#MEAN Stack Solution

[ahex-technologies]

In the realm of full-stack web development, the MEAN stack development stands as a powerful and versatile framework. Comprised of MongoDB, Express.js, Angular, and Node.js, this stack empowers mean stack  developers to create dynamic, scalable, and efficient web applications. In this article, we'll take a deep dive into each component of the MEAN stack development services, from the flexible NoSQL database MongoDB to the dynamic frontend framework Angular.

[custimsoftwaredevelopmentcompany]

The MEAN stack's JavaScript proficiency makes it ideal for dynamic web applications. Imagine applications like social media platforms (think constant updates) or real-time collaboration tools. Even single-page web applications with heavy data loads benefit from MEAN's efficient structure. If you're looking for a MEAN Stack development company to craft an engaging, user-friendly web experience, the MEAN stack might be the perfect solution.

[amoradevid]

It's crucial to acknowledge that while we can discuss general examples, the specific technologies utilized by prominent web applications may not always be openly disclosed. Nonetheless, the MEAN stack development boasts notable strengths such as its JavaScript-based architecture, adeptness with dynamic data, and capacity for real-time features. These attributes render it an appealing option for numerous web applications encountered online.

[chronicbitchsyndrome]

so: masking: good, unequivocally. please mask and please educate others on why they should mask to make the world safer for immune compromised people to participate in.

however: masking is not my policy focus and it shouldn't be yours, either. masking is a very good mitigation against droplet-born illnesses and a slightly less effective (but still very good) mitigation against airborne illnesses, but its place in the pyramid of mitigation demands is pretty low, for several reasons:

it's an individual mitigation, not a systemic one. the best mitigations to make public life more accessible affect everyone without distributing the majority of the effort among individuals (who may not be able to comply, may not have access to education on how to comply, or may be actively malicious).

it's a post-hoc mitigation, or to put it another way, it's a band-aid over the underlying problem. even if it was possible to enforce, universal masking still wouldn't address the underlying problem that it is dangerous for sick people and immune compromised people to be in the same public locations to begin with. this is a solvable problem! we have created the societal conditions for this problem!

here are my policy focuses:

upgraded air filtration and ventilation systems for all public buildings. appropriate ventilation should be just as bog-standard as appropriately clean running water. an indoor venue without a ventilation system capable of performing 5 complete air changes per hour should be like encountering a public restroom without any sinks or hand sanitizer stations whatsoever.

enforced paid sick leave for all employees until 3-5 days without symptoms. the vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through industry sectors where employees come into work while experiencing symptoms. a taco bell worker should never be making food while experiencing strep throat symptoms, even without a strep diagnosis.

enforced virtual schooling options for sick students. the other vast majority of respiratory and food-borne illnesses circulate through schools. the proximity of so many kids and teenagers together indoors (with little to no proper ventilation and high levels of physical activity) means that if even one person comes to school sick, hundreds will be infected in the following few days. those students will most likely infect their parents as well. allowing students to complete all readings and coursework through sites like blackboard or compass while sick will cut down massively on disease transmission.

accessible testing for everyone. not just for COVID; if there's a test for any contagious illness capable of being performed outside of lab conditions, there should be a regulated option for performing that test at home (similar to COVID rapid tests). if a test can only be performed under lab conditions, there should be a government-subsidized program to provide free of charge testing to anyone who needs it, through urgent cares and pharmacies.

the last thing to note is that these things stack; upgraded ventilation systems in all public buildings mean that students and employees get sick less often to begin with, making it less burdensome for students and employees to be absent due to sickness, and making it more likely that sick individuals will choose to stay home themselves (since it's not so costly for them).

masking is great! keep masking! please use masking as a rhetorical "this is what we can do as individuals to make public life safer while we're pushing for drastic policy changes," and don't get complacent in either direction--don't assume that masking is all you need to do or an acceptable forever-solution, and equally, don't fall prey to thinking that pushing for policy change "makes up" for not masking in public. it's not a game with scores and sides; masking is a material thing you can do to help the individual people you interact with one by one, and policy changes are what's going to make the entirety of public life safer for all immune compromised people.

[glowettee]

✧˖° studying without suffering: how to actually enjoy learning (yes, it’s possible)

✧˖° let’s talk.

hey angels, it's mindy!

most people treat studying like a punishment. something to be endured, not enjoyed. it’s that thing you force yourself to do, like taking bitter medicine or running a mile in gym class. but what if that’s the reason you struggle with it?

the secret? you were never meant to hate learning.

somewhere along the way, school made it boring. maybe you had teachers who sucked the fun out of it. maybe you associate studying with stress, deadlines, and exhaustion. but learning is supposed to be exciting. when you actually enjoy it, everything changes. you focus longer, retain more, and (ironically) spend less time studying because your brain actually absorbs the information.

so, let’s fix it. let’s make studying something you want to do instead of something you suffer through.

✧˖° ➼ step 1: detach learning from school

(school & learning are not the same thing. stop letting school ruin your curiosity.)

the first mindset shift? realize that school does not own learning.

➼ school is about structure, deadlines, and tests. it’s designed to measure performance. ➼ learning is about curiosity, deep thinking, and exploration. it’s designed to expand your mind. and help you grow as a person.

if you’ve only ever studied because you had to, your brain associates it with pressure. break that pattern. find something outside of school that you actually like learning about. philosophy, psychology, art history, neuroscience, fashion design, whatever makes you curious.

even if it’s unrelated to your classes, it rewires your brain to see learning as an intrinsic activity, not just an obligation. once you enjoy learning in general, you can transfer that energy back into your studies.

✧˖° ➼ step 2: romanticize the process (but actually make it feel good)

("romanticizing studying" doesn’t mean just buying cute stationery. let’s go deeper.)

sensory association is everything. your brain links experiences to the way they feel physically. so if studying feels uncomfortable, you’ll avoid it. the solution? make it a luxurious experience for your senses.

✧ visuals → clean, minimalist desk, soft lighting, aesthetic study materials ✧ sound → rain sounds, classical piano, lo-fi beats (music that enhances focus) ✧ touch → cozy blankets, warm tea, smooth pens gliding over paper ✧ scent → vanilla candles, fresh coffee, the pages of an old book

this isn’t just about aesthetics. it’s neuroscience. when studying feels pleasurable, your brain stops resisting it.

✧˖° ➼ step 3: use high-dopamine study techniques

(forcing yourself to study the “normal” way is why you hate it.)

some study methods are literally designed to be boring. ditch them.

instead, try:

➼ blurting method: instead of passively reading, close your book and write down everything you remember. then check what you missed. (way more engaging than just re-reading notes.) ➼ dual-coding: mix visuals with text. draw tiny sketches next to your notes. turn concepts into mind maps. watch a video explaining a topic right after reading about it. ➼ pomodoro stacking: instead of the typical 25-minute study sprints, customize it. (ex: 50 min deep focus + 10 min break with an actual reward.) ➼ interleaving technique: mix subjects instead of block studying. it forces your brain to stay engaged.

stop making studying harder than it needs to be. find what works for you, and your brain will stop fighting it.

✧˖° ➼ step 4: make studying social (but in a smart way)

(because you’re not supposed to do this alone.)

studying alone for hours? miserable. but studying with others who are just as serious as you? instant motivation boost.

but instead of chaotic group study sessions where no one gets anything done, try:

✧ parallel studying: hop on facetime or join a study livestream. silent, focused, but together. ✧ teaching method: explain concepts to a friend. if you can teach it, you truly understand it. ✧ study accountability: check in with someone daily. send each other your study goals, no excuses.

even just knowing someone else is studying at the same time can trick your brain into feeling more engaged.

✧˖° ➼ step 5: shift your identity

("i hate studying" isn’t a personality trait. it’s a mindset problem.)

if you keep saying “i hate studying,” your brain will never enjoy it. change the narrative.

➼ instead of “i suck at studying,” try → “i’m learning how to study in a way that works for me.” ➼ instead of “i can’t focus,” try → “i’m training my brain to focus longer every day.” ➼ instead of “i don’t feel like it,” try → “i’m someone who gets things done, whether i feel like it or not.”

become the type of person who enjoys learning. once that becomes your identity, everything else follows.

✧˖° ➼ step 6: create emotional attachment to your goals

motivation dies when your goals feel distant and impersonal. if you’re studying just because you “have to,” it’s easy to procrastinate. but if you link it to something deeply personal, it becomes non-negotiable.

try this: visualize your future self. imagine the version of you who already achieved everything you want. who is she? what does she do? how does she study?

then, make it emotional. ✧ if you dream of getting into your dream school, print pictures of it. make a vision board. ✧ if you want financial freedom, imagine the luxury of never stressing over money. ✧ if you want to be respected in your field, remind yourself that your knowledge is your power.

when you make studying personal, it stops being a chore. it becomes a commitment.

✧˖° ➼ step 7: stop making everything harder than it needs to be

(struggling doesn’t mean you’re working harder. it just means you’re struggling.)

too many people study inefficiently because they think suffering = productivity. but studying smarter is always better than studying longer.

some ways to make it easier on yourself: ➼ use study apps → quizlet, pomdoro apps for focus, notion for organization ➼ summarize like you’re texting a friend → rewrite notes in your own words, no unnecessary fluff ➼ study in “levels” → don’t jump straight into deep studying. warm up with light review, then increase intensity ➼ take advantage of spaced repetition → stop cramming, your brain retains more when you review over time

efficiency = less stress, better results. don’t work harder than necessary.

✧˖° ➼ step 8: replace toxic productivity with high-performance habits

studying 10 hours in one night ≠ academic excellence. true high-achievers prioritize sustainability.

➼ quit glorifying exhaustion. taking breaks improves focus. it’s not laziness. ➼ learn when to walk away. if you’re zoning out, step away. 10 minutes of real focus > 2 hours of fake studying. ➼ protect your sleep. all-nighters don’t make you hardcore, they make you ineffective. your brain processes info while you sleep.

the goal isn’t to study the longest. it’s to study in a way that keeps your mind sharp and focused.

✧˖° ➼ step 9: master the “dopamine pull” method

instead of forcing motivation, use dopamine to your advantage.

➼ habit stacking → pair studying with something enjoyable (ex: study while drinking your favorite matcha) ➼ mini rewards → after finishing a chapter, reward yourself with something small but satisfying ➼ gamification → track progress like a video game. every completed task = a “level up”

your brain loves dopamine. give it reasons to associate studying with good feelings.

✧˖° ➼ step 10: let go of perfectionism (but keep high standards)

perfectionism leads to procrastination and burnout. instead of striving for flawless, aim for consistent excellence.

✧ done is better than perfect. stop rewriting notes 5 times. ✧ progress is the goal. each study session should move you forward, even if it’s small. ✧ your worth is not your grades. strive for success, but don’t let school define you.

when you release perfectionism, you actually start achieving more. keep your standards high, but don’t let them paralyze you.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips

(things that helped me romanticize studying & actually make it enjoyable:)

➼ set a 5-minute timer. just start. most of the time, your brain stops resisting once you begin. ➼ don’t let study guilt ruin your breaks. rest is productive. ➼ have a “study fit.” i swear, dressing up just a little makes a difference. ➼ invest in one high-quality pen. something that glides effortlessly. small detail, huge difference. ➼ study in cafés, libraries, parks. switch locations to keep it interesting. ➼ make it ✧ cozy ✧. fuzzy socks, oversized sweaters, soft blankets. your comfort matters.

✧˖° homework: rewire your study experience

➼ for one of your study sessions this week, try at least two of the techniques above. ➼ write a short journal entry: how do you want to feel while studying? how can you make that happen? ➼ change just one thing about your study setup that makes it more enjoyable.

then come back & tell me. did studying feel better? (you can always message me or send me an ask in my inbox)

[ahex-technologies]

In the realm of MEAN stack development, effective data modeling is paramount to the success of applications. MongoDB, as the NoSQL database component of the MEAN stack (MongoDB, Express.js, AngularJS, Node.js), offers flexibility and scalability in managing data. Mastering the art of designing MongoDB schemas is essential for Mean Stack Application developers to create robust and efficient MEAN stack solutions. Let's explore the intricacies of MEAN stack data modeling and unveil the strategies for crafting MongoDB schemas that drive optimal performance.

[ozzgin]

I’m playing ‘This Bed We Made’ and the intro gave me major yandere vibes. This one's a monster version. Content: gender neutral reader, stalking, monster romance

You are the only human employee at a hotel for monstrous guests. It was an unexpected outcome for everyone involved: the staff hadn't considered that a human like you would apply, and you made the mistake of merely skimming through the job ad. You stopped paying attention when you saw the monthly salary.

You realized your mistake when the head manager interviewing you turned out to be a centaur. Then, when the receptionist greeted you with a firm tentacle handshake. And then, the guests kept coming in: creatures whose existence you'd only known in fictional tales, some beyond your imagination.

Despite the initial shock, it's not a bad affair. You spend your shifts cleaning the rooms; making beds, removing slime, waxing scratched furniture, throwing away shed skin. You enjoy the quietness, and the manager is satisfied with your work.

Just one little secret: you love snooping around. You're not hurting anyone with a mere peek, after all. So what if you sometimes check what's inside a guest's suitcase? Or glance into the bedside drawer? Innocent curiosity, and nothing more. It offers you a glimpse of their beastly life, as you've never been this close to monsters before.

Except, well, it seems that the monsters had the same thoughts as you. In one room, you found stacks of photos, each and one of them depicting you. The angles are odd, the focus is blurry: these were taken from nearby hiding spots, capturing your cleaning routine. You shiver and decide to move on. Ah, but the next room...is this the necklace you thought you'd lost? Why is it tucked away under the guest's pillow? As you hurry down the hall, unlocking more doors, you begin to discover unsettling snippets of your own privacy. Detailed plans of your schedule, your path back home, used towels, lost name badges.

You frantically knock on your manager's door, hoping to find a solution. Surely he'll be outraged to know that most of the creatures staying at the hotel have been relentlessly stalking you. He welcomes you with a concerned look, and you sit before his desk, ready to speak. Behind him, on one of the shelves, you spot a camera.

"You have to understand, (Y/N)...It's not a common occurrence to have a human in our presence. The guests mean you no harm, they're just terribly excited to get to know you better."

Won't you do them this one little favor?

[More monsters]

[avocado-writing]

pairing: logan howlett x reader x wade wilson

rating: E, minors dni, 18+ (mmf threesome; resolved sexual tension; sex pollen; unprotected p in v sex; oral [f receiving]; double penetration)

words: 6.7k

summary: you, logan and wade are on a stakeout after reports of a new drug which only affects mutants. but what happens when you accidentally get a hit of it yourselves…? (the sex pollen fic from the poll! thank you @eupheme for betaing for me, i owe you my life!)

“I spy with my little eye…”

“Wade, I swear to god…” Logan’s voice is a low rumble, a warning.

“Awww c’mon, peanut! What else do we have to do? Indulge me in my childlike whimsy.”

“Let me guess,” you say, shelling a pistachio before throwing it in the air to catch it on your waiting tongue, “you spy something beginning with R-D, which is the rising damp, which is the fourth goddamn time you spied it because there’s nothing else in this fucking place.”

Wade huffs and throws himself back in his chair. 

“Killjoy,” he mutters, and goes back to carving obscene doodles into the side table with baby knife. 

On the first day you were happy to play along, just to ease the boredom and tension which came hand-in-hand with this arrangement. Now it’s been five of them, stacking on top of each other and getting claustrophobic-heavy, the three of you crowded into each other’s space and on the razor’s edge.

Something is going to break, and you’re worried it’ll be Wade’s nose under Logan’s fist.

What a stupid fucking mission. You should never have said yes.

Ever since the whole Void situation was resolved you, Logan and Wade have been X-Men adjacent. Not part of the group exactly but happy to play along if needed. This most recent assignment had been a request from Piotr - there was something going on downtown to do with trafficking drugs which affected mutants, and someone needed to keep an eye on it. Couldn’t be anyone from the mansion, they’re all hands on deck at the moment keeping an influx of kids in check. But the three of you? With no jobs between you and an urge to do good?

It was a problem with an obvious solution.

It’s a stakeout. Which means sitting and waiting and holy fuck is it boring. 

You can tell something is going on in the alley across the street but you’ve had strict instructions not to take action until you see the guy in charge: thickset man with a penchant for misdeeds and built like a brick shithouse. Once you have proof he’s involved, you’ll get the go-ahead to close in and shut the place down in whatever manner you see fit.

But until he comes in, your little trio has no choice but to stay put, watching petty criminals come and go with no idea they’re being monitored.

Life has revolved around watches from the dingy window. Usually two of you will stay up while one of you tries to get some sleep on one of the uncomfortable twin beds that have been provided, but it isn’t easy to drift off when it feels like the mattresses are made of cinder blocks stuffed with broken glass. It isn’t that you’re unused to being in each others’ spaces - if you’re not at their apartment they’re at yours, after all, you are friends - but this is different. You have the luxury of walking away from each other in normal day-to-day life when things gets too much. Here? Here, you’re stuck until you’re done with the job. You’re all tired, irritated, and desperate for entertainment. You’ve even considered chopping off your own hand to watch it grow back, just for something to do.

And the thing is that’s not the worst of it. Ever since the three of you returned from the Void there’s been something there. Something difficult to pin down, exactly.  A niggling little feeling worming its way through your body. Something which thrums every time Wade flexes the muscles in his hand and you see his long, strong fingers; every time Logan grits his jaw and the tendons in his neck throb. 

Oh, right. You sort of really want to fuck them both.

You don’t go through something that traumatic and not have deep-rooted feelings which surpass normal boundaries. You fought for each others’ lives. You’re bonded in a way people rarely are. And the more time you spend with them the blurrier the lines between platonic and fucking soulmate become. You’ve seen both of them stare at you - and each other - when they think you’re not looking, so you’re sure this isn’t something that only you are harbouring. It’s a secret desire harboured by all three of you.

Like you said, something is gonna break. And in this shitty little surveillance room? It’s gonna break soon.

A movement outside. The three of you sit forward to take a look at the evening’s street view, only to fall back into your chairs as it turns out to be a false alarm. Just a pedestrian walking by. You’re going to go insane.

You drum your fingers on your thighs just to keep them busy, then turn to Logan. 

“You got a smoke?”

He cocks a brow at you.

“You want a cigar?”

“Nothing else to fucking do.”

“Whoa, hey!” says Wade, putting his hand on Logan’s arm as he roots around in his jacket pocket, “No no no, you quit last year! Don’t start up bad habits again unless I’m the one convincing you to, pookie.”

“Wade, c’mon. I’m gonna lose my mind if I don’t have something to do,” you groan. Plus, really, you’d kinda like something to suck on, just to relieve some of the ache in your belly.

As if Wade can hear your thoughts he pipes up again.

“Well if you’re that desperate to use your mouth, I know what we could play to pass the time…”

You and Logan groan in unison, and he balls his fist in a way which suggests it’s not long until the claws come out. Wade holds up his hands to signify peace.

“Whoa, chill out, honeybadger. No need to get scratchy. You don’t have to join in if you don’t want to… but it’s more fun the more people there are.”

Accepting there’s nothing else to pass the time, Logan lets out a long, exhausted sigh and lets Wade continue.

The mercenary licks his lips as if, for once, considering his phrasing. Then blurts out what he wanted to say anyway.

“We could play blowjob roulette.”

It was a foolish time to take a drink of your soda, because you spurt it out your nose. After a moment of mopping yourself up with your sleeve you manage a, “what?!”

“Well, oral roulette I guess, if we’re being PC about it.”

“Oh my god,” Logan groans, getting to his feet and stomping into the tiny excuse for a kitchenette, grabbing a beer and opening it with such gusto that the cap bounces off an adjacent wall.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything! We just spin the bottle and whoever it ends up pointing out deals out a round of Australian kisses for the other players. Relieves the boredom, and it’s fun to see how long everyone lasts.”

Your mouth is open, you’re sure of it. You’re looking at Wade in abject horror. This has got to just be part of his stupid bravado, right? Making an ill-timed joke?

Because the other option is he’s serious.

Logan drinks. You stare. Wade rabbits on.

“I’m just saying we used to play it at Sister Margaret’s all the time, when we were waiting for new marks to come in and didn’t have anything better to do! It wasn’t gay or anything except for, you know, the rampant homoeroticism of slurping everyone’s gherkin.”

“Did you… did you ever have to do it?” you ask, morbid fascination taking over. He scoffs.

“Did I ever have to… pookie, I’ve taken more loads than my building’s washing machine. Yeah, I’d say I’m pretty fucking great at it.”

He’s staring at you with an intensity which makes you feel like you’re on fire, but from embarrassment or enthusiasm you’re not sure. 

“So?” he asks, quietly, putting a hand on your knee. Your body burns. You swallow. You look to Logan. 

He sighs. Finishes his beer, but in a way which suggests he’s giving in. You see the way Logan’s teeth touch his bottom lip. The start of a fricative. 

He’s going to say fine.

Movement out of the window. You bolt up, knocking Wade’s hand away. He deflates.

“Aww. But I really wanted to - ”

“No, guys - look!”

They quickly crowd you, following where you point. A huge man walks into the alleyway, flanked by underlings, the bulk of him taking up the small space.

“There’s our guy,” you say, “let’s go.”

You descend upon the alleyway in a flash of swords and claws. You tug your cowl up over your nose to protect your face, hand on one of your Brügger & Thomet MP9s as the three of you come face-to-face with the door you’ve been monitoring all week.

“So are we going in sneaky style, or—”

Logan rips the door off its hinges, throwing it down the length of the alley; he is desperate to be done with this. You exchange a look with Wade.

“Okiedokie, asked and answered I guess,” he sighs, grabbing his Desert Eagles from his holsters.

You both follow Logan who’s thrown himself into the middle of the lab claws-first. Two-thirds of the people scream and flee, the others stand their guard and grab their guns.

Fingers on triggers, you take a beat to examine the situation.

Equipment everywhere. Beakers and cylinders you can possibly guess the use for, set up on desks and synthesising something nasty. The boss is standing in the middle of the room, eyebrow cocked and mild annoyance plastered on his face. Bingo. You make a beeline for him, taking a couple of bullets in your flank as you go.

“Cover me!” you shout to Wade. He pulls his katana out of a guy’s head and throws you a bloodied thumbs-up.

“Got your back, pookie! Hate to see you leave, love to watch you spill entrails as you go!”

As if he was predicting your next action, you whip your knife out of your belt and stab it in an assailant’s belly, watching his warm guts slide onto the floor. He releases a strangled noise as he drops to his knees - you make a move to continue on your way to the boss only to feel someone pick you up.

“Shit!” you mutter as you’re hoisted into the air. Wade and Logan stop their onslaught to turn at the sound of your panic, their eyes both going wide as they see you restrained. With a twinned shout of your name they come running to help.

Aww, your boys. It’d be cute if you weren’t bracing yourself for the pain.

Your attacker launches you across the room. A couple of seconds go by as you fly through the air - and then into a table full of test tubes and pipettes.

A great cloud rises into the air. A cloud of spores?

Before you can get a chance to properly read the situation, Wade and Logan are at your side. Sturdy hands grasp around your forearms and you’re dragged to your feet. 

Of course, it goes unnoticed…but all three of you take in a deep breath.

“You okay, baby?” rasps Logan. 

“Yeah, I’m f— move!” you scream, shouldering him out of the way so you can sink your knife into the neck of the man about to spray bullets down his spine. As you rip through the soft skin at his throat something occurs to you. 

‘Baby’? Where did that come from?

Not that it isn’t nice, obviously, but… it’s unlike Logan to show that much tenderness ever. Especially with pet names.

Oh well, no time to dwell.

Picking bits of glass from your biceps you tank a punch from a man closing in on your left, parry his next couple of blows, then shoot him in the dick. Wade has called this a ‘low blow’ before which isn’t incorrect but honestly, there’s no time for fighting fair when it’s 3-versus-30. 

The boss has finally gotten involved. A pair of brass knuckles shines against his fist as he swings at Logan, a meaty crack filling the air in a way which you’re worried might actually have dented one of your friend’s ribs. Wade uses the distraction to stab a katana into the guy’s back, then another one a little further up - using him like a goddamn climbing wall. The boss roars like an animal and attempts to swat him off but there’s no use. His massive bulk is working against him, and Wade can be a fast little motherfucker when he wants to be.

Wade lets out a ‘peekaboo!’ as he pops up over the boss’s shoulder, pressing his pistol into the meat of his neck and firing. Blood sprays across the floor but somehow the guy doesn’t stop, not even when Logan picks himself back up and sinks both his claws into his stomach; it only elicits another snarl.

Okay, time to close.

You sheath your guns and go back to your knife, using Logan as a launchpad as you throw yourself off the arch of his back and into the air - stabbing down into the boss’s skull with a dull thunk.

A line of blood dribbles out of his mouth. He starts to fall.

“Uh oh - call me Ke$ha, because I’m yelling timber!” Wade warns. With a snarl Logan rips his claws free from muscle, snatching you off of the boss’s corpse as he stumbles forward under his own weight. Pulling you free you both lose your footing, and you crash down onto your friend.

You look at Logan.

He looks at you. 

Suddenly, his hands clasp around your hips. Probably you move you off of him…

And then you’re on fire. 

Like gasoline has made a line from his touch to your cunt, everything in you is set ablaze. Your pussy clenches and you’ve never felt so empty before - or at least not so aware of it.

There is a cock-shaped hole and it’s begging to be filled.

You expect Logan to freak out, you’re freaking out - you never thought you had a murder kink but you guess you’re never too old to find out something new about yourself - but he doesn’t.

Instead you just see him furrow his brow as if processing something; then acknowledge the press of his hardening cock rub against your thigh as he bucks up into you.

Oh no. Something is wrong.

When you feel Wade grab your shoulder and haul you back to your feet it’s the same, that delicious burning sensation rocketing through you… and from the way he moans as soon as his hands are on you, the feeling is mutual. 

“Fuck. Fuck,” he breathes. Yeah. You want to, that’s the issue.

You stagger away from him with wide eyes and electric skin, a beat passing between the three of you as the people left in the lab decide to give up the fight now their boss is toast. Hearts racing, hands wanting to reach out and touch.

Logan is the one to break the silence.

“We should call in and let the others know we’re done,” he manages. You nod.

“Yeah. Can we… can we go back across the street? I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh, don’t you go Spider-Man Infinity War Part 1 on me,” Wade chuckles. You don’t have the energy to work out what he’s referencing, especially when a jolt goes through your body to your cunt when you feel his eyes meet yours. 

Damn. This is bad. 

“Yeah. Of course, honey,” Logan manages. He goes to put his hand on the small of your back and then thinks better of it, though you can feel its nearness like a magnetic pull. You almost moan when he retracts his touch instead. Wade whips his phone out and fires off a message to let someone know a cleanup crew is needed as you stagger out of the alleyway and back across the street. 

You didn’t bother closing the door when you ran out, too desperate to monopolise on the chance of getting your mark. The three of you tumble back into the room you’d been dying to get out of just a scant few minutes ago, relieved to be in the privacy of its confines again.

A moment passes as all three of you adjust to the feeling coursing through your bodies.

“What’s happening?” you breathe, bracing your hands on the back of your go-to wooden chair and breaking it with the force of your grip. You wince at the sound of splintering, blood dripping down your palms before you feel it heal over.

“I’ve not felt like this since I first discovered how easy it was to masturbate to Good Housekeeping,” Wade groans, whipping off his mask as he flops down onto the battered-up-couch. Logan has made his way to the fridge again, practically ripping its door off to get to a beer which he downs in one swig. Fuck. It’s so sexy. You want to lick the muscles in his neck.

“It’s a pollen,” he states, voice rocky in a way which goes straight to the burning pit of your stomach. You and Wade exchange a look and then turn to him, waiting for further explanation. “Only has a reaction in mutants. Charles said it was something about putting the id into overdrive, like a fuckin’ adrenaline shot to the libido.”

“It… it makes you aroused?” you manage, attempting not to rock your cunt into the palm of your hand. Logan grunts.

“Was trying to be more tactful, but yeah, honey. That’s the idea.”

Honey. The pet name once again goes down your spine.

“Fucking sorry,” says Wade, “someone was manufacturing this stuff as a drug for what? To make mutants too horny to fight?”

Logan shrugs, still not tearing his gaze from his empty bottle, as if to agree it’s his best guess. Wade’s head falls back against the sofa’s arm.

“I mean, damn, they could have just shown me any frame from Magic Mike XXL and it would have had the same result. Seems like a lot of effort.”

Something about the way Logan talks sticks out to you, you circle back around to it. 

“Logan, you seem to know a lot about this stuff… have you encountered it before?”

Another beer grabbed and chugged down, the forward hunch in his shoulders physical evidence of his walls raising. 

“Once. Back in the day with the other X-Men.”

“How did you get through it? Does it go away?”

Logan doesn’t reply. Drinks.

The unspoken answer sinks in.

“Oh my god, you had to fuck it out, didn’t you?” gasps Wade. Logan doesn’t even growl. Jesus Christ he’s right. “Who was it? Storm? Beast? By the love of all things 100k+ enemies-to-lovers-slowburn, tell me it was Cyclops.”

Logan doesn’t dignify him with an answer, instead putting the empty bottle down with enough force you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter.

“It’ll pass. I just need to sit it out,” he reasons, the grit in his jaw suggesting this isn’t the optimal solution. You feel your eyebrows tug together, a crease of concern settling between them.

“But…”

“I’ll be fine.” The way he says it, he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone. With the room in the air practically throbbing he heads to the bedroom, leaving you and Wade alone.

Holy shit. You and Wade are alone.

Your eyes wander over to him, to find his gaze is already resting heavy on you. Your skin lights up.

“So, uh,” he starts, shifting himself awkwardly where his hard-on is trapped in his suit, “you read any good books lately?”

That does help to alleviate the tension and you find yourself chuckling, only for the relief to be ablated when your empty pussy pulses. You whine.

“Wade…”

As soon as you say his name he’s rushing over to you, helping you sit down on the ruined chair. You both moan as hot skin slides against hot skin. 

“Look, it isn’t…” you groan as you slide your hand up his bicep. Fuck, he’s strong. “...it isn’t a crazy idea to help each other out, right? We’re friends. It’s just two friends giving each other a hand…”

Wade dips down to run the bridge of nose along the line of your jaw, letting his lips drop to the pulse in your neck.

“Just friends…” he mutters. You buck up into nothing. Oh, god. You’re going to die here. “Baby?”

Oh shit, oh fuck. You want him to call you that over and over again, stamp it into your fucking mind.

“Yeah?” you reply, the word ripped rawly from your throat.

“I wanted to do this before we even left this goddamn apartment, you think I might have changed my mind after the mutant viagra?”

He pulls back just enough for you to see the seriousness on his face. No, he’s not joking, not saying something dirty just because he thinks it’s funny. 

He’s saying it because it’s true, and it’s both thrilling and terrifying. 

“Can I?”

Oh, it’s so tempting to say yes yes yes… but the more tempting thing is to tease him. Just a little.

You hook your leg over his shoulder and he groans as you dig your heel into the muscle of his back. He groans loud and long.

“Wade?”

“Mmm?”

“Ask me properly.”

His breath hitches in his throat, and you’re pretty sure he’s making a mess in his suit.

“Fuck, can I eat you out, baby? Please?”

You nod so fast you fear you’ll break your neck.

Wade lifts you like you weigh fucking nothing at all, strong arms scooping you up and bringing you to the couch - desperate for more space. His hands move quick and roughly as he goes to the pants on your suit, so wracked with need his fingers shake just from the promise of getting to touch you properly. You help him as much as you can, toeing off your boots and helping him tug your underwear off along with your waistband. His eyes widen as he realises your panties are in his hands. He takes a moment to run his thumb over the cotton of them and he fucking moans. Oh, god damn it, you’re going to be fucking ruined.

“Fuck. Never seen a pussy look this good,” he breathes as he finds himself face-to-face with your dripping cunt. You’re already so wet that it’s embarrassing and, while it would be easy enough to blame on the pollen, you know that you’ve wanted this for months. When he drags his tongue up your puffy, desperate folds, you pretty much combust.

“Oh shit,” you groan, wrapping your other leg round his face to hold him flush against you - not that Wade needs any convincing though, because you’ve never seen a man so desperate to fuck you with his mouth before. He buries himself in you, scarred hands reaching up to dig into the soft skin of your thighs and keep you steady. He wants you at his own pace, it seems, and is strong enough to make it happen. Fuck, you are not complaining.

Wade’s eyes flit upwards to see how you’re reacting as he moves his whole face side to side to bury himself into your cunt deeper. It’s like he’s trying to find where your scent is the strongest and, honestly? With what you’ve heard about this pollen stuff? Seems right on track. He has no hair for you to bury your fingers in so instead you press your hand to the top of his head and pull him closer, because god knows you don’t have the ability to vocalise it. You sink your fingernails in so he knows, though.

Holy hell you’ve never felt so good. The pollen is heightening everything, each movement he makes into you shooting shockwaves through your nerves. Wade’s tongue is insistent in exploring every inch of you, pressing bluntly into your clit; lapping at the wetness seeping from you like he’ll die if he can’t taste what he’s doing to you; dragging down to your ass and toying with you there, too. Yes, fuck, anything he goddamn wants. When his teeth skim the needy folds of your cunt you jackknife into his mouth, almost breaking them clean out of his gums.

“Holy shit, babe. What’s gotten into you?” he chuckles, pupils so blown wide with lust that his eyes are eclipsed with black. You chase after him with your hips.

“Not you, and that’s the problem,” you harrumph. He grins and you see how covered with your slick he is and fuck you are going to die here. 

“I’ll take care of you. That’s what friends do, right?” he asks, putting emphasis on the word you’re both masquerading behind. When you reach out with a searching hand he threads his finger through yours wordlessly, using the other to grab a pillow so he has something to fuck up against. You feel a tiny bit bad for not offering to help but you know he’ll get his in time - in fact just thinking about sucking his cock your mouth begins to water.

He presses his palm into yours as he goes back to your cunt with his mouth. It takes only moments for him to start up his desperate pace again, tongue sinfully sweet, and you’re chasing and chasing…

Stars explode in your vision and in your blood. The noise you let out is feral, a euphony of pleasure and you don’t care who hears. Wade’s eyes drift close as he tastes your orgasm directly at his lips, drinking you down. You’re certain his hips stutter as he comes just from getting you off. Oh god it’s so hot.

Oh god, you’re not done.

Wade surges up your body and kisses you ferociously, you moan at the taste of yourself he gives back. 

“Fuck, yes, do you taste that, baby? What did I do to you? Holy fuck you are the hottest thing I’ve ever seen…”

“Wade, I need you.”

“Yeah, fuck, okay. Let me get this stupid sexy suit off…”

Hands begin to fumble messily, needily at each other’s zippers in order to strip. You sit up to get a better handle on him—

And freeze when you see you have an audience.

Wade follows your gaze to where Logan is standing in the bedroom doorway. He’s managed to get his suit off and change back into his jeans, though you can’t imagine he’ll want to stay in them for long the way his trapped cock is staining dark blue denim even darker. He’s gripping the doorframe with such force that his claws have popped out, eyes a matching pitch black to Wade’s, chest heaving as he watches the show.

“You okay, honey badger?” Wade drawls, a cocky smile dragging across him. Logan grunts. Swallows hard. You go for a softer tactic.

“Logan, sweetheart, you wanna join in?” your voice is husky as you ask, oh so inviting. Logan squeezes his eyes shut and his fist tight, taking a chunk out of the wall.

“Get into the goddamn bedroom, both of you,” he growls. The two of you absolutely do not need to be told twice. Partially undressed you vault over the back of the dishevelled sofa, letting Logan lead the way. As soon as you’re within arms’ reach he snags you around the waist and pulls you in for a kiss.

Logan kisses like he wants to devour you. Rough, commanding, dragging his tongue into your mouth as if trying to claim you. Oh, you’ll let him a hundred times over. You mewl when his hand reaches down you cup your still dripping pussy, immediately swiping a thumb against your clit. It pulses as if Wade didn’t just pull an orgasm out of you.

“Fuckin’ needy little thing,” he snarls, delighted. You reach down to grab the bulge he’s rocking, squeezing hard enough to get him to groan.

“Look who’s talking,” you chuckle. He taps at the top of your suit, an instruction. 

“Off,” he says, but that’s as much as he gets to say, because Wade grabs him by the beard and steers him in for a kiss. You pause for just a second to see what will happen but clearly you needn’t have worried - Logan moans into your friend’s mouth, grabbing a handful of Wade’s pretty decent ass and digging in his fingers. While they’re busy you finish stripping, going for the zipper on the back of the red suit and pulling it down. It’s such a goddamn stupid design having it at the back like a goddamn prom dress - but at the moment you’re kinda thankful for it because it means you get to kiss along the revealed plain of skin. Wade has such beautiful fucking back muscles, you’ve stared at them for long enough to memorise every damned one.

He steps out of the suit when you get to his feet - yeah, he did come just from eating you out earlier and holy fuck are you proud - and lets out a strangled noise when you bite the meat of his asscheek hard enough to leave a mark.

“Fuck, are you gonna rim me? Because if so I’m a thousand percent down,” he chokes, pulling away from Logan’s mouth and leaving a string of spit between them, evidence of a messy kiss. You shrug.

“You want me to, baby?”

Wade seems to have a crisis of faith as he considers this, letting Logan nibble down the length of his neck; eventually he shakes his head though.

“No, I wanna be inside you, like, yesterday,” he confesses. 

“I’ve got enough room for two,” you state, so absolutely sure the pollen will accommodate that you don’t even need to think about it. Both Wade and Logan suck in a breath at that idea.

“Fuck, baby, aren’t you just perfect,” Logan drawls, grabbing you by the hips as you stand up and pulling you to the pathetic twin bed this apartment was provided with. Not how you wanted this first time to go down but hey, at least it’s going down at all. No longer just a dirty fantasy you bury your fingers into your cunt imagining but a real bonafide liaison (boner-fide liaison, Wade’s voice in your head pipes up).

You paw at his jeans, desperate to have all three of you naked and ready. There’s nothing to hide between you any more. Any boundaries have been not only crossed but decimated, absolutely destroyed beyond repair, and you couldn’t be happier. When his cock falls heavy into your palm you can’t help but suck air in through your teeth at its sheer size. Logan chuckles, gravelly and tempting.

“Oh it’ll fit, baby,” he coos, as if reading your mind. Fuck. Yep, it will. There’s no two ways about it. You’re having both Wade and Logan inside you if it kills you.

He wraps you in his arms before you can have any more thoughts on the matter and pulls you down onto the mattress with him, the pollen in your veins making you feel every touch like the end of a live wire - yet you keep coming back to get shocked. Logan positions himself under you, chest-to-chest, grinning at the way your nipples rub against the coarse and gorgeous hair of his chest. There’s a slapping noise and you realise it’s Wade’s hand on Logan’s thigh, encouraging him to move up the bed.

“Big boy, you know you have to scoot up if this is happening. I’m all for fucking the same pussy together but you have to be realistic…”

Obscured by your body, only you get to see the way Logan rolls his eyes fondly at Wade’s blabbering. He manouveurs you both to allow Wade room to kneel on the mattress behind you and you gasp at the feeling of their cocks bullying at your entrance.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, body on fire and desperate to be extinguished by them. Logan hums in your ear.

“I know, baby, I know. We’ll take care of you.”

“And each other. I got sex-pollened too, old man,” Wade harrumphs, rubbing his head against the slick lips of your cunt. 

“Nobody’s forgetting you, princess,” he murmurs, “now be good and put me inside.”

Logan probably misses the soft hiss Wade lets out at that, but you feel the way the mercenary’s hand wraps around his cock and presses Logan to your empty cunt. You moan in pleasure as he follows the path Wade has laid out and pushes himself inside of you, no resistance given. It takes you only a couple of seconds to adjust to the pure size of him. Holy shit, if this were any other time you’d be falling apart by now, but the way your body pumps with desperation suggests one dick alone isn’t going to be enough.

“You okay?” Logan rumbles by your ear. You cling onto him for dear life, nodding.

“Yeah. Fuck, Wade, I know you’ll fit, you’ve gotta fuck me too.”

Wade doesn’t even have an answer for that. Instead you feel his thumb tug at your lips, stretching you for him - or just watching the way Logan fills you, getting off on the filthy way you’re plugged. Another cock begins to press at your already stuffed hole and you whine.

“S’okay, I gotcha,” Logan says through gritted teeth as he feels Wade’s length slide along his own, the feeling almost overwhelming for him. You drop your head to his shoulder and choke on your own spit as Wade forces himself inside of you. Your cunt feels like it is about to burst into flames in the most satisfying way possible, flowering open between them both.

“Fuck, never felt anything so goddamn tight in my life…” Wade manages. Eventually he bottoms out alongside Logan, both of them sitting snugly inside of you, sharing you, clutched in your warmth. 

“There we go,” Logan growls. “You okay, baby?”

Not knowing if the question is aimed at you or Wade you both whine a yes. Logan laughs and you feel his chest move beneath you, all muscle and heat.

“I’m gonna move now.”

He drags himself out of you, inch by glorious inch, like a match striking against a box and sparking an ember. A deep ragged breath shudders through you at the feeling of it but it is nothing compared to how he slams back inside. Lights flood your periphery. You are going to fucking die between these two men and that is fine. Heaven, even.

Once Wade feels Logan’s rhythm it is too much of a competition for him not to match it. The mercenary’s arms fall either side of your bodies to support himself as he works himself in and out of you, sliding deep as Logan retreats to the tip. Your cunt makes a lewd noise as they piston inside of you and you have never cared about anything less in your life. You are bathed in light, high off this, euphoric over being fucked. A tiny rivulet of drool falls from the edge of your mouth into Logan’s chest hair and he curses at the glorious rawness of it all.

Above you, Wade has finally found his voice again.

“Look at you taking us so well. Oh, fuck, goddamn. I’ve wanted you like this for so long. Remember when we were neighbours, honey? Those guys who you used to bring home… fuck, baby… I used to give myself the old low-five to the sound of you getting fucked…”

You make a pathetic little noise which spurs him onwards. Wade’s mouth drops to your ear.

“...and I used to get angry because I knew I could do it better myself.”

“Oh my god Wade…” you whisper. Tears are beginning to pool in your eyes at the way you’re starting to get overstimulated, two cocks hitting that sweet spot inside you verges on being too much. Were the pollen not still in full force you’re sure you’d need to tap out.

“And you?” Wade’s hand grips Logan’s bicep, squeezing appreciatively. “Do you know what it’s like to wake up every morning and see you shirtless on my couch, and not be able to fuck you? You do it on purpose, peanut, I swear…”

Logan chuckles again, that deep honey-rich sound eked out in magnitudes. 

“And what if I do, Red?”

Wade pauses in his thrusting, you don’t have to see him to know that his eyes are wide.

“Wait, what? For real?”

“Wade!” you whine, reaching over to slap at his arm, annoyed that he’s stopped moving. “Can we all just agree we’ve gotten off to the thought of each other and we’d have fucked eventually anyway?”

The men either side of you seem to think it’s a good compromise to come to and redouble their efforts. All you can do is to cling onto whatever muscles you’re able to find and ride the wave of pleasure. Fireworks go off in your synapses, brain a messy goo of euphoria, cunt fucked out and thoroughly taken care of. 

They speed up, thrusts getting messy and arrhythmic and yet still somehow matching, and you know that they’re going to come together. What a fucking treat, how divine, oh god. Logan’s hands sink into your ass to keep you anchored as his cock goes faster, skin slapping on skin as his sac moves against Wade’s - causing the merc to let out a string of curses - and you’re suddenly flooded with his warm, sticky cum pumping inside you in jets. Wade whines at the feeling of himself being doused and follows Logan’s lead. The filthy cocktail of them drips around both their lengths and out of your hole, falling onto the pathetic mattress below. One last little nudge of the hips is all it takes to push you over the edge again. Your next orgasm is dragged out of you… but you know your body will demand more.

For now, though, respite. The urge to reach that peak again immediately has at least settled for the moment.

“Holy fuck,” you sigh. Logan hums an affirmative note, fingers playing with the small of your back as Wade peppers kisses across your shoulderblades.

“We should go on stakeouts more often, if this is the nice little bow everything gets tied up in,” Wade sighs, dreamily. You nod against Logan’s chest. His hair rubs your cheek deliciously. Your pussy throbs again, reminding you this dirty escapade needs to continue soon. “So what does this mean? Are we a little mutant charcuterie now?”

Your brow furrows as you try to parse what Wade has just said.

“Oh. Wade, baby, do you mean ‘coterie’?”

Logan bursts out laughing, a noise you’ve never properly heard before, and it has you grinning - and Wade, too, even though he grumbles a little at being corrected. Their cocks jostle inside you and you feel them getting hard again and, as you prepare yourself for round two, it’s nice to know that whatever the three of you face at the end of this will be happy.

Three days later, you’re laid across the couch, head in Wade’s lap and legs in Logan’s, all tangled together as you get the single worst telling-off of your life.

“Non-lethal mission, Wade! How many times did I have to tell you, it was meant to be non-lethal!” Piotr shouts down the line. Wade grimaces.

“Look, there were other things we had to sort out first, okay? We kinda forgot about the no-killing part. Besides the guy can’t traffic drugs if he’s dead,” he confesses. You can picture Piotr’s disappointed face.

“Other things!? WHAT other things, Wade?!”

“Okay so there was this horny pollen, and we all had to—”

Logan grabs Wade’s phone and hurls it across the room. It shatters into pieces against the wall. Wade gawps.

“Hey! That was new! Well, okay, not new, but it wasn’t cracked. Well, it was cracked, but it had all my best dick pics on there!”

“You can take new ones,” Logan states. 

You smile. Yeah. The charcuterie is nice.

[v6quewrlds]

NEVER TOO MUCH, CHARLES LECLERC.

pairing⠀⁎⠀charles leclerc x reader. word count⠀⁎⠀4.1k.

summary⠀⁎⠀being apart from charles is difficult enough. being apart from Charles while he's miserable on the other side of the world is worse.

author's note⠀⁎⠀requested by @xolilyxo! used this as an excuse to practice my french pls don't be mean if it's incorrect lmao <3 warnings⠀⁎⠀none, just grumpy charles & fluff!

Charles was absolutely miserable. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and his body felt like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry. The relentless humidity of Singapore had made it impossible for him to get comfortable in his racing suit, and the constant up and down of the weekend was weighing on him. With Ferrari's recent momentum over the last few races, he came into Singapore hoping for a podium, maybe even a win. But so far, everything had gone wrong.

The car was not responding as expected, and he was lagging behind the other drivers. Each corner was a battle, each straight a struggle. His mind raced faster than his car, thinking of what he could've done differently, what setup changes could be made, and how he would explain his performance to the press that was inevitably eager to rip him to shreds.

To make matters worse, you, his girlfriend, weren't there to offer her usual comfort and support. He'd been looking forward to seeing your smiling face in the stands, cheering him on, but your work commitments had held you back. The two of you had talked briefly over FaceTime, your gentle voice a balm to his frayed nerves, but it wasn't the same as having you there, your hand in his, your belief in him, carrying him through the toughest moments. Even as everything seemed to fall apart, you remained steadfast with your encouragement, reminding him of his strengths, and assuring him that you knew he could turn it around.

He was aware his team wasn't having a good time in Singapore either; mostly due to his mood. The mechanics worked tirelessly, sweat dripping from their faces as they tried to figure out the issues with the car. His engineers were equally as stressed, poring over data, trying to find that elusive solution. Everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells around him, though he couldn't find it in himself to care. He knew he was being a nightmare to deal with, but he couldn't help it. The pressure was crushing him, and he didn't have access to the valve to relieve it.

You cursed under your breath, your eyes glued to your phone screen, propped up by a stack of binders and papers. You had previously promised yourself you'd just watch a few moments of Free Practice 2, just enough to get an idea of how Charles was doing, then you'd get right back to work, but you hadn't been able to tear yourself away. You saw him fighting the car, the frustration in his voice echoing through your headphones whenever the broadcast allowed a snippet of his comms. The crash was sudden, jolting you out of your chair. Your heart plummeted as the screen showed the wreckage of the #16 Ferrari. You felt cold despite the warmth of your cardigan.

After what felt like an eternity, you saw Charles climb out, visibly fuming but uninjured. You released a sigh of relief, your hand flying to your chest as if to keep your racing heart in place. That's when the idea struck you, a wild, slightly mad idea, but it grew roots in your mind. You had to go to him, you had to be there. If you could get all your work done tonight, maybe you'd be able to make it to Singapore in time for qualifying. Without a second thought, you began typing away on your laptop. You could sleep on the plane, you'd do anything to be by his side.

Your fingers flew over the keys, sending emails, finishing up reports, and delegating tasks to your colleagues. The office grew quiet as the hours ticked by, and the last few lights started to dim as your coworkers called it a night. But not you. You were fueled by adrenaline and love, your eyes never leaving your screen except for brief glances at the clock. The minutes turned to hours, and the glow of your laptop cast the only light in the otherwise darkened room.

Finally, with a click of the send button, you leaned back in your chair, the tension draining from your body. You had done it. Now, you had to pack. You created a checklist in your mind as you made the drive to your apartment. Quickly, you showered and changed into comfortable travel clothes. You packed your luggage, selecting only the most important items, knowing you'd need to be efficient with your carry-on.

At the airport, you checked your phone for any updates from Charles. There were two new messages.

Today was shit. But thank you for asking. Two days left in this nightmare.

I can't wait to be home, mon amour. Your voice notes are the only thing keeping me from going crazy.

The text from Charles was heart-wrenching, his misery clear even through the screen, and it was all the motivation you needed to keep moving. You checked in your luggage, boarded your flight, and hoped for the best. The hours passed slowly, a mix of movies, snacks, and the occasional nod off into fitful sleep. You dreamed of his arms around you, of whispered encouragements, and, oddly, the smell of burning rubber and gasoline that always lingered around him after a day on the track.

When the plane finally touched down in Singapore, the early morning light was already harsh. You made your way through the airport, adrenaline pushing back the weariness that threatened to consume you. The threat of being photographed at the track was your only incentive to change into a more presentable dress. The open-back maxi-length burgundy material of your summer dress clung to your torso, its square neck making room for the delicately stacked necklaces you had chosen before flowing into a loose skirt with crisscrossing detail across your back. Your hair was pulled back into a sleek bun, your makeup minimal but just enough to hide the dark circles under your eyes.

You grabbed your phone, checking the time again. You had to hurry. The hospitality suite was your first destination, the secret mission making your heart race. The walk to the track from the hotel was a blur of excitement and nerves. The buzz of activity grew louder as you approached the paddock, the sound of engines revving in the background like a symphony of power. You spotted Mia, Charles' press officer, and your heart skipped a beat.

"Ah, you! Charles said you couldn't make it!" exclaimed Mia when she saw you, her eyes lighting up with surprise and relief. You exchanged kisses to the cheeks, a familiar greeting, and Mia's smile grew wider as she took in the sight of the woman who singularly had the power to turn their weekend around.

"I wasn't supposed to. He doesn't know I'm here," you whispered, your eyes sparkling with excitement. You watched as Mia's expression shifted from surprise to pure glee. "But I had to come. Every time I've spoken to him, he's sounded so… miserable. How is he today? Did he manage to get some rest last night?"

Mia rolled her eyes. "He's been a nightmare. I'm honestly surprised he hasn't snapped anyone's head off yet," she said with a laugh. "But seriously, he needs you. He's been so hard on himself, and his mood has been affecting everyone." She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I'll make sure to keep your secret until he can see you. He should be in the private area until it comes time to prepare quali strategy."

With a nod of thanks, you made your way through the bustling paddock, your sandals clicking on the pavement as you tried to stay calm. You felt like a spy on a mission, your heart racing every time you heard someone speak French in passing. Finally, you reached the Ferrari hospitality suite and slipped in unnoticed. You caught your reflection in a mirror and took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress and running your fingers over your hair to make sure everything was in place. This was it.

He stood in Ferrari merch, the muscles in his back tense as his voice carried through the suite. He was speaking in rapid French, his gestures animated. You knew that tone in his voice, knew that he was venting his frustration. You took a moment to appreciate him from afar, the way his rosso corsa polo clung to his broad shoulders and the way his thick, messy brown hair stuck up in all directions as a result of the humidity. His back was turned to you, and you took a step closer, your heels clicking softly on the tiles.

Fred stood in front of his driver, his arms crossed over his chest as he nodded solemnly, listening to Charles' concerns. As you approached, you could just make out the dark circles under Fred's eyes, a testament to the sleepless nights they had all endured. The scent of engine oil and rubber filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of espresso that seemed to follow the team wherever they went.

The Frenchman's eyebrows rose as he took in the sight of you approaching his driver quietly. You lifted your index finger to your lips, signaling him to keep the surprise. He nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips, and backed away slightly to give you a moment of privacy.

Charles continued ranting, oblivious to the soft footsteps approaching from behind. The heat and stress had painted a picture of a man on the edge, his body language shouting his dissatisfaction. Finally, you were close enough. You reached out, your hand pressing gently against his back, between his shoulder blades.

"Cha, tu as besoin d'un verre d'eau?" you asked sweetly, the French words leaving your glossed lips imperfectly but with enough charm to melt through Charles' frustration.

"Non, merci, je suis bon," Charles responded without looking up from his conversation with Fred, his voice clipped and frustrated.

He opened his mouth to continue speaking but was cut off as the realization of who had just spoken to him hit him. His body stiffened and he spun around, his eyes widening when he saw you standing there. For a brief moment, the chaos of the garage, the weight of his performance woes, and the oppressive heat of Singapore all faded away. He was simply stunned.

He exclaimed your name, his voice cracking with a mix of surprise and relief. He stepped toward you, and you met him halfway, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kissed him softly. His arms tightened around your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground, and the tension drained from his body as he returned the kiss with desperate passion.

You laughed as he finally set you down, the sound music to his ears. "You really weren't expecting me?" you said, your eyes sparkling.

"I had no idea," he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. "But you were right, I could use some water." He cupped your face in his hands, giving you one last kiss before breaking away. "Je suis tellement content que tu sois ici," he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek as he voiced his appreciation for your surprise.

Fred clapped his hands together, joy erupting from his eyes. "Well, it looks like you will be busy until the strategy meeting," he said with a knowing smile before giving you a nod of approval. "Deux heures, Charles," he reminded him of the time left until the team's pre-qualifying meeting as he walked away, leaving you and Charles in the quiet corner of the hospitality suite.

"How did you manage this?" Charles asked, still in disbelief, pulling you into a hug that felt like home.

You chuckled against his chest. "An all-nighter and a very early flight," you replied, your voice muffled by the fabric of his Ferrari polo. You stepped back, your hands sliding over his shoulders as his hands found your waist. "But it was worth it to see your face."

"I can't believe you're here," Charles said, his eyes searching yours. He leaned in for another kiss, the kind that made your toes curl, and you responded with all the love you’d been saving up over your week apart.

"I missed you," you murmured, your cheek against his. "I know this weekend has been hell for you. I had to come be with you."

He sighed, his arms tightening around you. "Merci, mon cœur. It means the world to me." He pulled back to look into your eyes, his verdant gaze filled with a mix of gratitude and love. "Would you like my room key? I can take you to the suite; you can rest a bit."

"I'm fine," you assured him, your smile genuine and soothing. "I've had plenty of coffee. I'd rather spend every minute with you before you go out there."

You sat together in the suite, the air-conditioning bringing relief from the sticky, heavy Singaporean heat outside. The TV screens around you were muted, displaying the endless loops of yesterday's spins and today's qualifying preparations. Charles pulled your legs into his lap, his strong hands rubbing the tension from your calves as he talked about the car, his voice revealing a mix of frustration and dedication. You listened intently, nodding here and there, your fingers playing with the brown locks at the nape of his neck. You peppered kisses between sentences, the tension in his shoulders dissipating like fog in the morning sun.

"I've been so hard on myself," he said, his voice dropping. "I'm trying to remain positive, but it's tough when everything feels like it's going wrong."

You leaned in, your hand reaching to cradle his cheek. "You're going to be okay," you whispered. "You always find a way to learn from the tough moments. This is just another chance to show everyone how strong you are."

Your words seemed to have a calming effect on him, his breaths evening out as he nodded slowly. "Merci, mon amour," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Thank you for being here, for believing in me."

The time for the strategy meeting grew closer, and the air in the suite grew tenser. Charles checked his watch for the umpteenth time. "I should go," he said reluctantly, his thumb stroking your hand. "But I'll see you after qualifying?"

"Of course, my love," you replied, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "I'll be watching from the garage."

You watched as Charles reluctantly pulled away, shifting into the right mindset as he walked toward his team. A warmth spread through your chest, knowing that you'd managed to brighten his day, if only for a brief moment. The garage was a hive of activity as you made your way there. The Ferrari mechanics and engineers moved with a fluid grace, each one a master of their craft, working tirelessly to ensure the cars were ready for the battle that was qualifying. You were greeted by surprised and grateful nods from the team members as you took your place in the garage, a headset handed to you to listen in on the conversations between Charles and his engineers.

The air grew thick with tension as qualifying approached, the hum of the engines increasing in volume and intensity. The lights above the pit lane switched to green, and one by one, the cars began to roll out onto the track. Through the headset, you heard Charles' calm voice as he communicated with his team, the words in Italian and English a reassuring presence in your ears. Each lap was a dance between man and machine, a dance you had become all too familiar with but that never ceased to amaze you. Your heart was in your throat as you watched the screens, your eyes flicking between the timing boards and the live feed of the cars streaking around the floodlit circuit.

As the minutes ticked away, you could feel the pressure building in the garage. The air was electric with anticipation and nerves. The engineers called out to each other in hushed tones, making last-minute adjustments to the car. The tire changers stood at the ready, poised like sprinters waiting for the gun. The sound of the cars grew louder, and you knew that meant Charles was approaching for his flying lap. The garage went quiet, all eyes glued to the screens.

The first set of qualifying rounds went by in a blur. Each time Charles managed to pull off a clean lap, the garage erupted into cheers and sighs of relief. The tension grew tauter as the final round approached, with the top ten drivers fighting for the pole position. Your eyes never left the screens, your nails digging into her palms as you watched your love push the car to its limits. Your lips parted in a whispered prayer, hoping that the mechanical gremlins that had plagued him all weekend would finally leave him alone.

The final minutes of qualifying were upon them, and the air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and anticipation. The Ferrari engines screamed as the drivers took their final laps. Your heart raced in time with the cars, your eyes flicking between the clock and the positioning of Charles' car. Each time he flew past the pit lane, the mechanics held their breath, waiting for the next set of times to flash across the screens.

And then it was his final chance. The tension in the garage was palpable as Charles roared out of the pit and onto the track. His tires squealed in protest as he pushed the car through the first few turns. His voice remained calm, almost serene, as he communicated with his engineer over the radio. The headset pressed against your ears, you heard every gear change, every sigh of the engine, as if you were in the car with him.

Your eyes darted from screen to screen, tracking his progress. The car looked stable, the lines he took precise and aggressive. Your heart thumped in your chest, each beat echoing the rhythm of his tires on the asphalt. The seconds ticked away, the air in the garage thick with hope and anticipation. The crowd's roar grew louder as the cars approached the final sector.

"Come on, baby," you murmured under your breath, willing him to find that extra tenth of a second. The screens tracked his car as it approached the line, and the garage held their collective breath. The time flashed up: P3. Third on the grid.

Your heart soared, and you let out a cheer of victory that was echoed around the garage. The tension broke like a dam, and the team erupted into cheers and applause. Charles thanked Bryan, his engineer, over the radio, his voice tight with relief. He had done it. He had pushed through the pressure and the exhaustion to give them a fighting chance for the race tomorrow.

You felt a hand on your shoulder and turned to find Mia grinning at you. "Looks like your surprise was the good luck charm we needed," she said with a wink as she reciprocated the hug. "He's been a different man since you arrived."

The qualifying session concluded with a flurry of activity. Drivers were debriefing, cars were being serviced, and the garage was buzzing with the aftermath of adrenaline. Through the chaos, Charles seemed lighter in the press pen and during the top qualifiers press conference. His smile was more genuine, his words less clipped and frustrated. When he finally returned to the garage, his eyes searched for yours and held them for a beat longer than usual. The connection was a silent acknowledgment that your presence had made a difference.

"A domani," Charles called out, his smile reaching his eyes for the first time in days as he waved to the Ferrari hospitality staff. His left hand found the handle of your suitcase, his other arm around your shoulders, his fingers tangling with yours. The short walk to the Ritz Carlton was filled with chatter about the qualifying session, his voice animated with excitement and relief. The tension of the day had melted away, and in its place was the man you knew and loved.

The hotel room was cool and serene, polar opposite to the temperature of the track. You watched him as he tossed his phone and wallet onto the dresser. He stepped closer, his hand reaching for your face, his thumb brushing away the hint of sweat on your cheek. His eyes searched yours, a silent question of how you were feeling. You gave him a tired smile, the kind that said you had missed him more than words could convey. You stood there for a moment, just breathing each other in, before he pulled you closer and kissed you deeply, the stress of the day dissipating in the warmth of your mouth.

You softly urged him to shower while you handled the ordering of room service. As the water ran in the bathroom, you called down to the hotel's restaurant. You ordered your favorites, a mix of Italian and local dishes you had discovered during previous trips to the city-state. While waiting for the food, you slipped into the adjoining bathroom, your eyes scanning over his open suitcase, the disarray of his clothes mirroring the chaos of his weekend so far.

The water stopped, and you could hear the rustling of the shower curtain as he stepped out. You took a deep breath, the anticipation building as you listened to the patter of his bare feet on the cool marble floor. He emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked at you, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. "Tu m'as manqué, ma belle," he murmured, pulling you into his arms and kissing you as if he hadn't seen you in months.

Your cheeks flushed as his hands roamed over your body, his touch setting your skin alight. You melted into his embrace, his warmth seeping into your bones, chasing away the fatigue from your surprise trip. His kisses grew more insistent, trailing down your neck and across your collarbone.

"Cha," you laughed. "I've missed you too. But it's getting late, and you need to eat before you crash." You playfully pushed him away and gestured toward the bed where the room service tray had been set.

You left him to change as you slipped into the bathroom for your own shower. The cool spray washed away the grime of the flight and the stickiness of the track, and you felt rejuvenated as you stepped out, wrapping a towel around yourself. When you emerged, the room was filled with the mouthwatering aromas of your dinner.

You sat side by side on the bed, your plates balanced on your laps, as you picked at your food, sharing bites and stories from your week apart. You talked about everything and nothing, the mundane and the monumental, filling in the gaps of your time together. Each bite of food brought a new smile to Charles' face, his appetite returning with the comfort of your company.

He continued to ramble as his head found your chest, the sound of his voice a comforting background to the quiet symphony of the city outside your hotel window. His words grew slower as he drifted off to sleep, and you listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the weight of his head against you.

"I still can't believe you're here," Charles murmured against your skin, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through your very soul. "It means so much to me."

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, your hand continuing to stroke his hair. "I was so worried about you," you whispered. "I had to be here."

"Apparently, you being here is the best thing that's happened to me all weekend," Charles laughed, his eyes fluttering open briefly to look at you before closing again. "Et demain, on gagne," he declared his desire for victory with a yawn, his accent thick and sleepy.

You smiled, your fingers scratching his jaw gently. "Demain, on gagne," you echoed, your voice filled with the belief that together you could conquer the world.

"I wish it wasn't so hard," Charles mumbled into your chest, his eyes still closed. "The distance, the schedule. It's killing me."

Your heart squeezed. "I know, my love. But all the sacrifice, all the flights, all the time apart, all of it is worth it for moments like these." You kissed his forehead, feeling his warmth, his closeness. "I'm so proud of you for pushing through. You're gonna kick some McLaren ass tomorrow."

He chuckled sleepily, the sound reverberating against your chest. "I'll do my best."

[barnesunlight]

tempura and charles leclerc

tempura: "i'm sorry, babe, are those flashcards?"

view the menu here!

You had never met anyone's family before.

Sure, you had met your friend's family. But boyfriend's family? No, never.

You have heard all the excuses, "How about we wait a little longer", "They don't like to meet new people." and even, "I only let them meet people I'm serious about." That one hurt.

You thought Charles would be the same. So when you brought up the topic of meeting each other's parents. You had prepared yourself for the inevitable rejection.

Only for him to perk up and grin, "I've been meaning to ask you! Do you want to meet my family first? They've been dying to meet you!"

Wait what?

The surprise was clear on your face, and you quickly sputtered out, "No! I mean-Yeah? Yeah, yeah that's good."

That was a week ago. And you hadn't stopped stressing since.

You didnt know what to do, or how you were supposed to act? Probably posh right, yeah families like posh.

You just had to figure out what posh was.

Two days before the dreaded meeting, you came up with a wonderful solution. Studying.

What do people do when they want to feel prepared? Study.

You quickly ran off to the store and picked up a pack of one hundred flash cards. Then you got to work.

You learned everything you could possibly learn about The Leclerc family. Well, everything you could find online. Which was surprisingly a lot.

It was t-minus thirty minutes until the meeting. You were sitting on the corner of your bed, quickly going over everything you've memorized.

"Arthor's twenty-four.." you mumbled to yourself, "Born in the year 2000, and his birthday is..." you paused, anxiously fidgeting with your fingers. "Shit!" you cursed, reaching under your pillow and pulling out your stack of flashcards. Not noticing Chalres who had just walked into your room.

"October 14!" You shook your head, pulling up the flashcard, "Arthur Leclerc, born October 14, 2000."

You sighed, turning around, jumping at the sight of Charles standing by the doorway, surprise clear on his face. You quickly hid the stack of flashcards behind your back.

Charles walked up to you, his lips pursed, "I'm sorry, babe, are those flashcards?"

You opened and closed your mouth a couple times, before squeaking out, "No?"

Charles mouth slowly turned up into a smile, “I can see you hiding them.”

You eyed him, leaning back and shaking your head, he wrapped his arms around you in lighting speed, forcing the cards of your hands.

He switched through them as you cringed into yourself, this was it, he was going to call you a weirdo and break up with you.

You watched him anxiously, not noticing the small smile on his face, “This is…a-lot.” he managed.

You jumped to your defense, “I’m not a stalker i swear! I just..like to be prepared, and this is all stuff you can find online, so it’s not like I…dug deep.”

Just then you noticed the smile on his face, “Your not mad?” you whispered.

Charles shook his head, throwing the flash cards on your bed, “No not mad. This is really cute.”

“Seriously?” you squeaked.

“Don’t get me wrong…this is weird.” He laughed, “But at least you care right?”

“I do care!” you cut him off, “I really do!”

Charles smiled softly, interlining his fingers with you, “Good. It makes it less creepy.”

You two smiled at each other, before making your way out of the bedroom.

“Can we not tell people about this?” you mumbled offhandedly.

Charles laughed, “No way. This will be in my wedding vows.”

[hivemuthur]

If you’re comfortable, can I request Viktor dating hcs where reader has adhd? If not, that’s fine!

Hi Anon! Here's your HCs!

ViktorXADHD!Reader HeadCannons

viktorxgn!reader general, fluff and again we have Viktor setting impossible standards for real-life partners (for me, I'm the partner :v)

author’s note: I wish I was this kind of partner guys :')

word count: 0,8K

—

✧ Viktor notices almost immediately that your mind moves fast—sometimes faster than even his own. He finds it fascinating, the way your thoughts jump from one topic to another, connecting things he wouldn't have considered.

✧ When you start rambling about a new hyperfixation, he listens intently, chin propped in his hand, soft smile on his lips. If it's something he can research, he’ll surprise you with a fact about it later, just to see your face light up.

✧ “You know, I read something about that,” he says casually, and the way you snap to attention fills him with warmth.

✧ He isn’t bothered when you interrupt him mid-sentence; he knows it’s because you’re engaged, not because you aren’t listening. That being said, if he really needs to get a point across, he’ll gently cup your face and say, “Lásko, let me finish.”

✧ If you forget important things—appointments, meals, deadlines—he doesn’t scold you. Instead, he subtly helps. “Did you eat today?” he asks while placing an apple in your hand. “You have an appointment tomorrow morning, yes? I will set an alarm for you.”

✧ He understands how frustrating it is to want to do something but not be able to focus on it. If you’re struggling with executive dysfunction, he sits with you, offering quiet encouragement. Sometimes, just knowing he’s there makes it easier.

✧ You tend to leave things half-finished, starting a new task before completing the last. Viktor doesn't mind; he simply places a bookmark in your abandoned book, keeps your projects organised, and gently reminds you where you left off.

✧ “You were working on this earlier,” he says, nudging a notebook toward you. “Shall we finish it together?”

✧ If your hyperactivity manifests physically, he lets you fidget with his fingers, his cane, even the hem of his sleeve. He likes it—it means you feel safe enough to do so.

✧ On days when your thoughts feel like an untamed storm, Viktor grounds you. He speaks softly, rubs soothing circles into your palm, and reminds you to take deep breaths.

✧ Viktor notices when you’re upset before you even say a word. Your usual energy dims, your gaze lingers unfocused, and your hands fidget more than usual. He doesn’t press you to talk—he knows that sometimes, finding the words is the hardest part.

✧ “We have three options,” he says, brushing his fingers against yours. “We talk about it now, we do not talk about it at all, or I will check in with you again in an hour.”

✧ The relief you feel is instant. He doesn’t need you to spell out what you need; he gets it. And when you squeeze his hand in silent gratitude, he simply squeezes back.

✧ Viktor doesn’t complain about your habit of draping half your wardrobe over the back of the chair. To him, it looks chaotic—but to you, it’s a system.

✧ “Why do you not put them away?” he asks, genuinely curious.

✧ “Because they aren’t dirty, but they aren’t clean either,” you explain.

✧ He nods as if that is the most logical thing in the world. “Ah. A liminal space for clothing. Understood.” And he's never brought it up again.

✧ Keeping the house organised is a delicate balance between Viktor’s methodical nature and your tendency to misplace things.

✧ He has congratulated himself more than once for coming up with transparent food containers.

✧ It's a small gesture, but got you tearing up. “You brilliant, brilliant man,” you say, bewildered, stacking them up in the most visible spots on your kitchen shelves.

✧ At some point, Viktor realised that opened food items exist in a strange limbo in your mind—neither fresh nor expired, just schrödinger’s groceries.

✧ His solution? A red marker pen, always within reach.

✧ Every milk carton, juice bottle, or half-used sauce now has the date of opening scrawled on it in his precise handwriting.

✧ “You are absurdly efficient,” you admit, watching him carefully mark the oat milk.

✧ “Efficient?” He smirks. “No, I simply dislike the phrase ‘I don’t know if this is still good, smell it for me.’”

✧ You fall asleep best when there’s something playing in the background—a podcast, an audiobook, even a video you’ve watched a hundred times.

✧ At first, Viktor found it odd, but now? He’s grown used to it. If anything, he finds the murmur of voices comforting when you fall asleep curled into him.

✧ He even takes the time to pick something out for you if you’re too tired to choose. “I selected a lecture on quantum mechanics,” he says with a small smile. “I expect you will be asleep before the introduction is over.”

✧ He doesn’t see your ADHD as a flaw. He sees you—brilliant, creative, full of energy and passion. And he loves you for it.

[hannie-dul-set]

IT’S NOT WORTH TRYING TO LEARN OTHER PEOPLE’S LOVE LANGUAGES.

p — MYUNG JAEHYUN x fem! reader. g — humor, fluff, park sungho learns a lesson about minding his own business. w — swearing, death threats (as a form of flirting). 1.5k words.

requested by — @gluion “go kill yourself x “i’m pretty sure they have a crush on me”

note — part of my ship dynamics: insane edition gimmick. this is very the breakup soup coded. i just like writing about a bunch of idiots stressing about the dumpster fire love life of their friend. enjoy.

myung jaehyun’s friends are pretty sure he’s had a very stable, very loving, very normal upbringing.

“stop staring at me, you fucking creep.”

“sorry, i didn’t mean to make your heart flutter. can’t help it when you’re so pretty.”

“i’ll stab your fucking eyes out.”

“my eyes are all yours, pretty.”

so they can’t wrap their head around why he’s acting like he has not a single ounce of self-respect in his body. sungho and leehan watch as their pitiful friend gets shut down again by the most venomous glare, hostile sneer, deflected by the biggest pair of heart eyes in the world that’s ever longingly following your disappearing figure out the library door. “she wants me so bad,” he concludes with a self-righteous smile as he arranges his notes into one neat stack. sungho and leehan share a look. god almighty, please grant their friend wisdom and salvation.

“what...what makes you say that?” sungho attempts to prod. the first step to finding a solution is to figure out the situation. they need to know why myung jaehyun is so down bad for you, and why he’s so convinced that you feel the same way.

“huh?” jaehyun perks up. like he’s genuinely confused sungho has to ask that. “she was so flustered earlier. couldn’t you tell? it was adorable.”

“she threatened to mutilate you…?” 

jaehyun beams. “she sure did.”

there...there is no point trying to understand him, sungho concludes. leehan is, for lack of a better word, getting mildly frustrated. “hyung, what the hell?” he raises. “if telling someone you want them dead is an indication of romantic feelings, then my middle school bullies must’ve been head over heels for me.”

a silence. a pause. “we’ll unpack that later,” sungho tells him. then shifts his attention back to problem child number one. “you. you’re a grown man who has full autonomy over his actions and feelings, and i know that. but as your friend, i just can’t keep watching you being disrespected, jaehyun. i can’t help but get angry on your behalf when you greet her good morning and alll she does is tell you to go fuck yourself!”

admittedly, sungho got a little bit heated at the end there. but he has every right to feel this emotion on behalf of his dense and seemingly unaffected friend— who is still sitting there, a smile on his face, hands on his lap like a patient buddha who has learned the true meaning of peace and serenity.

“sungho-yah,” jaehyun starts with a pleasant hum. “there’s no need to worry. the feeling is totally mutual. i’m telling you, she likes me back.”

speechless.

in fact, sungho and leehan are beyond speechless. they have no idea where this ungrounded certainty comes from. they certainly have even less of an idea on how to fix his lovesickness, bordering on insanity.

so, reasonably— they call for backup.

“the only way for him to get his shit together is if he asks her out for real and finally gets rejected for good,” taesan declares confidently. somehow, they see a point. riwoo lets out an echo of agreement. woonhak asks why they’re all excluding jaehyun from this after school garage meeting. “do you guys know when he’s planning on doing that?”

“no idea,” leehan answers. “but maybe we can pressure him into it.”

“so, should we encourage him instead of telling him to give it up?” sungho raises. taesan affirms. sungho lets out a grunt and a huff. “god, that’s gonna be tough.”

a resounding voice of dissent arises from woonhak. “i don’t get why you’re all going against jaehyun-hyung!” he yells indignantly. “let hyung love whoever he wants! this is a free country! you guys can’t dictate his love!”

“he’s received fuck you’s straight in the face and swears she’s flirting, woonhak. you’re too young to understand.”

it’s four votes against one. woonhak can’t win against his hyung’s determination to save myung jaehyun from his self-dug pit of pitifulness that he’d been in ever since laying eyes on you at the freshman orientation. god, they never should’ve went. he never should’ve shot down jaehyun’s suggestion to just skip it. maybe then, myung jaehyun would still be normal.

but this is not the time to lament and regret. it’s time for sungho to right his wrongs. it’s time to bring jaehyun’s self-respect back, they decide. and it starts with a wake-up call in the form of your inevitable, brutal rejection. 

which, for some reason, does not happen as planned.

“what?”

“we’re going on a date.” jaehyun is as chipper as ever and sungho’s ears are starting to ring. “thanks for the encouragement, sungho!”

it’s ringing. it’s ringing so badly. “wait, what do you mean you’re going on a date?” he attempts to clarify, grabbing jaehyun by the shoulders because this is two-parts concerning, one-part kind of…proud? this guy actually succeeded? “she said yes? she didn’t tell you to fuck off and die in a hole?”

“she did. she looked pretty while saying it.” jaehyun answers with a bright grin. nevermind. this is all parts concerning. sungho “she also told me she’d kill me if i pick her up late after her class tomorrow. we’re going to have dinner at the thai restaurant that just opened. riwoo recommended it.”

sungho does not understand. he cannot understand because you, who seems to hate all of myung jaehyun’s guts for no discernible reason, agreed to go on a date with him? hello? has jaehyun been right this whole time? do you really reciprocate his feelings? or is this just some new form of torture? is his friend a masochist? is he the weird one for making a big fucking deal out of this? is this how relationships work nowadays?

a thought enters sungho’s mind.

hold on a second—

“anyway, i gotta go, dude. a pretty girl is waiting for me.”

—what if this date is a ploy for you to finally get the chance to kill him?

oh my god.

“wait!” sungho’s face is pale. his eyes are wide and frantic. “don’t—don’t go on the date!”

“hm?” jaehyun bats his eyes at him, taking a moment to think. then sparkles in realization. “oh! don’t worry. i’m not gonna show up looking like this. i’m gonna head home first to change.”

“that’s not the problem! jaehyun! no! no!”

this is it, his friend is going to die. that is, unless, he shows up on your date just in time to stop it. yes. there’s still a chance. he knows where the date is happening. he’s gonna tell the rest of them because there’s no way in hell they’d allow myung jaehyun’s cause of death to read stupidity by misconstruing your murderous intent as affection. they are not only going to save jaehyun’s life— but his dignity as well.

“remember, be quiet. be inconspicuous. they can’t figure out we’re here.”

hopefully, things go as planned this time. all five of them are gathered in a booth at the said thai restaurant, the eventual scene of the crime unless they do something about it. sungho is surveying the scene to find where you and jaehyun are seated. leehan nearly trips over his unnecessarily long trench coat while trying to cover more ground. woonhak is using the menu as cover but has since gotten distracted and has started to pick out his order with riwoo and taesan. “hyung, is the khao soi good?”

“yeah, we should order it.”

“what drinks should we get?”

this is hopeless. this is a mess. their best friend is about to die and all they can think about is dinner.

no matter. sungho can still take care of this himself. his eyes scan the main restaurant wing, from left to right, until his eyes double over in a screeching halt to the back of a very familiar round head—

“huh.”

the back of a very familiar round head that doesn’t seem to be facing the threat of decapitation.

sungho sees you and jaehyun sitting across from one another, jaehyun’s fairly loud voice raising over the music and utensils clattering, people chatting and passing by. “you’ve got something on your face.”

“touch my face, and i’ll kill y— hey!���

first of all, sungho wants to claw his own eyes out seeing his friend being disgustingly sweet. second, jaehyun did touch your face with a napkin and it does not seem like you’re attempting to murder him. in fact, you look flustered even. flushed despite the harbored glare, still seated despite your apparent derision and disgust. the back of jaehyun’s head looks exceedingly happy. the dots aren’t connecting. sungho is malfunctioning. 

“should…should we interfere…?” leehan asks, his nose barely peeking out of the trench coat collar.

“i think...i think we should just leave them alone.”

“but isn’t his life in danger?”

“i misunderstood.”

forget misunderstanding. sungho can’t even behind to understand in the first place and has settled that he wouldn’t even try so long as myung jaehyun is happy— happy with being on the receiving end of fuck you’s and go to hell’s in response to his you’re so pretty’s and see you tomorrow’s, happy with getting his advances swatted away and shut down, happy with whatever the fuck is going on between you and him that sungho really can’t just wrap his head around.

IT’S NOT WORTH TRYING TO LEARN OTHER PEOPLE’S LOVE LANGUAGES. © hannie-dul-set, 2024.

[blackcat-star]

Do you accept request perhaps? Cause I really wanna request for Igris x reader where reader is Igris lover from back then but sadly died and got reincarnated in today's time as jin-woo old classmate and they finally meet with Igris having bits of their memories and reader remembering everything. This is theme with angst and chaos (from the other shadow)

May Fate Give Us A Chance.

Igris x Fem!Reader.

Note: I finally finish this! After a whole month!!!! ... Lol I'm sorry my dear reader😭

__________

Rain fell in drops against the glass windows of a grand and majestic mansion, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Outside, the neatly trimmed rose garden surrendered to the pouring rain, petals glistening in the distant lightning.

Tonight the weather seems worse than usual.

Winters in this country usually have very little rain, so it was unusual for there to be a sudden downpour like this. It gave people a bad feeling about something. Something dark was about to happen. A separation. Life and death are on the edge and in a struggle.

The war had been going on for almost three years, and there was still no sign of it coming to an end. At present, everything is stabilized by the truce. But everyone knows that it is just an excuse to not have to fight in the current unfavorable weather for both sides. Perhaps before dying on the battlefield, the soldiers died first from the ice and snow, from the rain that penetrated their skin, from the cold, from hunger and thirst. So the truce is now the most suitable solution for both sides. And it also opens up hope for peace negotiations.

Or so we hope.

Inside, the mansion maintained a solemn silence. The silence was broken only by the crackling of a fire in the fireplace of an office, where the commander of the army, Igris, sat reviewing maps spread out on a jet-black ebony table.

Crystal vases glinted, casting amber reflections on the leather-bound books stacked on the table, and on the wooden bookcases. An old sword hung over the fireplace. Nearby was a globe, with some of the borders marked in intricate patterns, a testament to long evenings spent pondering strategy.

Servants moved like ghosts through the corridors, their footsteps muffled by thick Persian rugs. They knew better than to disturb the commander on nights like this, when the rain seemed to add to the weight of the decisions that had to be made before dawn.

The office door creaked open, causing Igris to frown. He was sure that he had asked everyone not to disturb him while he was working, and everyone understood that. Yet what kind of idiot would dare enter without permission.

But when Igris raised his head and saw the figure hiding behind the door, his eyes softened.

His wife, you, in a white woolen nightgown with your hair down, hesitantly peeked your head out at him through the door. "Igris..."

Igris put the map down on the table, immediately stood up and walked towards his wife, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Wife, are you still not asleep?"

You leaned against him, pressing your ear to his chest to hear his heartbeat. "I can't sleep without you."

He gently tightened his arms around you, feeling your small body shivering in the wind and the sound of rain outside the glass window. Inside the large office, the light from the fireplace fell on your face, making your sad eyes seem even softer and more fragile in his.

"I'm sorry," Igris whispered. "I didn't mean to keep you waiting this long."

You just shook your head, your fingers tightening around Igris' thick military coat. "I know you're busy..."

He gently led you to the fireplace, letting you sit down on the red velvet armchair. "Wait for me," Igris said, turning back to the table, carefully folding the map and putting all the papers in the locked drawer. Then he returned, took off his heavy military coat, leaving only his white shirt underneath, and sat down next to you.

He pulled the thick blanket over your legs, then let you sit on his lap, carefully holding you in his arms.

You snuggled into him, letting his warmth dispel the winter and the chill in your heart.

Sensing his mood, Igris gently reached up to stroke your hair. "Is something bothering you?"

"I don't know...," you whispered. "But I have a bad feeling."

You looked up at him. "Igris, will the war end soon?"

It was a difficult question. Igris paused for a moment. For he himself did not know whether the war would end soon, or whether it would take another three years, or even more than twenty years.

"In a few days," he said softly, "there might be news of a peace conference. But at the same time, I have heard some bad rumors."

"Regarding the armistice?"

Igris pondered, his eyes looking at the fire as if looking into the distance. "There are those who do not want peace. If they act sooner than expected, I am not sure if we will be able to react in time."

You were silent for a moment, then placed your hand on his. "If war breaks out, will you go to war again?"

Igris nodded firmly. "As the commander of the army, that is my responsibility. It is only a pity for you, as the wife of a soldier, you may have to endure a lot of hardship and suffering."

You shook your head. "I love you. Ever since I agreed to marry you, I've been prepared for everything." You paused for a few seconds. "But I always hoped you would come back safely."

The wind howled outside the window, accompanied by the sound of rain hitting the glass, like someone crying in the middle of the night.

Finally, Igris squeezed your hand gently. "I will always come back to you, don't worry."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

But both of you knew that this promise was as fragile as a thread.

And in the end, the promise was not fulfilled.

...

The surprise attack broke out at dawn on Wednesday, the sun had not yet risen above the misty horizon.

No warning. No note rejecting the peace treaty. No sign except the rumbling of cannons that seemed to tear the sky apart, shaking the earth and awakening the nightmares that had been sleeping in the hearts of the people.

Igris set out on the coldest morning of winter, under the worried eyes of all the servants in the mansion and the unease in his wife's eyes. He didn't have time to say any words of comfort, only time to leave a hasty kiss on your lips and a final message. "Wait for me to return."

The neighing of a horse sounded, the commander mounted his horse and urged his horse to gallop towards the battlefield.

You stood on the balcony of your bedroom door, between the rows of snow-covered stone pillars, your eyes following the army as it disappeared towards the mountains. Your white cloak fluttered like the wind, blending with the falling snow.

You waited.

A week.

Then a month.

Months passed.

While everyone put aside their grief and eased their fears of war by trying to prepare well for the spring party with the hope of a better future, winter seemed to never end at the commander's mansion.

The royal knights arrived, carefully carrying a box wrapped in the national flag.

The wife was shocked, her face was pale and bloodless. The look of shock and pain was clearly visible on your face. Your limbs felt like they were about to give out, without any strength left.

"We're sorry..."

"Commander Igris' body could not be found in the sea of ​​blood..."

"Please hold back your grief..."

The box was handed to your trembling arms and the knights left with a respectful bow.

You fell to your knees, tears streaming down your cheeks, hugging your husband's remains and sobbing. "You promised to come back..."

___________

You dream the same dream again.

The clash of swords, the thunder of hooves, and the screams of the dying. And at the center of it all, a tall figure in shining purple armor. His name danced at the edges of your consciousness, drifting away like smoke as you tried to grasp it.

Igris.

The name comes to you naturally, a ghostly memory from a life you can't recall. But each night, the dreams came more frequently, more vividly, until they barely felt like dreams at all.

You groaned, rolling out of bed to face another ordinary day at Seoul High School. Another day of trying to pretend that you belonged to this era, in this life. Another day of searching for something, someone, that you couldn't name.

"Are you late again, Miss L/n?" Mr. Kang's disapproving gaze met yours as you entered the classroom.

"Sorry, teacher," you muttered, sitting down next to Jinwoo. The quiet boy barely acknowledged your presence, lost in his own thoughts as usual.

Jinwoo had changed lately. You remembered him being weak. At least about two years ago. Then one day he suddenly stopped going to school and disappeared for two years. When he came back, he brought something with him, some kind of power that surpassed humanity.

Not sure if anyone else saw it, or if you were just paranoid, but this classmate always gave off a strong and dark aura that was suffocating. Sometimes you saw his shadow seem to lengthen, and there were flashes of light from it.

Moreover, for some reason, you felt something familiar.

Realizing you were staring at him, Jinwoo turned around. "Do you need something?"

You immediately flinched and turned away "Sorry!", completely embarrassed when you realized you had been looking at him for too long.

Jinwoo just smiled, his eyes flashing dangerously. He whispered, but you couldn't hear it. "It seems like she can sense you guys."

'You guys' here referring to the shadow soldiers hiding in his shadow.

Beru appeared. "Do you want me to eliminate this person, My Liege!"

Igris immediately appeared and fiercely objected. "No! You must not harm this person!"

Seeing Igris's unusual loss of composure, Jinwoo was curious. "Why?"

The small version of Igris was slightly agitated. The shadow commander pondered for a moment before hesitantly confessing. "This person...resembles my wife in my previous life, My Liege."

Jinwoo shocked.

Beru shocked.

The whole army of shadow soldiers shocked.

"WHAT!?"

________

"So...you were a human before you became a soldier of Ashborn's army."

"Yes, My Liege. I once lived the life of a human. I studied and graduated from a prestigious knight training school, met my destiny, and got married. It's a pity that we couldn't be together until the end of our lives, and we didn't have a child yet."

Jinwoo said nothing. Trying to absorb the large amount of information he had just received.

While Igris was confiding in Jinwoo, in the Shadow Realm, the shadow soldiers were holding a meeting - which Beru thought was secret - but Jinwoo could sense it all - where the ant king seemed to be giving some kind of presentation.

With his many years of experience watching dramas, Beru lifted his glasses (which came from nowhere) and began to lecture about this love affair.

"Dear Shadow Soldiers," Beru said, his voice drawling as if he were standing on a theater stage. "Kiekkkkk. We are witnessing a phenomenon unprecedented in the history of the Shadow Legion!"

The Shadow Soldiers nodded, watching intently.

"The woman sitting next to our Liege at the human school - is a perfect replica of Igris's deceased wife from his previous life!" Beru said, holding up a glowing projection of you he had created.

"Impossible!"

"A predestined relationship from a previous life!?"

"As romantic as the dramas General Beru watches!"

"As good comrades...we must help the commander pursue the love of his life!" Beru cleared his throat. "So I'm pleased to announce that the 'LOVE WINS' campaign has officially begun!"

"Hurayyyyyyy!"

"For love!"

"So what should we do, general?" Tusk asked.

"That's why I called this meeting. We need to think of a way to help Igris." Beru tapped the jet-black stone table after distributing headbands that read 'For the Happiness of Commander Igris' to the shadow soldiers present.

"First of all, we need a strategy," Beru growled, drawing in the air with his hand. A strategy board appeared in midair.

"Step 1: Find out the reincarnated young lady's habits and preferences.

Step 2: Create opportunities for Igris and the young lady to interact more.

Step 3: Assist Commander Igris in confessing."

The ballroom erupted with enthusiastic "ohs" and "ahs."

Tusk raised his hand. "General Beru, how can we help Igris approach the girl when we are all under the King's shadow?"

Beru narrowed his eyes. "Kiekkkkkk. That's the problem. But judging from the situation this morning, it seems like the young lady can sense us. And moreover, our Liege is studying with the young lady! We can take advantage of this. Let's start appearing more and help the young lady remember Igris!"

The entire hall cheered in approval.

Meanwhile, Jinwoo was sweating profusely as he listened to the 'shadow soldier conference' and looked at Igris who was still sitting quietly beside him, completely oblivious to what his comrades were saying. Jinwoo secretly felt sorry for Igris, but he didn't intend to stop the shadow soldiers. After all, this might not be a bad thing, after all, Jinwoo wanted this commander of his to be happy.

___________________

And...ever since then you've felt like you're being watched.

It seems your paranoia has gotten worse as you start seeing shadows spread across the ground and walls with glowing eyes. They even seem to wave at you.

You're scared to death.

You don't understand why they're following you. You can't help but wonder if this is some evil plot and you've accidentally angered them. You shudder at the thought.

You even feel like Jinwoo's dark aura seems to be stronger, making you wary of him a lot more. You should probably apologize to him and ask for forgiveness even though you don't know what you did wrong. But you were also afraid that if he realized you could see Jinwoo's aura, he might kill you to shut you up. Thousands of scenarios ran through your head, making you panic even more. But in the end, you decided to meet him after school.

At first, Jinwoo was quite confused when you said you wanted to meet him after school. And seeing your hesitant appearance, he thought of the possibility that you wanted to confess to him, which made him even more confused.

He seemed to have done something wrong to Igris... He could imagine Igris looking at him with eyes full of resentment and disappointment.

But when you bowed down to apologize to him, his brain stopped working for a few seconds.

"I'm sorry, sir! I don't know if you're part of any cult or what I did wrong to you. But I have absolutely no ill will and no intention of interfering in your business, please don't send those monters to follow me anymore!"

Jinwoo: ?

That's when he realized that leaving the shadow soldiers alone had led to an unintended misunderstanding.

Jinwoo sighed and explained everything to you.

___________

You: (＠_＠;)

You froze after hearing Jinwoo's explanation. A large amount of information had just been conveyed to you.

And then, he summoned Igris.

Igris stood stiffly in front of you. He silently cursed the shadow soldiers who had caused this situation. He really didn't know how to act in front of you. He didn't even know if you remembered him or not. If not, this situation would be really awkward.

When your eyes met Igris's, you were instantly stunned. Memories of your past life flooded back for a moment, and the dreams seemed to become clearer.

Your eyes widened and tears gradually formed in your eyes. "Igris...? Husband...?"

Jinwoo decided to leave so that the two of you could have some privacy.

"My Lady...," Igris whispered.

You burst into tears and ran to hug Igris. Even though you couldn't see his face, you still recognized who he was, the aura of the person you loved was always the same, you couldn't mistake it.

Igris panicked, something that was unusual for him - a commander who was always calm and cool. He gently hugged you back and comforted you.

"You promised to come back! You broke your promise!" You sobbed. "I missed you so much!"

Igris hugged your body tightly. Even though he was now a shadow, you seemed to have returned to the old days in the warm embrace of your old husband. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you wait so long..."

You rubbed your head against his chest, tears falling down. "I waited, I waited for the day you brought the victory flag back. I dreamed of you, of us, but when I woke up, it was all just an illusion..."

Igris said sincerely. "I'm so sorry. But my dear, I'm a shadow now. My world right now is so different from yours. I'm afraid...."

You shook your head. "I don't care. I just need you. Whether this life or the next, whether you're in this form, as long as you're Igris, I will always love you."

He hugged you tighter. "I love you so much. In the past life, this life, and forever."

__________

Meanwhile, in Shadow Realm.

Everyone was looking at the scene before them with emotional eyes. Some shadow soldiers were wiping their tears with handkerchiefs and blowing their noses dramatically.

Beru held up the banner of 'For the Happiness of Commander Igris' and shouted loudly. " 'LOVE WINS' campaign was a great success."

"Hurayyyyyy."

"Congratulations, Commander Igris!"

"Be happy, Commander!"

I forgot to make masterlist for the others character :0 noooo, i'm a bad writer 〒▽〒

[jessiso]

"Let's pretend (we're not falling)"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Spencer Reid asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for a family wedding, but the line between fake and real begins to blur. Between slow dances, sleepy confessions, and soft smiles, something real quietly blooms.

cw: mild language, emotional vulnerability, light romantic jealousy, kissing and cuddling, fake dating, VERY FLUFFY.

w/c 4,812

(Longest one I've written yet - I could've kept going but felt like this was ENOUGH fluff for one fic!!)

...

You’re halfway through alphabetizing your bookshelf—again—when your phone buzzes with a name that always makes your heart skip: Spencer Reid.

"Hey, I know this is weird, but...would you be willing to pretend to be my girlfriend for a weekend?"

You freeze, a half-shelved copy of Pride and Prejudice in your hand. “I’m sorry—what?”

"Okay, so it sounds worse than it is," he rushes on, his voice tumbling over itself like he's tripping on his own thoughts. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Everyone’s going to be asking questions about my love life, and I may have...kind of already told them I have a girlfriend."

You blink. “You did what?”

"I panicked," he admits, and you can picture him rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting like they do when he’s nervous. "My mom kept asking, and it just slipped out. And then everyone was excited and asking when they could meet her, and—I didn’t want to disappoint them. I know it’s ridiculous."

You walk over to the couch and sit down, phone pressed closer to your ear. “So... your brilliant solution was to invent a girlfriend?”

"Technically, I didn’t invent you. I just… repurposed you. Temporarily," he says, and you can almost hear him wince at his own phrasing.

“Wow. I feel so honored,” you say dryly, but there's a smile creeping into your voice.

"No—I mean, you were the first person I thought of. You’re smart, charming, and we already spend time together. I figured if anyone could pull it off without making it weird, it’d be you."

Your heart does a little skip. “So this is your version of a compliment?”

"I think you’re amazing,” he says quietly, more sincere now. “But if this is too much or just weird or uncomfortable, I understand. I shouldn't have asked you like this.”

You let the silence stretch for just a moment, savoring the warmth in your chest. Then:

“Spencer,” you interrupt gently, smiling. “I’ll do it.”

He exhales in visible relief, and even over the phone, you can feel the warmth behind his "thank you."

"You’re sure? There’s a hotel room involved. And dancing. And my extended family. They’re a lot."

“Positive,” you say. “I’ve always wanted to go to a wedding where I can fake a romance with a handsome genius. Besides, it’ll be fun.”

He chuckles softly. “You might regret saying yes when my Aunt Patty corners you about astrology.”

“I can handle Aunt Patty,” you say confidently. “Just promise you won’t leave me alone with the bouquet toss.”

"Deal," he says.

You hear the smile in his voice, and it lingers in your chest long after the call ends.

...

Spencer picks you up in his vintage Volvo, nervously fiddling with the sleeves of his sweater.

His hair is a little messy in the way you like best, and there’s a stack of books in the backseat, including The Evolution of Marriage in Sociology and A Beginner’s Guide to Wedding Etiquette.

“You studied for this?” you tease, climbing in with your overnight bag.

He shrugs, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “I just wanted to make sure I knew what to expect. Statistically, weddings can trigger heightened emotions due to social pressure, alcohol, and romantic ambiance.”

You laugh. “So you're emotionally bracing for impact?”

He glances at you, sheepish. “A little. I also wanted to be the best fake boyfriend possible.”

“Well, that’s very noble of you, Dr. Reid.” You smile and buckle in.

The drive begins with your usual easy banter, but quickly shifts into something more comfortable.

Spencer starts reciting facts about the towns you pass through, pointing out obscure historical landmarks like he’s hosting his own nerdy podcast. You playfully correct him once, and he lights up.

“You’ve been paying attention when I ramble,” he says, sounding genuinely touched.

“Of course I do. It’s one of my favorite sounds,” you admit before you can stop yourself. The car goes quiet for a beat too long.

“Really?” he asks softly.

You clear your throat. “Yeah. It’s kind of like background music. But smarter.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, but you notice the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

A little while later, he turns on a podcast about penguin mating rituals. “I thought this might be thematically appropriate.”

“Because of the wedding?”

“Because some penguin species mate for life. I thought it was... sweet.”

You blink, caught off-guard by the quiet sincerity in his voice.

Eventually, the road hum and soft voice of the podcast lull you to sleep.

Your head drifts until it finds his shoulder, and he stiffens only for a moment before relaxing.

When you wake up, your cheek still pressed to him, you find his hand resting gently on your knee.

“You were snoring softly,” he says with a smile, his voice low. “It was cute.”

You flush and stretch, not moving away. “You let me sleep on you?”

He shrugs. “You looked comfortable. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your heart does a soft, silly somersault.

You look out the window and smile. “This fake boyfriend thing? You’re already really good at it.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah. I might be in trouble."

You glance over at him, catching the way his fingers tighten just slightly on the steering wheel.

“In trouble how?” you ask, voice light, testing the waters.

He swallows, eyes flicking from the road to you, then back again. “Just… starting to realize how easy it is to pretend. Too easy, maybe.”

You don’t respond right away. The silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s soft, brimming with something unspoken. The kind of silence that only exists between people who are on the edge of something new.

Spencer clears his throat. “Also, your head is surprisingly heavy for someone so… not heavy.”

You snort. “Did you just call me dense?”

“I said surprisingly heavy. That’s different. Scientifically.”

You hum, mock-pensive. “I should’ve known you’d insult me with science.”

He smiles again—small and fond. “I wouldn’t dare. You’re very aerodynamic. Perfect for shoulder naps.”

You both laugh, and it breaks the tension just enough to breathe again.

The sun dips lower as the car winds through golden hills and quiet towns.

At one point, Spencer reaches across the center console and gently adjusts the blanket you'd haphazardly thrown over your lap earlier. His fingers brush your thigh, featherlight.

He doesn’t pull away immediately.

You turn your head, and for a heartbeat, you both just look at each other.

It’s not dramatic.

It's not a movie moment with music swelling.

It’s quiet.

Still.

But you feel it settle somewhere deep and certain.

You smile at him. “We’re gonna pull this off.”

He nods, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I think we already are.”

...

The inn Spencer’s family reserved is charming in a way that feels almost too picturesque—wooden beams, soft lighting, flower boxes under every window.

It smells faintly of lavender and old books when you walk in, which feels on brand for a Reid wedding weekend.

Spencer checks in at the front desk while you take in the lobby, smiling at the framed photos of local landmarks and antique clock that ticks loudly in the silence.

The woman at the counter—Nancy, according to her name tag—hands Spencer one keycard and a warm grin. “We’ve got you both all set. Room 203, queen bed, garden view. Breakfast starts at seven, and congratulations, by the way!”

You blink. “Congratulations?”

Nancy winks. “You make a lovely couple. I hope the wedding goes beautifully.”

Spencer doesn’t respond—he just nods, thanks her politely, and practically power-walks you toward the elevator.

When the doors close, you look at him. “So… queen bed?”

He winces. “Apparently my cousin booked everything through a family rate package. She assumed we’d want one room since we’re…” he clears his throat, “a couple.”

You cross your arms, amused. “She really committed to the bit for us.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” he blurts, eyes wide. “I mean, or the chair, or—do hotel bathtubs count as beds if you’re desperate enough?”

You laugh. “Spencer. Relax. It’s just a bed.”

He hesitates, glancing at you sidelong.

"Right. Of course. Just a bed.”

The room is cute—floral wallpaper, a vintage desk, and yes, a single queen bed neatly made with a pale blue comforter. One bed. Right in the middle. No pullout couch in sight.

You drop your bag near the closet and sit on the edge of the mattress. “At least it’s fluffy.”

Spencer stands awkwardly by the window like he's unsure whether to sit, pace, or teleport out of the room.

You pat the other side of the bed. “C’mon. It’s not like we’re strangers.”

He walks over slowly, toeing off his shoes before sitting beside you, careful not to shift the mattress too much. “I know. I just… didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You glance at him, softer now. “Spence, you’ve read me bedtime stories when I couldn’t sleep, and once accidentally bought us a matching pair of Star Wars pajamas. I think we’re past ‘uncomfortable.’”

He smiles at that, eyes crinkling. “I forgot about the pajama incident.”

“I haven’t,” you tease. “Mine had little Ewoks.”

His voice is warm when he says, “You looked really cute in them.”

You both go quiet again.

Outside, the sun is dipping low, casting soft gold shadows across the room. It feels like you’re caught in a moment that doesn’t quite know what it wants to be yet—more than friends, but not quite labeled.

Not yet.

Finally, Spencer lies back carefully, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m just saying, if I roll over and accidentally elbow you in my sleep, it’s nothing personal.”

You slide under the comforter beside him, settling in with a little smile. “Noted. And if I steal all the blankets, you’re allowed to steal them back.”

He glances at you, eyes fond. “Deal.”

For a while, you both lie there in the dimming light, not touching but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

And even though the room only has one bed, somehow, it feels like just enough.

The room is dark now, save for the warm glow of the bedside lamp Spencer insisted on leaving on “in case you need to get up and don’t want to stub your toe,” which you’d teased him about affectionately.

You’re both lying in the bed, backs to each other at first—an unspoken, awkward little agreement made after brushing teeth side by side and pretending not to notice how close your shoulders were.

But now, a few long minutes later, Spencer shifts, and so do you, until you’re facing one another in the soft hush of the room.

“Are you warm enough?” he whispers.

You nod. “Mhm. You?”

“I think so.” He pauses. “The comforter is a little thin. But the proximity to another human increases shared body heat by at least three degrees.”

You smirk. “Was that your way of asking to cuddle?”

His eyes go wide. “No! I mean—unless—was it? I didn’t mean to. Unless you wanted to. Not that I’m assuming you do. Just, thermoregulation and all—”

You reach over and gently tug the sleeve of his t-shirt. “Spencer. Come here.”

He hesitates, but then scoots a little closer, tentative and sweet. You meet him halfway, curling into his side, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slipping around you like it was always meant to be there.

His heart is beating faster than usual. You can feel it against your cheek.

“You’re a very good fake boyfriend,” you murmur, letting your eyes close.

You feel him smile into your hair. “Thanks. I’ve been studying.”

You let out a sleepy laugh. “I can tell.”

Silence settles again—safe, content. His fingers gently trace circles against your back, slow and absent-minded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

After a long while, just as you’re about to drift off, you hear him whisper:

“You smell like the lavender shampoo you always use.”

You hum. “You notice that?”

“Always.” He pauses, voice quieter now. “I notice a lot of things when it comes to you.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, but before you can say anything back, his breathing shifts, slowing into the steady rhythm of sleep.

You don’t move. You just smile, curling in closer, and let the feeling carry you gently into dreams.

You wake to soft light filtering through the gauzy curtains and the distant sound of birdsong.

For a moment, you’re not quite sure where you are—everything feels too warm, too still, too perfect.

And then you shift, only slightly, and realize there’s an arm wrapped around your waist.

Spencer.

His hand is resting on your hip, fingers curled just enough to anchor you there against him.

Your back is pressed to his chest, your legs tangled under the covers, your bodies aligned like puzzle pieces.

He’s still asleep, breath slow and warm at the back of your neck. You can feel it each time he exhales, like a secret.

You should move.

You should, except… you really, really don’t want to.

Instead, you let your eyes flutter closed again, and for a few minutes more, you simply exist in the comfort of it.

The quiet, the softness, the way his presence fits so easily into the morning.

Eventually, you feel him stir behind you.

His fingers twitch slightly against your side before he freezes, like he's just realized where he is and what he’s doing.

“…Good morning,” he says, voice husky and sleep-rough.

“Morning,” you whisper back, smiling into the pillow.

He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he shifts just enough to get more comfortable. You hear him exhale, like he’s been holding his breath since waking.

“I didn’t mean to—uh—sprawl,” he says, sounding adorably apologetic.

“You didn’t sprawl,” you say gently. “You snuggled. It was nice.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You think I snuggled?”

“You absolutely snuggled.”

“…Did I snore?”

You laugh. “Not even a little. Though you did mumble something about echidnas.”

He groans quietly. “Great.”

“I thought it was cute.”

You turn slightly so you can look at him.

His hair is a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and his cheek is creased from the pillow.

He’s never looked more endearing.

He gazes at you for a long, quiet second.

"This is going to sound strange, but… waking up with you felt really natural.”

Your smile softens. “It didn’t feel fake.”

“No,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”

He reaches up, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear like it’s something he’s always done. His fingertips linger for just a moment too long.

You lean into his touch without thinking.

The knock at the door—his cousin announcing brunch downstairs—startles you both out of the moment.

But even as you untangle yourselves and climb reluctantly out of bed, the feeling lingers.

Something has shifted.

You both know it.

And maybe… maybe you don’t mind one bit.

...

The dining room smells like fresh cinnamon rolls and sunshine.

Golden light spills through wide windows, catching dust motes in the air and warming the linen-covered tables already cluttered with carafes of orange juice and scattered cutlery.

It's loud—but in that cozy, familial way that makes it feel like every voice has a place.

You and Spencer step in together, freshly dressed.

His sweater vest is just slightly crooked, and he’s fussing with his sleeves again—a telltale sign he’s nervous. You reach over and smooth the hem with a casual familiarity that catches even you off guard.

“Better?” you murmur.

He blinks down at you, nodding like you just saved his life. “Infinitely.”

His cousin—a woman with a messy bun, lipstick on her teeth, and an air of authority like she runs every group chat—waves from the far end of the room.

“Spencer! There you are! And this must be the famous girlfriend!”

A chorus of greetings follows. Chairs scrape. Someone makes room by scooting down with a dramatic sigh. You squeeze Spencer’s hand once before letting go and sliding into the empty seat next to him.

"Welcome to the chaos,” he murmurs, looking like he wants to sink into the floor and disappear.

You smile warmly. “Chaos is charming.”

"Spoken like someone who's never seen my family at a wedding."

Introductions come fast—half the table seems to be named either Julie or Dave, and every person seems determined to quiz you about how you met Spencer, what he’s like outside of the BAU, and most importantly, whether he’s always been “such a little know-it-all.”

“I heard he could recite Pi to, like, a thousand digits when he was eight,” one cousin says around a bite of blueberry pancake.

“I’m not that bad,” Spencer mutters, clearly mortified. “Just 1,022 digits.”

You bite back a grin and casually lace your fingers with his under the table.

His posture straightens immediately, his head turning to glance at you in soft surprise.

“Come on,” you tease gently. “It’s kind of impressive.”

“It’s kind of terrifying,” someone else says. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Spencer says automatically, but you can see the pink rising in his cheeks.

Later, the toddler brigade shows up—small children with juice mustaches and suspiciously sticky hands.

One of them, a wide-eyed girl with pigtails and a glittery dress, marches straight over to your side of the table.

She climbs into your lap like it’s her birthright and points an accusatory finger at Spencer.

“You! Tell me all your favorite dinosaurs. Right now.”

He blinks, startled. “All of them?”

“Just five. But the best five.”

Without missing a beat, he rattles off, “Deinonychus, Parasaurolophus, Therizinosaurus, Diplodocus, and Quetzalcoatlus.”

The little girl gasps. “The flying one?”

He nods. “Largest known pterosaur. Wingspan over thirty feet.”

She stares at him, awe-struck. “You’re like a real-life museum.”

You lean toward her and whisper loudly, “He even does the museum voice.”

“I do not—”

“He does!” you interrupt gleefully. “Give us your best ‘Welcome to the Natural History Exhibit’ voice.”

Spencer groans but plays along, deepening his tone with mock-solemnity. “Welcome to the Hall of Mesozoic Life, where the past comes roaring back to life.”

Laughter bubbles around the table. One of the uncles claps. The toddler claps. You beam.

Later, after she’s wandered off in search of more syrup, Spencer leans in close, eyes sparkling.

“You're really good with kids.”

You shrug, heart thudding a little. “You're really good with facts.”

“I didn’t mean that as a joke,” he says quietly, gaze lingering. “You just… fit in. Better than I ever expected.”

You try to breathe past the warmth blooming in your chest. “I like seeing this side of you.”

“What side?”

“This… soft, sweet, occasionally flustered side. And the dinosaur trivia doesn’t hurt.”

He ducks his head, hiding his smile in his teacup.

Halfway through brunch, a spontaneous toast begins—someone stands and clinks a fork against their mimosa glass, calling for “a round of love stories.”

“Oh no,” Spencer whispers, squeezing your hand.

“What?”

“It’s a tradition. Everyone shares how they met their partners. Every single couple. I didn’t think we’d get called on.”

You grin. “Guess we’d better improvise.”

When it’s your turn, you straighten your posture and beam at the table.

“We met in the library,” you begin, and Spencer exhales slowly beside you, relieved. “I was trying to reach a book on the top shelf—The Psychology of Collective Memory, if anyone cares.”

“She called me tall and intimidating,” Spencer adds dutifully.

“You were looming,” you say, teasing.

“She thought I worked there,” he says.

“You had a name tag!”

He leans closer, his smile lazy and warm now. “You asked me out a week later.”

You look at him, surprised—but nod. “I did. Best impulsive decision of my life.”

The table collectively awws. Someone mutters, “Get a room,” and someone else offers to officiate if “things escalate before the ceremony.”

Spencer’s hand is still in yours under the table.

His thumb strokes across your skin, soft and slow.

There’s something very real about it now—too warm to be performance, too natural to be coincidence.

And when the toast ends and you lean into his side just a little, he lets you. Quietly, easily. Like he was always waiting for the chance.

After brunch, as the family begins to scatter and the kids start racing up and down the hallway with napkins on their heads like superhero capes, you and Spencer hang back at the table.

He looks over at you, shy and fond. “Thank you for doing this.”

You bump your shoulder gently against his. “I’m kind of having fun.”

“I keep forgetting it’s not real,” he says quietly.

You meet his eyes. “Same.”

And in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his family and the leftover smell of syrup and orange juice, you realize—pretending doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

It feels like something you don’t want to let go of.

The pre-wedding reception is held outside, under strings of golden fairy lights and the soft hum of a hired jazz trio.

Everything smells like lilac and freshly mown grass.

Tables are scattered across the lawn, twinkle lights woven through centerpieces of wildflowers and white roses.

You and Spencer arrive just as the sun dips low on the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. He's beside you, freshly changed into a deep navy blazer and that soft, nervous smile he wears like armor.

“You look beautiful,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

You glance over, heart doing that ridiculous flutter it’s been doing all weekend. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Dr. Reid.”

His ears flush pink. You nudge him playfully with your shoulder.

The two of you are barely through your first round of canapés when Spencer is whisked away by an aunt determined to introduce him to someone she swears is a cousin but might actually just be her neighbor.

You’re left alone, sipping your drink, watching kids chase bubbles near the dance floor.

That’s when he appears.

Ryan. Spencer’s second cousin. Or third? You can’t remember. He’s charming, golden-tanned, and clearly two drinks in.

He plucks a champagne flute from a tray and slides into the seat beside you with a grin that’s just shy of too confident.

“So… you’re the famous fake girlfriend.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He smirks. “I figured. No way a guy like Spencer pulls someone like you without divine intervention. Or bribery.”

You stiffen. “Well, I guess miracles happen.”

“I’m just saying,” Ryan continues, leaning a little too close, “if this whole thing is just for show, maybe you’d want some… real company later?”

Before you can respond—or throw your drink in his face—a familiar voice interrupts, quiet but sharp.

“She’s already in real company.”

Spencer’s back.

He’s standing just behind Ryan, eyes unreadable but jaw tight. His hand finds yours instantly, fingers lacing through yours with more certainty than you’ve felt all weekend.

Ryan laughs, holding up his hands. “Hey, man. No offense. Just thought she might want some actual fun.”

Spencer tilts his head slightly. “Fun, statistically speaking, often involves mutual interest. And consent.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Ryan mutters something and slinks off toward the bar.

You turn to Spencer, surprised, but he’s still holding your hand, thumb brushing across your skin in slow, grounding strokes.

“You okay?” he asks softly, eyes scanning your face.

“Yeah. Thank you. That was very… chivalrous of you.”

He shifts, a little embarrassed now. “I just didn’t like the way he was talking to you.”

“You didn’t have to come to my rescue, you know.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to.”

Something flickers between you—warm and full of questions you’re not ready to ask yet. The music shifts to something slower, something sweeter.

And before you can overthink it, Spencer gently tugs your hand. “Dance with me?”

You let him lead you onto the grass, where a few couples sway under the fairy lights.

His arms slide around you, one hand settling at your waist, the other cradling your hand against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You know,” you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder, “if you keep doing things like that, I might actually fall for you.”

His breath catches, but when he answers, it’s soft, honest.

“…Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.”

The music plays on. The stars blink to life above you. And in his arms, nothing feels fake anymore.

...

The wedding ends in a blur of dancing, laughter, and sparklers flickering in the night air.

By the time you and Spencer stumble back into your shared room, shoes in hand and cheeks still flushed from spinning each other around the dance floor, the inn is quiet.

Only the muffled sound of someone giggling down the hall reminds you the night hasn’t quite ended for everyone.

Spencer sets your shoes by the door like they’re made of glass, then shrugs off his jacket, looking content and sleep-soft in his white button-down and loosened tie.

“That was…” you start.

“A lot?” he finishes, smiling gently.

You laugh. “I was going to say beautiful.”

He turns toward you, face lit only by the lamp you flicked on by the bed. “Yeah. It really was.”

There’s a pause. A warm, quiet kind.

“I cried during the vows,” he admits suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I know,” you say with a fond smile. “I noticed. You were blinking really hard and pretending to adjust your tie every five seconds.”

He groans. “I was trying to be subtle!”

“You were about as subtle as a fire alarm,” you tease, walking over to him and gently fixing the part of his tie that’s askew. “But it was cute.”

His gaze finds yours and doesn’t let go.

“I guess weddings are just… a lot for me,” he says softly. “So much love in one place. It’s overwhelming.”

You nod, fingers still at the knot of his tie. “In a good way?”

He hesitates. “In a way that makes me wish I had that. For real.”

The quiet between you deepens. Thickens.

You look up at him, your hands slipping from his tie to rest lightly on his chest.

“Spence…”

He exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like he’s debating whether or not to say the next words.

But when he opens them again, there’s only honesty there.

“I thought pretending to be with you would be harder,” he whispers. “But it’s not. It’s easier than pretending not to want this all the time.”

Your breath catches.

“I know we said it was fake,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper now. “But every time I looked at you tonight—laughing with my cousins, dancing with me, kissing my cheek when my aunt got too nosy—I kept forgetting we were pretending.”

You feel the words sink into your chest, warm and weightless at once.

“I wasn’t pretending,” you say, quiet but certain.

His eyes widen just a little. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head, stepping closer.

“I wanted to hold your hand. I wanted to slow dance with you. I wanted to fall asleep next to you and wake up and do it all again tomorrow.”

Spencer looks stunned—like someone just gave him a map to a place he never thought he’d reach.

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You mean it?”

“I do,” you whisper.

He lets out a breath—half laugh, half relief—and leans his forehead against yours.

“I’m kind of in love with you,” he murmurs.

“Just a little. Or maybe a lot.”

Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt. “That’s good. Because I’m kind of in love with you too.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes shining, smile soft and disbelieving.

Then he cups your cheek like you’re something fragile and precious and presses the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

You melt.

The two of you change into your pajamas in a haze of quiet giggles and stolen glances.

When you finally crawl into bed—your bed, not just the one assigned to two fake lovers—you curl up beside him without hesitation.

His arms wrap around you instantly. Like he’s meant to be there. Like he doesn’t want to let go.

“You know,” you murmur as your fingers trace lazy shapes on his chest, “this fake relationship really took a turn.”

He laughs, a sleepy, golden sound. “Best plot twist of my life.”

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, your hand in his, the weight of every unsaid thing now lifted.

And in the quiet warmth of that shared bed, everything finally feels real.

[markrosewater]

Good day Mark,

I continue to run into the same unintuitive road block when teaching people to play Magic.

"Attacking" v. "Attacks" v. 'Attacked"

"When <creature> attacks" v. "Attacking creatures" v. "Creatures attack this turn"

There is constant confusion, frustration in the expected result of an attack vs. the actual result. Yet there is no shortage of cards being printed that continue to cause this confusion.

I am not being hyperbolic here, many of them find Banding simpler to understand than the jumbling of the "attack" word in Magic.

Please, give us some hope or relief, that this is an unslderstood issue and WotC is working on some way to diminish the confusion.

Just throwing it out there, but even doing an Errata update would be welcome. Just being able to look up the card and see the actual wording difference would help.

Ideas

1. REPLACE WORDING: change the wording from "When this creature attacks" to "When you declare this creature as an attacker during the Declare Attackers..."

2. NEW KEYWORD: create a keyword like CHARGE (this is a common English word that has the established meaning to launch an attack - so WotC can use it) and replace "When this creature attacks" with "When this creature charges", and other uses of "Attacked" with "Charged".

I am sure there are other ideas out there, but these are the ones we have talked about at FNM, Releases, Commander Nights, and Drafts.

I have been playing since 1994, and taught literally hundreds of people to play Magic, and this has been the number one issue for our newer players.

Mind you, unruly Stack interactions, dealing with complex Layers, and Copy effects are something we avoid for newer players. But you cannot avoid COMBAT.

Thoughts and Words welcome.

The new player experience is super important to us, so we have spent a lot of time studying it. This is literally the first time in thirty years I’ve heard this complaint. That’s not saying it’s not valid, but it isn’t something currently on our radar.

I will say your solutions introduce some new problems. It focuses on language beginners don’t tend to know (such as the concept that there’s a declaration of attack), and introduces new vocabulary.

I’m curious if others have had similar issues with the various uses of the word “attack” with new players. If this is a problemsome area that we haven’t been aware of, I can definitely suggest to the correct people that it’s something we can look at.

[regressionschool]

MOMMY KNOWS BEST: A NEW APPROACH TO MARRIAGE?

By Emily Dawson, Investigative Reporter

In an era of rising divorce rates and failing marriages, one company believes they have found a radical yet effective solution—one that redefines the roles within relationships rather than dissolving them.

The "Mommy Knows Best" (MKB) program, developed by Pampers Corporation, offers struggling couples an alternative to separation. Instead of counseling or legal battles, the program transitions one partner—typically the husband—into a fully dependent little.

By removing the stress, ego, and responsibility that often cause marital tension, Pampers claims to create a more balanced, harmonious household where the wife assumes a nurturing role, and the husband embraces a simpler, carefree existence.

To its supporters, it’s a long-overdue revolution. To its critics, it’s a disturbing erasure of masculinity.

“A Man Should Be a Man” – A Former Husband Speaks Out

Not everyone is thrilled with the program. Joseph, 38, once a participant in MKB, now lives alone after divorcing his wife of ten years. He remains a vocal critic of what he calls “forced regression”.

“They stripped men of everything that makes them men,” he says, his jaw tightening. “This isn’t love. It’s control.”

According to Joseph, his wife enrolled him without his full understanding. “She made it sound like therapy,” he scoffs. “Like something that would help us communicate better. But the ‘communication’ part? That was just me being told what to do while I sat there in a… in a… damn diaper.”

His fingers twitch on the table as he hesitates on the word, his cheeks flushing slightly, as if the memory itself still holds power over him.

I ask him how long he was in the program. He sighs. “Seven months.”

And when he left?

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding eye contact. “It… took a while to adjust.”

Adjust?

His face darkens. “By the time I got out, I couldn’t even remember how to use the potty—eh, I mean toilet.”

He corrects himself quickly, but the slip is noticeable. A shadow of something uncertain flickers in his expression.

Does he still struggle with… certain habits?

His knee bounces under the table. "No. No, I’m fine now.” But he doesn’t sound convinced.

Though he claims to be fully independent again, he admits that certain instincts—like waiting for permission before making decisions—have been harder to shake.

“They train you to obey,” he mutters bitterly. “And for some guys, I guess that’s fine. But me? I lost everything.”

“He Finally Listens to Me” – A Wife’s Perspective

For Claire, 34, the experience couldn’t have been more different.

Before enrolling her husband, she says their marriage was on the verge of collapse.

“He never listened,” she explains, folding laundry as we talk. “Worked late, ignored housework, expected me to handle everything. It was like having a man-child already, just without the cute parts.”

She gestures toward the living room, where her husband—once a domineering, independent man—now sits in a soft playpen, happily occupied with colorful stacking rings.

He’s sucking a blue pacifier, his thick, crinkly Pampers diaper peeking out from beneath his cozy footed onesie. When Claire strokes his hair, he coos softly, leaning into her touch like an affectionate toddler.

“Now?” she smiles. “He actually listens.”

She explains that, in the past, every conversation turned into an argument. Now, there’s no stubbornness, no backtalk, no stress.

“When I tell him it’s naptime, he lays down. When I say he needs a change, he just giggles and lets me handle it. It’s the first time I’ve felt truly respected as a wife.”

But does he ever resist?

Claire chuckles, shaking her head. “Oh, of course. He still has little moments.”

Right on cue, her husband huffs and crosses his arms. "No change," he pouts, shaking his head. "Diaper fine."

Claire sighs. “Sweetheart, you’re soaked.”

He scowls, his lower lip jutting out petulantly—but when Claire raises an eyebrow, her voice firm yet patient, his resolve wavers.

“If you don’t let me change you,” she warns, “I’m turning off your cartoons for the rest of the day.”

His eyes widen. "Noooo!" He shakes his head frantically, the pacifier bouncing against his chest. “I be good! I be good!”

With a resigned sigh, he clambers onto the changing mat, his thick, swollen diaper squishing loudly beneath him. Claire ruffles his hair affectionately.

“See? So much easier than before,” she says with a smile.

Is This the Future of Marriage?

The Mommy Knows Best program is growing in popularity, with thousands of struggling couples enrolling every year. Pampers Corp reports that over 92% of participants choose to remain in the program permanently, claiming it strengthens marriages, eliminates conflict, and improves household harmony.

Psychologists point to reduced stress, structured routines, and positive reinforcement as key elements of its success.

And, of course, Pampers ensures that no participant ever has to worry about leaks, discomfort, or independence again.

For some, like Joseph, the program represents a loss of identity. But for women like Claire?

She simply smiles. “For the first time in my life, I’m happy. And more importantly?” She glances at her husband, who is now happily sucking his pacifier, waiting to be changed.

“So is he.”

(Sponsored in part by Pampers Corporation. Because a happy marriage starts with a happy little.)