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Don't really know what this is supposed to be yet

[thedamnlifeofafangirl]

Masterlist - Fault Lines

Bones

Hodgins x reader, Angela x reader, Hodgins x Angela, Hodgins x reader x Angela

At the Jeffersonian, a former bomb tech tries to keep their life steady while their growing bond with Hodgins turns into something neither of them expected. But when Angela’s breakup changes everything, a complicated triangle begins to form, just as an old friend and a dangerous case pull everyone into deeper trouble.

0/10?

Coming soon

[creatingaworldinsidemyhead]

Fault Lines - Ch. 2

(Bones fanfiction | Jack Hodgins x Reader, eventual Angela Montenegro x Reader, Hodgins x Reader x Angela)

It happens months later in the lab, at two-thirteen in the morning with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and three half-finished reports spread across the platform between you.

Romantic.

The Jeffersonian after hours always feels strange—too quiet for a building built around death and discovery. The air smells faintly of disinfectant, old coffee, and the metallic tang of the platforms. Somewhere upstairs, the ventilation system hums steadily.

You’re exhausted. Hodgins is worse.

Which means he’s talking faster than usual, hands moving animatedly as he points at a series of mineral traces on the victim’s clothing.

“I’m telling you, the particulate spread makes no sense unless the body was moved postmortem.”

You squint at the monitor. “Or your sample got contaminated.”

His gasp is immediate and deeply offended.

“You wound me.”

“You breathed directly on it.”

“That is not contamination, that is scientific proximity.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely should be.”

You snort softly, reaching past him for the microscope slide.

And freeze.

Because he’s closer than you realized. Close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest when you lean forward. Close enough that you can feel warmth through layers of clothing.

For a second neither of you moves.

Then Hodgins goes quiet.

Not joking quiet. Not thinking quiet. Just… still.

Your pulse stutters.

Slowly, you look up.

He’s already looking at you.

There’s something dangerously open in his expression. Something that makes your chest tighten before your brain catches up.

The room suddenly feels much smaller.

“Hodgins—”

“Can I ask you something?”

His voice is rougher than usual.

You swallow. “Depends.”

A nervous laugh escapes him. “That bad, huh?”

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

That should probably be your warning sign.

Instead, you stay exactly where you are.

He studies your face for a long moment like he’s trying to solve something.

Then his eyes flick briefly to your mouth.

Your stomach flips violently.

Oh.

Oh no.

“Hodgins,” you say again, quieter this time.

“I know,” he says immediately. “I know this is complicated.”

Angela’s name hangs silently between you.

Neither of you says it. Somehow that makes it worse.

Or better.

You honestly can’t tell anymore.

“You don’t have to—” you start.

“I do, actually.” He lets out a breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Because if I keep pretending I don’t want to do this, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Your heartbeat is suddenly loud enough to drown out the ventilation system.

“Hodgins—”

“Just tell me to stop.”

The terrible thing is—

You can’t. You should.

God, you absolutely should.

Instead, your eyes drop to his mouth for one fatal second.

His expression changes instantly. Not smug. Not triumphant. Hopeful.

Like he’s been waiting for permission he never intended to ask for.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks quietly.

And there it is. The point of no return.

You could still stop this. You should stop this.

Angela is still woven through both of your lives in ways neither of you fully understands yet. The aftermath of their relationship still lingers in every room they share, every glance that lasts a little too long.

You know that. You know better than this.

But Hodgins is looking at you like you matter. Like this matters.

And maybe that’s your downfall.

“Yes,” you whisper.

He kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Tentative at first. Careful. One hand settling lightly against your waist like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your fingers catch in the front of his shirt instead, pulling him closer instinctively.

That’s all the encouragement he needs.

The kiss deepens immediately.

Warmth crashes through you all at once—sharp and dizzying and a little overwhelming after wanting this for so long without ever letting yourself imagine it could actually happen.

Hodgins makes a soft sound against your mouth that nearly ruins you.

His other hand slides to your hip carefully, like he’s trying very hard not to push too far too fast. Which is somehow hotter than if he had.

Your back bumps lightly against the edge of the platform.

He pulls away instantly.

“Sorry—”

“Don’t,” you breathe.

The word comes out rougher than intended.

Hodgins stares at you for half a second.

Then something in his expression snaps.

The next kiss is less cautious.

Still careful—but no longer restrained.

Like wanting you has finally outweighed his self-control.

Your hands slide into his hair without permission from the rational part of your brain. His breath catches sharply when your nails scrape lightly against his scalp.

“Oh, wow,” he mutters against your mouth.

You laugh softly despite yourself, breathless. “Professional scientist. Incredible vocabulary.”

“Shut up.” “You shut up.”

He kisses you again immediately just to prove he can. It works embarrassingly well.

Your knees feel suspiciously unreliable.

The realization is horrifying. And apparently visible.

Hodgins pulls back just enough to grin at you, slightly flushed and looking equally wrecked.

“Okay,” he says weakly. “So that definitely wasn’t just me.”

You lean back against the platform, trying and failing to regulate your breathing.

“No,” you admit quietly. “Definitely not just you.”

For a moment neither of you speaks. The lab hums softly around you. The case files still sit open beside the microscope. Somewhere upstairs, a door closes.

Reality slowly begins filtering back in.

And with it— Complication.

You see it hit him too. His expression softens first. Then turns uncertain.

Angela.

The word goes unspoken again, but this time it settles heavier between you.

Hodgins exhales slowly, stepping back just enough to think clearly again.

“I don’t know what this means,” he admits.

The honesty of it hurts more than certainty would have.

You fold your arms loosely across your chest, partly defensive, partly because you still feel electrically aware of everywhere he touched you.

“Me neither.”

“That’s probably bad.”

“Probably.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You wanna know the worst part?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’ve wanted to do that for… honestly an embarrassing amount of time.”

Despite everything, warmth blooms low in your chest. “You’re terrible at subtlety.”

“I’m actually incredible at subtlety. You’re just observant.”

“Mm.”

“I had a whole system.”

“You had absolutely no system.”

“I had charts.”

That startles a laugh out of you. Real. Uncontrolled.

Hodgins’ expression softens instantly at the sound. And there it is again—that look.

That dangerous, aching warmth in his eyes that feels far more intimate than the kiss did.

Which is saying something considering the kiss nearly dissolved your central nervous system.

Your smile fades slightly around the edges.

Because suddenly this feels real. Not hypothetical. Not harmless flirting. Real.

You see the exact moment Hodgins realizes the same thing.

His shoulders lower slightly.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You look up.

“If this freaks you out, we can slow down.”

The gentleness in his voice nearly undoes you.

Because Hodgins is many things—chaotic, intense, occasionally incapable of existing at a reasonable volume—but he has always been careful with the things that matter to him.

And apparently—

Terrifyingly—

You matter.

“It doesn’t freak me out,” you admit quietly.

“That sounds suspiciously incomplete.”

You sigh softly, glancing away toward the darkened observation deck above.

“It scares me a little.”

Hodgins nods immediately like he understands exactly what you mean.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

A beat passes.

Then, because neither of you knows how to leave emotional vulnerability alone for longer than thirty seconds without panicking—

Hodgins points vaguely toward the evidence table.

“So… should we solve the murder before Cam notices we’ve been gone for forty minutes?”

You bark out a startled laugh. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“We were supposed to be analyzing trace evidence.”

“We did analyze trace evidence.”

“You kissed me into a table.”

“In my defense, you seemed extremely into it.”

You stare at him.

“…fair.”

His grin flashes bright and boyish. Your chest tightens dangerously.

Because this—

This easy warmth between you— Feels alarmingly like the beginning of something.

______________

The thing about almost-relationships is that they exist entirely in implication.

No labels. No conversations. No defined edges.

Just—

Late nights. Lingering touches. Kisses that happen again after the first one. Coffee appearing beside your workstation without asking. His hand at the small of your back in crowded hallways.

Something growing quietly between you. Something real. But undefined.

You don’t tell anyone.

Not Booth. Not Brennan.

Not Angela.

It’s not secrecy—it’s… incubation.

Something small and fragile that you’re not ready to expose to the world yet.

For about a month, it’s enough. Then Angela breaks up with Wendell.

And everything shifts. Not dramatically at first. Subtly. Like pressure changing before a storm.

You notice it immediately because you notice Hodgins immediately.

The way his attention starts drifting.

The way conversations stop mid-thought when Angela walks into the room.

The way he watches her when he thinks no one sees.

Not longing exactly. Worse. Instinct.

Automatic. Unresolved. Old emotional gravity reactivating in real time.

And the worst part is—

He doesn’t seem fully aware he’s doing it.

The first time it really hurts is stupidly small.

You’re talking to him. Actually talking.

Something nerdy and meaningless about fungal transfer patterns.

He’s smiling. Relaxed. Close enough that your knees keep bumping under the table.

Then Angela laughs somewhere behind him. And he turns immediately.

Not consciously. Not intentionally.

But fast enough that he misses the rest of your sentence entirely. You stop talking.

Hodgins doesn’t notice right away. Because he’s already answering Angela.

That night you lie awake staring at your ceiling feeling sick with guilt.

Because Angela hasn’t done anything wrong.

Neither has Hodgins. Not really.

That somehow makes it worse.

You wait two more weeks before saying anything.

Two weeks of interrupted conversations, subtle distance, unfinished touches, Hodgins looking guilty without understanding why, you pretending not to notice. Until eventually you can’t do it anymore.

The lab is quiet when you finally corner him. Late enough that everyone else is gone.

Hodgins looks up immediately when you approach.

Then smiles slightly. The sight still hurts.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

You stand there for a second too long.

His expression shifts first.

Concern replacing warmth. “…what’s wrong?”

Straight to it.

Always one of the things you liked most about him.

You lean against the platform because suddenly standing feels difficult.

“I think we need to pause this.”

Hodgins stills completely.

“…what?”

You gesture vaguely between you.

“This.”

His face falls instantly. “What? Why?”

And there’s genuine confusion there. That almost breaks you.

Because he truly doesn’t understand yet.

You swallow hard.

“When Angela walks into a room,” you say carefully, “you stop seeing anything else for a few seconds.”

Hodgins opens his mouth immediately. Stops.

Because he knows exactly what moments you mean.

You see the realization hit him in real time. Small. Horrified.

“…I—”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. And you mean it. Mostly.

“You still love her.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.”

Not accusation. Just truth.

His face twists. Frustration. Guilt. Conflict.

“I care about you.”

“I know.”

That’s the problem. If he cared less, this would be easier.

Silence stretches painfully.

Then he says quietly: “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

That hurts too. Because none of this is intentional.

He runs a hand through his hair roughly.

“I thought I had this figured out.”

You laugh softly. Tired.

“Yeah. Me too.”

A long pause.

Then, quieter: “I think you need to figure out what you actually want before this turns into something unfair.”

That lands hard.

Because Hodgins is many things,  chaotic,  obsessive, emotionally messy, but unfair is the one thing he never wants to be.

“You’re breaking up with me?” he asks finally.

The question catches you off guard.

Because technically—

You were never together.

Your chest aches anyway.

“I don’t know if we were ever officially together.”

“That’s not an answer.”

No. It isn’t.

You look at him for a long moment.

Then softer: “I’m asking for space.”

He looks devastated by that in a way he tries very hard to hide. Fails completely.

“I don’t want to lose this,” he says quietly.

Neither do you. That’s the tragedy.

You step closer before you lose your nerve. Rest your hand briefly against his wrist.

Gentle. Familiar. Painful. “You won’t,” you whisper.

But neither of you sounds convinced.

Then you leave first this time.

And behind you—

For the first time since this started—

Hodgins doesn’t follow.

[creatingaworldinsidemyhead]

Fault Lines

(Bones fanfiction | Hodgins x Reader → Angela x Reader → Hodgins x Reader x Angela)

There are fractures you don’t see at first.

Not the obvious ones—the breaks, the clean damage, the things you can point to and name. The dangerous ones are quieter than that. Hairline. Subtle. The kind that form slowly under pressure until one day everything shifts and you can’t remember what it felt like before.

At the Jeffersonian, things are already complicated.

Hodgins is falling for you. You’ve been falling for him longer than you’ll admit. And Angela—Angela is the gravity neither of you has ever really escaped.

What starts as quiet, careful almosts turns into something real. Messy. Undefined. Hard to step back from once it begins.

And then a bomb case hits.

Not just any case—one tied to the part of your past you’ve kept buried, the kind that doesn’t stay contained once it’s triggered. Suddenly the lab isn’t just dealing with a killer. They’re dealing with your history. Your ghosts.

Tropes / Tags:

Slow burn

Mutual pining & emotional (in)competence

Friends to lovers to “oh this is complicated”

Love triangle → polycule

Hurt/comfort

Military past & trauma

Found family at the Jeffersonian

Angela Montenegro is a problem (affectionate)

Hodgins is also a problem (less self-aware)

Reader is absolutely not immune to either of them

Status: Ongoing Current Chapters: 3 Updates: whenever the emotional damage compels me

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[creatingaworldinsidemyhead]

Fault Lines - Ch. 1

(Bones fanfiction | Jack Hodgins x Reader, eventual Angela Montenegro x Reader, Hodgins x Reader x Angela)

You notice it first in the quiet. Not in the way Hodgins laughs—because he always laughs too loudly, like he’s daring the universe to argue with him—but in the spaces between the noise. The pauses. The moments where his attention settles fully on you.

The way he listens when you speak. The way his gaze lingers half a second too long after you finish explaining something. The way he asks for your opinion even when he already knows the answer. At first, you tell yourself you’re imagining it.

You’ve been at the Jeffersonian long enough to know everyone’s rhythms. Brennan’s blunt focus. Booth’s restless pacing whenever paperwork is involved. Angela humming under her breath when she sketches. Cam’s impossible ability to look composed while surrounded by chaos. And Hodgins— Hodgins is movement. Noise. Tangents delivered at full volume. Wild theories launched into the air like fireworks. But around you, sometimes, he stills. Not obviously. Most people wouldn’t notice it. You do. Because you’ve spent years training yourself to notice small things. Tiny shifts. Changes in breathing. Tension in shoulders. The way someone’s hands shake before they realize they’re afraid. Military habit. Medic habit. Survival habit. And Hodgins— Hodgins pays attention to you. The friendship comes first. Late nights in the lab where the Jeffersonian stops feeling like a workplace and starts feeling like a bunker against the rest of the world. Shared takeout containers balanced dangerously close to evidence. Coffee gone cold because you’re both too invested in whatever strange detail you’ve uncovered.

He starts saving you a spot at the platform. You start bringing him coffee without asking. There’s an ease to it that sneaks up on you slowly. An orbit.

You learn the cadence of his excitement—when to challenge him, when to let him spiral, when to interrupt before he disappears completely into one of his theories.

And he learns you, too. The things you don’t say. The way your humor sharpens when you’re exhausted. The way your hands go perfectly steady when things get serious. That one— That one he notices immediately.

You don’t say anything about it. You’ve always had a thing for Hodgins. Quietly. Safely. The kind of crush that lives comfortably under lock and key because acknowledging it would only complicate things. And besides— Angela.

Because Angela is impossible not to love. She moves through the Jeffersonian like warmth made human—bright laughter, ink-stained fingers, impossible empathy. Even after the breakup, she and Hodgins still orbit each other like gravity hasn’t entirely released its hold.

You see it in the little things. The lingering glances. The unfinished conversations. The way his voice softens around her without him realizing. The way she still looks for him first whenever something exciting happens.

They are untangled technically. Emotionally? Not even close.

So when Hodgins starts orbiting toward you instead, you catalog it carefully. Clinical. Controlled. Safe.

Keep your feelings —the ones you’ve had for years—where they belong. Contained. Controlled. Neatly under “inadvisable.” You tell yourself it’s harmless. That you can handle it.

Then one night he leans over your shoulder to look at a sample and forgets to step back afterward. His arm brushes yours. Warm. Solid. Your entire nervous system lights up so fast it’s embarrassing. And worse— He notices.

You know he notices because he goes quiet. Just for a second. Then he clears his throat and launches into an unnecessarily aggressive explanation about fungal bloom patterns like he didn’t just short-circuit both of your brains.

You stare at the microscope harder to hide your smile.

It starts, really, with friction. “You’re contaminating your sample,” you say without looking up. “I am not.” “You literally just breathed on it.” “That’s not contamination, that’s existence.” “That’s moisture.”

Angela swivels in her chair immediately, delighted. “I love when you two do this.”

Across the platform, Brennan doesn’t glance up from her work. “They are both technically correct depending on the context of contamination thresholds.”

“Thank you,” you mutter. Hodgins grins. “Speak for yourself.”

Booth appears in the doorway carrying coffee and the expression of a man witnessing something deeply entertaining. “Bones,” he says casually, “I’m telling you, this is how it starts.” “This is not a romantic interaction,” Brennan replies flatly. “This is a disagreement regarding particulate transfer.” Booth points between you and Hodgins. “Uh-huh.”

You feel Hodgins glance at you. Don’t look back. Absolutely do not look back. “You’re all insane,” you mutter. “Yeah,” Hodgins says easily beside you. “But you fit in great.” And something in your chest shifts. Small. Dangerous. Real.

Your place on the team has never been flashy. You’re not Brennan with her impossible brilliance or Angela with her artistry or Hodgins with his endless storm of expertise. You’re the connective tissue. The person who translates theory into practicality. The one who bridges instinct and science. The one Booth trusts with the things he doesn’t know how to explain to the others. Especially when cases get ugly. Especially when they remind him of war. Which happens more often than either of you likes admitting. That trust settles naturally between the two of you. Easy. Unspoken. When Booth hands you a file, he rarely explains. He just says, “Tell me what I’m missing.” And you do.

The case that week is a disaster.

A body buried beneath a community garden, hidden under compost, fertilizer, and enough conspiracy theories to give Booth a headache. Hodgins, unfortunately, is having the time of his life. “This,” he announces, holding up a clump of dirt like it’s sacred, “is a thriving micro-ecosystem.” “You say that like it’s sexy.” “It is sexy.”

Booth gags dramatically somewhere behind you. You snort despite yourself, adjusting your gloves as you crouch beside Hodgins near the remains. The autumn air is cool. Damp earth clings to your boots. Somewhere nearby, Brennan and Cam are discussing trauma patterns while Booth interrogates a man passionately insisting that composting is a government surveillance tactic. Normal Tuesday.

Hodgins nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. “See this?” he asks, suddenly more focused. You lean closer automatically. Too close, probably. You can feel his body heat through your jacket. “The fungal growth is wrong for natural decomposition,” he says quietly. You study the soil. Then nod. “Body was stored somewhere else first.” His grin flashes instantly—bright, excited, delighted that you saw it too. “Exactly.” Angela watches the two of you from across the scene with an expression you can’t quite read. Not upset. Not surprised. Just thoughtful. Like she’s noticing something unfold in real time. A partially decomposed body is pulled from a construction site near Dupont Circle a day later. The soil is wrong for the area—too dense, too layered, like it’s been deliberately packed. Hodgins is immediately invested.

“This isn’t local composition,” he says, already halfway into analysis mode. “There’s loam, but mixed with—no, that’s not—wait—” You step beside him, gloved hands steady as you examine the sample. “Imported,” you say. He glances at you. “Yeah.” “Compacted post-burial.” “Yeah.” A beat. Then— You both say, at the same time: “Container.” Angela, across the platform, grins. “It’s getting creepy how often you do that.” You shrug. “Shared brain cell.” Hodgins bumps your shoulder lightly. “I had it first.” You don’t move away.

Booth corners you later, coffee in hand, expression already halfway to a smirk. “You two got a system,” he says one evening, leaning against the railing as he watches you and Hodgins work. “We’re efficient,” you reply. Booth smirks slightly. “That’s one word for it.” You don’t even look up from your notes. “Don’t start.” “I’m not starting anything. I’m observing.” “You’re insufferable.” “You like him.” You glance through the glass at Hodgins, who’s currently arguing with an intern about fungal spores like it’s personal. The sigh comes out involuntarily, finally meeting Booths eyes the confession rushes past your lips. “I have liked him. Past tense. Hypothetically.” Booth nods, like that confirms everything. “Yeah. That’s not how that works.”

You think about Hodgins’ shoulder brushing yours. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I know.”

When you finally tell Angela, you expect it to feel like betrayal. Instead, it feels like confession.

“I think… something’s happening,” you say, words tumbling out faster than you can control. “Between me and Hodgins. But I wouldn’t—I mean, if it hurts you—” She stops you with a gentle hand on your arm. “Hey,” she says softly. “You’re allowed to feel things.” “I don’t want to be the reason—” “You’re not.” She smiles, but there’s history in it. “We were already broken. Complicated. Still… kind of tangled.” A pause. “Besides. I’m seeing Wendell. That would make me a hypocrite.” You blink. “You are?” She nods. “And he’ cute. Simple, in a way I need right now.” Relief floods you so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. “So… you’re okay with—” “With you and Hodgins?” She tilts her head, studying you. “Yeah. I am.” You don’t miss the uncertainty in her voice. Angela notices more after that. She watches. The way you steady Hodgins when he gets too deep into a theory. The way he listens when you don’t say something. The way you both exist in the same space like it’s been designed that way. She sees it. But she doesn’t interrupt it.  

[my-mind-is-a-weapon]

Ok but like, when will we get a strong female character that can’t have kids but really really wants to be a mom (which is valid for irl women) who instead of crying about how she is less of a woman for it or has to give up everything that makes her a powerful and unique individual she fucking adopts every unwanted or mistreated child she comes across.

You, the baker’s boy, you cant work 14h a day you have to go to school I’ll take it from here thanks. Little thief girl on the street? The way you used that knife was really impressive we should get you some proper weapons training and you will be a great knight one day also eat ur vegetables . Find a baby orc during a raid? My son is strong and green and I love him.

Give me a fantasy super mom you cowards.

[storiesofthefandomlovers]

[but-the-library-of-alexandria]

the thing about writing fantasy stories is that language is so based on history that it can be hard to decide how far suspension of disbelief can carry you word-choice wise - what do you call a french braid in a world with no france? can a queen ann neckline be described if there was no queen ann? where do you draw the line? can you use the word platonic if plato never existed? can you name a character chris in a land without christianity? can you even say ‘bungalow’ in a world where there was no indian language for the word to originate from? is there a single word in any language that doesn’t have a story behind it? to be accurate a fantasy story would be written in a fantasy language but who has the time for that

[a-kite-dancing-in-a-hurricane]

Tolkien had the time apparently

[misbehavingmaiar]

LIsten. Linguistics Georg, who invented over 10,000 conlangs each day, is an outlier and should not have been counted. 

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Cute Date Ideas

taking a rain walk

going to a library and showing each other their favourite books

visiting a waterpark together

taking a walk through a park or a forest and admiring the colors

going to the zoo and pointing out the coolest animals

playing disk golf together

doing a scavenger hunt for cute little trinkets

visiting a museum about something you know nothing about

going to a bookshop and selecting books for each other

having a picknick with lots of seasonal food

visiting a brewery and doing a tasting

going to a café with an amazing tea selection

watching movies together while it storms outside

visiting a park and playing basketball or football together

going on a bicycle tour and finding new places

making pottery together and carving in their initials as a memento for the cute date

playing board games in a small café

going thrift shopping together or checking out a flea market

getting trash bags and cleaning up a public place together

going on a night hike and enjoying the dark and silent world with just each other as company

singing karaoke together

going inline skating and trying not to fall too often

swimming in a lake together

visiting some old castles/churches/etc. they’ve always wanted to check out

going to a fair and playing games and going on the Ferris wheel

picking apples together

taking a painting class and gifting each other the painting they made

going to a concert of their favourite band

playing paintball as a team or against each other

going to the movies and buying their favourite treats

watching the sunrise or sunset together

cooking for each other and judging each other’s food like they’re on Top Chef

going on hayrides

visiting an escape room and trying to solve the puzzles

going camping nearby and enjoying the time without distractions

visiting an amusement park and going on all the fun rides

going to a restaurant they’ve never been to and trying new food together

trying to learn a new skill together

doing a movie marathon with childhood favourites

checking out all the wonderful plants in the botanical garden

visiting an old cemetery and making up stories for the different graves

going to a trampoline park together

watching a drag show together

renting a paddleboat and seeing how far they can go

checking out lost places together

doing a photo shoot at a cool location

taking dance lessons together

going on a guided city tour even if both grew up there

doing a pub crawl and trying different drinks

volunteering together for something that’s important to both of them

If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee! 🥰

[thegodswife-deactivated20210709]

some tips on what being a good ally looks like in the wake of a violent and/or traumatic event:

https://www.insider.com/how-to-support-people-of-color-after-racist-traumatic-events-2021-4

Think twice before reaching out to the people of color in your life after a traumatic event. Here's how to know when it's OK, and things you

Before calling, assess whether it's your place to do so, therapist Reshawna Chapple told Insider. If you do, avoid comparisons and long conv

[starei]

I just want you curled up next to me as I gently play with your hair and lull you to sleep

[desultory-suggestions]

If you have to make yourself smaller to be loved you are not with the right person.

[0thello]

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890)

[juneacademia]

We could live the sweetest life together.

Existing in small European towns, picnicking under the soft stream of summer sunlight in Southern France, running through the dark, hard rains of Italy in Autumn, huddled beneath the gentle streetlights of Norway as the first snow falls, our love in full spring bloom with the tulips in Amsterdam.

I want to experience years of seasons with you.

[qahwa-chai-coffee]

Look me in the eye and tell me if there's any gesture out there that's more caring and heart-meltingly affectionate (romantically or platonically) than fixing someone's blanket while they're asleep...bonus for when they leave an adoring kiss at the side of your face/your forehead.

[swellio]

showing characters are in love without actually saying it

looks that last just a little longer than they should

constantly thinking about each other

they stand next to each other without even thinking about it

jealousy

lovers’ quarrel (they fight, get angsty, and then both make up after, yknow the usual)

always worried about each other

lingering touches

both subtly act a bit different when the other is around

protectiveness

they both know exactly how to comfort each other in the best way

smiles that last long after what’s been said (“why are you still smiling?” “hmm? what? what smile?”)

small touches

[fairiesandstarlight]

sometimes I feel like “I appreciate you” hits deeper than “I love you,” because it isn’t a lie. 

[nervousinfluencerrunaway]

The inherent romanticism of listening to music out of the same pair of earphones

[biblioteca-de-juegos]

¿Recuerdas la calle dónde nos dimos nuestro primer beso? Yo no, no sé si tenía un nombre, no recuerdo ni siquiera la hora. Me imagino que nos besamos en la calle "küsse" aunque no conozcamos Alemania. ¿O nos besamos en una azotea? Mientras yo bailaba y tú me observabas con los ojos saltones. Pero no fue así porque eso es muy cliché. Creo que nos besamos en la parte trasera del carro de tu amigo.¿O fue en la parte de carnes frías del supermercado?En realidad el lugar en mi cabeza está inexistente, para mí pudo haber sido en Alemania, en Japón o en la guerra porque en ese momento cualquier otra cosa fue irrelevante, lo recuerdo siempre y vive la emoción; las horas se hicieron amor, el lugar se esfumó; esto me dejó marcada, cuando me besas el tiempo se hace nada y los besos anteriores no existen porque sigue siendo la primera vez.

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