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avis-writeshq · 6 months

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04 — you are in love

summary: “you can hear it in the silence.”/”you can hear it on the way home.”/”you can see it with the lights out.” in other words; the four times spencer wants to kiss you, and the one time he wishes he did. pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, slow burn, warnings: drug mention, alcohol (reader gets a little tipsy), vomit (not in detail) wc: 3.4k a/n: thank you again to the wonderful amazing @astrophileous for beta-reading MWAH zara you're a real one <3 SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

Falling in love is something that Spencer thought he would never get the luxury of doing. It’s a fairytale. After all, his parents were supposed to be a perfect example of what love should be like and look how they ended up. Yet despite it all, he always seems to find himself going back to you. You, who makes it so easy to love but he doesn’t deserve it. He refuses to believe he deserves it. He feels so horribly broken that it doesn’t make sense why you would love him, or why he deserves to love you.

It takes Spencer another three months to actually properly come to terms with the fact that he’s in love with you. He’s spent most of his free time attending Narcotic Anonymous groups upon your insistence and he hates to admit that it helps. He didn’t think they would at first, despite the swirling statistics of their effectiveness but he figures that it wouldn’t hurt. The other times when he’s not doing something drug related, therapy related or work related, he’s with you. Your apartment is almost like a second home to him and you’d given him your spare key (he went home with a ridiculous grin on his face and had to chug several cups of water to calm himself down).

Since your leaving the BAU, he’s left a series of trinkets on his desk that remind him of you. A little ceramic blue bird beside the animal skull models. It’s no bigger than his pinky finger and when he asked you why you gifted it to him, you told him that it represents hope and renewal. He thinks he needs a lot of that.

In the first drawer of his desk is a framed picture of you and him at a Doctor Who convention with him dressed up as the Tenth Doctor and you in all blue in an attempt to dress up as TARDIS. It was a fun and silly day but it was enjoyable and that was what mattered. After a series of unfortunate events, Derek happened across the photo, claiming that there was no platonic explanation for it.

(“Care to explain this?” He had asked, holding the frame with a grin on his face. He was looking into Spencer’s desk for a specific file on the Benson murders, only to be met with a very familiar face.

Spencer immediately lunged for the photograph, grabbing it and securing it back in his desk with a heavy slam. “Don’t.”

Derek put his hands up in mock surrender, although his eyes were sympathetic. “There’s nothing platonic about that, kid.”

He huffed in response, rubbing at his eyes and taking a seat at his desk. “I know.”)

The first time he came to terms with the fact that he actually wanted to be with you was after a specific realisation. Some cases are harder than others. It’s a given; some cases are just more difficult to deal with and therefore harder to compartmentalise. Each person is different, especially when you factor in trauma. Derek struggles when pedophilia is involved, and JJ finds suicide cases the worst. Hotch can barely function properly when children are targeted, and Emily hides behind a mask so effortlessly that the most mundane things can get to her. After a period of thought, Spencer realises what he struggles to deal with: bullying.

“You should have– you should have heard what they were saying!” Spencer insists, pacing his living room floor while throwing his hands up in the air in frustration.

He had just returned home from a case in West Bune, Texas, and it was probably one of the most difficult cases he had to go through. The UnSub was a teenager named Owen and after a very tense confrontation with him outside the police department, he was taken into custody. The entire nature of the case irked him. So many deaths could have been prevented if people just did something but now a boy is in custody with a body count nearing the double digits.

“They didn’t even try to deal with the bullying,” he continues, running his fingers through his now long hair. He can’t bring himself to get it cut; especially not after the incident with Hankel some moons ago.

You don’t say anything, sitting on his couch and sipping your tea, your eyes trained on the way he paces back and forth.

“People are dead because of them. I’m not saying that they didn’t deserve it because they did, but something should have changed.” His words are harsh as he continues to walk, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“You can’t change anything about it now,” You say gently, your gaze shifting from his hands to his arms to his face. “What’s done is done. All we can do is hope that the school board learns from their mistakes.”

“But they don’t!” He exclaims, turning to face you. He swallows thickly before sighing, slumping into the seat beside you and pressing himself into his side. “It’s just so… frustrating. They never learn.”

You nod, running your fingers through the knots in his hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“That could have been me,” he says quietly, burying his face into the palms of his hands. He presses the pads of his fingers into the corners of his eyes, stars dotting his vision.

“But it’s not,” you say firmly. “You’re a good person, Spencer. You’re saving people and putting the bad guys away. That’s a far cry away from being an UnSub.”

You’re looking at him now and he tilts his head to meet your gaze. You’re so close to him and Spencer can hear his heart pounding in his ears.

Kiss her.

The words that enter Spencer’s mind are enough to give him whiplash and he pulls away, pretending that he doesn’t see the hurt in your eyes when he does.

What?

“Are you okay?” You ask, frowning up at him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, trying to shake the thoughts from his mind. He offers a smile. “I’m okay.”

***

“Emily doesn’t blame you, you know.”

The words hang in the air as you sit on the floor of your bedroom, the thundering storm pounding against your windows. Spencer shrugs, sitting next to you. The power is out across Washington and the flickering of candles helps to light up the room. Spencer fiddles with the rug on the floor and your brows knit together.

“Walter.”

“I know.” He buries his face in his hands and lets out a groan. “I know, I know. It’s not my fault. It just feels like it, you know? We knew that it was a cult but we didn’t know that it was… that bad. God, angel, you should have seen her. She was beat up and everything and it feels like I could have done something.”

“You’re too hard on yourself,” you chastise, brushing your shoulder against his for a moment. “You really need to take better care of yourself.”

He doesn’t respond, simply moving so that he’s lying down on the rug in your room. It’s a soft tufted rug that goes from a dark purple in the middle to white around the edges. It’s one of his favourite rugs in the world. You’re sitting cross legged beside him, leaning against the bed. The soft glow of the candles illuminate your face and you truly look like an angel in this light.

He just came back from a case in La Plata County in Colorado and he was ordered to take a week off by Hotch to deal with the traumatics of the case. What started out as an undercover investigation in an underground cult led to a gun fight and a bombing, all while Spencer and Emily were inside the compound. The way Emily looked so in pain after the whole ordeal would haunt him forever; the black eye she suffered from, the bruising to her chest… he doesn’t even want to think about the rest of the things that could have happened.

“Stop.”

Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and he sucks in a breath.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says meekly, playing with the rug underneath him.

“It’s not your fault.” You smile at him before hitting him lightly with one of your pillows. “Stop that.”

He laughs loudly, grunting a little from the impact of the pillow colliding with his face. “Hey!”

You grin teasingly and hit him again with the pillow. He retaliates quickly, gripping the pillow and trying to tug it out of your hands. Your grip is a lot stronger than he thought it was and his tug sends you flying towards him, a shriek leaving your lips as your forehead bounces off his.

A hiss of pain leaves your lips but you’re laughing as you clutch your forehead. “Spencer what the hell?!”

“I’m sorry!” He says, not really meaning it, and rubbing at his head. He’s laughing along, his cheeks warm as he smiles up at you. His hands move to your face, one to your cheek and the other to brush the hair on your forehead to the side. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You laugh again, smiling a brilliantly beautiful toothy smile. The candlelight dances in your eyes with a warm orange light as you do. “Are you?”

His gaze meets yours, watching the way you brush a strand of hair behind your ear and the way your eyes crinkles when you smile. He watches the way you lean against the side of the bed, tilting your head back with your eyes closed. God. He swears you’re trying to kill him.

“Spencer?” You ask with a soft chuckle, and the sound is so pretty that he doesn’t mind the fact that you find amusement at his expense. “Are you okay?”

He nods, his throat dry and his cheeks hot. He blames the candles.

***

The couch is never comfortable. You are well aware that the couch feels strangely lumpy and you’re pretty sure one of the springs is broken but for some reason you keep insisting to take it whenever you stay at Spencer’s apartment. The blanket he lets you use is thick and cosy to make up for it and the pillow is always fluffed.

“Good morning.”

Spencer’s voice is raspy with early morning vocal fry and it makes your heart lurch in your throat.

“Morning,” you murmur, eyes still closed in an attempt to calm yourself down. Maybe if you don’t see him you won’t embarrass yourself.

“Still tired?” He asks, and you hear him start the coffee machine. There’s the sound of rustling in the background along with the flicking of a switch. Too many sounds for too early of a day.

“Mm.”

He chuckles, deep and rumbling, before sipping some water. “Yesterday was fun.”

Yesterday involved fourteen hours of watching Doctor Who and passing half way through the nineteenth episode after stuffing yourself full of junk food. Yesterday involved passing out on Spencer, forcing him to move you to the couch and into a position that wasn’t going to destroy your neck. Yesterday involved the most platonic and innocent activities known to Earth, despite the way his words insinuated something entirely differently.

“You fell asleep before the best part,” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“You could have watched without me.”

He shakes his head as he stirs the sugar. “That wouldn’t have been right.”

A hum leaves your lips as you get up from the couch, stretching your arms and making your way over to him from behind the kitchen island. You’re wearing one of his old Doctor Who t-shirts that he let you keep, the sleeves reaching just past your elbows. Your hair is a mess and your eyes are half closed but you look so…

Cute. Seeing you in his shirt drives him wild. There’s something possessive about it and for a second he feels gross. He feels like he’s taking advantage of you but he’s obviously not; you’re the one who stole that shirt from him many moons ago and you’re the one who chose to wear it that day. Regardless, he can’t help but be transfixed as you walk around his kitchen like it’s your own home. Spencer’s eyes follow your figure as you pull open one of his cupboards and grab your mug (a really stupid avocado mug that’s bright green with a lid) before pouring some coffee into it.

“You’ve been going to your NA meetings, right?” You ask him, sipping your drink.

He nods immediately, his gaze never leaving you. “Yeah. Once a week.”

“That’s good!” You tell him, the caffeine slowly beginning to wake you up. “That’s really good, Walter.”

He smiles at you, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Thank you.”

For a few moments, all he can think about is you. Your hair smells like your special vanilla shampoo that Penelope got you hooked on and your skin smells like lavender and orange blossom. He remembers JJ giving you a sample in the office and you went and ordered a whole bottle during your lunch break right after. The compliments you got that day were like no other, and he remembers the way your eyes would light up every single time someone commented on the perfume, as well as the way you would excitedly talk about the different notes. Now, whenever he smells lavender or oranges he thinks of you. He doesn’t think it’s a problem in the slightest.

You sip your coffee again, the sound of the toaster dinging in the background, accompanied by the thick smell of char. In an instant, Spencer jolts from his place and places two very burnt slices of toast onto the plate, his nose scrunching up in frustration.

“I was gonna make you breakfast,” he tells you lamely. “I think we should get croissants.”

You laugh, dumping the pieces of toast into the bin and nod. “I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

***

The rare occasion when Spencer drives is when you’re not fit to. He picks you up at two in the morning at a bar and you’re sitting in his passenger seat. Your hair has a few tangles here and there and you’re wearing the prettiest purple dress.

“You really didn’t have to pick me up,” you tell him tiredly, rubbing at your eyes. “I could have gotten a taxi.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, leaning over the console to buckle in your seatbelt. “You called me, I’m here. I’m not going to let you get into a stranger’s car when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!” You protest, your head leaning against the car door. “I had one drink.”

“Which can lead to a blood alcohol level of 0.01 to 0.03,” Spencer says, shooting you a smile. “I’d rather not risk it, angel.”

You groan and lean back on the chair. “I swear I’m fine.”

“Why didn’t your friends take you home?” He asks, starting the ignition. “Didn’t you say you were going to hitch a ride with them?”

A hum leaves your lips and you nod. “That was the plan. But one of the designated drivers couldn’t come last minute and the car wasn’t big enough.”

Spencer frowns, backing out of the driveway. “How long were you waiting outside of the bar?”

“Um…” your brows furrow as you think of the answer and you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. “Ten minutes?”

“(Y/N).”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t think it would have been that long,” you huff, rubbing at your eyes. “I promise I was careful.”

Spencer shoots you a frustrated look, sipping at his lukewarm takeaway cup of filtered coffee but keeping his eyes on the road. “You should have called me sooner.”

“I felt bad,” you respond sheepishly, offering him a guilty smile.

Spencer hums, running a hand through his hair. He hasn’t had the time to get it cut so for the time being it’s left slicked back and out of his eyes. He’s wearing his glasses now, too, because he didn’t have the time to put in his contacts. He looks a lot better than he did eight months ago, and he feels it, too. The white t-shirt he’s wearing is filled a little better now that he’s gained a little weight. Happy weight you had told him, pinching at his sides, it means you’re healing.

“Can you pull over?”

Your voice comes out small and Spencer snaps his head to look in your direction. “Yeah. Yeah, of course– hold on.”

He parks at a random McDonald’s on the side of the freeway and you immediately get out of the car and hurl in one of the bushes. He grimaces, getting out of the car to rub your back comfortingly.

“You okay?” He asks, continuing to rub circles on your back. He holds your hair away from your face, watches as your necklace dangles from your neck and catches the light from the 24/7 fast food place.

“... I might have had a little more than one drink.”

He can’t bring himself to get upset at you. Instead, Spencer just sighs and brandishes a bottle of water from the side pocket of his car. “Sip it slowly.”

You do as asked, taking small tentative sips of the cold water. He holds your hair in place, brushing a few strands away from your eyes and forehead.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you taking a taxi,” Spencer says with a hum, satisfied when you finish drinking half the bottle. “What if you threw up in their car?”

You groan, wiping a hand over your face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, angel,” he says sympathetically, lifting your chin with his index finger so that you’re looking at him. “I just worry. You should be able to rely on me, too, you know.”

“Okay,” you say through drunken stupor. “Didn’t mean to worry you, Walter.”

“I know,” he repeats softly, running his fingers through your hair. “Hey. Look up.”

You do, and you stare up at the sky. Stars dot and litter the navy sky, and if you squint you could see a faint blue star.

“That’s Venus,” he explains, gesturing to the little dot. He points to a smaller, redder light just below it. “That’s Mars.”

Even amidst the light pollution, the planets shine brightly. Your gaze is fixed upon the little planets and stars, enjoying the midsummer night’s breeze, the nausea you felt moments prior beginning to subside.

“Do you know what Venus represents?” Spencer asks softly, brushing his shoulder against yours, smiling when you shake your head. “Venus represents love and beauty in Roman mythology.”

You laugh, pressing your nose into his shoulder. “Do you believe that?”

“Scientifically? No,” he admits, “Venus is a planet. It doesn’t really represent anything but a giant ball of gas. But people place significance on insignificant things because it gives them meaning so I understand why they do it.”

It’s quiet for a little while, aside from the occasional sound of a car passing by and a cicada chirping. A cool breeze blows past but it’s more comforting than anything as the two of you sit on the hood of his car: an old 1965 Volvo Amazon in the colour blue horizon with paint chipping off at the inner fenders and bumper ends. He lets you sit on his jacket, your dress and legs protected from the dirty car bonnet. Your head is on his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his and you’ve traded your heels for a pair of Spencer’s spare mis-matched socks.

“(Y/N),” he whispers, rubbing his hand on your arm. “We should get you home.”

You nod, wiggling your toes in the socks. “Yeah.”

Spencer pauses and looks at you, watching as you yawn and hop off the car. He says your name again, chuckling a little bit when you look up at him a little dazed. The words get caught in his chest as he takes a tentative step closer to you. You’re so close. Just one small move. That’s all it would take… he dismisses the thoughts when he can smell the liquor on your skin.

“You’re my best friend,” he says quietly after several moments of silence.

You smile at him. “You’re my best friend, too.”

He drives you home that day with more regret than necessary. He wishes he kissed you. It would have made his life so much easier.

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reiding-writing · 6 months

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Respite [ s.r ]

Summary:

Dealing with addiction withdrawals is a horrible experience. Having to sit at a desk for eight hours and act like they weren't happening was even worse. If only someone would just ask him if he was okay.

WARNINGS: Details of addiction withdrawals, Mentions of Spencer's kidnapping, Needle mentions, Vomit mentions, Thoughts of self-induced bodily harm, Inaccurate portrayal of therapy and legal loopholes, Mentions of touch-starvedness

pairing: s3!spencer x gn!psychiatrist!reader

genre: ANGST, hurt/comfort, fluff towards the end

wc: 5.6k

masterlist!!

a/n: all the love in the world to my beta reader and loml @flowersfromautumn 🫶🫶🫶, and to those of you who followed me after my first upload, be warned, i almost exclusively write angst 😭

Spencer Reid was sat with his head in his hands, silently praying to Gods that he didn’t think existed to rid him of the enervating sensations flooding every nerve of his body.

All he wanted to do was be productive, to prove that he was still fully capable of doing his job. But no, instead, his body had decided to attack itself as though it were a foreign object, screaming at him to give in and supply it with what he most craved.

It had been six weeks since he’d returned to the BAU, and whilst he desperately tried to prove his mental stability, his physical reactions were letting him down.

He knew the statistics surrounding addiction. Of course he did. He knew that over 1.5 million people in the United States were addicted to opioids. He knew that they were the leading cause of overdose related deaths. He knew that the more he indulged in his compulsions the worse the withdrawals would get, and he knew that injecting it was the most harmful way to get the drug into his system.

His logical brain knew it was wrong; But his body didn’t care.

Knowledge wouldn’t stop the tremors in his hands. It wouldn’t stop the goosebumps littering his skin. It wouldn’t stop the ever-present lump in his throat, or the strain of his eyes as he desperately tried to absorb the information from the files on his desk. So much for an eidetic memory.

Knowledge wouldn’t stop him from wanting to claw at the skin of his elbow until his cephalic vein was exposed, or the urge to pierce the needle in so deep that it came out of the other side.

He had tried to find solace in his work, to distract himself from the cravings that consumed him. But no matter how hard he focused, the relentless ache in his bones refused to subside. It was a constant battle between the rational mind that knew the consequences and the primal instinct that sought relief at any cost.

He was so deep in his own mind that he didn’t notice you walk over to his desk, nor did he make any acknowledgement of you calling his name. It took you waving your hand literal inches away from his face for his eyes to finally turn up towards you, and you couldn’t help but notice how his pupils had almost completely overtaken the hazel of his eyes, his scleras tainted pink through the blood vessels clinging to them like ivy.

“Spence?” Your voice, usually soothing, was defiled by the constant ringing in his ears, sending a pounding ache through his head.

“Spencer…”

You wave your hand in front of his face again, each passing moment making you feel increasingly guilty for bothering him.

The whole team had noticed Spencer’s change in attitude after his kidnapping, as had they noticed his bouts of irritation and dissociation, and probably the most telling of all, his newfound habit of itching the inside of his right elbow over the sleeve of his shirt.

Sure a normal person could write off those behaviours as normal for recovering from what he’d been through, a mix of distrust and anxiety making him more irritable. But you weren’t normal people, you were a team of profilers, and as much as everyone tried to stick to the unofficial ‘don’t profile your team members’ rule, they could tell that Spencer’s behaviour wasn’t solely due to being held hostage for a few days, not even with the mental and physical torment he went through.

Everyone suspected, but you knew. Your years in medical school for psychiatry meant you could spot the signs of addiction in your sleep. You just wished you could say something.

Trouble was, under Section 4.1.2 of the FBI’s Fitness for Duty regulation, if Spencer’s addiction were to be officially recognised, he would not longer be deemed ‘fit’ to work, and no one on the team wanted that.

“hmm..?” The most Spencer could evoke was a soft hum, barely audible over the usual chatter littering the bullpen. His eyes remained static as he looked up in your direction, but he wasn’t actually looking at you, more like he was fixed on something just over your shoulder.

You have to consciously suppress a sigh as your eyes flicker over his features. His skin, already pale, seemed to have lost all colour barr the dark purple collecting under his eyes, and his face had become gaunt, shadows starting to form where his skin clung around his cheek bones. He looked awful.

“I’m sorry to bother you… Do you have the autopsy files for the most recent case?”

“Oh, yeah- yeah of course, i have a copy uh-” Your question seemed to remind Spencer of where he was, that he was sat at his desk, in his workplace, and that he should be being productive.

He rifles through the files on his desk, piling up due to his lack of motivation to actually finish any of them, and as he finally reaches the one you asked for, he pries it out from under the stack, the manilla folder shaking with the tremor of his hand as he holds it out towards you.

If only someone would just say something.

Spencer knew he was acting “weird”, he just wanted someone to say something about it. Anything.

He knew it was unprofessional, and that he had the potential of losing his job over it. Still he wanted someone to ask him if he was okay.

He just wanted someone to ask.

“…Why do you need it?” Spencer’s voice is hesitant, almost a whisper as he tries to stop himself from choking on his own words.

“I’m finishing up the medical report and i want to make sure I have all of my facts right…” You take the file from him with a frown, barely able to mask your concern through your expression. “Thank you…”

Spencer manages to give you a weak smile before he slumps back into his chair, fighting the lump in his throat that threatens force it’s way out of his mouth and spill all over his desk. He was twitching to say something. To tell you that he’s not okay. To break down in your arms and have you promise him that everything was going to be alright.

But he doesn’t. Because no matter how much he was suffering, he would never want to unload his burden onto somebody else. Especially not you. He just sat, silently praying that you would be the one to initiate the conversation. And lo and behold, you did. Albeit not directly.

“Hey uh…” You mindlessly flick through the file he’d given you, not really paying attention to any of the words on the pages as you use it to keep your hands busy and alleviate the awkward tension running between the two of you. “I- work overtime a lot… If you’re ever here after hours-”

There’s a small glint that returns to his eyes as you indirectly suggest that you’d like to speak to him off the clock. He almost spills everything to you right there at his desk, but as he sucks in a breath to speak, he catches himself, clearing his throat.

“Yeah… Thanks…”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

You watched as the digital clock on your desk turned from 18:00 to 18:01. The work day had officially ended an hour ago, and most of the agents had already left to enjoy their long deserved weekend. You however remained sat at your desk in your dimly lit office, fiddling with a 5 x 5 Rubix Cube that Gideon had given you during a case in New York, tired of the way you’d tap your fingers against the table of the jet when you got bored.

You hoped that Spencer had understood the implications of what you’d told him earlier.

Watching him suffer in silence ripped a chunk of humanity from you every time you saw him, and it was getting to the point where you could barely look him in the eye without feeling so guilty you wanted to cry.

But as the time ticked on, you feared he hadn’t, and by the time it reached 18:30 you were dejectedly preparing yourself to leave, throwing your jacket around your shoulders and packing up your messenger bag.

Your retreat home was stopped by you almost walking straight into Spencer as you opened your office door, his hand slightly outstretched as if he was on the verge of pushing open the door himself.

“Oh… uh…” Spencer stumbled over his words a little as you took a step backwards, and his eyes flickered over your frame, focusing in on the bag hanging off your left shoulder and the jacket you were half-wearing. “Sorry…”

He stepped out of the way of the door to make way for you to walk past him, but you didn’t move, remaining stood in the doorway , your eyes watching his as they desperately looked anywhere except in your direction.

“”Are you alright?”

Spencer nodded hastily at your question, pursing his lips to the point where they were barely visible and bringing his hand towards his inner elbow, itching at it through the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah- Sorry, i’ll uh- I’m-”

“Spencer.” You stop his stuttered excuse to with a raised hand, slightly relieved that he had indeed come to your office, even if it had taken him over an hour and a half to build up the courage. ”Come in,”

You gesture for him to enter with your head, to which he replies with a shake of his own.

“No- No you’re going home, I don’t want to keep you-”

“Spence… Please, come in.”

You repeat your request with a gentle insistence, cutting him off once again.

You never liked to interrupt Spencer’s train of thought, it happened all too often with the people around him cutting him off before he could get his full thoughts out, but right now it was an unfortunate necessity. You knew that if you let him continue he would pull himself into a spiral and back out of reaching out for help, so you wanted to cut off the idea before he even had the chance to voice it.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and stepped into your office, his shoulders slumped with the weight of his internal struggle. It was clear that he needed someone to talk to, but despite him standing outside of your office door, he’d seemingly started to regret coming to see you.

You gesture for him to sit down on the small sofa lining the far wall of your office, and he hesitates for a moment before finally taking a seat, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and apprehension as they flicker around the room.

Spencer had been in your office a few times, although he’d never stayed long enough to actually look around.

Of course he’d noticed the floor to ceiling bookcase behind your desk, lined with a string of dangling fairy lights, as had he noticed the large cream rug with small tassels lining its short sides, covering a majority of the exposed hard wood lining your office floor.

He’d often found himself looking over at the wall closest to your door, covered in re-prints of renaissance paintings and gold framed mirrors of different sizes, your Psychology PhD and Psychiatry Doctorate Certificates hung right in the centre, framed in a similar rustic gold.

What he hadn’t noticed in the few times he’d visited were the small stress balls of different colours littering your desk, or the paperweight shaped like a brain holding down the small pile of scribbled notes you miscellaneously taken.

He hadn’t noticed the small replica of a marble Aristotle statue tucked into one of the squares of the bookshelf, lined with fake ivy, or the framed photo of you and your parents on the day of your first graduation.

Everything about your office was warm and inviting, and he was beginning to wonder whether your home was the same.

God how he wanted to go home. To lie in his bed and sleep until his bladder forced him awake under the threat of bursting inside his body from its own pressure.

"Spencer," you say softly, breaking him out of his short-lived observation as you pull the blinds closed, ensuring privacy on the unlikely occasion anyone was still roaming the bullpen.

“Did you know that one of the great things about being a private practicing psychiatrist is that anyone can ask for a private session without any paperwork involved?”

You place your bag onto your desk chair, re-draping your jacket over the back of it. “it’s called a ‘recordless session’, and holds the same confidentiality rules without any paper evidence, the cache being that it has to be under an hour,”

As you speak, you can see the weight of his struggles visibly lift off his shoulders, and a glimmer of hope flickers in his eyes.

“Yeah I… Yeah, I knew that…”

Of course he knew that. What didn’t Spencer know?

“I, uh…can I book an appointment?” A single tear rolls down his cheek, but he dries it with the back of his sleeve before more can escape.

“Please..?”

It takes you all of your willpower in that moment to not pull Spencer’s head into your chest, to not run your fingers through his hair and rock him back and forth in your arms until all of semblance of sorrow left his mind.

Instead you settled for taking a seat besides him on the sofa, gently reaching out to pull his left hand away from his elbow, holding it between your own as you try to transfer some of your body heat to his ice-cold fingers. “When would you like to start?”

“Can we start now? Please, before I change my mind?” Spencer looks up at you with a slightly desperate expression on his face. He just needs one session, he can figure out what to do next, but for now, he needs help.

You exhale softly with a sympathetic expression as Spencer’s voice threatens to break with his words.

“Now’s perfect…” You gently rub your thumb over the top of his hand in small circles, offering a simple form of reassurance before gently pulling them away.

You pull your sleeve up a little to reveal the electronic watch on your left wrist, the face on the inside for easier access, and you set a timer for 59 minutes, just under an hour. The perfect legal loophole.

“Alright, i’m all yours…” You send him a soft sympathetic expression as you mark the start of the session.

Spencer listens to the timer tick down, suddenly hyper aware of the noise despite not having taken any notice of it before, and he clasps his hands in his lap as he tries to gather his thoughts and his courage.

“I- uh- um-“ he starts quietly. He can’t force himself to make eye contact with you, but he takes a sharp breath in and tries to push the words out. “I’m an addict,” he says quickly, turning his head away from you.

And there it was.

You give him a soft nod at his confession, but don’t give a verbal response, fearing that if you were to say anything it would scare him from opening up any further.

Spencer can’t believe he’s actually admitting it out loud. He can already feel the panic rise as he speaks about his addiction, but he needs to open up, he needs to get this off his chest.

“I- I’m addicted to Dilaudid. Opioids. I- I started when I was held captive... He would inject me with it to stop the pain, i- I don’t know how to get off it,” he pauses, trying to form his thoughts. “I-“

Spencer exhales heavily, leaning forwards to drag his palms over his face. “I don’t know what to do-”

Spencer takes a few deep breaths, glancing back up at you. “I- I know that I need help, I know I should reach out to a support group or something, but I- I can’t do that, I- have work, everyone is relying on me, and this is- this is my fault I- I kept taking it and-“

“Spencer.” You take his left hand in yours again, pulling it away from his face and bringing it down to rest on the small gap in the sofa between you and him. “I need you to slow down for me alright? working yourself up isn’t going to help…”

Spencer falls back into a quiet panic as you speaks, the thoughts going so fast his brain feels like it’s on fire. Words fly in and out of his head and he desperately tries to grasp onto them, trying to string them together in a way that makes sense.

“Slowly, yeah, yeah, slowly…” he takes a few more deep breaths, his eyes staring down at the floor in front of the couch.

“I need help.”

He looks down at his hand as it sits in yours, your palm warm and soft, a harsh contrast to rigid coldness of his own. “I can’t think about work. I- I can’t hold a proper conversation, I cant even look at myself in the mirror anymore...”

“I just- I don’t know if I can do this alone…” Spencer quietly whispers the last sentence, staring down at the floor. He stays there, sat silently for a few moments before he raises his head towards you again.

“Did you know that addicts who don’t reach out for professional help have an 85% chance of relapse within a year of trying to quit?”

Spencer always seemed to revert back to his intelligence to shield his emotions, although the waver in his tone continued to give away how he was really feeling.

“Well I suppose it’s a good thing I’m a professional then,” You reply to his statistic with a light tone, trying to keep some semblance of optimism in the conversation as you give his hand a small squeeze.

"Addiction is a ruthless battle Spencer, but you've taken the first step by acknowledging that you need help."

Spencer's eyes flicker with a mix of relief and uncertainty. "I’m just- scared,”

"I know Spencer… It's normal to feel ashamed or afraid of judgement. But remember, addiction is a disease, not a personal failing. Seeking help is incredibly difficult, and it's also essential for your well-being."

You absentmindedly run your thumb over the back of his hand slowly, conveying your unwavering support. "I'm proud of you, Spencer. Recognising your readiness for change is a significant milestone in itself."

Spencer nods slowly, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability as he looks up at you, his eyes burning into your own as the resolve that he had quickly begins to falter.

Then, he takes a deep breath. And he breaks.

“I-I… I want to relapse,” He whispers. “I want to more than anything. I’m having trouble focusing, and… I can’t get it out of my head. And I’m scared I… I might-“

Spencer looks at you with a heartbreaking expression, his breath catching in his throat as his pulse quickens. His eyes flicker, the addiction begging to be let out as his expression becomes one of utter desperation.

He needs to be clean.

But that need to be numb outweighs everything else, and it’s terrifying him.

“Hey,” You give both of his hands a gentle pull to hold his attention, letting them rest in your lap. “I want you to listen to me when i say this alright?”

Spencer gives a half-hearted nod, small streams of tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks as his emotional wall completely crumbles.

“You are allowed to struggle. You’re allowed to not feel like you’re improving, but that does not mean that you’re failing, and it definitely doesn’t mean it’s your fault,”

”You’re allowed to struggle.”

Spencer doesn’t know why, but you saying it out loud makes him feel better, and for the first time in over a week, he actually starts to calm down to a point where he doesn’t feel like he’s self-destructing.

“I’m scared….” he whispers quietly. “I’m so scared that I’m going to give in.”

Spencer sighs as he lets his head hang, small tear drops beginning to speckle the fabric of his trousers.

“Truth be told… I already have.” He squeezes his eyes shut as he says it. He’s so mad at himself.

“I only did it once, I promise. And I regret it more than anything,” he speaks quickly, trying to explain himself before you’re able to get upset.

“I’m so sorry-“

“Hey- No, listen to me Spencer,”

You tilt his head upwards with one of your hands, brushing a tear off his cheek with your thumb.

“Recovery is never a linear process. And the more you beat yourself up over it the worse you are going to feel.”

Spencer’s eyes flicker, but he doesn’t make any movement to pull himself away from you.

“I just… I can’t help but feel like I’m letting everyone down.” He sighs. “I promised myself I-“

He closes his eyes and leans his cheek against the palm of your hand as he breathes out sharply. “I’m really sorry for dumping all of this on you,” he whispers, his eyes still closed.

“I just wanted to get it off my chest,” Spencer whispers. “To tell someone something without them cutting me off for once.”

“No,” You shake your head gently at him. “No apologies, this is what I’m here for Spencer,”

Spencer nods softly against the warmth of your palm. He trusts you. And about now he’s thinking that you’re the only person he would trust with this type of information.

“Sorry,” he mumbles out another apology. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I really don’t.” He sighs. “I was doing so well, you know? It took me weeks to even start feeling okay. And then everything was so much better in the office. And I was so happy and I- and then this happened.”

There’s a few moments of silence as Spencer mulls over his self-disappointment. He’d made such an effort to better himself after returning back to work, to go back to being the Spencer that the rest of the BAU were familiar with, and right as things seemed to get back on track he’d spiralled himself into another hole.

“I want to get better. But… withdrawals are hard.”

“And… I really liked how it felt.”

Spencer turns his face to speak into your palm as he mumbles his admission of enjoying the feeling. As upsetting as it might be, it wasn’t surprising. It was the main reason that people formed addictions in the first place, enjoying the euphoric release from reality that the substance gave them.

“Can… Can I ask a question? A stupid question?” His voice is quiet, slightly muffled as his lips graze against your hand.

"There’s no such thing as a stupid question Spence,”

Spencer takes a hesitant breath. “Why aren’t you going to… you know, have me fired?” Spencer pulls away from your touch to straighten his posture, leaving your hand to fall back into your lap.

“That’s the protocol, right? If someone has a drug problem and it makes them a liability.” He stares at the floor, expecting your answer to be ‘yes’ and to be asked to leave. “I… I know I shouldn’t be here. But I really don’t want to leave.”

"What the Bureau doesn’t know won’t hurt them Spence," You squeeze his left hand lightly as it remains in yours.

Spencer is shocked at your answer. For a second all he can do is stare at your hand as it remains around his, squeezing it back. “I… but… you could lose your job. Why would you…” After a second his words trail off as the severity of your words sink in. Someone cares. Someone actually cares.

Thank god.

“Thank you.” He whispers.

Spencer’s shuddering hands finally stop. He just sits there, soaking up the warm sensation of your words, of your fingers as they held his hand in a gentle embrace.

“Why do you care?” He whispers.

“I’m here for my brains, my memory and my profiling skills. And- I can’t even do any of that right- i shouldn’t-”

As he tries to finish the sentence, his mind goes completely blank, and tears begin to slip down his face once more.

"Spencer… Those things are a part of you, but you are so much more than just that…"

Your words almost feel like a promise. A promise that no matter whether Spencer was able to hold up his ‘genius’ reputation or not, that you would still be there. That you would still care.

“No one’s ever said that to me before.” He says softly. He smiles as best he can and wipes at the tears on his cheek.

"Well, I am. you’re a human being Spencer, you should never be confined to your intelligence,"

Spencer’s heart swells hearing the words “human being”, he’d gotten so used to being utilised as a human super-computer that he sometimes feared people forgot he had emotions.

“Can I- Can i have a hug..?”

He doesn’t have to ask you twice.

He barely gets the whole question out before you’re guiding his head to rest against the curve of your shoulder, rubbing a hand tentatively down the length of his back.

He’s hesitant at first to hug you back, despite being the one to ask for the hug in the first place. Although he eventually brings himself to connect his hands behind your back, allowing himself to lean into your touch. He’s never felt so safe, so comforted before.

“I… I want the withdrawals to stop…” He says after a while, his voice muffled by your shirt.

"They will Spencer, you’ve just got to tough it out for me okay?" you bring up your right hand to run your fingers through his hair softly, gently detangling the flattened sections that he hadn’t been motivated to brush out himself.

“I never understood how hard it would be until I had to do it myself…” he says quietly. “My head feels like it’s being pushed through a giant crusher. And I… I don’t know if I can stay sober by myself.”

"You don’t have to do this by yourself Spence…" A shudder runs through Spencer’s body at your touch. He pushes himself closer into you, letting out a contented exhale.

It’s been such a long time since someone has touched him, since he’s been able to feel warm and safe. He lets out a small half laugh.

“This was meant to be a therapy session.”

"Sometimes the best form of therapy is just having someone to comfort you,"

Spencer wraps his arms around you tightly nodding into your shoulder. You can almost feel the waves of his tension fade away and turn to content relaxation under your touch.

“You smell like lavender.” He whispers after a minute. He takes a deep breath, breathing in the scent.

"It’s probably my new shampoo," You laugh lightly as you continue to gently run your hands through his hair, not at all surprised he picked up on the difference in scent. He had always been more perceptive than the average person.

Spencer hums slightly as your scent fills his nostrils, sending a wave of calm and soothing through his body. “It suits you.” He says softly.

"Thank you," You smile down at him, your eyes meeting as he looks up towards you. "How are you feeling? be honest with me…”

Spencer swallows with a small exhale. “I can still feel those waves of shakes in me, and my head is hurting.” He answers, although you can hear the relief in his voice. “But I’m feeling… better. A lot better. I can’t thank you enough for doing this…”

“Don’t thank me Spencer, I haven’t done anything, this is all you,” You carefully move a piece of stray hair that had fallen over Spencer’s forehead to fall back properly with the rest of his hair.

“No really, you-”

Spencer’s attempt at a rebuttal was cut off by the faint beeping emitting from your watch.

Looks like the session is over.

He reluctantly removed himself from the soft comfort of your arms to sit up straight again, and you press a button on the side of the watch face to stop the noise. “Well uh- I guess I should go now,”

Spencer’s tone changed back to one of slight apprehension, seemingly trying to put up that emotional shield as your watch reminds him that even the respite he found in your company was temporary.

“Hey,” You instinctively call out to Spencer as you see his face fall again, you had just gotten him to a point where he was calm, and your subconscious was taking every effort to make it stay that way.

“I’ll tell you what-” Your voice is soft but slightly rushed, the words leaving your mouth as soon as they enter your head. “I’ve got a spare room in my house, how about you stay over?”

“What?” He blinks a few times at your suggestion, turning his head to face you properly.

You almost want to kick yourself for being so impulsive. I mean sure the two of you had become close over your years working together. But asking him to stay at your house? What were you thinking?

"I mean- don’t hesitate to say no if you don’t want to-" you add, attempting to downplay your sudden offer. His surprised expression lingers, and you worry that maybe you've overstepped some unspoken boundary.

“I just thought, you know- we’re friends, and friends have sleepovers sometimes right?”

You began to dig yourself into a hole the more you tried to explain yourself. Of course the real reason you wanted him there was so you could make sure that he was actually alright, that he wouldn’t fall back into a negative spiral the second he was left alone in his own apartment.

"I- Are you sure?" He asks cautiously, uncertainty tinging his voice.

You nod, mustering a reassuring smile. As much as your impulse was making you want to eat soap in the hope that it’d force you to think through your words, you wanted to be a lifeline for Spencer, and if that meant offering him a safe place to stay with somebody to talk to then so be it. Even if it was just for one night.

"Yeah... We can uh, watch that new season of Doctor Who that just came out-“

Spencer can feel his throat tighten as he looks at you. He can’t help but smile as he sits himself up, hugging you tightly with a small exasperated laugh.

“Really?” He breathes out. “You’re really sure..?”

You give him another nod, this one more confident than the last, leaning your head on top of his as he again rests it against the curve of your shoulder. “Definitely.”

“You can stay for as long as you need…”

Spencer tightens his arms around your back in response, tears threatening to spill from his eyes again. Except this time they weren’t the type that stung his eyes, followed by a wave of grief. They were almost comforting.

“Thank you…”

God, he’s been so… stagnant during all of this, and the thought of being at your place, with you, not hiding from everyone else like some kind of ghost, fills him with a type of joy he can’t quite describe. It’s like that child-like wonder coming back to him for just a moment.

“Let’s go home Spencer…”

Spencer sighs as he buries his head against your shoulder again. Of course you’d call your house home.

Of course he’d call a house with you in it home.

“Okay,” He mumbles, his voice thick with emotion as he relaxes against you, the world fading away around you.

”Let’s go home,” he repeats, the words feeling natural as he closes his eyes.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #mgg #matthew gray gubler #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #my poor boy needs therapy #so much therapy

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tea018 · 5 months

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Intro‼️

Don’t bother DMing me without reading my limits.

🚫MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI YOU WILL BE BLOCKED 🚫

You can call me Tea. This is just a blog to express random hornier thoughts though I don’t intend for that to be the only thing I post. Feel free to DM or send in asks I’ll always TRY to respond. Along with that I’m one person I can’t respond to EVERY message.

To add onto this I hold the right to block you and will use it as freely as I fucking please.

As I’ve said DMs are open. I'm probably not gonna sext with people I have barely talked to. It’s tiring and annoying having people DM just for me to get them off. If you wanna be my friend, by all means DM, and it can turn into sexting. Also I don’t want to move platforms I don’t really like social media and don’t want to msg outside of here.

If I ever reblog something and it makes you uncomfortable DM me and I’ll remove it.

Get to know me a lil

- I’m 21 and I’m barley 5’2 or 157 cm

- bisexual :)

- I’m either reading or sleeping. Im a nerd in the sense I can tell you random statistics on specific things. I like books, cats, coffee, plants, and so on.

- I’m a pretty laid back person, I’ll let you know if you ever cross a line but I’m pretty relaxed otherwise.

- I’m more shy but I try to start conversations as best as I can. I’m also the most oblivious person you’ll meet so you may have to spell some things out for me.

-Oh and along with being shy I typically don’t send photos or anything. If that’s a no go for you then no worries. Don’t ask me for them my answer won’t magically change.

- if my blog is ever removed I’ll come back with the same user just look out for me xx

-I don’t typically DM first.

-IF YOU ARE IN A RELATIONSHIP DO NOT REACH OUT TO ME ROMANTICALLY.

(To follow up with this I am not in a relationship and don’t want to be involved if YOU are in one and are being disloyal. Even if it’s an open relationship please do not DM me romantically I WILL block you)

Kinks

- Im a sub. (Don’t ask me to Dom you I’ll ignore you flat out)

- Teasing, Breeding, Somno, Size difference, Hair pulling, edging, denial, praising/degrading, choking, cnc, dumbification, free use, cockwarming, Age gap, dacryphilia, Primal, and so on

-limits: vomit, gore, scat, incest, anything around those are a definite no. (I will block you without hesitation.)

Taken Ask Anons:

(spam in case this gets banned: @tea018spam )

(Sfw blog: @teas-steaming)

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honeybeefae · 1 year

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Bigger Than The Whole Sky (Cassian x Reader)

Summary// This entire year had been devastating for you and your mate. On more days than not you found yourself laying in bed, the pillow wet with tears, while Cassian stroked your hair and whispered soft words into your ear. You were so ready to give up, to crumble away like sand against the waves of grief, until you discover something that gives you and him hope.

(I know this is a few days late but I wanted to get it right! This is very angst heavy, I’m just going to warn you. It has a happy ending but it deals with the loss of a child, miscarriage, etc. As a mom who lost her first child, this fic is almost cathartic to me. It was years ago but that kind of pain never leaves you and although I don’t know if anyone who reads this has gone through this, statistically 1 in 4 women will suffer through this. This is for you, or for anyone going through grief)

@starfallweek Prompt: Character A swears they recognize one of the stars blazing past when Character B is trying to tell them something important.

WARNINGS: Angst, Miscarriage, Blood, Death, Vomit, Pregnancy, ending is hopeful

The curtains in the room billowed in the calm breeze, the sun streaming into a room that was full of darkness. You stared blankly at the door of your bedroom, listening to the soft snores of your mate while you furiously rubbed at your eyes to keep yourself awake.

It was the same every single night. You would try to sleep, your entire being exhausted from just existing, only to be plagued by the nightmares that replayed the night over and over again. No tea, herb, or medicine seemed to help, and every night you were edging closer and closer to the edge.

You quietly got up when your eyes tried to shut once more, walking over to the open balcony doors and stepping into the outside air. The warmth of the sun warmed your skin and kissed your face, making you briefly smile, until you laid a hand over your empty womb.

“Cassian! Cassian, help me!” You screamed from the bathroom, blood covering your legs as you fell to your knees in pain from the sharp cramps that were stabbing into your stomach. “Please…please no…”

Footsteps thudded loudly outside, your mate frantically searching for you, until he barged into the bathroom and saw you crumpled on the floor. “Y/N, what happened? What’s wrong?” He asked, kneeling in front of you despite the blood to grab your face. “Are you hurt? Where are you bleeding from?”

Your eyes were red from how hard you were crying, half from the pain and half from the realization of what was happening. It was the same thing you had seen your mother go through when you were young. You remembered hearing her screams, her prayers to the Mother to save her child, and then silence.

“I…” You started to say before sobbing again, his arms immediately pulling you into his chest as he cradled you closely. He shushed you, rocking the two of you back and forth as you cried and cried and cried.

Cassian figured out what was happening quickly, his heart shattering right along with yours. His tears fell onto your head, holding you to him as if you would also disappear. You stayed that way for hours, not moving until Feyre had come looking for you and immediately turned to go grab Madja.

She had to pry you from his arms to examine you, grimacing as she glanced at you in sympathy. Cassian’s hands never left yours as you lay on the bathroom floor, laboring for a few hours until you birthed your sleeping child. It was a boy, his wings so tiny as was the rest of his body, and you just sat there gazing at him until Madja gently took him and wrapped him in a blanket.

“Y/N?” Cassian called, pulling you back to the present. He looked over your sunken face, and your cracked lips, and felt as if he were looking at a ghost. “How long have you been out here?”

“Just for a few minutes.” Your voice was hoarse as you wrapped your arms around yourself, looking out towards the bay. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Did you?”

You looked away in silence, his face softening as he reached out to touch you. It felt foreign though like you were out of your own body.

“Y/N…you need to rest. Please.” He pleaded but you shook your head, looking up at him sadly.

“I can’t, Cass.” You mumble, the memory still burning in the back of your mind. “Every time I close my eyes, every time, I just see him and-”

Before you could break down, you snuggled into his chest, his lips pressing on the crown of your head to comfort you. Although the pain was still there, being in Cassian’s arms made it dull. You both had lost your son, you both were mourning and even though it had been a year of this agony, you at least knew you had someone to hold you in the dark.

After a few minutes, he pulled away, brushing the tears from your eyes. “You know tonight is Starfall, princess. Rhys and Feyre said they understood if we couldn’t make it but maybe it would be nice to get out for a while? See everyone?”

If you were being honest it was one of the last things you wanted to do but deep down you missed your family, and you knew your mate did too. He was always the social bat, the life of the party, and ever since the incident he changed, and became more withdrawn and sad. You hated how it had changed him, wishing you could take that pain away so his heart wouldn’t be marred by it.

Of course, it was impossible, you couldn’t change the past. However, maybe tonight was the first step you both needed to start healing. Starfall meant so much to both of you and while you definitely wouldn’t stay for the whole thing, an appearance was something you could manage.

“I don’t know if I can handle the entire party, but I think it would be nice to get out for a change.” You said, the corners of your mouth slightly turning up when he grinned from ear to ear.

“Of course, we don’t have to stay long. Just say the word and we can leave.” He affirmed, surprising you with a soft kiss on your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now go spread the good news while I go bathe.” You shooed him, watching him throw on his clothes and walk out the door at breakneck speed. It reminded you of your old Cassian.

You started to draw a bath, letting the hot water almost sear your skin as it began to fill up. As you started to realize what you had just agreed to, you found yourself growing nauseous at seeing everyone again. It was no secret what had happened and while you were safe inside your room, out there you would be opened to the prying eyes and gossip of everyone else.

Could you handle it? What if it was too much? What if it was a disaster?

The contents of your stomach started to rise in your throat without warning and you barely had time to make it to the toilet before throwing it all up. It made your eyes sting as you gripped the bowl, blindly reaching for a towel to wipe your mouth as you slowly slid to the floor groaning.

Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to go tonight. If your nerves were already giving you this much trouble, you couldn’t imagine-

“Y/N?” Madja called from the bedroom, her voice laced with concern. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you quickly wrapped yourself in a robe and peeked out, surprised to see her already halfway across the room.

“Madja? What are you doing here?” You asked as she seemed to examine you with her eyes, trying to decipher the look in her eyes.

“Are you feeling okay?”

She must have heard you throwing up. “Yes, yes, I just was worried over Starfall tonight. It will be the first time I’ve been out in public since…” You trailed off, looking past her as the painful memory threatened to surge forward again.

Madja watched as you closed your eyes and breathed through your nose, calming yourself, before opening them once more. “I’m okay, just feeling a little sick. Do you think I could have some tea to settle my stomach?”

“I…I don’t think that would be wise, child.” She answered, brushing past you and into the bathroom to turn off the water. “Nor this hot of a bath.”

“Madja I assure you I am fine, I just wanted to relax and-”

“That’s not what I am concerned about.” She interrupted, crossing her arms as the wrinkles around her face softened. “Y/N, do you know when the last time you bled was?”

“It was…” You began, stalling when you couldn’t recall. After your loss, you hadn’t had your cycle and thought it was normal, you were grateful for not having to go through it on top of the trauma you had already endured.

But as Madja stood there, watching as you pieced together what she was asking, you stumbled back in disbelief, hitting the doorframe behind you. She immediately rushed forward, calling your name, but all you could hear were the screams and the sobbing of yourself and your mate.

“Y/N! Y/N!” She shouted, grabbing your face and making you meet her gaze. Your eyes were already welling up with tears once more, feeling as if your heart was about to fly out of your chest. “Y/N, you need to breathe. Breathe.”

Her hands were comforting as she grabbed one of your own and put it against her chest, letting you feel her breathe until you slowly started to match it.

“Please…please tell me it’s not true.” You whimpered, your bottom lip quivering as she shushed you and placed her hand over your womb. It was a few minutes before she pulled back, her lips tightened as she only gave you a slight nod of confirmation.

It felt as if the entire world was crashing down upon you. She did not stop as you buried your face into her neck, shaking in fear at the news. In your grief, you had only had a few brief moments of intimacy with your mate, mainly as a distraction to pull yourself out of the hole if only for a little while.

Madja softly ran her fingers over your head, shushing you, like a mother to a child. She was usually professional with the rest of your family but after what she had witnessed with you, she looked after you more closely.

“I can’t do it again, Madja.” You cried, shaking your head. “I’m so afraid.”

“Hush now.” She soothed, rubbing small circles into your back. “I know it is frightening, the unknown and the known, but you are already farther along than with your last.”

You were shocked to hear that, pulling away to see if she was serious. All of the symptoms you had had before were missing but you supposed with how you had been feeling and how overwhelmed you were, you probably just brushed them off just as you had this morning.

She wiped away your tears and used her magic to examine you once more, taking in the position of the growing babe. “I cannot guarantee you there won’t be any problems, this will be a higher-risk pregnancy, but I do have faith in the Cauldron and my hands.”

“What if it happens again?” You whisper, placing your hand over your belly. “What if I lose them? What if there is something wrong with me? If I cannot carry this baby, Madja, I fear that I will not be able to handle another death. My soul is already weary.”

“If you go throughout this life always worried about the what-ifs, you will never live, child,” Madja spoke softly. “Be afraid, grieve, feel whatever it is you are feeling, but also rejoice in this news and try to find the light in the darkness. That is what this child is.”

You let her words stew in your head, trying to sort through each of your emotions one by one as she wrote down a time and date for you to come visit her. “We will be doing weekly meetings to check, and if you have any worries come find me.”

As she started to walk out the door you called out for her, fiddling with your fingers as you asked, “Can you not disclose this to Cassian? I want to tell him.”

Madja smiled and nodded, holding a finger to her lips, before disappearing from your sight. You walked backward until your knees hit the bed, sitting on the edge as you processed what had just happened.

Anger, worry, guilt, and hope were the four biggest emotions you were working through. Anger that your body had allowed this to happen after what happened with your first, worry that you would lose another child, guilt that you got pregnant again so soon and that you were replacing your first, and a small hope that you would actually get to bring a child into this world for you and Cassian to raise.

It was a lot. What would Cass say? Would he be angry at you, or would he be excited? What about everyone else? What if your first son, wherever he was, was angry with you for replacing him? Were you being irrational?

The sun was already high in the sky and since your mate wasn’t back yet, you knew he probably wouldn’t return until later tonight. You had to tell him soon, it was a miracle that he hadn’t been able to smell it on you already.

Your bath was sure to be at least lukewarm by now so you decided to go ahead and start getting ready, finding yourself gazing at your stomach every time you passed the mirror and imagining who was inside you.

Later that day, 30 minutes to Starfall

The dress you put on was one you had worn before but it was still as beautiful. You had styled your hair in your favorite way, your makeup light, and your shoes comfortable. After making sure everything looked good, you turned to the side and stared at your abdomen once more. There was a small swell that you could easily hide if you tried.

You were dreading talking to Cassian, your mind racing with what could happen. Although he seemed more okay than you, you knew it was just a mask. He was grieving just as hard as you, tossing and turning at night and trying his best to hide the pain from you.

If he wasn’t happy with this…you didn’t know what you would do.

As the sun disappeared underneath the sea you finally found the courage to step out of the door, heading upstairs to the balcony where you could already hear the party starting. You had told him to meet you there when he tried to get you to walk out together, assuring him you just needed more time.

Your heart was beating as loud as your heels against the floor as you stepped out into the world for what felt like the first time in forever. Everyone was dressed beautifully, some of them conversing with each other while others were grazing the food table and bar.

Thankfully no one looked toward you, gawking or pointing like in your nightmares. It took you a minute to find Cassian but when you did you beelined to him, blushing when he pulled you into his arms and kissed you sweetly.

“You look beautiful, princess.” He murmured against your lips, kissing you once more before pulling back. “I was worried you were going to miss the start. I think the first one just streaked across the sky.”

“Well, I’m glad I came when I did.” You replied, snuggling into his side as you glanced up at the sky. You heard your friends behind you, laughing about something, and you were thankful they hadn’t spotted you yet.

You needed to tell him now, while you had alone time, but when you finally found the courage to speak everyone begin to cheer and toast as the first couple of souls appeared in blazing lights. It was enchanting to watch, distracting you for a moment as Cassian kissed your forehead.

And as you stood there beside him, his arm wrapped around you while you were surrounded by the beauty of the night and the liveliness of the party, that small spark of hope grew brighter and brighter. It was like the Mother herself was assuring you everything was going to work out.

“Cassian, I need to tell you something.” You said, turning to look at him. However, he seemed to be focused on something past the horizon. “Cassian?”

“Did you see that?” He asked breathlessly, his eyes wide in disbelief. “D-Did you see?”

“See what?” You turned to try and look at what he was staring at, only seeing the bright streaks of green. “I don’t see anything, Cass.”

“I swear, Y/N, I thought-” He paused, looking down at you with a mixture of happiness and sorrow. “One of the souls, I swear….”

You held your breath, your hand flying to your mouth as you squeezed his arm as hard as you could. There was no way, it couldn’t be. It was just your brain trying to make you feel better about your situation, he couldn’t have possibly seen what you thought he did.

Still, you couldn’t stop yourself as you whispered, “Our son?”

He nodded once, his large hand cupping your cheek as you drew in a shaky breath. “It could have been a trick of the light, or something else, but I saw a small soul, it looked like he had wings and I just felt it. It felt like him, Y/N.”

However you knew it wasn’t, you knew Cassian would never joke or say something like this unless he fully believed it. And hearing him say that, looking at into his eyes, you knew this was a sign.

Your son had come down to visit you, he knew you needed him even if he never got to see you. It was destiny.

You quickly grabbed his hand and placed it over your stomach, tears freely falling as your voice wavered. “No, no it wasn’t a trick Cass. It was him.” You affirmed, smiling more than you ever had before. “He came to tell me, to tell us, that everything will be okay.”

“What do you mean?” He breathed, his gaze flickering between you and your conjoined hands over your womb. “Is this…are you…?”

Cassian couldn’t even finish the sentence as you nodded, biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself from sobbing in front of everyone. You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles, laughing incredulously as you said, “He wanted to visit his sibling.”

It took two seconds for him to digest your news before you were lifted into the air and spun around in his arms, grinning as he hollered in delight before bringing you into a crushing kiss. You felt warmth blossom in your chest where you had thought it never would again, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Everyone was probably wondering what had happened but for the first time in a year, you didn’t care. You didn’t care about the worries of tomorrow or of others, about the what-ifs, all you cared about was now.

Starfall had blessed you with your mate, your son, and your new babe all in one night. It was a happiness you never thought you would have again and you weren’t going to waste a moment of it.

#acotar fic #acotar angst #starfall week fic #starfall week #cassian x reader #cassian x reader acotar #cassian x reader angst #cassian acotar #cassian #angst fic #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf

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asukaskerian · 3 months

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prompt 4 for moshang with the mood "incensed" would be hilarous i imagine

Mythology - Foretold by the gods - moshang

So he might have, maybe, at some point -- some late at night or maybe very early point -- tried to figure out an OC for Mobei-jun to ship w fuck. Dude was so perfect, it was a shame his dump truck ass and sequoia thighs remained unembraced. (Also the whole "he's so mysterious and never opens up and unveils his deep thoughts and tender feelings except for me" fantasy but never mind all that.)

He'd gone exactly as far as 'Meeting: why tf would he notice anyone. Dashing rescue? Why does he need a rescue he's too cool and basically untrappable anyway, what are they rescuing him from socializing with his cousins lmao???' on his notes before giving up on making it realistic. The next scribble was 'cuz i said so ok next'.

There had been no 'next'. His battery had died and when he managed to get home and get his laptop plugged in it was time for another word vomit on the topic of Bing-ge's meat truncheon.

[Secret side-quest: Easter egg! 1/536 discovered. Keep going!][Category: "is it a headcanon if you didn't think it up with your upper head?" 1/413]

'System-bro, what the entire fuck!?!' Airplane screeched inside his heart of hearts; ass on the floor (bruising), clothes askew (from sleeping in them!!), and the most gorgeous, terrifying man he'd ever seen staring down at him from the bed they'd crashed into (Mobei-jun first, because unconscious, Airplane later, because idiot) the previous night.

Because he had expected being sneered at; being talked down to; being attacked on sight. Being haughtily ignored, after sufficient groveling at crotch level.

But his most perfect, most unattainable creation, that Himalayan peak made flesh, saying that --

The problem with Airplane was, he didn't trust people. He didn't trust them to share their feelings and decisions with him freely instead of leaving him reeling at yet another swerve of which he was merely collateral damage. He didn't trust them not to lie to themselves, or even know they were lying to themselves, so even if they did tell him what they thought or felt he assumed they were doing the polite 'the real reason is none of your business but telling you to fuck off is rude' thing at best.

So yes, his favorite game from childhood had been to pick someone in the crowd and tell himself stories about their life. This guy is a grandfather of seven and doesn't know the birthday of a single grandkid and his eldest son just pointed it out to him, but not even angrily which is worse because that's how low the bar he failed to clear was, that's why the fancy package and the gloomy expression. That girl just broke up -- she's so angry though -- he was fucking her sister. No wait, her nails are short, it was a girlfriend for sure; she fucked her brother, a double betrayal. It had evolved into telling himself stories about his classmates and his half-siblings and his parents, since they were never ever gonna bother to invite him to take a real glimpse inside, anyway.

He was fully aware that statistically speaking he was probably wrong a lot of the time, but 1. coming up with coherent narratives was satisfying enough to smother the jealousy and loneliness and 2. as far as he was concerned it was true until proved otherwise, which was never.

But a guy who gave him nothing to work with. That was a challenge. That was fascinating.

....

But a guy who greeted him by "You are to be my husband?" with a tone of dismay?!

What the fuck! What the fuck!! What the flying dick-flapping fuck!!!

He was so shocked, he forgot to kowtow.

"You uh. My king?" He hadn't made the guy so above it all that he landed straight back into a a naive ingenue, right? "Just sleeping on the same mattress doesn't -- people don't have to be married to share--"

The muggy air of the inn room went so cold so fast that condensation rolled cold drops down his back.

(The effect didn't last; there was a haze in the air, briefly, and then a suffocating breeze from outside ruined the surprise air-con.)

"You will not speak to me like an idiot child," Mobei-jun-to-be rumbled threateningly, and then ruined the cool by continuing in that wtf vein. "My husband will show respect to his wife or his wife shall reign as a widow."

Holy shit, now Mobei-jun was the wife???!?!??? What? What! Airplane was dead. Again. For good.

He stayed down there sitting on his ass, waiting for the world to make sense. It didn't happen. The man of his masochistic dreams had crossed his arms over his massive bara titties like a barricade and was now sulking up there like an offended wi-- no, he couldn't even think it.

"My -- my king? It's only, ah, your humble servant doesn't... recall... getting married...?"

Eyes as blue as the afterimage of a lightning strike speared him through, metaphorically.

"Not yet. But we must."

He let out a long sigh; and his face didn't twitch when he moved to aggravate his wound, but the way he stilled for a breath was telling. Shang not-yet-Qinghua winced in reflexive sympathy.

"There is a prophecy."

"... Ah?" A prophecy. About his king. That he hadn't put into the story. That he hadn't even scribbled into the margins or thought about. 'System?!'

[Yes, valued User?]

"There is a prophecy for each generation, and most of them don't matter," the ice demon using that shitty inn bed as his throne said with a bitter tone. "But the eleventh ruler of the Northern Desert will be heralded by his foretold spouse; that is how he is confirmed."

"Ohh," Airplane said intelligently and with characteristic eloquence.

"'You will know them by these things," his king quoted sourly, "first, they will heal you; second, share your bed; third, offer their hand, and service, and their soul."

'Their soul! Their soul!! I was offering my sneakiness and maybe my dick, ah?! System!!! Who told you to mess up my creation with made-up prophecies?!'

[The easter egg category: "is it a headcanon if you didn't think it up with your upper head?" belongs to the third rung of canon : Word of God.]

But he hadn't told anyone--

But he'd written it down, he remembered now. 'Cuz i said so.'

Oh god. Oh immortals ascended before him. Oh little ancestors in both and either worlds. Someone fix this for him. "My king. Haha. My king, that is -- so vague! So vague?! How can there not be a dozen candidates with criteria so -- so stupid? And if the prophecy is common knowledge then people knew them in advance?! How were you not sabotaged right and left--"

...Oh no. He was gorgeous when he smirked like this, slow and feline, satisfied. My king, so unfair.

"This prince has long since made it a point not to sleep where others may catch him." A delicate pause. "He has also made it a point to return misplaced agents to his most obstinate siblings's chambers at a time his elders may not miss them."

"--Oh. Disqualifying them for trying to disqualify you -- so smart, my king!" For a moment, he had gotten enthused. But then he remembered that they were discussing his sudden non-canon matrimony, and then he started poking it for plot holes. "But -- just anybody can share your bed."

"The language is old, and clear. The prophecy speaks of the only person to ever share this king's bed."

... Hhghhhk.

That stare. So hard. Offended. Those cheekbones. So cutting. That nose, regal; that hair.

"My king," Airplane said as he climbed up to his feet, eyes trained on the floor and his knees and the things spread on the table and anything else at all. "Have you ever thought that the 'sharing a bed' section was metaphorical?"

He met the demon's eyes then, incredulous and angry, buoyant with it. "You haven't even shown me your dick and you think I should be making recompense?! What the fuck! Passing out on the same shitty mattress doesn't mean getting deflowered! I didn't knock you up with a snowball ass egg, why the fuck should I--"

Oh, he was tall. Also wide. Especially wide. Flatten me daddy indeed.

Oh, he was angry.

"It is not. Metaphorical. Though if all you need is to see my body--"

His hand landed on his belt. Shang eventually-Qinghua stopped breathing, body hot and bubbling with too much emotion--

It read like one of his waifu plots, the Joan of Arc types, unconquerable holy virgins except via the pressure of greater good.

A vague scrying over some random-ass kingdom, a little prophecy and welp! Nothing to it, just gotta fuck it out for the marital bed and then never again. At least you getting lawfully reamed has saved Bumfucknowhereistan.

'System. Demerit if I say hell no?'

[The bonus Mobei-jun questline remains optional, and brings User no penalties on opt-out.]

'Great.'

Like hell he was jumping into marriage because he liked some guy's face and didn't want to be bothered by geriatric busybodies tittering over his lack of wedlock. Who was he, his mother?

"I'll pass. Sorry, my king, at least I'm ditching you long before the altar?"

And with a sweep of his hand, he dumped all his things off the table and into his qiankun pouch, and was jumping out the window and doing a sick flip trick on his trusty borrowed blade. Airplane over and out, bro!

Thanks for nothing. Now his spank bank was forever tainted.

Three days later he was still dealing with bursts of anger and anguish and other moronic emotions, which didn't help navigating his miraculous return to the sect ("I was so scared!" lost its impact if he broke a sneery judgmental Shixiong's ankle with a well-placed kick) or the medical peak's nosiness ("Who cares about the bruises, my biggest injury is my blue balls and broken heart, thanks!") or Shen not-quite-Quingqiu's scalpel eyes.

His king's eyes were prettier.

His king was never going to be his king. Optional quest line. Yeah. He vaguely wondered how the System planned to make him betray the sect, then, who for, and then decided it wasn't his problem. Fuck it. He was sure it could do blackout poetry with his notes and pull out some contrived justification that would amount for half as much incentive as Mobei-jun's everything.

His fierce determination, his fearlessness, his skill, his -- his body.

His body that was extremely too visible on Shang in-his-soul-Qinghua's disciple bed, shoulders draped in furs and bountiful meaty muscle on full frontal display.

"I will not," he growled low and quiet, "be discarded by my spouse."

"Hhg."

He had snow leopard rosettes on his flanks in dusky blue, secret patterns never appeared in any cover art Airplane had commissioned.

[Secret side-quest: Easter egg! 2/536 discovered. Keep going!]

... Oh god, it turned out Shang Qinghua was exactly as stupid as Bing-ge's most ice-cold chaste wives. Because 'lie back and think of England?' Yeah, he was going to think of England and that dick.

#svsss #asuka writes #writing meme

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girlycocksleeve · 6 months

Text

This is just a kink, I don’t support actual transphobia.

Unless specified, I’m into it

Favorite kinks: misgendering, detrans, public humiliation, free use, public use, cnc, piss

Hard nos: scat, vomit, gore, incest, raceplay, ageplay

I recently got top surgery, but I still have old videos and photos of my breasts :)

My dms are always open if you want to see my tits or pussy, or just humiliate or degrade me ☺️

My redgifs

Amazon list. If you buy something from here, send me proof and I’ll send you a video of me using it <3

Take my kink survey

#detrans kink #detransition kink #forced detrans #ftm misgendering #misgender me #misgender kink #misgenderingkink #fakeboy #detrans me

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junkartie · 3 months

Text

The fact that statistically men and women have an insane idology gap in all countries rn and while women are historically the most liberal they’ve ever been men are somehow leaning towards becoming more right leaning/conservative than past generations is astonishing and terrifying. I knew this was happening but seeing it on paper really makes me want to vomit.

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fortheloveofwonderland · 6 months

Text

Rusty | Chapter 5 | SR

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - Once you sober up, you and Spencer start to learn a little more about each other. But when things get heated between you, Spencer becomes distant.

Paring - Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - strangers to friends to lovers | angst | smut minors DNI

Warnings - this chapter goes into some gritty detail about a past sexual assault / rape in form of forced oral sex (please tread lightly), blood, injuries, hangovers, talk of sexuality, talk of break ups, past death of a parent, past physical abuse, swearing, tears, making out, brief suicidal thoughts, rape statistics, PTSD, brief mentions of past drug addiction, Maeve and Cat Adams, vomit.

WC - 6k

Chapter 5 - Gunpowder and Led

When the phone rang for a fourth time, Spencer felt himself relenting. It was sitting in the open palm of his right hand, vibrating against his skin.

The first three times he’d seen the flash of his name on the screen he’d quickly looked away, ignoring the sound, ignoring the vibration.

But it just kept ringing.

By this time it was dark, nearing ten pm and to say he was exhausted would be stark understatement.

After getting you back to the ranch he went straight to the stable. It took somewhere in the region of a half hour to get down from his horse given the amount of pain he was in from riding to and from town.

When he’d finally gotten down and freed Willow of her saddle and gear, he’d limped back towards his lodge where he’d left you with the key and told you to go sit down.

He expected to find you on the couch or maybe even on the porch still. Instead he’d found you curled up in his bed, sheets tucked up to your chin as you snored quietly against his pillow.

A cursory glance at the room and the clothes strewn around the floor told him you no doubt wore little more than underwear beneath the sheet.

It probably shouldn’t be such a big deal, but Spencer’s mental hang ups had only gotten worse due to his social isolation. He was more of a germaphobe now than he’d ever been, at least with regards to humans.

Horses, he didn’t mind. It didn’t phase him at all when Willow or Frank or Wilbur ate from his hand and left behind their saliva. He didn’t even blink at having to scoop up their faeces or clean out piles of urine soaked hay.

But humans were another thing entirely.

The most physical contact he’d had in two years was at the hospital this morning when the nurse had fitted his cast. She wore gloves of course, which alleviated some of his anxiety towards the situation.

But now there was a person in his bed. His sanitised safe place for which no one else had ever breached. His cleanliness extended to the point he made a habit of changing his bedsheets every couple of days and he had planned to change them tomorrow in any case.

He would certainly not be able to sleep between those sheets now another body had inhabited them. It played on his mind as he left you to sleep. He briefly considered waking you but the damage was done now.

He tried to occupy his mind by going about his daily routine, which was made much more arduous given his incapacity. He started by taking the three horses out to their pen so he could clean out the stable. Usually he could take all three at once but his limited movement and use of only one hand meant he had to take them one at a time.

He hitched up their reins and one by one led them up the hill towards the large, fenced off area which was located at the edge of the ravine which ran the length of the northern side of his land.

Willow first. Then Wilbur. Finally Franklin.

The ache in his knee and the throb in his thigh multiplied with each trip up and down that hill and by the time the stable was empty he barely had the energy left to clean it out. But he pushed on, despite the pain and despite his lack of motivation.

It took well over an hour for him to successfully clean each of their paddocks but at least it meant his three horses had longer to strut around in the field because there was no way Frank and Wilbur were to be ridden today.

Once he’d cleaned it out, filled their troughs and replenished their water, one by one he led the horses home. By this point he had to go and pop another couple of Tylenol and sit down for ten minutes with a mug of honey and lemon tea.

After he did much the same with his six cattle. Their own barn was part of their enclosed area, they had access to come and go as they pleased through the open door as they spent most of their time eating the grass.

All six, four cows and two bulls, were already outside which made his job a little easier. He cleaned the barn, replenished their foods and water while they meandered of their own volition.

When he was finished he leaned against the fence and watched them for a while, smiling a little as he thought back to that conversation with JJ.

“And what would you do with cattle?”

“You know, look at ‘em, pet ‘em…I hadn’t really thought about that. But I’ll figure it out.”

Looking at them and petting them was pretty much all Spencer derived from his cattle after all. He did take advantage of their milk supply every once in a while but didn’t particularly relish the milking process so it wasn’t habitual. Mostly he just liked to watch them.

If he had a favourite it would be Cupid. She was the runt of the group, much smaller than her companions. He had named her such for the heart shaped black splodge around her left eye. Cupid’s brother Sampson was damn near twice her size and they fought like cat and dog.

His other girls, Daisy, Annabel and Jasmine were also much bigger than Cupid but they were all amicable with each other. His final bull, Duke, was the biggest of them all, broad and thick and the darkest of blacks in colour. He looked terrifying and Spencer had been extremely reluctant in purchasing him.

But then Duke had looked at him with large, doe eyes and licked Spencer’s hand in such a calming manner that Spencer had instantly fallen in love with the older bull.

He stood leaning against the fence for some time, just watching them roam about, munch on the grass, interact with one another.

As companions he preferred horses but to just sit by and watch he favoured the cattle. He found them mesmerising for reasons unknown to him.

They were inquisitive creatures, majestic in their own right. And something about them just utterly fascinated Spencer.

He missed another call from Penelope throughout the day and received another text from Luke which was much the same as the other.

He would contact someone, eventually. He just wasn’t in the head space to talk to any of his old team after the past few days.

After completing his chores he checked in on you and found you still asleep. Not wanting to wake you he grabbed a change of clothes before limping back up to the other lodge to clean himself up.

He could tell you’d used the shower and so had to clean and sanitise the tub before he dared use it. He’d hold off on changing your bedsheets in case you decided to stay for longer but he did feel compelled to make the bed again to his standards.

Once clean, he ran a bath, not having the energy to shower. While the tub filled he stripped out of his clothes, groaning in pain when he had to shimmy his pants off.

Not entirely unexpectedly, the outside of the gauze was coated in blood as was the inside of the pant leg of his jeans.

He sat on the toilet and unravelled the soiled bandage cautiously. He had another first aid kit in this bathroom so at least he’d have a clean alternative once he was bathed.

He used a wad of wet tissue to clean the wounds before his bath so as not to be soaking in a pool of his own blood. It smarted and he ground his teeth in response.

Lowering himself into the tub wasn’t an easy thing to do but he managed. And once he was down he relished the feeling of the warm water caressing his limbs.

He kept his casted arm hanging over the side and lolled his head back against the porcelain, letting his eyes flutter closed and trying to force relaxation upon himself.

It must have worked because when he opened his eyes again it was two hours later and the bath water had long turned cold.

He checked in on you once more after his bath, ate a small bowl of cereal for dinner and made another mug of honey and lemon tea which he sat drinking on the porch with his phone in his hand as it rang a fourth time.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, slowly exhaling as he counted to ten. His hand shook a little as he raised the device, pressed the button to answer the call and put it to his ear.

“Hi,” he croaked out the word and awaited their greeting whilst a throb pounded at his temple.

There was a small stretch of silence on the other end, or maybe he just perceived there to be. But soon enough a voice he hadn’t heard in months flitted its way to Spencer’s ear.

“Oh man, it’s so good to hear your voice, pretty boy.”

***

You awoke with a start, your heart hammering diligently against your chest and gasping for air. You felt like your lungs had been filled with water, deprived of oxygen.

Your eyes shot open as you sat upright in the unfamiliar bed. You blinked into the dark room, trying to focus yourself, find your bearings.

Taking deep breaths to try and return your breathing to normal, shapes started to form. After a minute or so ascertained you were in Spencer’s bed.

You rubbed your eyes, an almost gentle thrum in your head and the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue reminded you of your precious activities.

Images of the 11th Street Bar, of Cole and Boone and Butch came back to you. Spencer on Willow’s back, yelling, swearing, fighting.

You groaned and let your hands fall back to the bed. You’d said some things to Spencer that would be hard to retract. You’d called him out on his medication, asked him about his mental health issues, trying to pry into an area of his life which was absolutely none of your concern.

You’d called him a jerk, a self righteous asshole, told him no one wanted to know him. You’d projected your own anger and frustrations onto him, the nice, handsome man who in spite of his injuries had mounted his horse and come to get you when you were drunk and a danger to yourself.

“You want to be a petulant child, fine. I offered you a place to stay. I can see you’re running from something, whether it be real or imagined I don’t know. But I was trying to help you because god knows I’ve been there. And no one helped me.

“I know what it’s like to feel as though the world has turned its back on you and I thought, hey maybe we can be of assistance to each other. But if you’re going to be like this then you’re on your own.”

It was becoming clear that you and Spencer had a lot more in common than it would seem at face value. He wanted to help you because he’d seen himself in you. You had no doubts that whatever he was running from was far different to your own demons, but nevertheless there was a kinship between you.

And you’d gotten drunk and belligerent and potentially ruined what could have been a budding friendship.

You got out of bed in the face of your growing headache. You noticed as you got to your feet you were wearing nothing but your panties and bra. Your clothes were thrown around the room in a very haphazard fashion and you scrambled to collect them and redress.

Padding your way out of the room, there was a light on but no one to be seen. You went to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water which your dry mouth was thankful for. It went some way to extinguishing the taste of whiskey left behind.

The kettle was on the stove and judging by the steam rising from its spout you could only assume Spencer wasn’t far away. Hugging your arms around your body, preparing yourself for serious grovelling, you headed over to the door.

Through the glass pane in the wood you could see him sitting in one of the rockers on the porch, cradling a mug in his good hand, a cell phone balanced between his shoulder and ear. You held your breath, stayed extremely still.

“Thanks for calling Morgan, it was good to talk.” Spencer sighed into the phone, not sounding as though he meant his words at all. “You can tell Penelope that I’m okay and I will try and call her as soon as I can. Yeah sure, thanks. Bye.”

You watched his shoulders slump as he hung up the phone, sitting back in the rocker and closing his eyes. The moonlight bathed his skin, illuminating the slight sheen of sweat on his pinched brow.

Swallowing thickly you gripped the doorknob and opened it before stepping out onto the porch. His eyes quickly opened again and he turned his head to the side, regarding you with what could only be described as disdain.

You hesitantly walked closer, dropping down into the chair next to his.

“Who’s Penelope?” You couldn’t help but ask.

Spencer let out a dry chuckle, clearly not at all surprised to find you’d be listening into his conversation.

“A friend. An old friend.” He brought the mug to his lips and sipped the tea.

“The same friend who’s text got your back up this morning?” You sat forward, leaning your elbows against your knees.

“No,” he shook his head, looking out into the darkness instead of at you. “Part of the reason I ended up out here was because of an ex of mine. I was in a bad place and I was, uh…not good…not good. I pushed them away, I forced their hand. It wasn’t a shock when they walked away but it still hurt. And I knew if I hung around I would never get over that heartbreak and so I came out here, partially due to wanting to put distance between us.”

His eyebrows were furrowed in his own confusion. He didn’t know why he’d offered that information so readily to you and in a strange way it felt something akin to nice to get it out. But it also made his stomach coil, hollowing his chest.

He brought the mug to his lips again, not being able to look to see your reaction because he didn’t want to know what you were thinking.

“So your ex is who texted you?” You drew the conclusions, watching the side of his face as he nodded gently.

“Yeah, that was him.” He exhaled shakily.

“Him?” Your eyebrows pinched together. “Huh, I totally missed that about you.”

Spencer slowly turned to you, your lip curled up in a wry smile. He puckered his own lips, wondering how much of himself he was willing to give to you.

“I’m not…I mean I am, but I'm not?” He pulled a face. “I don’t really like defining myself. I guess if you had to put a name to what I am, the closest thing would be bisexual or pansexual I suppose. But I don’t really like to categorise it.

“Sexuality is just a spectrum, right? Some days I’m at one end and some I’m at the other I guess. He was my only serious relationship but I’ve had encounters with women too. It’s funny really, as someone who usually likes to have a name for things, to put into words exactly what things are, this is just one area of my life I’ve never felt the need to define.”

You listened intently, nodding in agreement and offering him encouraging smiles. He took another sip of tea when he was finished speaking and rolled his lip between his teeth.

“What’s his name?” You asked softly but then followed it up with, “only if you want to tell me of course, I don’t mean to pry.”

Spencer nodded with a deep inhale, chest puffing out as he did so.

“Luke. Luke Alvez.” He spoke wistfully.

Your brows pinched together as a strange familiarity accompanied those words. It was the same feeling you’d had when you’d seen the latino man in Spencer’s photograph.

“Uh, is he one of the ones in the photograph on your desk? Dark hair, goofy smile?” You croaked.

“Yeah that’s him.” Spencer nodded sadly.

Interesting.

You couldn’t place the feeling, couldn’t tell what it was about that face and name that was so familiar to you. But there was certainly something to it. For now you would park the idea, circle back to it another time if needed.

“I’m sorry that you broke up. You wanna, uh, talk about him?” You leaned further forward on your elbows.

Spencer took another sip of his tea before bending with a small groan and putting the mug on the ground next to his chair.

“Not especially, no.” He spoke as he sat back up but then… “We dated for about two years I guess, all in all. Truth be told I thought he was the person I was going to spend the rest of my life with. On our third date he told me he was gonna marry me one day. Being with him was the first time I’d ever felt safe in my entire life. I loved him, I have no doubt about that but I sometimes wonder if my feelings for him were partially formed out of trauma bonding.

“He was an ex army ranger, most definitely still suffering some residual PTSD. I have suitcases full of my own baggage and I guess we became closer because of it. I was the first person he ever told about his nightmares he had about his days in Iraq. He was the first person I actively and freely talked to about my addic…that doesn’t matter.

“He was like a bandaid in a way. I thought we were fixing each other's broken pieces back together but in reality we were both too far gone. And then something happened to me and there weren’t enough bandaids in the world to hold me together. And I probably destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me because of it.

“I have no idea why I’m telling you all of this. I hate talking about myself and my past. But I guess you should know, if you were planning on hanging around or whatever at least you have a little glimpse into who I am. I’m not going to lie to you and say I’ll open up more in time if you do stick around because I probably won’t. But you’re the only person I have ever spoken to about Luke and I hope that’s enough.”

You could see the slow swell of discomfort blossoming on his features as he spoke and you knew it had nothing to do with his physical pain but a mental one. Your heart was thumping against your rib cage, taking in each word with precision, mulling it over and storing it away.

It was a nice feeling that he trusted you enough to tell you all of this. His confession was like a warm mug of tea on a snowy day, the sunshine at the end of a rain storm. You wanted to return the favour, to let him know how much you appreciated his candour. But much like him you kept your cards close to your chest and needed to pick your words carefully.

“I, uh, I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen.” You sharply inhaled. “My dad died when I was a little kid, I barely remember him if I’m honest. And then my mom remarried when I was ten. The guy was a douche, a drunk, and beat my mom six ways to Sunday. As I got older I started standing up for her and in retaliation he turned his anger on me. I protected my mom from his beatings but had to pay the price of taking the brunt of them myself.

“It was what it was, you know? It was never gonna change. A few weeks after my sixteenth birthday I ran away from home, never looking back. I got the hell out of dodge before I did something dumb like fight back. It was what I needed to do for myself but in doing so I’m sure he turned that aggression back on my mom.

“I still feel the guilt every single day of my life even all these years later. Few years back I found out my mom had passed away. Supposedly she suffered a brain aneurysm after falling down a flight of stairs. What a load of bullshit. He pushed her, I know he did. He killed my mom. If I’d stayed it might never have happened. That son of a bitch murdered my mom and I blame myself.”

By the time you were finished a couple of tears were spilling down your cheeks. And despite his aversion to touch, despite his germaphobic tendencies, Spencer found himself leaning closer to you, cupping your cheek in his good hand and brushing at the tears with the pad of his thumb.

Much like Willow did, you nuzzled your face against his hand, closing your eyes as you succumbed to the pain.

You briefly thought over his own confession, specifically the part when he said, being with him was the first time I’d ever felt safe in my entire life and understanding in that moment exactly what he meant.

As Spencer held your face and continued to wipe your tears as they fell, this was the first time in your life you'd ever felt safe.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” He whispered and your eyes fluttered open.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever told.” You confessed. “Maybe it’s true what they say.”

“What’s that?” He regarded you curiously.

“About misery loving company.” You chuckled dryly and Spencer did the same, hand still on your cheek. “If it’s okay, I think I might hang around a while. And I promise to be of help around here, I’m not looking for a hand out.”

“Sounds good to me. My misery for one is certainly enjoying the company.” His hand was still cupping your cheek, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to tear it away.

All of his aches, pains and gripes had faded away, both the physical and the mental. The only thing on his mind was how beautiful you looked and how he wanted to do everything within his power to make all of your own pain go away.

When his eyes flitted over your lips it had been an entirely subconscious action. But once they had, he found himself chewing his own lip and inching his face closer to you. You mirrored the motion, leaning further forward in your chair as your eyes started to close.

Within seconds you felt his chapped lips ghost over your own, barely touching you as though he was testing the waters. For a moment you thought he might pull back, not dare go any further but you were grateful when his lips then crashed heavily against yours.

A moan escaped your mouth and Spencer was quick to edge his tongue between your parted lips. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close to you as he deepened the kiss.

He tasted sour like lemons and a hint of mint. You imagined you tasted like the remnants of whiskey but he didn’t seem to mind. He hungrily explored your mouth with a desperate neediness and you allowed him to. You’d allow him to do whatever he wanted.

His hand that was on your cheek snaked around to the back of your neck and pinned you against him. His lips were rough and dry but you didn’t mind at all. His fingers threaded into your hair at the base of your neck and you moved even further forward until you were practically between his thighs.

A muffled moan left his lips and was swallowed down in your own mouth as tongues and teeth messily moved together as the kiss grew more heated by the second.

You sat back a little suddenly but kept your lips connected. You moved your hands to his shoulders and helped the both of you to your feet. Once standing he pushed you back up against the door to his lodge. His body flush against yours you could feel a hardness in his slacks pressing into your thigh.

He caged you against the door with his hips, rutting into you slightly for the friction. He was hard, harder than he had been in a long time, not quite fully erect but he was certainly getting there.

He washed his mind of any thoughts that didn’t directly pertain to you and how your lips felt as you kissed him. He didn’t want his intrusive thoughts to ruin this, he wanted the freedom to claim back something he’d lost in -

- Prison.

At the same time that thought washed over him, one of your hands manoeuvred between your bodies, over his chest, down his stomach and then finally pressed against the outside of his slacks.

“It’s not…stop it, please? Please? It’s n-normal.”

“He’s enjoying it! Hah!”

“It’s a-adrenaline. It happens when we-we’re excited or scared. S-sexual arousal and fear a-arousal have many of the same bodily f…please stop!”

You felt him going limp in your hand almost instantly. And then he tore himself away from you, taking a shaking step backwards on the porch and slapping his hand to his forehead.

You were still up against the door, panting from the lack of oxygen as you watched him start to pace, limping as he went.

“Uh, is everything okay? You weren’t, uh, enjoying that?” You asked, rolling your swollen lip between your teeth.

“What’s wrong, Spence? What’s happening? Why aren’t you, uh…aren’t you enjoying this?”

“I, uh, I just…I’m not ready.”

“It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry if I rushed you.”

“Spence? Did something…did they do something to you in prison?”

“Fuck,” Spencer whined, shaking his head violently. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

You pushed yourself away from the door and came to his side, grabbing his shoulder to try and stop his pacing. His eyes shot up at you and he stilled, a look of terror in his eyes from your uninvited touch.

“Don’t touch me! And don’t talk to me about that place.”

“Spencer? You know you can tell me anything. This is a safe space, baby.”

“Don’t touch me,” he whined, stepping out of your hold. “Please, don’t touch me.”

“Did I miss something? What is happening?” You let your arm fall to your side.

“I’m so much more fucked up than you will ever know.” He winced at his own words. “This is…I can’t…Friends. We can only ever be friends, okay?”

It wasn’t strictly a question, you knew that. And even if it were it only had one feasible answer. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, wondering what on earth had happened to this man for him to react in such a way.

You had your suspicions, it didn’t exactly take a genius to figure out why one might be so touch averse unless he was the one controlling the situation, why someone might panic when they were touched in such an intimate way.

You would never ask though, and he would probably never tell. So instead you started to nod, taking a step back so as to give him the space he needed.

“Friends, Spencer. Friends is just fine.” You agreed.

He looked at you as though he didn’t believe your words but after a few moments he nodded too.

“I should…sleep. I’m exhausted. Tomorrow? I’ll…tomorrow.” He struggled to get out a full sentence but you understood anyway.

You stepped aside so he could get to the door and watched him open it and close it again behind you. You heard the click of the lock and within seconds the light was shutting off, leaving you standing on his porch, bathed in darkness.

***

In spite of his mental and physical exhaustion, Spencer couldn’t sleep. How the hell could he sleep after that?

He didn’t even try because he knew it would be fruitless. Instead he did what he normally did when he couldn’t sleep: he cleaned.

He started by stripping the bedsheets and tossing them in the corner of the room to be washed tomorrow. He replaced them with clean ones and made the bed so neatly you’d be able to bounce a quarter off of it.

He got a bucket of bleach water, a scrubbing brush and some rubber gloves. On his knees he meticulously scrubbed every inch of his wooden floors with his one useable hand.

The pain in his leg was excruciating from his knee to his thigh. It hurt so much he barely registered the ache in his back or the throb of his broken arm.

But pain had been his goal. It was his own form of punishment to himself for his earlier actions. You’d been vulnerable and he’d taken advantage of the situation, almost letting himself fall over a ledge he swore he’d never go over again.

Intimacy was not on his agenda, not now and not ever again. He didn’t need sex, he didn’t need the closeness of another body, not anymore. Not after what he’d endured in prison.

By definition, he had been raped. By the FBI definition of the word, that is what he’d experienced.

Oral penetration by a sex organ of another person without the consent of the victim.

Two inmates had pinned him by each shoulder to a wall whilst he was forced onto his knees. A third had forced Spencer to perform the act of fellatio on him.

And in his abject terror, Spencer had gotten an erection which was noticeable to them all after the third man pulled away from his mouth and ejaculated over Spencer’s prison scrubs.

They’d laughed and jeered at the obvious tenting in his slacks which he tried to hide behind his hands whilst stuttering out his logical explanation.

“Are you…oh my god he’s fucking hard! He’s enjoying this!”

“It’s not…stop it, please? Please? It’s n-normal.”

“He’s enjoying it! Hah!”

“It’s a-adrenaline. It happens when we-we’re excited or scared. S-sexual arousal and fear a-arousal have many of the same bodily f…please stop!”

Two nights later they’d returned and one of the men holding him down the first night had forced himself on Spencer, using Spencer’s mouth as a means by which to get off. Again he also hadn’t finished down his throat but, like the other man, all over Spencer’s shirt.

A week later, it was the third man’s turn to force himself upon their weaker inmate.

The first time he’d considered biting the man’s phallus. But of course he knew that would cause greater retribution and he would no doubt be killed.

But by the third time a part of him wished they would kill him instead.

In his years at the BAU he’d had to deal with hundreds if not thousands of these types of offenders. The act of one man assaulting another man in such a manner was a way to assert their power by putting other weaker, beta males in their place.

He knew the profile, he knew the statistics. He could recite them verbatim. Fourteen percent of reported rapes were committed against men. In the US, one in seventy one men are victims of sexual abuse. Thirty percent of gay or bisexual men had reported experiencing a form of rape in their lifetime.

For the first time in his life, statistics didn’t help him. The autonomy of being just a number didn’t stop the nightmares, the eventual PTSD. His life had forever been changed by those three men who had made the conscious decision to inflict sexual violence upon another human being.

He could still smell them, the musky scent of sweat that filled his nostrils, making it hard to breathe. He could still taste them on his tongue, feel the frantic thrusts as they hit the back of his throat.

The tears that had seared down his cheeks as he was forced to comply, the ache in his chest of knowing he would never bounce back from this.

They used him for their own sexual gratification and display of dominance. They’d ruined his life for some sick and perverse power play.

Because of this ordeal, Spencer was no longer able to achieve or maintain erections without the guilt and confusion sucker punching him in the chest. When Luke had tried to initiate intimacy after his release, Spencer had panicked, dissociated and grown violent.

And it didn’t get any better over time.

Luke tried to help him despite the fact Spencer wouldn’t tell him what he’d dealt with in prison. But Luke knew, without having to hear it from Spencer’s lips.

It was obvious in the way he wouldn’t let Luke touch him unprovoked, and if Luke did touch him, specifically his genitals, Spencer froze and whatever tumescence he’d been able to achieve instantly vanished.

Eventually Luke couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to help Spencer but Spencer didn’t want his help. And after the younger man had grown violent, Luke didn’t think there was anything he could do for him anymore.

Spencer had almost grown content in the knowledge he’d probably never be able to have sex again. It didn’t really bother him that much, not until now anyway.

Your kiss had reminded him what it was like to feel close to someone, to have an intrinsic connection with another person. It had made him feel wanted and not used. It made him feel worthy of human affection for the first time in a long time.

Your touch had not been unwanted, not at first anyway. The simple gesture of your hand outside his pants had sent a wave of pleasure coursing through his body, like a jolt of electricity.

But then he saw their faces. Those three men who had caused irreparable damage to the very fibre of his being. Those men who had used his mouth, the same one he was kissing you with.

His walls had gone flying back up so fast he’d gotten whiplash. But he knew now, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that he was never going to get over what happened to him at Milburn. And the pain of that realisation was more crippling than any physical ailment.

Over the years little pieces had been torn from his psyche. His fathers abandonment. Gideon’s abandonment and later his death. Tobias Hankel and his subsequent drug addiction.

Maeve. Cat Adams. Prison. Rape.

Piece by piece it fell away. Little by little until there was barely anything left holding him together. The string had frayed and weathered over the years and now it has snapped entirely.

He continued scrubbing the floor through the pain. At some point tears started hindering his vision, rolling down his face and mixing with the bleach water.

The longer he kept it up the more pain he was in and his stomach started to coil with the extent of it. Out of nowhere a wave of nausea hit him and he was suddenly vomiting all over his newly cleaned floor.

He continued this vicious cycle for hours: scrub, cry, vomit, repeat.

Eventually it must have gotten too much for him because the next thing he remembered was waking up on his bedroom floor to the distinctive smell of bleach assaulting his nose.

@andiebeaword @muffin-cup @measure-in-pain @takeyourleap-of-faith @ssa-uglywhore27 @dreatine @thebloomingeagle @this-is-doctor-and-its-calm @justreadingficsdontmindme @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @spencer-reid-wonderland @kalulakunundrum @small-and-violent @voledart @katrina0-0 @bakugouswh0r3

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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kywaslost · 10 months

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When You’re Sick - Kirishima Eijirou

A/N: The wheel chose Kirishima with the prompt theme illness! To be honest, I wasn’t really feeling it so I just decided to make this one super short. Also because I worked on Statistics for 9 straight hours (cause procrastination) and I’m just tired.

Warning/s: mention of vomit

Prompt/s Used: I made you some soup / Were you able to keep that down?

Kirishima would notice you’re sick before you even know you’re ill

He can see it in the way your eyes droop and by how quickly you get tired

But that’s only if you’re catching a cold or your allergies are acting up

It’s when you catch the stomach bug that Kirishima feels totally and utterly helpless

You don’t show up to class without saying anything to anyone, causing Kirishima being the first one to be back at the dorms once classes have ended

He barges into your room just in time to watch you heave up last night’s dinner into your trash bin

He’ll hold your hair for you if it’s long enough, and runs his other hand down your back

When you’re finished he’ll clean out your bin, setting it beside your bed when he’s done

He’ll also bring you back a glass of water, medicine, and soup

“I made you some soup… ok that’s a bit of a lie. Bakugou made it for me.”

He’ll sit behind you with you between his legs, supporting your back while you slowly sip away at the soup

He’ll take this time to pull your hair into a ponytail if it’s long enough, and to rub your shoulders as a way to relax you.

He’d leave you alone if you fall back asleep, but come back to check up on you a few hours later

“Were you able to keep that down?” he’d ask, pointing to your empty soup bowl

This man will even sleep on your floor during the night while you’re sick, just in case you needed him or you got worse during the night

Idk i just feel like Kirishima would be really gentle and caring towards you when you’re sick

#comfort #bnha #x reader #bnha comfort #platonic #bnha fluff #kirishima eijiro #kirishima #kiri #kirishima x reader #kirishima x reader crying #kirishima ejiro #bnha kirishima #kirishima x you #kirishima x reader comfort #sick comfort #kirishima fluff #kirishima comfort

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butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway · 10 months

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another anti-psych post from your neighborhood patient-therapist

In my last post I talked about the kinds of basic needs people and communities have, and asked what it might look like in your community to meet those needs as a baseline. This time we're going to talk more about what happens when communities and individuals are chronically un-/under-served.

Okay so let's break it down this way. We're gonna try looking at just one medical symptom of chronic stress: autonomic dysregulation. It's not going to feel like we are, but I promise that's all we're doing. This is a *serious* symptom and it often comes clustered with others due to the way it functions within the body, which is why I think it is a useful case study here. Autonomic dysfunction, especially chronic dysfunction, can temporarily (though for long spans of time if the dysfunction remains chronic rather than acute) alter the functioning of other systems within the body such as the endocrine system, the reproductive system, cognitive functioning through the hippocampus and amygdala, and muscle functioning, nerve functioning, and others. It is no joke to suggest that long term autonomic dysfunction can often lead to major long term health consequences that are life altering for the person experiencing them. While some can be treated, managed, or even cured, not all can be and this is something I want us all to keep in mind as we consider the need for building communities that do not cause this kind of harm to their people.

Let's look at some potential medical outcomes of autonomic dysfunction, per the Mayo Clinic:

Dizziness and fainting when standing, caused by a sudden drop in blood pressure.

Urinary problems, such as difficulty starting urination, loss of bladder control, difficulty sensing a full bladder and inability to completely empty the bladder. Not being able to completely empty the bladder can lead to urinary tract infections.

Sexual difficulties, including problems achieving or maintaining an erection (erectile dysfunction) or ejaculation problems. In women, problems include vaginal dryness, low libido and difficulty reaching orgasm.

Difficulty digesting food, such as feeling full after a few bites of food, loss of appetite, diarrhea, constipation, abdominal bloating, nausea, vomiting, difficulty swallowing and heartburn. These problems are all due to changes in digestive function.

Inability to recognize low blood sugar (hypoglycemia), because the warning signals, such as getting shaky, aren't there.

Sweating problems, such as sweating too much or too little. These problems affect the ability to regulate body temperature.

Sluggish pupil reaction, making it difficult to adjust from light to dark and seeing well when driving at night.

Exercise intolerance, which can occur if your heart rate stays the same instead of adjusting to your activity level.

Some common comorbid conditions may include Diabetes, Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, Parkinson's, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, or an autoimmune disorder. In each of these cases I want you to remember the lens of an individual body being denied, in some way, its base needs (an edocrine hormone, a nutritional component, the internal security of homeostasis, etc), to such an extent that it begins to experience an internal catastrophic failure, as this lens may often be supportive of accommodating your disabled comrades, or yourself, in the future.

I also want us to consider some common social statistics relevant to these conditions. Nearly 4% of the world experiences and autoimmune disorder. Most are women, and Indigenous, Black, and Latina women are at risk than most for several of these. In the United States, there are suspected to be 37.3 million people with diabetes. Diabetes is also considered an autoimmune disorder by researchers, and is one that the Indigenous, Filipino, Indian, Latine, and Black communities are all at higher risk for than white people are, however, risk is also heavily influenced by poverty, and by a family's location with respect to food deserts which grow more and more common. In a truly wild statistic, 80% of lesbians versus 32% of heterosexual women had polycystic ovaries in one study, and 33% of lesbians versus 14% of heterosexual women had progressed to PCOS. Some studies find that transmasculine folks are more likely to PCOS as well.

When we consider the marginalization these groups experience, and the way that marginalization plays out in the social forum, the political forum, in the financial forum, and in the emotional forum, are we really surprised to learn that it plays out in the embodied forum too?

This is what people mean when they talk about social murder. These are health conditions that don't just change lives, they end them. A system that churns out people so chronically sick that their bodies are desperately killing themselves trying to stay alive is a society that has become desperately sick. Diabetes is something we have attributed to individuals, to families, and even every once in a while to corporations, but at what point have we sat down and looked at a society that produces this murderous autoimmune disorder at such high rates and asked the real question: how are we making so many people sick?

The answers are many, and that can feel overwhelming, but I encourage you to start in one place and learn your way around it as well as you can before you even consider moving on. Maybe start with food deserts. They're probably familiar to you, you've heard about them in passing before I imagine, even if you're not really too into this stuff. But ask yourself WHY food deserts are able to exist? What are the mechanics of one being born? How does one stay free from the stain of a grocery store or food market? Are there any places like that near you? If so, what points of leverage might there be in that location for you to break the homeostasis of the food desert? How can you add your weight to efforts already occurring, or stir up sentiment around the idea of a new homeostasis where a grocery store exists? Can you put up flyers or attend town hall meetings? Can you knock doors or phone bank? Can you bring some sugar by your neighbors and comment how frustrating it is you all have to go so far to get your groceries and wonder what's up with that and maybe start scheming together? What kind of store should it be? Bring in a local market? A chain? Build a co-op or merchant's stalls for a four season farmer's market?

Get really into one idea, and get others in on it with you. I bet you aren't the only one who'd like a better status quo.

#anti-psych #chronic stress #food deserts #this one is still fuzzy i may come back to it

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adore-laur · 6 months

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THE WAY OF LOVE

— brandy meets a mysterious boy who gives her the best night of her life 🪩

——

LONG BEACH, 1972

Tizzy heels teetering like a playground seesaw.

Fizzy soda bubbling like a carbonated jacuzzi.

Dizzy vision warping like a kaleidoscopic mirror.

The Pike Amusement Park holds the key to all these buzzing delights. With striking colors and candy smoke, whirling rides and drunken carnies, electrified screams and chic ensembles, Brandy has been stung by the metaphorical buzz. She feels like she's stumbled into a thrill-seeking utopia or a timeless rotunda of adrenaline. Her focus blurs as she waits in line for the Ferris wheel. The red, blue, and yellow gondolas spin around, almost making her nauseous on top of the pungent scent of powdered funnel cakes and greasy cheese fries wafting throughout the summer air.

When the wheel stops with a rusty creak, a group of rowdy boys scramble out and usher themselves through the maze of metal bars to go for another ride. They flock behind her and laugh obnoxiously. They can hoot and holler all they want, but Brandy finds boys her age annoying. They're always arrogant and talk like they're taller than the trees.

The unoccupied red gondola awaits the next passenger, and before Brandy can take a step forward, she's pulled into it by her older sister, Shannon. They set their woven purses under the seats and then sit down. The wheel moves up one spot to let the boys on, and Brandy peeks over the edge to find them jokingly rocking their gondola to mess with their friend, who's still stepping on. She scowls at their immature antics. They're creating such a ruckus! All she wants is a quiet and peaceful ride to the top to admire the fair from a bird's-eye view.

"I just downed a slushy in record time, so I might vomit," Shannon informs through a hiccup.

Brandy twists back around. "What flavor was it again?"

"Cherry. I swear they spiked it with something."

"Hey, at least it'll match the color of our gondola. Just make sure to vomit in your purse and not on my new sneakers, please."

She'll be livid if her spotless Nike Blazers that took literally months to save up for get ruined.

Shannon rolls her eyes, but they quickly widen when the wheel jolts and starts up again. Brandy grips the edge behind her and looks down at the ground, which slowly becomes farther away. She can just barely see the boys doing the same thing.

She peers out at the fair when it comes to a standstill at the very top. Rides swoop, people parade around, and food trucks sparkle in the sun. She's appreciating all the excitement when suddenly an object faintly hits her shoulder. Something falls next to her thigh, and she picks it up with a confused dip to her eyebrows. It appears to be a piece of caramel corn. Is there a hole in the gondola above them? Is she hallucinating from all the vivid colors? Is it raining caramel corn?

Her ears tune into quiet snickering and hushing coming from below. Of course, it was those ratty boys, Brandy thinks to herself. She grumbles under her breath and moves to sit directly next to Shannon so she's out of their aim.

The wheel begins to spin again, putting the boys above them. They're prattling on and gesturing wildly about some sports game they desperately need to catch on television tonight. Brandy can hear athletes' names and statistics spewing out of their mouths, but she can't understand anything. Sports genuinely bore her to death.

Brandy and Shannon get stopped at the bottom after only two rotations. They both huff in disappointment, mutually hating how this Ferris wheel rips people off. Grabbing her purse, Brandy follows Shannon out and carefully watches her step so she doesn't trip in front of anyone. They walk through the exit gate, and Shannon strolls ahead to throw away her empty slushy cup in a nearby garbage can. A sharp whistle makes Brandy stop and look for where the noise came from. It conducts her vision up to the yellow gondola.

Great. She could've guessed that they were catcallers.

She just scoffs and continues walking. God forbid her shoulders are showing! All she's wearing is a dandelion-colored jumpsuit that's not even terribly revealing. She went thrifting a while ago to find something that looked like an outfit Cher, her inspiration, wore on television a month ago. It's not an uncanny resemblance, but it makes her proud.

"Hey!"

Brandy halts again at the deeply spoken exclamation. She closes her eyes and mentally prepares herself for what one of them will say to her. She's gotten used to hearing strange and creepy comments, especially since she lives in a tourist city, and she usually chooses to ignore them. She doesn't know why she's about to entertain this certain circumstance.

Rolling back her shoulders, she turns to face the dreaded gondola again. She's surprised at what her eyes land on. A boy is leaning over the edge and looking at her. He has long, curly hair flowing down to his collar bones, and he wears a white button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A few buttons are undone, revealing two gold necklaces glimmering against his sun-kissed chest. Black sunglasses sit atop his head to hold his lion mane back. With a sharp jawline, pink lips, salient cheekbones, hypnotically green eyes, and a dimpled smile with pearly bunny teeth, Brandy thinks his face must have been sculpted by Michelangelo. He appears to be a rich boy who dresses like he's running late to a casual business meeting. What could he possibly want other than to bug her?

Crossing her arms, Brandy waits for stupidity to leave his alluring mouth. Her gaze is locked onto his so she doesn't become entranced by his pillowy lips, the near exact color of the strawberry taffy that vendors are pulling by hand down at the beach.

The mysterious boy folds his arms along the edge, placing his chin on them as if mockingly teasing her impatient stance. Standing under direct sunlight, she's starting to swelter. Or is it his intense stare and unreadable smirk that's making her sweat? She hastily gestures her hand to get him to say something so she can leave.

Two of his fingers curl back to beckon her closer. She puts her hands on her hips and begrudgingly marches towards him, tilting her head even more to maintain eye contact. He licks the right crease of his quirked lips and circles his pointer finger. "Are you perhaps a fan of Cher?"

"Yes... why?" Brandy asks cautiously. If he even attempts to talk negatively of Cher, she'll have to climb up the wheel and kick his perfect teeth in.

"Your outfit just looks like something she wore recently, that's all," he says while tossing some caramel corn in his mouth. Was he the one who threw it? "I really dig it."

She rubs the back of her neck, feeling foolish for thinking he'd be another one of those arrogant boys she refuses to waste her time on. "Oh, thanks. She's my idol. Her fashion sense is unreal."

He nods his head as he chews. "She's far out. Do you watch The Sonny and Cher Show?"

"Every Sunday night on CBS. I always make sure I have no plans so I don't miss it."

A dimple indents his face. "They're hilarious, aren't they? They make my belly ache from laughing so hard."

"Totally." She steps closer when the wheel moves up one spot, raising her voice over the surrounding noises. "When Cher sings at the end, the entire world stops!"

"Exactly!" His palm cradles his cheek. "Hey, can I ask you something kind of random? I have two—"

"Let's go, Brandy, it's hot!" Shannon calls out.

She whips her head around to find her sister tapping an impatient foot and miserably fanning her face with her purse.

"Coming!" Brandy shouts. She smiles and waves to the boy before she begins walking backward. A peace sign and a wink are thrown her way. The last thing she sees before she turns around is his lips mouthing the syllables of her name.

She speeds up to join Shannon, who has a knowing look on her face as they head toward the gate to leave the fair. Brandy just elbows her waist. She'll never hear the end of it if she reveals the conversation that was exchanged.

On her way home, she realizes she doesn't know the boy's name. It doesn't really matter; she probably won't ever see him again.

——

Later That Night

It's nearing midnight when Brandy and Shannon arrive at Ruby's Roller Disco. Brandy is fond of partaking in the disco scene, but this is the first time she's been to this place. Shannon had told her it's where everyone goes nowadays. However, she prefers what she's used to, which is the old, rundown nightclub in West Hollywood that she's sure is going out of business soon because their only customers are her and elderly couples.

Striding through the open doorway, strobe lights and sequined fabrics immediately set the lively tone. The dance floor is packed with bodies roller-skating and grooving to the music under the spinning disco ball. Brandy has changed into skintight bell bottoms and a front-knot floral blouse so she's comfortable while skating. As she glances around, she can't help but notice how different the energy is here from the place she usually goes to. There are more people her age and much more space to move. Also, better music, she hates to admit. They play "Hey Jude" about three times a night at the other disco. And yes, they play the entire seven minutes of it. It doesn't take long for her to develop a migraine by the time she leaves. She's positive she'll be going home with a migraine here as well since a smoking lounge is to her right, the smell of weed and cigarette smoke penetrating the enclosed area.

Shannon has jetted off somewhere to rent skates for them both. Brandy sees people either making out to the slow song playing or passing joints around even though they're supposed to be doing that strictly in the lounge. Everyone seems to be minding their own business in their own dome of happiness despite the raging world outside, polluted with protests and violence. If anything, dancing with strangers is an escape.

Her sister returns, holding two pairs of skates, and hands the pastel pink ones to Brandy. They quickly tie them and then roll out onto the dance floor as a sultry song ends. A guitar riff kicks in, and "Strange Kind of Woman" by Deep Purple booms through the speakers. The skaters begin coasting mid-tempo, finding a partner on the floor or dancing alone. Brandy's not a fan of rock songs, so she moves to the edge of the floor and waits for the next one. On the other hand, Shannon has already found a man to grind with. She looks like she just fell in love with him.

Just as Brandy starts swaying her hips to the chorus, two hands land on her shoulders from behind. She's about to turn around and smack whoever did it, but the warm palms leave just as fast as they came. Suddenly, a tall boy is standing before her. Not just any boy, though. It's the one from the fair. He's chewing bubblegum with a beaming smile like he just won the lottery. He's sporting a blue, sparkly two-piece outfit made of denim. The trousers are tight against his legs, and the matching long-sleeved shirt is tucked into them with only one button clasped out of the four. Flecks of glitter are spread on his exposed chest. His hair is pulled back into a low bun, and a few curly strands are left out to frame his face.

"You're the caramel corn boy," Brandy blurts over the music.

"And you're the girl with the bangin' fashion. I love a pair of bell bottoms." His eyes trail up and down her body. He then snaps his fingers twice as his face twists in thought. "It's Brandy, right?"

She smiles, watching the lights dance across his face. "Yes. I didn't catch your name at the fair."

"Harry Styles," he says while tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I've never seen you around here before."

"This is my first time here, actually. I usually go to the Slug Bug nightclub in West Hollywood."

His nose wrinkles with a teasing grin. "Slug Bug? Isn't that where old people go?"

"No!" She scoffs. "Well, yes. It's just calmer there, you know? I really vibe with the place."

"I'm just pulling your leg." His hands rest on his hips as he looks around. "You here with anyone?"

He smacks his gum and raises his eyebrows like the smuggest man Brandy has ever seen. She usually hates people like that, but she finds it somehow attractive when he does it.

"I'm with my sister. She's probably making out with a guy she just met."

"Wow," he says with a laugh before glancing behind him. "Wanna dance with me? I can show you some stellar moves."

As the words leave his mouth, "Love Is Life" by Earth, Wind & Fire begins playing. Everyone starts skating slower as the lights turn from cool to warm tones.

"You don't have skates on, so dancing with me might be a little difficult."

"You underestimate me, Brandy," he drawls, leaning closer. "You're looking at the smoothest cat at Ruby's. Ask anyone."

Brandy juts her hip out and crosses her arms. "You talk a big game, Harry Styles. Show me what you got."

He blows a perfect bubble with his gum until it pops. "Turn your pretty self around, then."

Biting her lip, she spins around on her skates so her back is facing him. Harry puts his hands on her shoulders and guides her to the dance floor. He stops amid the dancing crowd, touching her waist and swaying her to the groovy bassline. Brandy uses the toe stop on one of her skates to keep from straying.

"Weak moves!" she tells him.

Harry's mouth lingers next to her ear. "Oh yeah? Stay here. I'll be right back."

Brandy feels the absence of his touch and looks behind her to see him striding over to the DJ booth. She decides to skate a lap around the floor as she waits. She peeks a glance at Shannon, and her assumptions are correct: her tongue is down a man's throat. Good for her.

Moments later, she hears the familiar opening of a song she can never escape — "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass. The song came out a couple of months ago and has been at the top of the charts, playing on the radio constantly. Hearing her name in a hit song is a blessing and a curse. It's a great song, but she always gets teased whenever she mentions her name.

Brandy parks herself back in her spot and sees Harry shimmy over to her, making jazz hands with a grin plastered on his face that the turquoise lights motion over. He leans back and rolls his shoulders, singing along as he grooves to the horns.

He spreads his arms out when he reaches her and says, "I just bribed the DJ with a nifty fifty. Please tell me no one has done that for you before."

"How many other girls do you know named Brandy? This happens round the clock." She grimaces. "Well, not the bribing part. And did you say fifty dollars? Are you joshing me right now?"

Harry clicks his tongue. "Damn, I thought I was being clever. And yeah, fifty dollars. No biggie."

Brandy shakes her head in disbelief. "Okay, so your name is Harry. Has anyone ever played you "Harry Braff" by the Bee Gees?"

His arms drape over her shoulders as he sways with her. "My last name's not Braff."

"My name's Brandy, but I'm not a fine girl."

"I beg to differ," he says with no hesitation. He twirls her before asking, "What other artists do you listen to, Brandy?"

She squints one eye as she thinks. "Cher, obviously. Diana Ross, Barbara Streisand, Aretha Franklin... any female powerhouse, really."

"I think you're the love of my life."

"Oh, shut it." Brandy holds her palm to her warm cheek. "Why, do you like them too? Shannon, my sister, only listens to Tony Bennett, so I have no choice but to be the sibling with good taste in music."

"Is she sixty years old?" he teases with a laugh.

"That's what I say! She's trying to get me to see him at some opera house, and I keep making excuses not to go."

"My heart goes out to you in this challenging time. But to answer your question, yes, I listen to all those women. They're sick, so how could anyone not?"

"A lot of men are scared of successful women, especially in the music industry." Brandy shrugs and moves closer to him. "They're just talking a bunch of jive."

Harry nods. "Personally, I think Cher could kick them all to the curb. Men don't like that she knows what she wants."

"How have I not met you before? I think you might be the love of my life too."

His lips tick upwards. "What's your favorite Cher song?"

She grasps where her heart is at the impossible question. "Gosh, probably "Do You Believe in Magic" from her Backstage album. It's a cover, but it's way better than the original. What about you?"

He plays with the ends of her hair and replies, "Mine is "Lay Baby Lay." That one is so groovy."

"That's such a good one. I love the—" Brandy is cut off when someone suddenly gropes her ass as they fly past on skates. She freezes, blood rushing to her ears. The music drowns out as she tries to determine if what happened was real. She feels like she's underwater. The only sound is her heartbeat on high alert. She slowly looks at Harry, seeing his nostrils flare and his darkened eyes gaze over her shoulder with spine-chilling intensity. Seconds or minutes pass by, Brandy doesn't know for sure, before she witnesses his posture straighten and jaw tense.

When the man flies past again, Harry quickly brushes past her and grabs the collar of his shirt to stop him. The force is enough for him to stumble on his skates and tumble to the floor.

Harry crouches and sizes him up. "You have a death wish or something?" he threatens, chewing his gum faster.

"Chill out, dude," says the man as he tries to unleash himself from the tight grip. "You're acting crazy."

"Go take a look in a fuckin' mirror, you bogue piece of shit," Harry spits before standing back up and kicking the man's calf.

Brandy's hand is swiftly taken in his grasp as he leads her out the door of the disco. Her skates are still on, so she lets go and moves in front of him to glide backward on the pavement.

"I could've handled it," she mutters, letting the fresh air cool her skin.

Harry doesn't say anything as he pulls out his car keys. A beep echos, and Brandy turns her head to see the headlights of a yellow Ferrari flash. As he opens the passenger door for her, he asks, "Do you smoke?"

"Um, only weed. No cigarettes or anything like that."

He hums and gets in the driver's seat. "Wanna share a joint?"

She's thankful that what just happened isn't being dwelled on. She'd rather obliterate it from her mind. However, there's palpable tension severely present.

"Sure," Brandy says, getting in his car. "Wait, I have to return my skates before I forget."

Harry laughs to himself. "You really think they'll notice they're gone? Everyone who works there is higher than a kite."

"Oh," she breathes out. "Sorry."

He starts the car and rolls the windows down. "Want the first hit?"

"Is it laced?"

Shannon had taught her to always ask that. His eyebrows scrunch as he shakes his head genuinely. Brandy watches him lift his butt up on the seat, taking out a bronze lighter from his back pocket. The streetlights reflect off the metallic shine of the case as he opens it. He then opens the glovebox and shuffles through junk before finding a container of pre-rolled joints. His nimble fingers pick one up, bringing it to Brandy's lips. She holds it while Harry lights it, never breaking eye contact. She inhales and rolls her eyes back from the addictive smoke filtering through her body, letting it ooze down to her lungs before exhaling it out the window. Harry's eyes are now transfixed on her lips.

Brandy passes it to him and says, "This is a really nice car."

"Thanks, I stole it," he mumbles around the joint.

"What?!" she exclaims with a cough.

"Psyche. Relax, yeah? I bought this bad boy a couple of months ago."

"Don't tease me like that."

"How would you prefer me to tease you, then?"

"You're a chump!" She takes another hit before passing it to him again. "Listen, I should check on Shannon. If that guy who groped me is any telltale sign of the type of boys in there, I don't want her to be alone."

"Did you both drive here?" he asks before hollowing his cheeks and inhaling more smoke.

"No, we walked from our house. We live together on Brayton Avenue."

"I'll drive you guys home. I'm not letting you walk around past midnight."

Brandy stares at him. "You're not a serial killer, are you?"

Harry smirks, spreading his legs more comfortably. "If that were the case, I think they'd have my face plastered in every newspaper."

"Not unless you're clever," she mumbles under her breath. "I just met you, so I have a right to be cautious."

"I know, Brandy," he says with a laugh. "I respect that. Now go, I'll find some tunes to play."

She takes one last hit before she gets out of his car and skates toward the disco entrance. She feels the weed take effect rather quickly; Harry must get the good stuff.

Sliding across the dance floor, she quickly spots Shannon in her neon pink top. Brandy coasts up to her and takes her hand. "We're leaving!"

"What?!" Shannon replies with a frown. "Why? We just got here!"

"I don't feel safe. The boys in here are all weirdos."

"Did something happen?"

"No," Brandy lies. "C'mon, I'll go to that stupid Tony Bennett concert if we can just leave."

Shannon inhales deeply. "Fine. But Brandy Jean, you better keep your word, or else I'll kick you out of the house."

"I pinky promise. That boy from the fair earlier is going to drive us home. And before you say anything, I trust him."

"He's here?"

"Yes, Shannon, for goodness' sake. He's very kind." Brandy leads her away from the dance floor and toward the exit. "Also, don't worry about your skates. They won't notice."

They grab their shoes and skate out the door to Harry's awaiting car. His front door and the back one are open, and she can see him fiddling with the radio dial while holding the joint between his teeth.

Brandy shoves her sister in the backseat. "Harry, Shannon. Shannon, Harry," she introduces promptly.

He removes the joint and puts it out while glancing at the rear-view mirror. "How's it hangin'?"

"Hi! You must be the guy my sister is in love with."

Brandy twists back in the passenger seat and pinches Shannon's knee with the full intention of having it hurt. She then makes a gesture of cutting her throat before turning back around.

"Is that so?" Harry asks smugly.

"Ignore her. Pretend she isn't here. She's a hologram."

He just laughs and begins driving down the street. On the way, "Someday We'll Be Together" by Diana Ross & The Supremes plays on the radio. The windows are down, and the California breeze whips their hair around.

Eventually, he parks in their driveway after being given directions. Shannon pats his back as a thank you, then hops out of the car and stumbles through the front door, not even bothering to take off her stolen skates. The door shuts, and she turns on what seems like every single light in the house. She's high out of her mind.

Brandy faces Harry and says, "Thanks for the ride. I appreciate you not killing us."

She's joking, but crime in California has been at an all-time high lately, so she's technically not. She won't tell him that, though.

"'Course," he replies, taking his bun out and messing with his untamed hair. "Look, I'm sorry about that guy tonight. He shouldn't have touched you."

She sighs dejectedly. "Obviously, he shouldn't have touched me. It's fine. I'm glad you knocked some sense into him."

"It's not fine, Brandy," he insists with sincerity. "Don't downplay it. The prick should be in jail."

"I don't really want to talk about it anymore."

"Okay, we won't," he says gently. A few beats of silence pass before he raises his finger and takes something out of his pocket. "Change of topic. Remember at the fair when I was going to ask you a question, but your sister interrupted?"

Brandy squints at the small pieces of paper in his hand. "Yeah. Go ahead and ask me."

"So, here's the lowdown. The reason I talked to you in the first place was because I noticed your killer outfit. Then, when you said Cher was your inspiration, I remembered something I had bought a while ago. It's a crazy coincidence." He holds out two paper stubs before continuing, "I have tickets. I was so bummed when I thought I'd never see you again, but fate must be working its magic today."

"Tickets?" Brandy's eyebrows furrow. "For what?"

"For the best night of your life," he says with a boyish grin. "Would you like to come to The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour with me in Hollywood tomorrow night? None of my friends want to go with me because they think it's lame, but—"

"I thought those sold out in less than a day!" she interrupts, her mouth open in shock. "If you're razzing, Harry, it isn't funny."

"Brandy Baby. Hush for a second, yeah?"

Her heart skips a beat. "Don't fake me out, please. I would do almost anything to see her in person."

"Shh..." He rests his pointer finger against her lips. "I wouldn't joke about Cher, sunshine. The ticket is yours if you want it. Unless you want me to sit all by my lonesome."

She whispers, "You're serious?"

"Cross my heart," he says, making the gesture.

"I-I would love to, Harry. That's so thoughtful of you to ask. For you to ask me out of all people, I mean... I'm honored."

He plays with her moon pendant, looking up at her through his eyelashes. "You've got this energy about you—enigmatic, tantalizing. I think we'll have a wonderful time together."

"You think so? I might faint when I see her."

"I think it'll be life-changing, Brandy."

She can't reply because his palm places itself on her cheek, rendering her speechless. Before she can process his touch, his lips pucker and slowly meet with her opposite cheek. They're damp and cold but somehow spark a flame inside her body.

Harry leans back and stares at her parted mouth. It feels like minutes pass as she waits for his next move. His hand moves down to the side of her neck. He leans forward slightly and leaves the softest kiss to her pulse point. Butterflies break out in her stomach, her breathing becomes shallow, and her skin grows hot. Her knees almost give out when his teeth nip the spot he just planted his affection on.

"All right, I gotta skitty," he says, like nothing just happened. "I'll be waiting out here tomorrow at six-thirty on the dot. If you're not ready, you'll be in trouble. Time doesn't wait for Cher."

Brandy has to blink several times to bring herself back to reality. "Okay. Sounds good. Gosh, I'm so stoked. Wait, what do we wear? I need to plan an outfit. Agh!"

Harry looks her up and down. "Something foxy."

She smiles shyly and fidgets with the knot of her blouse. "I'll try my best. We both need sleep for tomorrow, so I'm going to go inside. Get home safe, Harry."

"Always do," he says while twirling his keys. "Peace out, Brandy. Dream with me tonight."

"I don't think I'll be able to fall asleep. And I expect you to wear something foxy as well."

He runs his tongue across his teeth with a wide smile before kissing two fingers and holding them out in a peace sign as he retreats to his car. He revs the engine and reverses out of the driveway, speeding off into the night.

Brandy can't help but agree that fate really has worked its magic today.

——

Tomorrow Evening

Brown silk and pearls galore. If Harry wants foxy, Brandy is giving it to him tenfold.

She carefully adjusts the thin straps of her mid-thigh dress in her vanity mirror. The single layer of ruffle that dips into her cleavage is tight against her shimmering skin. The long pearl necklace wraps twice around her neck and then drips down to her navel. White platform heels heighten her generously, and a matching leather purse completes her accessories for the evening.

She peeks at the Kit-Cat Klock on her bedroom wall--only one minute until Harry is supposed to arrive. She exhales a nervous breath and makes sure she looks presentable.

Bold mascara on top and bottom eyelashes—check. Glossy lips from her sister's coconut balm—check. Beige eyeshadow with winged eyeliner—check. Lacy black lingerie—check and check again.

She's gambling with her luck, but from what she's seen, Harry oozes sex appeal, and it'd be a shame if nothing happened tonight.

She hears a honk from outside her window as she sprays her citrus Dior perfume all over her body. He's here. Shutting off the lights, she practically skips down the staircase to open the front door. Shannon isn't home tonight, so she doesn't have to worry about her big sister's protectiveness about where she's going and who she's with. She walks down the concrete steps and toward his car. She hasn't even looked up yet, too focused on each step so she doesn't humiliate herself and trip over her clunky heels.

The sound of keys jingling has Brandy eventually gazing up at him, and she almost trips at the sight. There Harry stands, leaning against the door of his yellow Ferrari with his ankles crossed over one another. His hair is let loose, and the curls seem more defined than before. He wears a geometric-patterned suit with plum and olive colors, the pristine blazer left open over a black button-up. On his feet are dress shoes that are polished to the nines. However, the most noticeable part of his outfit is a single strand of pearls around his neck.

He must notice her staring because he laughs at the coincidence. "Seems like I've got a copycat on my hands," he says.

"I wouldn't have taken you for a man who owns pearls," Brandy admits as she stops in front of him. "My mistake."

He hums deeply. "I wouldn't have taken you for a woman that could just about drop me to my knees. My fuckin' mistake."

She smooths her palms over the lapels of his blazer. "You look very handsome, Harry. This suit could put Sonny to shame."

"Quite the compliment, doll. Dare I say that Cher has nothing on you tonight?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "You don't mean that. No one can look as good as Cher, and you know it."

"Doesn't matter because we" — he attempts to slide across the hood of his car but only gets halfway before he stumbles off slightly — "are going to have the best night of our lives. Got a cassette tape ready and some Cola for the drive there."

Brandy amusedly watches him open the door for her with a dramatic bow. She maneuvers around the car and sits in the plush passenger seat. He closes the door before jogging over to his side, but not before tugging up his pants, adjusting his collar, and teasing his hair in the side mirror. She laughs at his antics and gets comfortable in the leather seat of his Ferrari.

Once he's in, he turns the key in the ignition and presses a button on the radio to fast-forward the cassette tape already in the slot. He places a hand on the back of her headrest to reverse out and begins driving down Brayton Avenue toward Hollywood. It's about a thirty-minute drive to the CBS Television City venue where the show is being held. The seating time is at seven, so they should arrive on time.

The cassette stops at "Sentimental Lady" by Fleetwood Mac. Brandy grins at his choice.

"Know this one?" Harry asks while turning it up.

"I do."

He flicks his blinker on and smoothly merges onto the interstate. "Sing with me. Don't go shy on me now."

She brings her knees up on the seat. "I'll only sing if you do."

"Deal."

They drive down the boulevard and past the palm trees, singing along to the voice of Bob Welch the entire way there and drinking ice-cold bottles of Cola. Before they know it, the building comes into view, which is a black and white structure with a large parking lot in front that's packed. There's orange tape surrounding it for the show being held tonight, and hordes of cars coming in are being directed by security.

Brandy can feel the excitement and the buzz. It's something she wants to experience all the time.

"You ready for the night of your fuckin' life?" Harry asks, fixing his hair in the rear-view mirror.

"Fuck yes," Brandy says.

"Atta girl." He nudges her side. "You should swear more often. Life's more fun that way."

They eventually get out of the car and begin following the crowd, tickets in hands and heels clicking on the pavement. When they reach the door, they show their tickets and are ushered to the room where the show will be held. Brandy assumes they'll be part of the live studio audience tonight. She's never gone to a variety show before, and it's exhilarating.

Once they're situated in their seats, which are far back from the stage — but it doesn't matter since she's about to see Cher fucking Sarkisian — they wait for the show to start.

"Gonna faint yet?" Harry teases from beside her.

"I genuinely might."

"I'll pretend to also faint so it's not as embarrassing for you."

"Gee, thanks," Brandy mutters with a crooked smile.

Over the next half hour, they converse about what songs they think will be sung tonight or what they will joke about. Brandy can't get over how handsome Harry looks in a suit. She notices his eyes keep gazing down at her pearls, burning her cheeks. She feels so comfortable around him. There are no awkward pauses in conversation since they have so much in common.

When they're in the middle of talking about what the best flavor of soda is, the lights suddenly go down, making everyone gasp. It's starting!

A spotlight shines on the stage, music starts, and the screen lifts as Sonny and Cher walk out. The crowd goes wild, whooping and hollering for America's power couple.

Brandy could cry. Her idol is in front of her, dressed in a white dress with pastel polka dots of pink, orange, blue, and red. Sonny wears a matching button-up under his white suit as they take center stage, holding hands. They sing a short opening song and then introduce themselves before getting right into the jokes.

Throughout the show, Brandy and Harry laugh until their stomachs hurt. The dynamic between Sonny and Cher is unlike anything she's ever seen. The timing of the jokes, the chemistry, and the love are so magical to witness in real-time. After a hilarious and dirty joke, Brandy looks at Harry and sees him slap his knees in laughter, eye crinkles, and dimples on his gleeful face. It makes her swoon. The venue is cracking up, an infectious joy that only a room full of people gathered for the same thing could bring.

At the intermission, some people leave their seats to go out and smoke or talk to others. Brandy is admiring the stage when Harry's hand suddenly nudges hers on the armrest. His pinky strokes the back of her hand. Her eyes are glued forward, but she feels it. It's the only thing she can focus on.

His palm slowly wiggles under hers, and he interlaces their fingers together. They stay in that position until they have to clap when Sonny and Cher come back out.

At the end of the show, Cher comes out by herself to sing a song to close the night. The golden spotlight behind her sets the intimate ambiance. She walks to the middle of the stage, and Brandy is blown away by her ethereal beauty. She wears a pink, frilly dress and a matching flower clip in her sleek black hair.

"The Way of Love" starts, causing the room to go completely silent as she sings the bittersweet tune. Everyone's eyes are on her. Everything is still. It's like it's just her in the room.

During the song's crescendo, Brandy can feel Harry's gaze on hers as Cher's powerful voice belts for the audience. She doesn't want to look away, but when she feels him lean in, his musky cologne invades her senses as he squeezes her hand. A kiss to her temple is planted, blooming into heat that spreads over Brandy's face. She turns her head and whispers, "What was that for?"

His green eyes glimmer in the low light. "You just look really pretty," he whispers back. "And happy."

She smiles giddily and continues watching the performance. When the song ends, everyone gives a standing ovation as Cher bows and exits the stage. The cheers continue long after she's gone, and Brandy looks around the room in awe. She feels like she's in a dream. It went by so fast.

"Let's skitty," Harry says in her ear while clapping. "The traffic will be terrible getting out." Brandy nods and grabs her purse. Harry intertwines their fingers together and leads her towards the exit.

It's dark when they reach outside. People are talking loudly about the show and smoking by their vehicles. Harry starts his car once they're both in, turning the headlights on and tapping his finger along the steering wheel. A whole minute passes, and he still hasn't started driving. His eyes are zoned out on the dashboard.

Brandy waves a hand in front of his face. "You okay?"

He looks over at her almost shyly. "Would you want to stay at my place tonight? I've got plenty of room for us to chill."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he says. "I'd regret saying goodnight to you so soon."

Brandy contemplates the offer. She hasn't stayed at a boy's house in a while but trusts Harry. She's had such an enjoyable time tonight that she'd hate herself if she just went home.

So, she says, "I'll stay with you. Do you have a phone? I'd need to call my sister before she calls the fuzz and they show up at your house."

"I have a wall phone in the shape of a heart if that's what you're asking."

"I wasn't, but that's cool," she replies, mesmerized by how his lips form around certain words. "You know what else is the shape of a heart?"

His elbow leans on her headrest. "Sock it to me."

Brandy smiles and places her forearm on the console. "Your lips."

Harry swallows, then asks, "What else about my lips?"

"They're the color of strawberry taffy. Not sure if they would taste like it, though."

"You know what they say, right?" He glimpses at her mouth. "There's only one way to find out."

Brandy doesn't know whose lips crash into whose first, but it doesn't matter because they taste better than any sweet in a candy shop. Their lips part with a wet pop, and Harry mimics the noise with his mouth. Brandy giggles and kisses his bottom lip hungrily.

"Coconut," he murmurs, twirling a strand of her hair around his pointer finger. "Far out."

Some glossiness from her lips has transferred to his own, so Brandy wipes it off with her thumb. "Let's head back before it ends up in other places," she suggests boldly.

Harry gives her an open-mouthed smile, then kisses her cheekbone before palming the wheel and reversing out of the parking spot. During the drive, he shows her new cassette tapes he bought recently, gushing facts about the artists and pointing out the guitars used in certain songs. Brandy listens the entire time with intrigue in her eyes.

After thirty minutes, Harry pulls into his driveway. His house is much smaller than expected for someone with decent money. It's a yellow ranch-style home with a collection of neatly trimmed landscaping, including shrubs and a single sycamore tree. The garage door is see-through, and the house's white trim pops compared to the dull neighboring houses on the street.

Brandy's trance is broken when Harry opens the passenger door for her and holds out his hand. She takes it. He guides her to his front door, lets her step past the threshold first, then flicks the lights on.

"I'm gonna change really quick," he murmurs in her ear before brushing past her and strolling into another room.

Brandy takes the opportunity to observe his multifarious decor and interior design. The copper-colored carpet in the living room feels cloud-like beneath her feet as she wanders around. Assorted sizes of orange, yellow, and white low tables are placed around the conversation pit, and potted ferns contrast nicely with the overload of orange. A yellow leather couch is embedded around the pit, and a table in the middle has a vase of dahlias and a collection of glass bongs. An inlet in the farthest wooden wall holds a box television and a piano. Drawers, books, and a radio surround the remaining space.

To her left is his kitchen. A small island with a basket of bananas is surrounded by oak cabinets. More plants are either on the refrigerator or hanging from the ceiling. Everything is organized. Everything is placed with purpose. Everything is Harry.

Speaking of the devil, Harry returns wearing what looks like pajamas, and Brandy laughs at their luxuriousness. He has on a red, floral check-print jacket and matching pants that could be straight from a fashion catalog for all she knows. He's shirtless underneath, nothing but a cross necklace on his chest, and his feet are bare as he walks toward her.

"It looks like you're just wearing another suit."

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in. "It's totally a suit."

She snorts. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

Harry flops backward onto the couch and rests his hands on his stomach. Brandy thinks it's the most endearing thing in the world.

"Stop starin' at my paunch," he says with a grin. "Can't help that Cola makes me bloated."

She sits next to him. "It's cute. The butterfly tattoo is a nice touch to your paunch."

"Yeah? Is that a kink of yours? My paunch?"

"Let's stop saying paunch. And no, you dork, it's not a kink. I'm just not a fan of boys with rock-hard abs and steroid-pumped biceps. I like a natural body."

His knuckle runs along the exposed part of her thigh. "Same here."

Her skin heats under his touch. "Can we smoke weed together again? Let's end the night on a high."

"Oh, she's a comedian now?" Harry groans, gets up, and walks to a table in the corner of the room. "You take a girl to one comedy show, and suddenly she thinks she's Joan Rivers," he mutters teasingly.

"Get bent! I'm funnier than you; just admit it."

He cackles, and she turns to watch him put a vinyl on his portable record player. She notices that his hair has transitioned into a middle part sometime throughout the night.

"Chain of Fools" by Aretha Franklin crackles through. He walks back to her with a joint and a lighter, then boldly straddles her thighs on the couch. Brandy just about dies.

Harry lights the end of the joint and asks, "Do you know how to shotgun kiss?"

Her eyes widen. "I know what it is, but I've never done it. I've always wanted to try."

"It'll rock your world." He shifts on her lap to get more comfortable, and she can thoroughly feel his cock through his pants. He must not wear underwear to bed. It should disgust her, but her mind is too frazzled at their current position to care.

Harry takes a hit from the joint, keeps the smoke in his mouth, and then cradles her cheeks with gentle palms. He leans in and places his thumb on Brandy's bottom lip to open her mouth, resting it on the bottom row of her teeth. The smoke releases down her throat. The feeling is euphoric, intimate, and sensual.

She breathes out, the residual smoke blowing in his face, and she falls into a trance, looking at his lustrous lips. "I thought you're supposed to kiss someone when you do it."

He twists her pearls around his finger and gives them a light tug. "C'mere, baby. I'll kiss you all you want."

His hand holds her head as he guides her lips to his. They connect, and it's like ecstasy unfurls in her heart and stomach. With unhurried movements from the weed, their lips move against each other like they're the last drop of water in the desert oasis.

Harry's tongue slips into her mouth, so she sucks on it tenderly as her hands linger on his waist. He's still straddling her, his bulge pressing against her. His free hand holds the joint away from her as they move their lips until they're numb and swollen. Brandy eventually breaks from the kiss to catch her breath, leaving Harry whimpering helplessly.

"Can I please touch you?" he begs with bruising kisses to her neck. "Tell me what you like. What makes you feel good. Where it feels good."

"You can touch me."

"Where? Tell me where it aches, honey."

Brandy lets out a soft and short whine. "Everywhere."

"Where do you need my hands? Talk to me."

"My neck. It feels good when I'm choked." Her eyes snap open at what she just exposed. She immediately backtracks by adding, "But we don't have to do it if you're not—"

"Don't move," Harry interrupts, springing off her and dashing to his bedroom.

Brandy can hear shuffling and drawers opening and closing. She toes her heels off as she waits, then stands up to roam to his record player. She sifts through the stray vinyl on the table, eventually removing the Aretha Franklin disc and replacing it with an Ike & Tina Turner one. She meticulously places the needle so it plays "Come Together."

Brandy is admiring his wall art when she feels something cold against her arm. She looks down and has to do a double-take at what she sees. Is that a dog collar?

"I'm not into barking like a dog for a man," she says, head completely empty while gazing at the black leather.

He kisses the pearls at the back of her neck. "This isn't for you, Brandy. You've already got a choking toy."

He tosses the collar onto the nearest table, then reaches around her front to wrap her pearls around his hand until they're tight and restrained. His other hand fidgets with the zipper at the back of her dress.

"May I?" he asks.

What she's wearing underneath will surely come as a surprise to him. She nods, eyes rolling back from the pressure. His fingers trail along her upper spine until they reach the zipper. Brandy can feel his breath on her skin as he slowly pulls it down until the material loosens against her body.

"Fuckin' hell." Harry nudges his nose into the side of her neck and moans softly. "What's this, hmm? Been hiding this from me?"

Brandy feels him bring the straps of her dress down her arms. She turns around, Harry's grip on her pearls leaving, and she shimmies the silk material down her legs the rest of the way while keeping eye contact with him. The lace lingerie is revealed, and Harry's eyes are glued to her chest like a teenage boy. He walks backward until he bumps into the table, bending down and blindly grabbing the collar from behind him.

"Put it on me," he says breathlessly like he can't get air in his lungs.

She takes it as Harry turns around, taking off his own pearls so she can fasten them around his neck. He holds his hair up so Brandy can loop the collar belt through the clip. She doesn't tighten it too much, but just enough so a pleasurable pressure should be felt.

"Good?"

He hums. "Perfect." They walk down into the conversation pit. Brandy waits for Harry to initiate something.

"Lie down for me, love," he says while he drapes his pearls over the television. "Legs spread."

She bites her lip to hold back an excited smile, then lies on the couch, obeying his command by spreading her thighs. Harry takes off his jacket and sits on his knees between her legs. His fingers run along the lace detailing of her lingerie.

Brandy squirms from the tension and whines. "Touch me. You said you would."

"Patience. You said I can touch your neck. I've got two hands, baby, so where do you want the other one?"

She palms her core and moans at the sensitivity. She's wet already. "Here. I need you right here."

His fingers move the fabric covering where she needs him, circling his fingers in her wetness and pushing them into her. Her back arches, and she reaches her hand around the back of his neck to tug the collar's strap. His head tilts back, his mouth parting from the choking sensation.

Harry pulls her strand of pearls as two of his fingers begin slowly thrusting in and out of her. She breathlessly moans, her airway restricted. She moves her hand to squeeze his cock through his pants.

"Don't do that. You'll make me lose it right now."

"Make me come. Please, Harry."

His fingers thrust faster and curl skillfully to hit all of her sensitive spots, his thumb pressing down on her clit to bring her to her climax. He balances on his knees to get more leverage, his necklace dangling over her body. Brandy grabs onto his wrist, which flicks with each movement.

"You're fuckin' beautiful under me and falling apart like this."

"I'm almost there. Keep going. I feel it."

He grinds against the couch. "Where do you feel it?"

Her hand presses against her lower stomach. Harry removes his hold on her pearls and places his hand over hers. "Yeah? Feel that pressure? I'll make it feel better, I promise."

He moves his mouth down to lick along her entrance, and that's what does it for Brandy. She cries out as the pressure pops like a needle in a balloon. She comes around his fingers, holding onto his bulging, tattooed arms.

"Harry... oh, it feels amazing."

He removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth to taste her arousal. "You did so good for me."

Once Brandy winds down from her orgasm, Harry gets up and walks to his kitchen. She hears the faucet turn on, and he returns with a damp towel soon after. He wipes her with the lukewarm fabric, then sets it on her stomach for a bit, the warmth feeling heavenly on the slight pressure still there.

"Come to bed with me," he says lowly, removing the collar. "We can smoke and giggle until we crash."

"Don't you want me to take care of your... you know, boner?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes it feels good if I let it ache until morning. Plus, I'm high and drank, like, a gallon of Cola, so I don't think it'd taste any good."

"Fair point." Brandy reaches out her arms. "Take me away, Casanova."

He laughs and pulls her up, then quickly grabs his lighter and another joint before guiding her to his room down the hallway. His bedroom is simple, with several shelves and drawers along every wall. His bed is low to the ground and stays with the house's orange theme.

Harry climbs into his bed and points to his dresser. "You can wear one of my shirts if you'd like."

Brandy opens it and searches through endless ripped and faded T-shirts. She removes her lingerie and grabs a Blue Öyster Cult tour shirt to put on. She then crawls onto the memory foam mattress.

"Did you know," Harry says slowly, "I'm fuckin' stellar at doing a Cher impression?"

Brandy notices the weed he smoked throughout the night, which makes him talk more deeply and languidly than he already does. "Say psyche right now."

His head on the pillow whips toward her like a meerkat. "No joke. Give me a song to sing with her voice."

He's totally bullshitting, but she goes along with it anyway because his being high is incredibly endearing.

"Okay, do "All I Ever Need Is You"." She flips on her side to face him. "Let me sing Sonny's parts. I bet I could do his voice."

"You go first. I don't want to be outshined."

Brandy takes a quick hit of the joint before clearing her throat. "Honey, all I ever need is you," she sings, trying to imitate Sonny's unique voice. She feels like she's floating from the weed in her system, and she's never felt happier.

"Winters come, and they go," Harry joins in loudly, and Brandy loses it as his terrible impression. "And we watch the melting snow!" He belts the lyrics with one hand on his chest and one in the air. "Sure as summer—" He chokes on the last word and eventually gives in to the giggles. They laugh hysterically until tears brim their red-rimmed eyes, and their sides cramp.

Brandy looks over at him, finding his nose scrunched up. His laughs come out silently, and she's absolutely enamored.

Once their laughter dies, she sighs happily and rolls onto his chest. "That was gnarly and not in a good way."

"Like you were any better."

She sticks the joint between his teeth. "We'd make an awful tribute band."

"You'd have to dress up as Sonny," he mumbles around it. "Can you grow a mustache?"

"Better than you could. Can you pull off Cher's wardrobe?"

He removes the joint and exhales smoke up toward the ceiling. "I think I could wear a dress, yeah. But I don't think it would flatter my paunch very well."

"Here we go again," she says lightheartedly. "'Bring back paunchy men' should be your new advocacy."

He laughs, pinches her hip, and then reaches over to shut the lamp off. After stamping the joint out in the ashtray on his nightstand, Brandy feels his arms wrap around her body. She nuzzles further into his cozy chest, feeling his long curls tickle her cheek.

Pure ecstasy courses through her bloodstream. The weed heightens every touch, every graze of his fingers, and every breath he takes from under her. Suddenly, his lips move to her ear, soft puffs warming her skin as his legs tangle with hers. He murmurs in a sleep-laden voice, "Dream with me, Brandy Baby."

She stays silent and sinks deeper into his embrace. Little does he know that every second spent with him so far has already felt like a dream that no psychedelic could ever bring about.

——

The Morning After

Soft, melancholic piano notes wake Brandy from a deep slumber. It's a haunting composition with drawn-out notes that echo into the bedroom, where she lies under the warm sheets alone. Harry must be the one supplying the morning serenade.

She's too drowsy to place her finger on what the song is, so she stretches her sore legs and swings them over the edge of the bed to follow the wistful melody. It leads her to his living room, the rising sun casting golden light beams on the carpet. Dust particles float, and birds chirp outside the open windows. Soon enough, she finds Harry sitting in the glow of the dawn, his back turned to her as his nimble fingers run along the glossy piano keys like it's second nature to him. The brass pedals groan and creak under his sock-clad feet, his head bobbing to each note that beautifully flows out. He's wearing a grey turtleneck sweater tucked into black slacks, and his hair is pulled into a loose bun.

He pats the wooden stool beside him, sensing her lingering presence. "Sorry I couldn't give you a morning snuggle. I woke up with weed brain."

Brandy walks over and sits next to him. "What are you playing?" she asks, watching him press down on the keys.

""Crescent Noon" by the Carpenters. It reminds me of a mournful autumn."

"It was a nice sound to wake up to. You're very talented."

"Thanks," he says with a faint smile. "I always try to play a little before I go to work. It starts my day off right."

It hits Brandy that she really doesn't know much about his personal life. "Where do you work?"

He stops playing, mumbling, "It's lame."

"Tell me," she encourages, sticking her cold hands under her bare thighs. "I won't judge. I'm a lousy waitress if it makes you feel any better."

He sighs and shuts the piano lid. "It's volunteer work, more like. I read books to the kids at the public library on Victoria Street."

She gasps. "That's awesome! I might have to stop by sometime."

"My friends always tease me for it," he says, his ears flushing pink. "But I really like it there. Seeing their faces light up when I sit them on my lap or do a funny voice makes my day sunnier."

"I'm sure it makes their day sunnier too. What time do you have to leave?"

Harry glances at the ticking clock on the wall. "I need to be there at nine, so in about five minutes."

"Oh," Brandy whispers, slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry for waking up so late. I'll let you get ready."

"Uh, I can take you home on my way."

"Sure thing. I'll go grab my stuff."

While roaming his house, she picks up her dress, lingerie, heels, pearls, and purse. Once everything is messily balanced in her arms, she sees Harry holding the front door open. He has on dress shoes that tap almost impatiently as he waits for her.

Something feels off. Brandy swallows a lump of trepidation and walks out the door, ignoring the bizarre energy shift. Harry shuts it behind her and quickly slides into the driver's seat of his convertible as she gets in the passenger seat. He starts the engine, then turns on a random radio station before driving toward her house, which she's surprised he remembers. "My Cherie Amour" by Stevie Wonder plays quietly. The drive is otherwise silent, and it doesn't feel right.

Seven minutes pass before he pulls into her driveway. The sun peeks over her roof, making the pavement sparkle. Shannon's car is parked in the garage. Hummingbirds flutter their wings by the trumpet honeysuckles lining the sidewalk. All these things should bring her comfort, but she feels nauseous instead.

Harry wipes his palms against his slacks, fiddles with the air vents, scratches his head, then shatters the silence.

"I think this should be a one-time thing."

Well, that's definitely not the first thing she wanted to come out of his mouth.

He clears his throat and continues, "I'm not really a relationship guy, you know? I don't think I could provide that for you if that's what you're looking for."

Not a relationship guy. Didn't he basically ask her out on a date? Selflessly granted her the best night of her life? Ignited her skin with bruising kisses and touches? Apologized for not snuggling with her in the morning? Did she get the completely wrong idea?

"Sorry, I'm a little confused," Brandy says, shaking her head.

Harry lets the car run, its rumbling engine filling the dreadful atmosphere. "You're not the problem. I should've told you sooner, and that's my fault." He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. "I like being around you, yeah? It's just... well, I'm in my early twenties, so I want to coast through life for a bit before I get into anything serious. Figure shit out. Figure myself out."

The unexpectedness of it all makes her clam up. A surge of humiliation sears her throat when she says, "Oh, okay. That makes sense. I understand where you're coming from." She's saying everything she doesn't want to, but the words keep spewing. "I had fun last night. Thank you for letting me experience Hollywood."

"Thanks for catching my drift. The last thing I want to do is lead you on."

"You didn't." He sort of did. "Timing doesn't work out sometimes." It felt like it was working perfectly fine.

"Timing's a bitch," he says, knocking on his dashboard. He then checks the radio clock and sighs. "I should go before I'm late."

Brandy swallows roughly. There's no point in trying to change his mind. She won't hold him back from living how he wants to. But why is he being so nonchalant about it? She feels like she's being flung to the side without warning or care. It almost feels like last night meant nothing to him.

After nodding and unbuckling her seatbelt, she says, "Well, I hope everything runs smoothly for you. With the volunteer stuff and all."

"Appreciate it," Harry replies, sticking a piece of gum between his teeth. "Hey, what restaurant do you waitress at?"

This boy is giving her whiplash.

"Um, Cheyenne's Café. It's on Cudahy Street, right off Pacific Boulevard. Kind of a hole-in-the-wall place."

"I might have to stop by sometime," he says with a grin, repeating her words from earlier.

Brandy suddenly feels annoyed at his apathy for her heart, which he ruthlessly stomped on and crushed, so she opens the car door and steps out before her emotions get the best of her. Boys disappoint her and only keep their word for a short time. She doubts Harry will visit; he's probably letting her down easily.

"Maybe you should," she says, a hidden bite in her tone. "They have mouthwatering banana waffles."

He closes his eyes and groans deliciously. "That's it. You've convinced me."

She plasters on a fake smile and gathers her belongings. "Goodbye, Harry. Enjoy the sunshine today."

Harry's hand lightly grasps her wrist as she's about to walk around his car to reach the front door. Consecutively, there is a stroke of his thumb, a skip to her pulse, and another crack in her breaking heart.

"See you later, Brandy."

One last stroke is given before she reluctantly lets go and opens the door. She slams it shut, making the entire house rattle, then throws her things onto the nearest flat surface. Her sister is sitting at the kitchen table reading the daily newspaper and drinking a tall glass of orange juice. Brandy huffs, remembering she forgot to call her last night. Shannon glances up at the sound and leisurely takes in her appearance. At that moment, she realizes Harry's shirt is still on her body. It makes her bottom lip tremble.

"Where were you?" Shannon asks warily. "Why do you look like you're going to cry?"

Brandy covers her face with her hands and lets out a wretched sob. "Harry…"

Shannon immediately envelops her in her arms. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

"Remember the boy that drove us home? I stayed the night at his house, but he said it should only be a one-time thing because he's not looking for a relationship right now, and I pretended that I was okay with it." She sniffles against Shannon's chest. "But I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it, but I-I got scared because he looked so sure of himself. I didn't want to force him to fall in love with me."

Shannon sways her consolingly. "Why didn't he say something before he took you to his place?"

Brandy shrugs. "I don't know, Shan. Boys are dumb."

"That's very true. Why don't you take a shower while I fix breakfast for you? Let's talk more about it later."

"Okay," she mumbles, wiping her useless tears away and moping to her bedroom. She curls into bed and pulls the covers over her entire body. She can't bring herself to take a shower. Her throat and head hurt. Her heart aches.

It's impossible not to think about yesterday and how divine everything was. How Harry had kissed her with his strawberry taffy lips, touched her with sheer desire, and made her feel like she was floating through a dream. The words he spoke were enthralling. The music he played her bared his soul. The way his eyes crinkled when he laughed could make just about anyone fall head over heels. How could she forget the moment he looked at her in the venue with an expression she thought could be love?

Brandy throws the duvet aside and sulks over to the record player on her dresser. Cher's Gypsys, Tramps & Thieves is already placed on the platter from when she got dolled up last night. She carefully adjusts the tonearm and crawls back into bed.

The first track begins, and it can't erase her sorrows since it's the same song Cher sang to the crowd.

Damn those lyrics that will forever remind her of Harry. Damn his ravishing smile, his alluring voice, and his sugarcoated ways of stringing her along.

Above all, damn their fate. The course of fate can be a cruel thief. It can be by chance or by choice. It can come when least expected and give a person the right feeling at the wrong time.

Brandy realizes fate is like that Ferris wheel she rode. It led her on with its appeal and took her for a spin. Then, before she could even soak up the feeling, it stopped. It let her off, and she never reached what she yearned for the entire way around.

Perhaps that's just the way of love.

——

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x oc #harry styles au #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles #the way of love #adore-laur

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