, someone he should despise, since the man himself wouldn’t offer a hand if Severus were drowning. 

But here he was writing a letter to Sirius Black. A letter of hidden feelings, he was too afraid to confess during their school days, fearing rejection and prosecution. A letter of pain, as the man’s actions still made him uneasy every time the full moon graced the sky. A letter of regret for the path Severus had chosen and how late he had found his way back. A letter of apology for Severus knew Sirius was innocent - would never have betrayed James Potter if it cost him his life - but Severus was powerless to prove his innocence and set him free again. But most important, a letter of love, of longing, of desperate want. 

A pointless letter since Severus never sent a single one of them, not since he found the courage to write the first one shortly after Lily’s death and Sirius’s imprisonment, wanting to let him know that he was not alone. Meaningless since even if prisoners were allowed mail, Severus was too big of a coward to have his words read by anyone. No, he had burned it instead, and every letter since. 

Now that the man was free - even if on the run with Pettigrew in the wind - he could send it. Instead, he watched the flames in his fireplace as they ate the paper until nothing but ash remained. 

A knock on his door pulled him from his dark thoughts. The emotions fell from his face as the blank mask returned. Time for another year of surviving. 

Opening the door, he expected Albus with a special mission to fill his summer holidays. Instead, he came face to face with the person who had just filled his thoughts. For the first time, the spy's perfect mask slipped, showing his shock. 

Sirius Black pushed inside, closing the door before a passing Muggle could see him and call the authorities. What was he doing here? Did he want revenge for Severus getting Lupin fired? The loyal Gryffindor always ready to defend his friend? Or was it more personal, and he blamed Severus for the rat’s escape?

“Hello Severus,” Sirius’ words made him flinch. Not Sniviluss - the nickname the Marauders had been so found of - nor Snape. Alarm bells rang in Severus’ mind, since something was wrong. “Sorry it took so long, I had a lot going on between Azkaban, Peter, and being on the run.” A self-deprived chuckle. “This is hard. I just wanted to say. I got your letters.”

As if to prove it, Sirius pulled a stack of papers from his worn leather jacket. Severus instantly recognized his own handwriting. He shook his head, panic crawling up his throat. It couldn’t be. “I burned them!”

“Ahh, yeah. I guessed as much. And that you had no idea what you were doing.” A faith chuckle. “It’s Black family stuff. Old. A way to communicate without owls. Write the full name of a Black, think of them, burn the letter, they will get it.”

Now, Severus was fully panicking. These letters were never meant to be read by anyone, least of all Sirius. They held too much power over Severus, showing his heart and leaving him unprotected. They were a sharp blade in Sirius’ hand, the tip sitting right against Severus’ throat, a single word able to drive it into the flesh. 

Warm hands grabbed his shaking ones before he could turn tail and run, keeping him in place as Sirius tried to make eye contact. Severus was unable to endure the pity and instead suited the dirty floor under his feet. He had never gotten the stains out his father had left, no matter how many cleaning spells he threw at it.

“I wanted to say thank you. The letters, knowing someone out there believed my innocence, were what kept me going all these years in Azkaban. Without them, I doubt I would be here today. Without you, I would have given in to the Dementors long ago.” Sirius stepped closer, his boots entering Severus’ field of vision, and he gasped as Sirius’ forehead met his own. “I wanted to say so much, made speech after speech as I sat in that damn cell, and now I can’t remember any of it. I blame you. You are just so…” Severus shrank into himself,, head beating fast in fear. It was his fault. He had done something wrong.

A hand on his chin tilted up his head, and they looked eyes. He prayed Sirius was not skilled in Legilimency as his shields were in tatters right now. 

There was no accusation, no hate or pity on Sirius’ face. Just a soft smile and eyes filled with warmth. Leaning forward, Sirius pressed his lips softly against Severus’. “It is infuriating. All you do is stand there, and I feel like I can’t breathe, thinking about your lips, wanting to pull you close and never let you leave my arms again.” As if to prove his words, he stole another kiss, this one lingering longer than the first. “I answered you, you know. Every single letter I got, I wrote an answer to. Couldn’t send them back, obviously. But I just thought, if you like-” He pulled out a bundle from his other pocket, some of it paper, but some of it dirty fabric - most likely from his prison uniform. “If you want to read them. You don’t have to. I just thought that maybe you would like to know. Fuck. I swear I was good at this once. A real smooth talker. It is just. You kind of turn my brain into mush. You are pretty.” Sirius squeaked instantly, slapping a hand over his mouth as he turned red under it. “Forget I said that!”

Grabbing the letters from Sirius’ hand, Snape pressed them to his chest, a treasure he never expected to receive. Then he leaned in, stealing his own kiss from Sirius’ lips. “Shut up, you stupid man, and kiss me properly.”

[rottenpumpkin13]

Out Of Context Shit Heard On The SOLDIER Floor #7

Genesis: SEPHIROTH, STOP MEOWING AT ME.

Kunsel: Any loser twink can be a fem-boy, but it takes a real badass to be a fem-man.

Sephiroth: Did I "yee-haw" with joy, or did it convey depression?

Zack, holding up Cloud: BEHOLD.

Sephiroth, stealing a fry from Angeal's plate: A most generous offering. You will be spared. Angeal: FROM? Sephiroth: You will be spared.

Genesis, wearing sunglasses and holding a cappuccino: So there I was, gelato on my breasts—

Cloud: Aww, that's such a cute Halloween decoration. *pointing at Genesis sobbing in the corner*

Angeal: Who put a hotdog in the candy bowl?? Zack, in the background: Halloweenie.

Sephiroth: I could've sworn "motherfucker" was a compliment.

Angeal: IF YOU EAT THAT WEEK-OLD SUSHI PLATTER, YOUR INTESTINES WILL BECOME RADIOACTIVE.

Sephiroth: Zack, can I enjoy this steak dinner without you explaining A/B/O to me?

Lazard: I think we ALL need to beat our fathers with shovels, Sephiroth, you're not special.

Zack: NO! THAT'S MY EMOTIONAL SUPPORT BANANA!

Genesis: He manspreads to assert dominance, I manspread to create a barrier between myself and heteronormativity. We are not the same.

Sephiroth: I just sent Angeal an email describing my feelings for him. If he doesn't reply, I'll show up at his apartment and superglue myself to the door.

Zack: Give me a pen, paper, and three Adderall, and I'll write something better than Loveless in one hour.

Kunsel: Everyone is subjected to failure, but at least I'm not Roche, who thought the plural of ninja was ninji.

Sephiroth: I have exactly three crayons on my person right now, and they're all stolen from Zack.

Angeal, chewing with his mouth full: Don't make psycho-sexual comments in front of my cheeseburger.

Zack, narrating what he's seeing: 🎶 Look at Angeal 🎶 beating Sephiroth with a frozen chicken because he forgot to take it out the freezer. 🎶

Sephiroth: Please refrain from analyzing my deep-seated fear of abandonment linked to my mother's absence and its impact on my emotional regulation, it's seven in the morning and I still haven't had coffee.

Cloud: I'm about two mental breakdowns away from resorting to gang affiliation.

Genesis: COUNTER SPELL! *flicks his wrist* TRAUMA!

Roche: I often have nightmares about Sephiroth attacking me with a spork.

Sephiroth, in the presence of a spider: I feel anti-at peace.

Zack: Dear diary, today I committed tax evasion, and felt great. Tomorrow I'll try embezzlement and eventually vandalism!

Sephiroth: Can you read this death threat note and check if my handwriting is recognizable?

Zack and Genesis: *Loudly arguing over who gets to be the ring bearer at Sephiroth and Angeal's wedding*

Angeal, laying on the floor: Good luck trying to find my will to live, gang.

Genesis: I'm flashing you a tit to maintain our friendship.

Sephiroth: If I had a gil for every time someone compared me to a cat, I'd have enough to purchase that expensive human cat bed that has been on my wishlist for ages.

Roche: Is my discount wig a joke to you, Zackary?

Cloud, placing an "I miss you" letter from his mother in Sephiroth's line of view: Yeah, that's right. Fuck you.

Lazard: Someone pinned a death threat on my office door written in glitter gel pen.

Genesis, flirting: I own an air-fryer.

Angeal: T-shirt that says "I survived Zack's power point presentation on aliens that included a photo of Sephiroth on the fourth slide"

Roche: Cloud Strife's evil twin…Grass Peace.

Sephiroth: *Showing Zack pictures of baby cows while Zack sobs into his burger*

Genesis: PUT. MASAMUNE. DOWN. No one is stealing your crayons.

Sephiroth: Genesis, I feel inspired to compliment your ass.

Lazard: Take a good, hard look at Sephiroth wearing flip-flops and tell me I shouldn't be stressed.

Sephiroth: A most efficient weapon to add to my arsenal *wielding an entire streetlamp*

Zack, talking to Angeal: My insecure trooper and faceless info guy, versus your 6'7 cat and walking red flag.

Kunsel: Is the cure to male loneliness *incomprehensible screeching* ?

[dfortrafalgar]

Special Delivery

(Sanji x Fem!Reader- Offscreen)

Sanji reaches out to Zeff for the first time in years.

I wrote this many, many months ago now, and it was the first fic i posted anonymously on AO3. I got a few requests after it was originally posted to write a second part, which I eventually did!

You can read Part 2 here! Original AO3 link

(I figured I should let my blog breathe a little in between the really heavy and emotional Law fic im writing, and what better way to cool down than some sanji fluff <3)

A sharp squawk awoke Red-Leg Zeff from his daze. With a grumpy expression and a low grunt, he peered towards the direction of the sound.

A messenger coo was seated on the railing of the Baratie's upper deck next to where Zeff stood slouched over with his forearms leaning against the wooden support. It cocked its head to the side as if it was deconstructing Zeff's appearance before reaching into its pouch and procuring a parchment envelope. Zeff found it strange. Messenger coos only usually delivered the newspapers or the latest bounty reports, very rarely were they put in charge of personalized letters. It must have been paid off by whoever wanted this delivered.

The gruff man took the parchment from the beak of the bird and watched as it took back off into the air, leaving a few molted white feathers behind in its wake. He looked at the envelope.

All it said on the front, in very elegant handwriting, was "Captain Zeff." He flipped the paper around, revealing a wax stamp holding the opening down, which he peeled off with a calloused thumb.

Tucked neatly inside the envelope was a white piece of paper, tri-folded over itself. Zeff slipped the paper out, unfolding it to reveal the written contents of the letter. The penmanship was impeccable, and the ink was very sleek. He knew immediately it was from Sanji, not many other pirates had handwriting as good as his. He had completely lost track of how many years it had been since the curly-browed boy left with that ragtag group of pirates to sail to the Grand Line, but Zeff had every single one of his bounty posters. He'd never admit it, but they were tacked up on the wall of his sleeping quarters. Every time Sanji's bounty increased, Zeff felt pride swell in his heart.

"How are you doing, you old geezer. It's been a little too long since we've had any contact, so I thought I'd write to you just to see how you've been. You're no slouch, I'm sure you've been keeping up with the world's events over the past however-many years. Do the Marines even bother to keep sending our bounty posters to the Baratie anymore? Well, regardless, I'm sure you can read right through me. I can't deny it, I miss you, old man. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life, and such a huge part of that is thanks to you and the guys back on that old cruiser. Every recipe I try to make, I imagine you screaming in my ear and telling me that it tastes like shit. Some days I really wish I could be back there, but most of the time I'm joyful. Life has been really, really good. A few years ago, I met someone. Last year, we got married, and soon after our lives changed so drastically. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, and she's as sweet as an angel. I mean it, too. I know you'd probably think something along the lines of me playing up my affections again just because she's a pretty woman, but I mean it. You'd love her, Zeff. Living as a pirate is the most stressful thing anyone could ever do, but she makes every day worth it. The crew was discussing the possibility of returning to the East Blue a bit ago, and when we do, I'm going to introduce you to her. I've spent the last years talking all about you, how you taught me everything I know about cooking, and I can tell she's just as excited as I am to finally see you. This letter's gone on long enough and I don't want to use up all of Nami's paper.

-- Sanji"

Zeff felt a lump in the back of his throat. Sanji had grown into such a fine young man, eloquent with his words and his feelings. He knew how big of a deal it was for the boy to be so honest and open. But one thing in the letter caught him off guard. What did he mean by, "Soon after our lives changed drastically."?

Zeff peered into the envelope, where another, smaller envelope was tucked inside. He almost didn't see it. Pulling it out, he held the letter and original envelope in between his fingers while he opened the second. Sanji was thorough with his packaging, that's for sure.

Inside, there were three photographs printed on thin, matted paper. The first was of Sanji and you, the wife he wrote about in his letter, taken by someone else holding the camera. Sanji had his arm around you, holding you against him, and you had your face nuzzled into his neck. His other hand held a cigarette away from the two of you, like he was in the middle of telling a story. The two of you were smiling brighter than the sun, Sanji's eyes completely closed with the motion of laughter, and yours creased, your irises looking up towards him.

The second photo made Zeff's eyes water. A photo of you and Sanji on the deck of the Sunny, exchanging rings. Sanji was wearing a sleek navy blue tuxedo, while you were wearing a gorgeous white ballgown. For pirates, you cleaned up phenomenally. He could just make out tears in Sanji's eyes as the photo displayed you sliding a band onto his finger. A skeleton with poofy hair stood between the two of you, which Zeff found a little odd, but he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

Zeff flipped to the last photo.

The tears that were welling in his eyes from the previous image finally slid down his cheeks in heavy, salty droplets. His lip quivered.

Sanji sat in a chair, beaming down at a bundle of cloth held gently in his arm. He was crying in this photo as well, and was reaching a finger over the top of the bundle, where a smaller hand was reaching outwards to grab onto it. A small glimpse of blonde hair could be made out from under the cloth securing the baby tightly. On the back of the film, Sanji wrote the birth date and the name of the baby.

Zeff used a sleeve to wipe his blubbering eyes. His lips quivered, but he couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face.

Was he allowed to call himself a grandfather now? He figured it was only appropriate.

[not-freyja]

LU Write-A-Thon

This our second monthly LU Write-A-Thon, spearheaded by @hotcheetohatredwastaken and myself, will run on July 1, 2024 from 12 am to 12 am GMT (7pm to 7pm EST starting June 30). There is one goal in mind with this event---write as many productive words within that day as humanly possible.

Originally a fun game amongst friends, we are now opening this up to the general fandom-body-public (and happily so) by popular demand!

The event will be hosted on discord, and the link will go out via a reblog/reply/edit combo on this post a few hours before the event starts.

We're so excited to have all of you come and write with us, and the event rules are right here blow the cut:

What counts as writing?

Writing fanfiction or original fiction, leaving or answering comments, outlining, drafting, storyboarding, personal journaling, and (writing) homework---basically, anything that furthered yourself, the LU writing community at large, or your stories with a positive word count, can be included in your final word count.

(Editing previously-written works can also be included, but only if it produces a positive word count, and only those new words may be counted. The goal is to get new words on the page).

What CANNOT be counted as writing?

General chatting, talking about already written works, etc, will not count towards your final word count. Words counted must, as previously stated, further yourself, the writing community, or your stories. This does not mean that you can't chat with your fellow writers---the ⁠⁠chaos-chat thread was created for such a purpose!---but the main goal of this event is to produce and engage in writing in one form or another.

What is a sprint, and what is the schedule for the sprints?

Sprints are (voluntary) periods of concentration in which writers will write as much as they can within a time limit, with some friendly competition to be the one with the most words by the end of the sprint. These will be hosted in the ⁠⁠sprint-bot thread. Every hour, the times :00 to :15 will be dedicated to a 15 minute rest, and then a 45 minute sprint will run from :15 to :59. Moderators will start the sprints periodically---writers can jump in as desired.

Do you have to participate in the sprints?

No. You can write on your own if you wish, just make sure to keep track of your total and only count what is written in the window of 12am to 12am GMT (7pm to 7pm EST) on July 1. Additionally, you can write in the suggested breaks between sprints, but again, make sure to keep track of your word count on your own then.

How should I count my words?

There are two main ways that you can count your words---using the Sprinto Bot in the ⁠⁠sprint-bot channel, or keeping track of them yourself. If you are keeping track of them yourself, especially if you're counting words other than fiction writing where your word count is easy to find, please take care to be as accurate as possible---you can use an application like Google Docs or Word to give you your exact word count, even if you have to copy and paste your ao3 comments into them to get it.

If you're handwriting, this gets a little bit rougher to calculate, but we'll encourage you to give it your best estimate.

We'll be on the honor system here: play fair, and report as accurately as possible.

Where/When should I report my words?

Final word counts will be reported in the ⁠⁠word-count-total channel. We encourage you to make ONE post at the beginning of the marathon with your word count; then, as the event continues, you can edit your post and update your word count there.

You can update your word count at any point during the marathon in the channel mentioned above---in fact, the breaks between sprints would be a great time. And once the event is over, there's a period of grace of up to 6 hours for everyone to get their word counts in, but no more writing is allowed during this time. After 6 hours (6 am GMT; 11pm EST), the thread will be locked, and no more additions will be made. So be sure to get your final count in as soon as possible, once the event is over (or even before, if you must dip early).

What if I can only write a little?

That is fine. We are going to be playfully competitive, but it is not a contest---it is a group project. We are using teamwork to make the line go up. Every word counts, and any amount of writing is a fantastic amount of writing. The goal is to do better than last time AS A GROUP, not individually. So do what you can, and be sure to have fun with the rest of us!

WORD COUNT TO BEAT: 88,978

[redactedrem]

You know what? Fuck you. *Ponifies Batman*

Guys I'm so excited to share my newest project of ponifying the Batfam, it started out small with the hypothetical "I wonder what Batman would be like in a mlp universe." And then the project kept getting bigger and bigger.

If anyones interested in my world building/ headcanons surrounding this project, you can see it under the cut. (I didn't want to make the post too long.)

Incase anybody couldn't read my bad handwriting, I gotchuuu.

-(First pic) Bruce Wayne: Bruce had got his cutiemark the night of his parents death, after the grief had broken his spirit and he realized that he never wanted anypony else to feel the same pain as he does. (He has a fake cutiemark to cover up his obvious destiny)

- The first pic is pretty self explanatory, but I want to make it clear that Bruce's destiny isn't "My parents are dead so now I dress up as a bat and beat up mentally ill folk". Because I've seen people on here give hot takes on cutiemarks that directly link them to a ponies destiny.

This goes for specifically in the mlp fandom but (for the sake of being on topic) I'll use the the example of that one post where someone gave the hot take that Jason would get his cutiemark in the warehouse right before he dies (or after he dies? smthing like that) because "It would be really fucked up to know that you were always destined to die." And listen, I can appreciate some good Jason Todd whump as the next guy but knowing that this would be based in a mlp universe . . . just doesn't sit right with me.

It sounds less magical that way. Its like saying that Rainbow Dash was always meant to be the fastest flyer, so theres no point in trying to compete with her. So uhm, trying to stay on topic here. My personal hot take is that a pony's cutiemark is symbol of something that they do/ a skill or talent that they have that makes them happy. And whats a more magical and fulfilling destiny than doing something that makes you happy for the rest of your life?

Looping back to Bruce, he didn't get his cutiemark the moment his parents died, but I like to think that he got it sometime later on in the night. After hours of being checked on by the police, getting looked at by the paramedics, and after Alfred took him home. Its 1:40ish in the morning and tiny foal-Bruce is just staring at his bedroom wall feeling numb and dissociated to hell. And sometime after processing everything that night- he just decides that this is the worst thing that has ever happened to him and that he will do anything to make sure that nopony will ever feel the same pain that he has felt. And then-- Ta da!! Cutiemark!! Too bad neither he or Alfred got to experience the excitement when they both saw it the next day :')

(Edit: I didn't know where to put this detail, but Bruce's fake cutiemark is based off of the "Make It Wayne" TV logo from this fanfic here )

-(Second pic) The Bat: This is heavily inspired by Flutterbat, I know theres canonically already a race of bat ponies made from Lunas stunt as Nightmare Moon. But I chose to go through with the Flutterbat route because batponies are a race, and have bat-like features 24/7. In comparison Fluttershy maintains her pegasus appearance by day and transforms into Flutterbat at night (ALSO with there being implications that there are "Triggers" for her transformations in the day too!!) Which adds the "Vampire." right in front of her batpony title.

I might do a lil comparison chart between vampire batponies and regular batponies in the future or something. But for now I'm focusing on my batpony Bruce Wayne headcanons so yea. My point is that I felt like making Bruce a "vampire" batpony would give him a more solid secret identity with also the bonus of a really metal origin story.

Now we all know that the canonical origin story of batman is that a few months after the tragedy of his parents death, Bruce had fallen into a cave? a well? a pit? of bats and triggered a fear of bats since then. Later on he decides to become Batman so he can invoke the fear of bats he once had into the criminals of Gotham. Yadda yadda yadda.

Now canonically, we don't know the exact science on how Fluttershy turned into Flutterbat. What we do know is that at the time, pony magic is not researched enough for Twilight to be aware that Fluttershys "Stare" is her own form of pony magic and that it would interfere with Twilights spell.

Do you see where I'm getting at here? Uhmm don't ask me what exactly happened in the cave, I'm doing this for fun and thinking about it too hard makes me spiral. But uhmm something something- Bruce looked at a bat in the eye and decided to embrace his biggest fear to fuel his cause, and his already traumatized and fucked up pony magic had transformed his body- something something. (Edit: I didn't think about this until now but maybe Fluttershys "Stare" and Bruces "Bat Glare" could be a usage of the same form of magic? Just a thought)

I'll probably come up with a more suitable explanation in the future, but like I said. All of this is just for fun.