#so ill start working on it again in about.. a week and a half!

[spacespore]

i might make a little introduction/fun facts page aboout some of my ocs:3

probably taral, evie, anjali, francis.. i have the most to say about them!

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

Using my brain like a metal detector to figure out what the FUCK it wants to do

[soulprompts]

CARING FOR THE SICK PROMPTS.

i found this list and kinda fed into it each time i got the flu or a migraine, and u know what, it's just me revealing just how much i love the caring threads and the soft threads and the fondly exasperated "let me help you" threads! use at your pleasure, DO NOT ADD TO THE LIST NOR EDIT IT! i will be changing it accordingly!

" i found you passed out in the kitchen. you wanna stop working yourself so hard? or do i need to keep hitting the gym to carry you to bed every day? "

" you're burning up. "

" your neighbour called me and said you could use a nurse. looks like they were right, too. "

" you were told to take it easy, so... yeah. this is kinda on you. "

" you took a sick day. you NEVER take a sick day. so yeah, i got worried, and i figured i'd come over and keep an eye on you. "

" you texted me a long and incoherent text that held about 90% of the emoji list and about four different languages. figured it wouldn't hurt to drop by and see how you were doing. "

" how long have you been sick for? and don't lie. "

" you look like hell. "

" i brought you some soup; let me heat some up for you? "

" okay. it's time you went to the hospital. "

" hey… hello there, sleeping beauty. you gave me a bit of a scare yesterday. how are you feeling? "

" i swear, if you even think of getting out of that bed… "

" you know when i said to call if it's an emergency? a fever is most DEFINITELY considered an emergency! "

" if you think you're going to work like this, you better think again. "

" don't worry. my family swears by this remedy; just let it work its magic and you'll feel good as new in no time. "

" I don't care about getting sick. i'm not leaving you until you're back to full health. "

" you didn't stop to think that this might happen when you're burning the candle at both ends? "

" yeah, I can play the role of nurse AND say "I told you so" at the same time, actually. "

" you better drink every last drop of this tea, no matter how disgusting it is. "

" i told my boss it was an emergency so they've given me a full week to look after you. "

" quit being so stubborn and get into BED! "

" what part of doctor's orders hasn't sunk in yet? bed rest! for the WEEK! "

" right, where do you keep your saucepans? i'm going to make you my famous noodle soup. it's a cure-all, i'm telling you! "

" hey, unless you're going to the bathroom or the sofa, I don't want to see you out of that bed. got it? "

" when are you gonna start letting people look after you, huh? "

" i know, i know, i turned off all the lights once i figured you had the migraine. you want some tea? water? "

" don't be mad, but i saw your fridge, and... it frightened me. so i've taken you back to my place, and i'm gonna get deliveroo to bring some groceries to your place tomorrow. okay? "

" i know your appetite is a little off, so i ordered in a whole tonne of options. just try a little bit of something, please? for me? "

" i've brought half a pharmacy, enough movies and boardgames to last us a decade, and every single snack i could fit into the basket at the grocery store. so sit your butt down, eat your soup, and try and make the most of your bed rest for the next week, will you? "

ACTION PROMPTS ( SEND THE FULL LINE! and feel free to reverse if u wish! ):

[ TOUCH ]: sender gently rests a hand against the receiver's forehead to check their temperature.

[ DAMP ]: sender presses a cool cloth against the receiver's face, neck and forehead to try and lower their fever.

[ BLANKET ]: sender wraps another blanket around the receiver to try and stop them from shivering.

[ SPOON ]: sender gently coaxes spoons of soup into the receiver's mouth to build up their strength after an illness.

[ CARRY ]: sender, finding the receiver weakened/unconscious on the floor, immediately lifts them up and carries them back to bed.

[ AROUND ]: sender keeps a protective arm around the receiver to help them walk without the risk of stumbling or collapsing.

[ STAY ]: sender decides to stay by the receiver's bedside after learning that they're sick.

[ HAIR ]: sender smooths back the receiver's hair in a soothing gesture to try and help them go back to sleep.

[ TILT ]: sender tips a bottle of water up for the receiver to sip from.

[ HUM ]: sender hums/sings to soothe a sick receiver back to sleep.

[ BACK ]: sender gently rubs the receiver's back, either to soothe them or warm them while they're unwell.

[ SHARE ]: sender climbs into the receiver's sickbed with them, wrapping their arms around them to offer warmth and comfort.

[ SHOWER ]: sender, learning the receiver has a high fever, takes a cold shower with them in order to lower their temperature.

[ WAKEN ]: the receiver wakes up in bed, having been found unconscious by the sender and carried into the bed from the floor.

[ QUARANTINE ]: the sender and receiver, both being sick, decide to quarantine together and spend the recovery period with each other.

[freelancelobotomy]

౨ৎ˚₊𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 [𝐒.𝐑]

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

𐙚⋆.˚Summary: Spencer is smitten for the T.A. at Penelope’s art class. And he just might have a chance with her.  ⋆˙⟡♡WC: 2.3k

⊹܀˙CW: Suggestive language, Derek is half neked (for plot reasons of course), Spencer wants y/n so baddddd, Reader is described to have hips (the pic is to show the maxi skirt that I imagined), Reader has long hair.

♪‧₊˚A/N: hiiiiii I love this song + it came on my shuffle yesterday and it gave me an idea so yk I had to get to WORK. I hope u like. If this gets over 100 notes ill write Gravity pt 3. Okay bye bye

Spencer had agreed to take both Derek and Penelope to Penelope’s art class that night since her car wouldn’t start and Derek’s had gotten towed for being parked on the street too long while they were in Florida for a case. Derek wasn’t taking the class with Penelope—he was the model for it.

“It’s a life drawing class,” she had explained, giddily. “They saw Derek pick me up last week and the professor asked him to model for us today. And to bring baby oil.”

The art room was bright and beautifully decorated, with an abundance of ferns and vines and all sorts of greenery adorned onto the walls.

The professor had smiled as the three of them approached the stool that Derek was supposed to perch on during class.

“Penelope! Derek! Happy that you could make it. You can change in the supply closet on the left,” Professor Andi had gasped. “Did you bring some oil? I have linseed oil from my oil painting class earlier today that you can use if you didn’t.”

“I got some, don’t worry, Doc,” Derek had said with a wink before making his way to the supply closet and shutting the door behind him.

“Who is this? Are you here for the class?” Professor Andi had beamed.

“Oh… no. I’m Spencer. I was just dropping off—”

You had walked into the room, your hips swishing in your maxi skirt as you balanced a tower of sketchbooks in your arms.

“Y/N! Hi!” Penelope had smiled. “Do you need help?”

Spencer’s legs had started moving on their own toward you, taking four of the sketchbooks from your stack.

You had smiled politely at the tall man. “Thank you.” The both of you placed the sketchbooks on the table..

“You’re welcome,” he said, his gaze lingering on your face. Beautiful, he had thought, a warmth spreading through him. The first thing he had truly noticed were your lips—the way they curved into a smile as you spoke, their delicate movements as you formed each word. You wrapped Penelope in a hug.

“Oh,” you sighed, a faint blush gracing your cheeks. “How rude of me. I’m Y/N. Professor Andi’s TA. You must be Derek,” you had said, offering your hand.

Spencer, despite a fleeting thought about germs, had found himself wanting to hold it. Your touch was light, and your nails were a pretty pale pink. What would it feel like to have those hands explore…?

Spencer had cleared his throat, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I’m not Derek. I’m, uh… Doctor Spencer Reid—well, just Spencer. Please.” He had fumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets to resist the urge to reach for you again. “I’m Penelope and Derek’s ride.”

“My mistake, Spencer,” you had said, your eyes meeting his with a playful tilt of your head. “Will you be joining us today?”

Did you know the effect you had? It had felt almost cruel. He glanced at Penelope, who was practically begging with her eyes.

A subtle smile had played on his lips. “Looks like I will be,” he nodded, his attention already drawn back to you.

“Great! Come with me. Let’s get you a sketchbook,” you grinned, gesturing for him to follow, and he had found himself eagerly complying.

Your backside was just as pretty as your face. He watched you switch on the light in the supply room, the movement causing a soft sway of your hips that he couldn’t tear his gaze from.

You crouched down to the floor, rummaging through bins of pencils. The way your brow had furrowed in concentration was endearing.

“Have you ever taken art class before? Or just been creating independently?” you asked him, your voice a melodic murmur that had sent a shiver down his spine. Gravity had pulled your hair toward your face, showcasing the delicate slope of your neck—a sight that made his breath catch. He wanted to reach out, to feel the softness of those strands against his fingers.

“Neither. This is all sort of new to me,” he admitted, his chuckle betraying a hint of nervousness—a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. Especially not to someone who already held his attention so tightly.

“I see,” you said, picking up a large sketchbook and a brand new case of pencils and blending stubs. “Well, what do you like to do in your free time?” Your eyes met his for a fleeting moment, his stomach fluttering.

He had taken the supplies from you, his fingers brushing against yours—a brief touch that sent a jolt of electricity through him. He wished the exchange could have lasted longer, wanted to linger in that delicate contact. He spent too long just looking at you, memorizing the curve of your smile, the way your eyes sparkled. Words, he had reminded himself. He needed to say something meaningful, something that would capture your attention as completely as you had captured his.

“I like reading,” he managed, his voice slightly rougher than intended.

You waltzed past him to re-enter the art room, your perfume drifting toward his senses. Hmm… Fresh. Pear maybe? The scent was intoxicating—a promise of sweetness that he desperately wanted to explore. He would’ve followed that fragrance anywhere, even into the deepest ocean.

“Me too. Um… what’s your favorite book?” you asked.

He paused. You wanted to talk to him. The realization sent a thrill through him. What timeline was he in right now? This had felt like a dream.

“I enjoy everything that I read,” he replied. He had known it was a terrible answer, a deflection, but his mind was still reeling from your nearness.

“Okay, but there’s got to be a standout,” you chuckled, raising a brow. Cute. The simple gesture had made him swallow hard.

“Well, recently I’ve been re-reading Orwellian literature, so something of that nature. As of the moment I’ve been particularly enjoying 1984.” He wanted to impress you with his intellect, hoping to find some common ground, some way to bridge the distance between you.

“Ooh,” you sighed, “That’s a good one. Mine right now is probably…” You trailed off, thinking as you opened a fresh kneaded eraser for him. “Lord of the Flies,” you had decided. “Works that ask the question if evil is ingrained into our morality are some of my favorites. I find them the most stimulating,” you said, your eyes holding a captivating intensity.

It hadn’t been suggestive in the slightest the way you had said it, yet it had stirred something within him—a deep need to know you. To know where you came from and the places you'd been. He had managed a curt nod, his usual eloquence deserting him as he had found a seat next to Penelope, his gaze still drawn to your every movement.

After Professor Andi gave a quick review (or introduction, for Spencer) of value and shape, Derek had stepped out of the supply closet, glistening like a glazed donut. The women in the class had turned to each other, giddy and excited. He had taken his place on the stool in the middle of the circle of chairs. Derek smiled at Spencer and Penelope before striking a pose.

Spencer didn’t give a shit, though. He had been staring at you as you peeled a clementine at your desk, the delicate way your fingers manipulated the fruit utterly mesmerizing. You popped a slice into your mouth before wiping the residue from your hands and taking your sketchbook in hand. He imagined the sweetness lingering on your lips—a dangerous thought that made his chest ache. He’s never wanted someone so badly before.

Professor Andi had put on her Bossa Nova playlist. How fitting. Your hoop earrings, the faint flush on your cheeks—you had looked like how Bossa Nova sounded: pleasant and dreamy, an ethereal vision that he had felt he could only admire from afar.

You had begun sketching furiously, a small pout forming on your lips in concentration, your brow furrowed. The intensity of your focus had been incredibly alluring. He had found himself wanting to be the subject of that fierce gaze, to have you study him with such intent. He envied the loose leaf paper of your sketchbook and your 6B pencil that had the privilege of feeling your touch uninterrupted.

“Why haven’t you started yet?” Penelope whispered—not so subtly. It snapped Spencer from his haze, the spell you had cast momentarily broken.

“Huh—what?”

“Your page. It’s empty. Why?”

“Just thinking of how to approach this, is all,” he lied, his mind still replaying the way your hair had fallen across your neck. Penelope had narrowed her eyes but had chosen to let it go.

He had desperately wanted to impress you, to create something worthy of your attention. The thought of your opinion consumed him.

Spencer had somehow managed to find the control to start drawing a half-naked, oiled-up Derek, but his values had gotten a little muddy. He had needed to block out the highlights like Professor Andi had said in her brief lecture. But his kneaded eraser was stiff and wouldn’t warm up in his hands, no matter how long he had pressed it between his palms.

“Do you need help?” 

“Uh, yeah, my eraser won’t soften.”

“Y/N,” Penelope said, calling you over with a smile. You peered up from your sketchbook and smiled as you got up to approach her.

“How can I help?” you asked, bending over slightly with your palms on your thighs to be within earshot of Penelope.

“Spence needs help getting his kneaded eraser to knead,” she whispered, biting back a smile.

“No problem,” you smiled, dragging a stool next to him and sitting down. You had leaned in close to get a glance at the eraser. Pears, he had thought.

“Is it hard?” you asked. Ironic, he had thought.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to.”

“You’re totally fine. It happens to me all the time. Here. I’ll help,” you had said, taking his hands into yours. “See this part of your thumb?”

Your long, delicate fingers had softly rubbed the joint below the pad of his thumb. Spencer had nodded, his mouth suddenly dry.

“You’re going to press it against this joint,” you had said, your fingertips now tracing the second joint of his index finger. “And rub the eraser between your fingers to warm it up.” You had placed the square, unkneaded eraser in the described position and guided Spencer’s hands to repeat that motion over and over until his fingerprint had appeared in the softened eraser. Spencer had hoped you wouldn’t notice how badly his hands were shaking as you held them.

“Okay, good job,” you had said, a soft warmth in your voice. Jesus. “Now stretch it with two hands like putty, then roll it into a ball.”

Your molasses gaze had flickered over his fingers, briefly meeting his. He had your complete attention in that moment and he literally had no idea what to do with himself. He had rolled the now-soft eraser into a ball.

“Perfect. Now you can use it.” You smiled at him—a genuine, captivating smile that had sent a jolt through him—before moving your stool away.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice a little rough. You nodded politely before returning to your sketchbook.

Spencer had made the decision that he was going to try his absolute hardest to impress you. He had known it was probably stupid, but it hadn’t seemed impossible, and he had thought he had a good shot at making it work.

By the end of the class, everyone had given their sketches to Derek for him to keep. Spencer had handed his to Derek. Derek’s brows had risen.

“You did this?”

“Yeah,” Spencer croaked dryly, his mind elsewhere. He had been watching you through the mirror near the door. You had ripped out two pages and then gotten up from your seat.

“It looks good, actually. Nice work, pretty boy,” Derek had said, clapping him hard on the shoulder.

“Hi Derek, nice to meet you,” you said nicely, smiling. You had handed him your portrait, which—of course—had put everyone else’s to shame, Spencer’s included. You made polite small talk with Penelope until they had eventually needed to leave.

Spencer lingered in the doorway. Ask for her number. Stop being awkward and aloof for five seconds of your life and ask her. But what if you never called him? Should he ask you to coffee instead? Or lunch? You seemed like a brunch type of girl—

“Doctor,” you whispered.

Spencer had turned around, his heart leaping. “I have something for you,” you had said, walking toward him.

“For me?” he asked, a hopeful tremor in his voice.

You handed him something—it was a portrait. Of him.

“I did it after I finished Derek’s.”

It was beautiful. He looked beautiful. The delicate lines of the shadows sketched by your hands, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips… it had been him, and it had been wonderful. And it had been by you. You had observed his face and felt the need to put pencil to paper.

“Would you like, um—Y/N… Do you want to get coffee with me sometime next week?” he stammered, the question tumbling out in a rush. A slow, knowing smile had crept onto your lips, and you had nodded. Unbelievable.

“Yeah, I’d love to, Spencer,” you chuckled breathily, the sound like a melody to his ears.

“Really? Could I… get your number?” he had asked, his gaze fixed on yours.

“Flip it over,” you said, brushing past him, your scent lingering in the air again.

He had followed your directions. Your number had been scribbled on the back of the portrait. “Bye, Spencer.”

He watched you get into your car as Penelope and Derek laughed about something.

Your car had pulled out of the driveway, and you had honked the horn.

Penelope had smirked at Spencer. “Someone made a friend.”

“I saw her helping you ‘knead your eraser.’ I can tell she likes you.”

“You think?” Spencer had asked, biting back a grin.

He sure had hoped so—because he was already obsessed with you.

borders from: @muffiinss

I love jeff buckley

Tags:

[hopesangelsprite]

Closer

Pairing: Illumi x Wife!reader

Warnings: kissing, suggestive content, light angst

Summary: Your husband isn't really the touchy feely type... but when it comes to you that tends to change often and very quickly.

It wasn't often that your husband had days off. It was even rarer that he spent those days off relaxing rather than training or picking up small, quick missions for extra money (not that he needed it anyway). Today was different, though. Illumi had about a week of downtime before his next mission and, instead of prepping, he was sprawled across your shared bed napping.

You were worried at first, his uncharacteristic behavior causing you to wonder if he was feeling well. After the first few days of observing him and assuring yourself that he wasn't ill, you chalked it up to him finally taking some time to relieve stress. Though you wanted to relax with him, there were still a few tasks you needed to complete beforehand. You sighed inwardly from your desk and continued to work on your computer. What had started as light research quickly turned into hours of sifting through data and you were quickly becoming annoyed.

"Wife.", Illumi called out, his voice heavy with sleep. You froze and listened for any signs he was fully awake. Illumi took your silence as ignoring him and spoke again. "You know I don't like repeating myself.", he grumbled and the sound of sheets rustling met your ears. You turned in your chair to see your husband sitting up on his elbows, eyes half-lidded with sleep and light annoyance. "What is it, love?", you hummed at his tired, disturbed state.

Without another word spoken, he patted the empty side of your bed and motioned for you to come forward. Your brow quirked and a smirk crept onto your lips. "You're not being serious, are you? You usually want nothing to do with me when it's nap time.", you chuckled and his eyes narrowed even more.

"I'm not above coming to get you myself. However, for your sake, I advise you to do as asked.", he spoke lowly while brushing inky strands of hair from his face. A giggle passed your lips as you stood and made your way toward the bed and joined your grumpy husband. After taking a moment to adjust the two of you, Illumi nestled his face against the side of yours and exhaled. "That wasn't so hard, was it? You've been at that damned computer much too long for my liking.", he complained as he pulled a small blanket over the both of you.

You rolled over to face him, placing a kiss between his collarbone and Adam's apple. "Almost sounds like you missed me.", you cooed sweetly to which he huffed through his nose. "So, what if I did? A man's allowed to miss his wife, is he not?", he mused with hands gently drawing patterns onto your lower back. You opted for more silence as you looked over his features, taking mental photos in case his next mission took him away from you longer than usual.

Illumi opened his eyes, lashes fluttering as he looked over you with onyx orbs. "What's wrong?", he questioned softly while pulling you closer. You shrugged and leaned into him, indulging in the cool of his skin. "I miss you a lot when you're gone.", you finally answer, "I wonder whether or not you'll come back to me sometimes…". Illumi remained silent, allowing the weight of your words to fully settle over the room. It was often you felt this way, the long periods of waiting eating away at your resolve. His occasional battered state upon returning only deepened that fear that he'd not come home one day.

"You don't have to worry about that.", Illumi spoke after a little while, "I'll always come back to you… even if it's the last thing I do.". You looked up at him, in awe of the sudden tenderness he possessed. "Promise?", you whispered into the room's atmosphere. He nodded, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers with yours. "I promise.", he vowed before pulling you impossibly closer.

You smiled giddily, the tension finally rolling off your shoulders. "Besides,", Illumi spoke as he settled himself in the valley of your breasts, "How could I possibly think of leaving all of this behind?". A gasp and a cackle left you as you felt him nibble at your chest, his hands squeezing the fat of your ass. "I knew you didn't want me to nap with you!!", you laughed while trying to wriggle out of his hold, "I still have work to do!".

You managed to get a leg and an arm free before Illumi dragged you back into him. "The only thing you should be doing is me.", he muttered while attempting to hold you still. After a while of resisting, you finally let your husband pin you to the bed with a satisfied smirk. "Your research can't make you feel the way I do, can it?", he questioned proudly to which you rolled your eyes. Even though you didn't want to admit it, he was right. You stared up at him, taking in just how pretty he was with bedhead and sleep still lingering in his eyes.

"Fine. You get two rounds before I go back to work.", you offered to which he scoffed with narrowed eyes. "Four rounds.", he countered indignantly. You smirked while tucking a few strands of hair behind his ears. "Three rounds and cuddles. Take it or leave it.", you negotiated before leaning in to kiss him. "Deal.", he hummed between kisses with hands roaming across your body, "I'll give you under-desk support after.".

"What? No-".

[moonstruckme]

Hey Mae! I hope your spring has started off well. Idk if this will make sense, but based off recent circumstances in my life I was just kind of thinking about an idea.. what about a reader with a chronic illness and no one outside in her circle of friends really “gets it” and all she goes through bc they’re not home with her and don’t see her everyday (the flares of pain and weakness and fatigue, the medications, self infections, infusions, appointments, tests, not being able to work or do things for yourself or hang out when you want or live a “normal life” and all the fomo) and they don’t see how hard it is both physically and emotionally. And it really gets to her but the guys do see that and they’re supportive and encouraging when she’s having a hard time with it all. Maybe it’s an especially bad week and things build up and they can tell she’s not doing good and how they handle it. It could be regularly poly!marauders or emt!marauders with their medical pov.

Thank you for requesting angel! Hope your spring/sprummer is going well too <33

cw: reader has unspecified chronic illness that flares painfully, discompassionate/ignorant interactions regarding this, joking about murder

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 933 words

Pain is a lonely thing. This is a truth you know so well you think its flavor is in your bone marrow. Take Remus—you know he gets terrible headaches. You can know this, you can watch his face tighten with the agony of them, you could spend an entire afternoon listening to him describe them to you, but you will still never be able to approximate what they feel like for him. He’s isolated in his experience, and so are you. On your worse days, no one can truly understand you. 

But your boyfriends come the closest. 

Your head is in Remus’ lap on your bed, while Sirius lays next to you and James runs a bath in the next room. On the bedside table is a half gone glass of water, downed with the pills you’d needed upon waking this morning. The boys aren’t making a big deal of it all; it’s as much a part of their day as it is yours. 

“What’s happening in your head?” Sirius asks, prompting you to glance up from your phone. 

“Hm?”

He pouts, drawing a short line over your eyebrow with his thumb. “You’re making this awful pouting face.” 

“Am I really?” 

“No.” He cracks a smile. “I can just tell something’s off. Penny for your thoughts?” 

Wordlessly, you pass him your phone. Remus leans over, and Sirius tilts the screen so they can both read the texts you’ve been exchanging with your coworkers. Remus finishes first. He sits back with a disapproving humming noise just before Sirius sets down your phone. 

“Right,” Sirius says, cooly, “so, shall we kill them?” 

You push air out through your nose. “No.” 

“I’d be very generous. Even let them pick between drowning and assassination.” 

“If you were drowning them,” muses Remus, “would it not still be assassination?” 

“Who are we drowning?” James asks as he comes in, wiping his wet hands on his legs. 

Sirius picks up your phone again, reading off, “Stewart and Liz.” 

“Excellent.” James gives his thighs a decisive pat as he sits by your feet on the bed. “What’d they do?” 

“They’re upset she’s not going to the cinema anymore,” Remus explains. 

James’ eyebrows flick up. “Right. I mean, yes, we’re all upset when she’s not with us.” You turn your face into Remus’ thigh bashfully. Sirius snickers, teasing you with a finger under your chin. “But surely they’ll get on just like the rest of us, won’t they?” 

“They don’t seem to grasp why she can’t go,” says Remus, his voice gentling some. He’s hit the nail on the head, and yet it’s a softening of the truth. Your coworkers—the ones around your age, who’ve decided together that you’d like to be friends and have set up a group chat in pursuit of this—have gone from teasing you about your rainchecks to growing plainly frustrated with them. They get that you have bad days with your illness, but they don’t get it. They think you’re avoiding them. When you texted a few minutes ago that you couldn’t make it to the cinema later today, Liz had asked, If you’re going to sit around at home, can’t you sit around in the cinema instead? It’s not like it takes that much more. and Stewart had said, Guess this means you’ll be wanting me to take your shift tomorrow, right? 

“I’m in favor of killing them, by the way,” Remus says offhandedly. 

That surprises a real laugh out of you. It’s short, and the way your shoulders hitch hurts, but it nevertheless makes you feel a tiny bit better. 

Sirius presses a careful kiss beside your eye. “S’exactly what I’m saying,” he mumbles happily. 

“I do wish I could go,” you sigh. 

“Angel,” says James, “you don’t have to justify it to us. We know.”

“You can’t control the narrative other people have in their heads.” Remus’ hand lands on the curve of your neck, warm and grounding. “You can try to explain it to them after you’re feeling better, if you want to, but if they decide not to believe you then that’s their problem.” 

Sirius makes a huff of agreement. “Bunch of fucking twats.” 

“Those are my friends,” you argue half-heartedly. 

“Not for long, they’re not.” 

“Hey.” A pillow sails through the air, missing you by a few inches but hitting Sirius right on the side of his head. James’ voice rings with triumph. “She gets to make the kill orders, shit-stirrer.” 

“I’ll stir your shit—” 

“Or,” Remus suggest peaceably, “the bathwater probably won’t stay warm forever.” 

“Oh, yeah.” James looks to you. “Do you still feel up to that, lovely?” 

You weigh things for a moment, but ultimately you nod. 

“That’s our girl.” Sirius presses a kiss between your brows as James stands. “Don’t give those twats another thought, sweetness. You’ll do better without the stress.” 

“Alright, let’s go.” James claps his hands. You take a breath, setting your hands on the mattress in preparation of lifting yourself up, but he stops you with a touch to your shoulder. “Not like that,” he says, reaching over Sirius to slip his arms beneath you. Without any more effort on your part you’re in the air, grounded by your boyfriend’s warm, firm chest. 

You try not to sound too relieved as you sigh, resting your head in the curve of his neck. 

Remus says, sounding amused, “Sweet how you thought he was going to let you walk to the bath by yourself.” “Sweet?” Sirius scoffs. “Insulting, more like. Babe, we’ve just finished discussing how everyone underestimates your bad days. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

[bubbleggum444]

—❝LO۷ESTⱤUCK FAN❞

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 damian wayne x fem!reader, youtuber!reader au, fluff, 2k+ wc.

𝑠𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 now that you've started accepting fan mail, damian jumps at the chance to send you something (though, honestly, he’d send himself if he could). pt 2 of "unexpected crush?!" (@liabiamiakiawia hope you like it 🫶🏻) pt 3.

No. Freaking. Way.

Was this a dream? A hallucination? Some cruel trick of the mind?

There was no way she actually posted her address. But as he blinked at the screen, rereading the words for the hundredth time, the reality hit him like a Batarang to the chest:

"Accepting fan gifts/letters! Address & city number: xxxxx. Can't wait to see what my luvies gift me :)"

His heart stopped. Then restarted at double the speed.

He. Was. Ecstatic.

Well—ecstatic in a very Damian Wayne, son of an assassin and the Dark Knight, kind of way.

A normal person might be pacing, grinning, maybe even screaming into a pillow. But Damian? He just sat there, staring at the screen, his grip tightening on his phone as his brain raced a thousand miles per second.

This was huge. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The only chance he’d ever have to send her something, something meaningful—something that would make her smile.

Immediately, he started skimming through her videos, mind buzzing with possibilities. What did she like? What did she need? What could he give her that would stand out from the rest?

Something perfect. It had to be perfect.

After intense (possibly obsessive) research, he finally settled on three things:

1. A Beauty of Joseon skincare set—not that a face as flawless as hers needed skincare. If anything, the skincare needed her.

2. A cute hairclip set—he remembered her gushing over some in a video. Hers were old, but she hated overconsumption, always mindful of her brand collaborations (another thing about her that made his heart do weird things: her caringness for the planet).

3. Some top-tier Chinese makeup—only the best for her.

His lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he saw the total.Just a casual $1K. Nothing much for a Wayne.

Then again… if she asked, he'd get her the moon and stars. Nothing was ever too much for her. Ever.

By the time he finalized his list, it was nearly noon. And by the time he finished hunting everything down in-store, it was noon.

Now, back in his room, Damian sat cross-legged on his floor, staring at the disaster zone of wrapping paper around him.

He exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling up as he crumpled yet another piece of pink wrapping paper—now a casualty of way too much tape—and chucked it aside.

This was so new to him. He barely ever gave gifts, and even when he did, Alfred was the one who wrapped them.

With a sigh, Damian pulled out his phone and searched, How to wrap gifts (EASY and pretty).

Following the tutorial with painstaking precision, his thoughts started to wander.

It wasn’t like he was an idiot. After a full week of stubborn denial, he’d finally accepted it—he had a crush. A real, actual crush on a girl he’d never even met.

And honestly? That annoyed him. Apparently, there was some illness where people obsessed over their favorite celebrities or internet personalities.

But he wasn’t sick! Sure, there were plenty of things wrong with him—a packaged deal that came with being the son of his parents—but this? This wasn’t an obsession. And he was definitely not a stalker.

He just... really liked this girl.

Pausing mid-task, he set down the half-wrapped package and reached for a pen and paper.

"Dear ___,My name is Damian Wayne. I'm a teen from Gotham..."

Hours passed—writing, re-writing, crumpling papers, fixing the bow on the package that would soon be crossing oceans.

Finally, Damian collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He sighed.

Please let this work.

Sitting up, he picked up the now perfectly wrapped gift box, his fingers absentmindedly tracing along the frilly bow.

And then, without thinking, he brought the box to his lips, pressing a light kiss against it.

Oh. Oh.

A wave of déjà vu hit him— reminding him of the air-kiss he tried to catch through his laptop screen a week prior.

For a second, he just sat there, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips before he scoffed softly at himself.

Damian Wayne had officially lost. He liked her. Like liked her.

And now, all he could do was hope—pray—that this box, this dumb little package of gifts, would somehow, someway, connect them.

Maybe. Just maybe. Something real would come out of this stupid crush.

"Tch… emotions suck."

He laughed under his breath, though there was no real bite to his words.

Setting the package on his bedside table, he turned off the light and crawled into bed.

Tomorrow, he’d send it.

And then? He’d wait.

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ

𝑏𝑢𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑔𝑔𝑢𝑚444©

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚����𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 <𝟑

[captainpriceslilwife]

little thing with John Price that goes from angst to smut to angst again and then fluff and back to smut....pretty much checked all the boxes here i think. okay yay <3 also ill be honest...idk if i like how this turned out, but.....here it is *serves up half-eaten charcuterie board made from lunchables*

Basically Price is using your daddy kink as a trojan horse to rewrite your neural pathways <3 but like...with love Shoutout @coco-killed-the-angels for implanting these worms (insecure girl x price) into my brain <333 CW: deep insecurities (bc i'm the one writing it, so...it's a given), daddy kink, crying, praise kink (?) - does it count if he's just praising you in a sexual setting and its not necessarily a kink idk, if you're allergic to true, deep love and you just want smut this is not the work for you, not DDLG but like...the cousin of it. Or sibling. DDLG adjacent.

Your day had started off rough.

Well, the whole week, really. With deadlines and headaches looming over your head, it's no wonder that you ended up in such a state this morning.

You were just barely fighting the childish urge to just whack the brush over your head, so you tried to move on to putting your makeup. Which only ended in you crying in frustration when it started to cake up, and then you began crying even harder when your tears started making the rest of it slide off of your face.

"So fucking stupid." You had whispered under your breath as your shaky hands wiped at your face in a sorry attempt to fix everything - only to make it worse.

That's how John found you in the bathroom, furiously scrubbing at your face with a towel to wipe everything off as you sobbed quietly to yourself.

"Woah, woah, woah...sweetheart." His hands are quick to wrap around yours to halt your movements, and you try to bow your head to avoid his gaze, but he tilts his head right alongside you. "What's all this, huh? What's wrong, sweet girl?"

And he tries his hardest to comfort you, he really does, but you're just so lost in your anguish that you blow up in his face the moment he suggests you be gentle with yourself.

"No! I have to wear makeup today because my face is breaking out and I look ugly, b-but I keep ruining it because I'm crying! God, I can't do anything without ruining it!"

Maybe you were just hormonal or about to get your period, but it didn't matter. Your insecurities sound the same no matter what chemical is bouncing around in your brain to cause it.

Which is how you ended up here - on your hands and knees on the bed, facing the mirror on the dresser with John's cock nestled deep inside of you.

He had already been working you up for hours, teasing and licking and fingering you until you could barely hold yourself up - which explains why he's got one hand curled at the base of your skull to hold your head up by your hair to force you to watch as he fucks you.

But he's not even fucking you. He's just...sitting inside of you. Not moving. Making you whine and whimper as he stares at you through the smudged reflection of the mirror. You plead with him quietly, fresh tears blooming to wash away the dried tracks from your earlier malaise, but he just shakes his head and pulls your hair back a bit more.

"I already told you what to do, sweetheart. Go on." But you just blink at him dumbly with those teary eyes, too far gone to remember how you got here, let alone what he just said five seconds ago. But that's alright - if war taught him anything, it was how to be patient. Especially with a soft thing like you.

"Daddy's not moving until you say something you like about yourself."

Oh, right. That.

You had kind of been hoping he would just fuck your brains out so you could ignore your little meltdown earlier and forget it ever happened - but clearly John had different plans.

"I don't want to."

Brat.

Even when you were trembling beneath him and begging him to fuck you, you still had the nerve to talk back to him. But John knows you well enough to know that you aren't acting out just for the fun of it. So, he isn't going to punish you now. You're upset, and insecure, and you just want him to take it all away so you don't have to think about it.

Which is exactly what he's doing - even if you can't see it from where you are mentally. He's just playing the long game.

"One thing, baby." He murmurs in your ear, locking eyes with you in the mirror as he curls himself over your back to press his hairy chest into you, making you mewl softly. "Just say one little thing you like about yourself, and Daddy will fuck you, just like you want. I promise."

And you poor thing - you're just so desperate. You're cunt is leaking around his cock and no matter how much you try to rock your hips back to get some kind of friction, he's holding you too tight to make any real progress.

So you give up. Or give in. Either way, you decide to just let go and think of something - if only just to get him to pound you into the mattress the way you wanted.

But when you looked at yourself in the mirror - all puffy eyes, splotchy cheeks, and tangled hair - all you could see is what you didn't like.

Every bump, every scar, every part that's too much, and every part that's not enough. Suddenly every mean voice in your head has a stage - telling you about all the times you failed and how you aren't worthy of anything good in this world. Ugly, stupid, worthless, annoying-

There's nothing you can think of, even to just throw out meaninglessly to get him to hop off your case. Nothing.

And all you can do is choke out a pathetic sob - lower lip trembling violently as you squeeze your eyes shut to block out the mean voices circling around in your head. "Daddy, I can't...I c-can't think of anything."

He had expected a bit of resistance from you, but the way your face crumpled so sadly at the prospect of complimenting yourself made his heart ache in his chest. Clearly your insecurities were running deeper than surface-level, and he'd have his fair share of work cut out for him if he wanted to make you feel better.

"Shh, hey, hey, hey. It's okay." He coos softly, removing his hand from your hair to curl it around you to rest it against your sternum. He sits back against the bed and takes you right along with him, planting you on his lap with your back pressed against his chest - with his cock still inside of you. You're grateful for it, since you know you'd just spiral even more if he took it out and left you feeling empty and cold while you were already on the verge of a complete breakdown. "Daddy can help. I'll help you out, sweetheart."

"We can think of things together, my love. It's okay." He murmurs quietly as he wraps his arms around you, rocking you back and forth slightly as he gently hushes your tears. His thumb comes up to wipe away the fresh tears that slip down your cheeks, and he can feel his heart cracking in two at every little heartbroken whimper and sob that manages to escape your lips.

"What about your pretty eyes, hm? The ones that help you read all of those books, even when it's a little dark? The same eyes Daddy loves to wake up to every morning?"

You blink owlishly through your tears, your hiccups coming to a halt for just a second as you begin to process his words. He's not talking about the color of your eyes or what shape they are, but what they can do. You've been so caught up on how every part of you looked...not what they were actually meant for.

Your eyes aren't supposed to be the prettiest color or the 'perfect' shape. They're job is to help you see. And you can read, and admire the sunset, and cry, and watch TV - and none of it has to do with how your eyes look. They're the same eyes that lock onto John's from across the room and tell him 'it's too much. can we go home?' without ever having to say a word. And he always knows how you're feeling, just from taking one look at your eyes.

"And what about your hair? Don't you like braiding it and putting it up in all those pretty hairstyles? Don't you like how Daddy can play with it when you get all sleepy?" You turn your head around to look at him through your tears, and you take in a shaky breath as you nod your head silently in agreement. "Yeah...I know I like it, sweet girl."

You let out a restrained whimper as his words settle over you, your heart cracking in a way that it never has before - like its rearranging itself to fit the beautiful image of his perception of you. You can feel his hand gently squeeze your arm to silently urge you to continue on your own, and it takes you a minute to think of something before you let out a trembling whisper.

"M-My nose..." You sound uncertain, blinking up at him for validation only to be met with a loving smile and an encouraging nod. "I like my nose."

Your nose was never meant to look like everyone else's. It's just there to help you breathe. To bring oxygen to your blood to keep you alive and healthy. And it helps you smell everything - the bread at the farmers market, John's cologne bottle whenever you missed him too much in his missions, even the gross candles at the store that you force John to smell too just so you can both suffer together. It even crinkles up whenever John presses a kiss to it when you aren't expecting it, which always makes him laugh and makes him press just one more to it to get you to giggle and swat him away.

"Yes...good girl." He praises softly as he presses a line of kisses along your shoulder, reverent in both his touch and stare as he tilts your chin back towards the mirror. "Keep looking at yourself, darling."

"And Daddy loves your beautiful smile...you know, that's the first thing I miss when I go away. I keep a little picture of you in my vest just so I can see it even when I'm on my missions. I love seeing my gorgeous girl look so happy." His words coax another watery sob from you, which he quickly soothes by running his hands gently up and down your arms. Eventually he trails them down and circles his hands around yours, using his thumbs to massage gentle circles into your palms as you cast your gaze down to watch. "And your hands...didn't you bake me those cookies last week with these hands?"

"Yes, Daddy." You nod once again, and he brings both of your hands up to wipe at the tears that are dripping off of your cheeks and down to your torso.

Your body let you express your love for him in all the ways you wanted - hugging, kissing, cuddling, crying, laughing, talking, listening, touching - you could go on forever now that you're really thinking about it.

Your body was a vessel for love - a home that could fit all the adoration and affection that John could possibly give you and you could give him - and instead you were using it to house all of the shame everyone else had burdened you with over the years. But John had all the patience in the world, and if he had to pick that shame out piece-by-piece in order to burrow his love inside of you, then that's what he'd do. Happily.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty...such a pretty little girl you are." He punctuates every one of his words with a kiss to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, your hair...all until he reaches your ear when he finally whispers, "I'm so lucky to have you, baby."

And you poor thing - now your blubbering in his lap as your brain tries to comprehend the sheer amount of love he's pouring into you, and he just continues to hold you patiently as you work through it. It's only when you finally calm down a bit that he speaks up.

"I think you're so beautiful, my love. Inside and out. But if you look in the mirror and you don't like what you're seeing, for whatever silly reason, I want you to remember that your worth comes from a lot more than how you look. Do you understand, baby?" He waits until you nod your head before he plants a kiss right to the crown of your hair. You can feel his hand settle on your thigh, thumbing the sensitive inner skin as he locks eyes with you in the mirror.

"Do you want to keep going?" And then you see it - settled underneath his love and admiration for you is a spark of concern. He doesn't want to push you too hard, especially in a delicate setting like this. His cock is still hard and nestled deep inside of you, but you know if you said the word right now he'd end this all in a heartbeat to make sure you were comfortable and taken care of.

But you don't want him to stop. It feels different this time around - like it's not just sex. It's something more ritualistic than that. So you nod your head once more, making sure to keep your eyes on him in the mirror so he can see how earnest you are.

And slowly, carefully, he readjusts you back into the position you were in before - on your hands and knees facing the mirror. And you can see him watching you closely for any sign of discomfort or regret, but all he's met with is trust in those teary eyes of yours.

"Keep telling me what you like, sweetheart."

And so you do. Clumsy compliments stumbling out of your mouth as he finally starts to rock his hips, granting you the relief you've been craving from him for what feels like forever now. And the more you praise yourself, the more intense his thrusts get - but he never turns rough. Not even for a second. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he whispers his own devotions into your ears, pushing himself as deep as he can as if he's trying to plant the words directly inside of you.

You're so overwhelmed by the love and the pleasure he's giving you that you barely even realize how fast your orgasm is sneaking up on you, but he notices. He can feel you clenching around him as your thighs begin to shake, and he doesn't waste a second in gently guiding your gaze to look at yourself in the mirror once more.

"Are you a pretty girl, baby?" He grunts softly, barely staving off his own release long enough to drive his message home. You begin to nod your head frantically, too caught up in your impending climax to form any coherent sentences as you begin to flutter around him - but he's not having any of it.

"Yeah? Go on, then. Daddy wants to hear you say it."

"I-I'm a..." Your stuttered words are cut off by a deep moan, and your eyes squeeze shut tightly as you clamp down around him. "I'm a p-pretty girl!"

And then you're sent into the most mind-shattering orgasm you've ever had in your life. You can feel yourself gush around him and you hear his restrained curses as you collapse into the bed, but even your own voice sounds muffled as you call out his name with a quivering cry. He fucks you right through it, leaving you trembling and crying from the intensity as he finally spills inside of you with a few tears of his own.

He just barely catches himself before he collapses on top of you, and it takes him a minute to catch his breath before he readjusts to, very carefully, pull himself out of your squelching cunt. He coos gently as you whine at the loss of contact, and he scoops you up like you're a porcelain doll that'll shatter if he's not careful.

You're still so fuzzy from the intensity of it all, but he places you in his lap to let you bury your face in his neck, and his arms quickly wrap around you the second that your trembling form curls up to him like a kitten in a storm.

"There she is." He whispers softly as he kisses your forehead, one hand trailing up and down your back as the other one circles tightly around your shoulders to ground you with his presence. "There you go, sweet girl. Take a deep breath, my love."

He can feel the little puffs of air hitting his neck as he continues to hold you, and it brings him back down to earth as well as he works you through your comedown. Soft whispers of praise graze your ear as he moves to clean you up, keeping his movements soft and careful when he sees your eyes begin to flutter shut.

And you look up at him with so much love and trust when he finally pulls you down to lay back against the pillows, he can't stop himself from taking a moment to brush at the soft skin of your cheek before he presses his lips against yours. It's not hungry or lustful - just pure love being poured into you as he pulls the covers up to cover your bare form.

He pulls back just enough to murmur quietly against your lips, eyes looking down at you with so much reverance it makes your head spin.

"I love you so much, baby."

And you can't help the little wobble in your lips or the glassiness in your eyes as you rest your head against the pillow, pulling him closer with your shaky hands as you plant a little kiss on his lips.

"I love you, too, Daddy."

[dear-ao3]

the 2024 formula 1 silly season and drama master post, part 2 (part 1 here)

Hello and welcome to ah fucking fuck auto caps fuck fuck fuck how do i turn off auto caps AHA there we go okay. take 2

hello and welcome to the great and very insane formula 1 2024 season drama post, part 2. if you are new here or are just looking for part one (which contains the previous 16 (?) races, the off season, pre season testing and everything else, that can be found HERE. (a word to the wise: open it in a browser, not the app, and preferably on a computer to avoid crashing. its fucking long). 

what the hell is formula 1? car go fast. fastest cars in the world zoom around tracks at top speeds of over 300kph, piloted by the top 20 drivers in the world. it might not sound dramatic, but oh man. you will Not be disappointed. this post focuses on the drama, the insanity, the sheer what the hell how is this a serious sport. no legitimately. we've just about seen it all this year. grindr, dogs, watersports, ice cream brands, its all here.

the point of this post? to educate, to catalog the insane drama, and to just have a good time. people like to gatekeep this sport, there is also a lot happening. i try to make it easy to understand. again, probably best to start at the beginning of the post because it does a pretty good job of explaining things, which i began way back in january, and can be found HERE (again, shes long, be careful)

and, as usual, if you do not want to see this post EVER AGAIN, block the tag #saph explains silly season 2024

and a second caution, i assume this post will be getting long as well. including this one we have minimum 9 updates left!

anyway, those of you who have been following along the whole time, welcome back! i know we got a little delayed. and i know we’re on a new post, so lets just briefly take a second for me to explain what the fuck happened. first i had an anatomy test, second i work 2 jobs with fuck ass hours, third tumblr decided to stop letting me look at any of my drafts, fourth tumblr support ghosted me about the drafts issue and the post was half saving half not so i just decided fuck it, were going with post 2, electric boogaloo, and fifth, i decided to start typing this instead in a google docs so. many changes. if you're new here i am usually more on top of this.

but here we are. were back on street circuits. we’re in baku, azerbaijan, for the start of the last third of the season. 8 races remain, world championship titles are still within grasp of multiple people. the drama is dramaing. and today is september 22, 2024 and lets fucking go. 

first and foremost, on account of the fact that this post is late (again, see above), were going to have to do a bit of a speed run. if you're new here, i promise that this is not representative of my normal dedication to the update post. and for those asking, yeah, ill probably compile it somewhere better than a tumblr post after its all said and done, but we don't have time for that now. 

what we do have time for is the Off Week (and like some of the media stuff). and it was filled with silliness: 

george russell decided to wear what can only be described as slightly ugly yellow short shorts with his taylor swift shirt that he got at the eras tour. this was baffling for several reasons, the main reason being that i don't think the internet knew that he was capable of wearing a graphic t shirt

fernando alonso got his aston martin valkyrie finally. in case you are unfamiliar, a valkyrie i think is the worlds fastest street legal car. he posted tweets about this that made it seem like he wanted to fuck the car. hilariously, the car broke down an hour later.

we also had the very thrilling conclusion to grill the grid. oscar won and he somehow managed to look more pleased about his grill the grid win than his first race victory. 

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nico rosberg went to the green awards and he wore a fantastically insane teal blue suit. yes i know hes not a current driver. but you all like hearing about him so ask and you shall receive. unfornunately i cant find a picture of it though

and also not a current driver is mick schumacher, but my roommate asked me to include that he was seen on his girlfriends instagram being bad at golf. like. exceptionally bad at golf. like he hit a tree 20 feet in front of him.

also playing golf was lando norris. except he managed to look like try bolton from high school musical 2.

he also talked about the world driver championship with his friend max fewtrell while they were playing golf. unfortunately i lost this link in the sea of technical difficulties, but the gist of it was that he was saying that there is still hope for him to beat max in the championship (hes about 60 points behind right now). lando doesnt usually talk about the championship because he doesnt want news outlets to paint him as “desperate” so this was interesting

charles leclerc had an insane off week. first he rear ended someone in monaco. then he spoke at a yacht conference. he was not scheduled to speak at said yacht conference, he was there doing something else and they were like hey you're cool people know you, heres a microphone. he alsp ended up on a weather channel while promoting a karting event he was doing for the jules bianchi foundation (his god father, the one who died during the f1 race in japan 2014). he also changed his instagram pop and re centered it because some random tiktoker told him it matched his aesthetic better.

oscar piastri posted a photo of himself sitting in the cockpit of a plane and then promptly deleted it. because he posted it on 9/11. for anyone who doesnt know what that is, that was when some terrorists hijacked commercial planes and few them into the world trade centers in nyc and the pentagon in washington dc

max verstappen also posted a plane pic with himself and lando norris, but he did not delete it.

we also had the return of daniel ricciardo’s jpg instagram account, which is kinda like a finsta for photos that hes taken. i think lando started this a few years ago. 

heading into the race week we certainly got a weird ass batch of pr. including but not limited to:

lewis hamilton was back on top and slaying in the fit game. as was yuki. 

lewis hamilton also exposed george russell as listening to katy perry pre race. katy perry and taylor swift (this was after he claimed that he liked listening to old school rap music.) though, lewis then started singing wrecking ball???? confusing vibes all around

george was not off the hook yet tho because some intern definitely make him say skidibidi toilet or whatever the thing is idk, i might be gen z but im not insufferable, okay? actually george in baku was just all kinds of unhinged

george and alex also got up to something, what it is no one knows but it is clearly something

max pulled up to the paddock de aged about 10 years. picture one is of him in baku in 2015 (i believe he was 17) and picture 2 is this year. no i am not kidding. 

and franco walked into the paddock telling everyone about argentinian mate (which is a drink, not a friend)

and max shoved a microphone out of the way so everyone could gossip

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then of course, we had some slightly more relevant drama

haas announced that ollie would be replacing kevin at baku. in case you forgot, kevin magnussen received a total of 12 penalty points over the season so far, which means he gets one race ban. how did he get the points? well he was mostly wreaking havoc on everyone else so that his teammate, nico hulkenberg, could drag his car into the points. lets all remember the time in saudi arabia where he managed to get 20 seconds of penalties by basically driving like a mad man just to make sure that nico could keep his position after he pit stopped. anyway, nico was kind of pissed about the race ban situation and said “maybe the guidelines for F1 penalties need to be reviewed as the stewards ‘want to get involved’ no matter the contact.”

in any case though, k mags was out. and ollie was in. we’ve seen ollie before. notably he subbed in for carlos sainz at the saudi arabia gp when carlos had appendicitis. he managed to get points as well. since then, he has been announced as a haas driver for 2025 and is now subbing in for k mags (haas, later in the week called him a super sub. clearly no gen z person read that over.) he can do this because ferrari has a haas engine so they share reserve drivers.

adrian newey finally got employed. i know! i can hardly believe it either! but he did! and youll never guess where! 

ferrari? no that would be too obvious. 

mercedes? nah

williams? no too much of a shit show

aston martin? ding ding ding! just the right amount of shit show! 

that is right. newey is going to aston for 2025. 

apparently he was offered a “good package” according to himself, which i assume means pay and also the fact that lawrence stroll made him a shareholder? stakeholder? whatever its called. in the team itself. basically he has a lot of power. 

he said that he always wanted to work with fernando and lewis. and he couldn't do both. and aston had a better package than ferrari. 

fernando looked positively evil during all the announcement pictures. and called the team "definitely the team of the future" and for those of you who don't know, fernando is positively evil. hes just been stuck in a shit box and we havent seen very much of him, but man does he know how to evilly slut it up. so that will be fun to see.

by contrast, people said that lance was not excited enough. and well. lance 1. has resting bitch face and 2. never really looks excited about anything. also he lives in a world where take your child to work day somehow became his job. (his dad owns the team).

lewis hamilton was asked what he thought about adrian not going to ferrari, and here's what he had to say:

"i feel like, while I have mentioned before that it would be an honor to work with adrian, i have been privileged to work with two championship winning teams that didnt have adrian."

mclaren announced pato o ward would do FP1 in mexico. who is pato o ward? hes one of mclaren’s indycar drivers and one of the f1 reserve drivers. he is incredibly charming and definitely runs his own social media as seen here:

mclaren Also claim they figured out who their number 2 driver is and they claim its oscar. i say they claim because the statements were a lot more complex than that. essentially, according to andrea stella, the priority is to the team first, then lando and then oscar. so they didn't outright say that oscar is the number 2 driver and i am willing to bet real money that this is because mr mark webber, oscars manager, has something in oscars contract that prevents him from being a number 2 driver. this is of course because mark webber was one of the most infamous number 2 drivers in f1 history to none other than menace war criminal sebastian vettel, who in their time as teammates, managed to win 4 back to back world champions. or, top to bottom if you're mrs darbus from high school musical. 

lando was asked about this and he said that yes, the team does support him. though he would not expect oscar to give up a win for him and that it is more complex behind the scenes. i suppose we will see if there are any papaya rules coming out this weekend….

and oscar said "i think the main point is its not purely just going to be me pulling over for lando every single race, because thats how none of us, including lando, wont want to go racing, if we feel that someone has done a much better job on a weekend, whichever way it is, we want that person to be rewarded."

max verstappen commented on the mclaren situation as well. which was funny mostly because red bull has one of the most defined number 1 and number 2 drivers of any team. he said "you look at it form oscar's perspective, he is closer to lando than lando to me. they have to deal with that."

and allow me to put on a tin foil hat as we are about to talk about the future of the red bull seat. because all i have to offer here is a baseball hat and a red bull can. 

a long time ago we talked about the red bull cans. the ones that red bull makes to promote f1. at the end of last season red bull put max and checo on the red bull can. this season at the start it was just max on the red bull can. well. now checo has reappeared on the cans too. and i will tell you what i think this means. it means that checo is not getting swapped this season, which was a possibility for awhile. 

but! there is more! 

daniel ricciardo made an instagram post this week. and it was very interesting. but most interestingly he was wearing a red bull hat.

which he does occasionally, no big deal really. he did race for the for several years, he technically does currently. BUT then he showed up TO THE PADDOCK wearing the red bull hat.

which is Big Interesting. usually you show up in a statement outfit or wearing the team kit. and daniel is not a red bull racing driver. he is a visa cashapp racing bulls driver. they might be owned by red bull but they are Not the same team. so why the red bull hat. in the paddock. well, the rumor is that hes taking checos seat for 2025. and the rumor is that this will be announced before mexico. so checo can have a proper send off. 

and with that. the baku lore. 

theres a lot that has happened at baku. as i said its a street circuit. and i think its the fastest street circuit. but over the years theres been some notable events. 

such as the great kimi raikkonen radio for gloves and steering wheel:

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they gave mini kimi this week gloves and steering wheel in honor of that

the max and daniel crash in 2018 when they were running p1 and p2 respectfully

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and of course. how could we forget. charles’s infamous “i am stupid” radio.

speaking of charles, he crashed again in fp1. not quite in the same spot, but nearly. he took a picture with the marshalls. 

then in fp2 he rage quit, basically saying that the car sucks. 

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but he was back and better than ever in practice three because he managed to top the time charts. welcome back fuck ass ferrari.

some other teams definitely experienced the lows but not really the highs of baku during practice. like lance stroll who came on the radio to say “this is not a car” (good thing they have adrian newey now, right? 

franco colapinto also cut his ear before practice on the neck strengthener stretcher thing that they all use and the team wanted to give him stitches but he was like no no no i need to be in the car in about 5 minutes im not doing that. so he jammed on his helmet and jumped in the car. he also crashed and when he went to the medical center he took off his helmet and there was blood everywhere and they were like no no no you cannot race! and he was like no! this is not from the crash! and then explained it and they let him do qualifying. 

also im pretty sure? ollie bearman crashed? in practice? but frankly i don't have time to google it so whos to say. 

but alas. qualifying. 

i know i know this is kind of a shitty update. i promise ill go all out in singapore. i PROMISE. 

so as i said. its a street circuit. high speed. 90 degree corners. and also windy as hell. we also had the dynamic duo of karun and harry in the commentary box. 

max led the first practice, george led the second and i think charles led the third. or some order like that. 

slipstream here is almost essential (slipstream: going behind another car to reduce the wind drag so you can go faster) 

charles has the last three pole positions (first in qualifying) here in baku, but he has never won. by comparison, red bull have never had pole here but they have won. 

and franco has never been to baku before. 

i think that's all the exposition that we need here. 

q1 started with max complaining about his car. “the car is jumping around like crazy on the rear axle” he said. despite this he was sitting in p3. 

the mid field battle though….the mid field battle was heating the hell up. mostly because none other than franco colapinto, who if you will remember, has never been to baku before, had split the two ferraris. he was in third for the moment, .109 seconds behind carlos sainz and .159 seconds ahead of charles leclerc. we still had a lot of qualifying left to go, so this was probably not going to stay, but it was still insane. he was pushing insanely hard, nearly kissing the walls. clearly he had learned from his crash in practice. 

the two mclarens waited until the very end of q1 to do their final flying push lap, and oscar made it through, but tragedy struck for lando. 

lando was in the middle of his last flying lap, time was ticking down, and there was a Very Brief yellow flag on the track. now, according to rules, you cannot complete your flying lap if there is a yellow flag. so lando pitted and was stuck down in 17th and out of qualifying. this would be the first time that he was out in q1 since vegas last year (which if i remember correctly was also not his fault) 

now though, of course nothing is ever that cut and dry. people thought that there had been a mis showing of a flag. yellow flag means that a car is stopped on track, white flag means that a car is going slowly on the track. and people thought that there had been a yellow flag shown when it was actually supposed to be a white flag (if there had been a white flag then lando would have been able to keep doing his flying lap) lando himself said that he had no idea what people were talking about because there is a light on the steering wheel that lights up when flags are called and he had a big yellow light. so it was clearly a yellow flag. 

if you're concerned about lando being able to pull it out of the bag, id like to point you in the direction of the mexican gp last year where lando qualified 17th and finished 5th. on a track that was hard to overtake on. he can be absolutely insane when he wants to be. worry not gentle reader. 

in any case. also out in q1 was daniel ricciardo, valtteri bottas, zhou guanyu and esteban ocon.

and notably, williams, who was on fucking fire this weekend as we already saw, finished q1 with alex albon in second (ahead of oscar) and franco colapinto in 8th. pierre gasly had somehow managed to also get into 4th. and nico hulkenberg was in 7th with ollie bearman in 13th. i told you the mid field battle was heating the hell up. 

q2. everyone zoomed straight out of the gate. they didn't want to get lando norris’d. but, speaking of that, if lando managed to get no points in the race and charles managed to win, charles would overtake lando in the drivers championship. mark webber himself told this to charles, who was absolutely baffled. 

in any case, charles was kinda suffering right now and that was because he was not getting slipstream from carlos to make his lap faster. meanwhile, carlos seemed to be actively trying to give charles the slipstream because he came on radio to say “he keeps missing the tow” 

and amazingly, franco colapinto was 4 tenths AHEAD of alex albon. alex albon who had not been unqualified by his teammate once since the start of 2023. ex red bull driver alex albon. that alex albon. 

max topped the times in q2, followed immediately by charles. insanely, fernando alonso managed to drag the aston martin to fifth. and franco was right behind him in 6th. by comparison alex albon was in 10th. 

and from q2 we lost ollie bearman, yuki tsunoda (who has never qualified lower than 8th in baku), pierre gasly, nico hulkenberg and lance stroll. so yes, ollie bearman managed to outqualify nico hulkenberg. this is ollies second ever f1 race. 

steaming on forward to q3. 

we had, for review, in q3 the following: 

both ferraris, both red bulls, both mercedes, both WILLIAMS (has not happened since vegas 2023), plus fernando alonso and oscar piastri. 

right out the gate it was wild. 

“red bull! theyve re found their mojo! or have they!” karun said. red bull were in 5th and 6th and not entirely sucking for the moment. 

everyone did one flyer and then came out at the end for a second flyer. 

here were the standings: 

charles, carlos, oscar, george, checo, max, lewis, alex, franco, fernando

and everyone was making it to the line and all was going smooth until-

wait a second what is that

could it be! alex albon! with the air box fan still on his car! surely not!!!

oh but it was! and harry and karun were like oh wow so unfortunate for williams tisk tisk

meanwhile ted jumped on the radio to Loudly announce to everyone that this was insane and if i have time here i will put the rant he ranted cause it was Fantastic.

and what do you know i have time

so we had 3 minutes left qualifying and everyone was pulling out of the pits for their last flyer when oscar hopped on the radio to say

"the williams still has the air box fan in"

"oh what an error! disaster for williams!" karun and harry said. they speculated if the marshalls could get it or if the session needed to be red flagged. but alex threw the fan off the car.

and then they asked "ted have you ever seen that before?" and ted did not hold back:

"ITS A MASSIVE YELLOW FAN HOW COULD YOU MISS IT???!!! HOW COULD THE MECHANICS MISS IT???? I CANT BELIVE THEY WOULD MAKE SUCH A MISTAKE DOWN AT WILLIAMS! SUCH AN EXPERIENCED BUNCH OF GUYS AND GIRLS! WHAT IS GOING ON AT WILLIAMS OPERATIONALLY? HOW COULD YOU SEND A CAR OUT LIKE THAT?"

alex, obviously, got fined for an unsafe release 5k euros. he also had to throw the fan off to the side and got slightly covered in dry ice. he did not get to the a second flying lap. 

franco did tho!

and here were out qualifying results: 

p1: charles p2: oscar p3: carlos p4: checo p5: george p6: max p7: lewis p8: fernando p9: franco p10: alex  p11: ollie p12: yuki p13: pierre p14: nico p15: lance p16: daniel  p17: lando p18: valtteri p19: zhou p20: esteban 

oh ho ho but we werent done yet. because pierre gasly got disqualified from qualifying. for failing fuel flow regulations. and lewis was going to have to start from the pit lane for changing his power unit. 

everyone, and by everyone i mean oscar max and checo, pretty much said that charles was going to get pole no matter what, they knew this coming in and the best they were trying for was second

onto the race. 

notably, this is considered a checo track. this was one of the three races that max did not win last year. because checo won it. its a track that he does well on, evidenced by the fact that he qualified above max in qualifying. so people were expecting big things from him.

and so, we head into lap 1.

charles managed to hang onto the lead. checo passed carlos straight out of the gate for third and max managed to pass george to take fifth. lando had managed to get ahead of nico and up into 13th. notably, franco held onto 8th and ollie was able to hold onto tenth. 

someone who was not doing well was lance stroll, who came on the radio saying that he had a puncture. this was from contact with yuki. lance had to pit for fresh tires and was pretty immediately thrown to the back of the grid. 

by lap 2 lando had managed to get past daniel and was in 12th, he was trying to get past yuki next, which he managed by lap 3. yuki also lost a  spot to nico. 

also slaying in the mclaren was oscar, who took fastest lap. then charles took fastest lap.

and lewis hamilton, who had started from the pit lane, was up to 16th. already. somehow. though he was displeased with the tires, sayig that “this tire is pretty bad” over the radio. 

yuki meanwhile was clearly having a problem because he had started going very very slowly. thought the pit wall said that he had no problems. this would later turn out to be false but we will indulge them for the time being. 

franco was STILL ahead of alex albon on lap 6. STILL. 

lando on lap 8 managed to push his way into points positions, overtaking ollie bearman for 10th. though this was where things were about to slow down for him because in front of him were alex, franco and fernando, who were all very close together and would be hard to get past. 

george was back in bad luck hell as a plastic bag entered his airbox. will he ever catch a break. 

on lap 11 nico hulkenberg finally caught up with ollie bearman and passed him for 11th. 

and max’s car was not working. to potentially no one’s surprise. “i have zero bite in the car” he said. and this was probably true because checo was a whole 6.5 seconds ahead of him. insane gap. 

several pit stops later that i will not detail out because we simply do not have the time, alex albon ended up in 4th and lando ended up in fifth. and oscar was about to get undercut by checo. 

“mojo seems to be back for checo perez” harry said, correctly. 

mojo was back for him indeed. and now he was right behind lando. 

and if you will recall, according to mclaren themselves, priority at mclaren is the team first, then oscar, then lando. but oscar was ahead of lando. so what did mclaren do? 

they asked lando do hold up perez, but not compromise his own race. 

remever a long time ago when i said mclaren wouldn't have any internal drama this season? man how i was wrong.

lando managed to hold up perez for around a lap or two before he got past. this was crucial because this was during when oscar was in the pits. 

thanks to lando and the power of the papaya rules teamwork, oscar ended up coming out in 4th, only .706s ahead of checo. 

mclaren are working together everyone! mclaren are working together!

meanwhile, turns out that yuki did indeed have problems because he retired on lap 17 with a hole in his sidepod from the contact with lance on lap 1. this was now two races in a row where he had had to retire for reasons out of his control. 

several more people pitted. and eventually charles was back out in front, oscar was in p2. until he wasn't. no, he didn't dnf. he overtook charles! he was in p1! he popped out of nowhere! nowhere being 2 car lengths back and just flooring it to spring around charles like a little silly slinky! karun called it a “good, fair and robust defense,” which sounds like its descibing notes in wine. but this was not wine. this was the baku gp. and we were only half done. 

ollie bearman was defending against lewis hamilton, holding on tightly to 14th place. 

charles was still behind oscar and he could not get past, despite the fact that he was still very much in spitting distance. “they are pushing like crazy or they have more grip than us” he said. 

carlos got past both lando and alex albon and was up into 4th

this brought max up behind lando. max was on 11 lap old tires and lando was on 24 lap old tires. but lando still defended like hell and managed to hold onto sixth. max was 0.632 seconds behind lando on lap 25 when he said that “my brakes are not working.” this was hardly a surprise. max has hated the car since china.

also experiencing technical difficulties was sir lewis hamilton. he was stuck down in 14th and was first told to do “everything you can do to get the surface temp down” of the tires. he said “im trying” then several laps later on lap 29 he came on the radio to say “are you seeing how i have to drive this thing?” “yes,” bono, his engineer said. “quite effective though.” 

max was still half a second behind lando. mclaren faked a pit stop call over the radio to get max to pit. he did not. 

but, george russell did manage to pass him. which was “not good for max’s world champion aspirations.”

this was also when ted very bafflingly said that “if i had a sofa in the pit lane i would be jumping up and down on it” im not sure what that was in response to. 

meanwhile, ollie was still holding off sir lewis hamilton. and charles was trying to get oscar to pit again by lying over the radio. it was not working. 

lando did a pit stop finally and came out a whole 15 second behind max. he was hoping to catch max by the end of the race. but it might be tight. lets go last lap lando. 

“lando, imagine andrea on your shoulder saying ‘zero wheel spin’ in every exit,” lando’s race engineer said. if you're confused, everyone else was too. 

10 laps to go and here were the order of affairs:

oscar

+.449s charles +1.865s checo +2.989s carlos +16.530s george  +1.909s max +11.535s lando +9.715s fernando +2.589s alex +2.451s nico +4.667s franco +1.590s lewis +1.261s ollie +1.791s pierre +9.205s daniel +23.919s esteban  +.789s lance +3.862s valtteri +3.631s guanyu 

lando was determined. he took fastest lap on lap 43 and was 8.8s behind max

at this point, the leaders were starting to lap the cars in the back. “the back markers are starting to come up,” checo’s engineer said to him. “its going to get messy.”

“hold onto your hats and if you don't have one go get one and hold onto it” harry said. harry would turn out to be correct. 

we had the top 3 all running very close to eachother, that was oscar, charles and checo and “welcome to the party carlos sainz!” who was now 1.2 seconds behind checo in the four way battle for the lead.

definitely not leading was lance stroll, who retired on lap 47 with a brake problem. 

oscar managed to pull ahead of charles by 1.5 seconds, finally knocking him out of DRS range. so now it was a three way battle for second. and charles had “no rear tires. no rear tires at all.” 

and, just like i said he would, lando managed to pass max on lap 49. he was closing the gap slowly in the championship. 

“verstappen’s day goes from bad to worse,” harry said. because lando still had fastest lap, so he would score 3 more points than max. which is important if lando wants to beat max in the championship (though i think hes still like 60 points behind)

meanwhile! franco managed to pass nico hulkenberg for 10th! he was in the points!!!! at his second race!!! 

but this was short lived because there was a crash! a big smackeroo! between carlos and checo!! checo was mad, carlos didn't know what happened. 

what happened was that carlos was trying to pass checo but checo did not move over. it was deemed an equal fault accident. both of them were utterly confused at what happened and apparently spent 20 minutes in the medical center being utterly lost and aparently saying that sometimes this sport sucks. and! contrary to what several people said! checo did not bang on carlos’s helmet after the crash. 

the crash actually caused chef's dad to have a heart attack. he is stable now.

and well. this clip of george from the post qualifying interviews definitely didnt age well:

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but! since we were a matter of a few laps from the end, this meant that the rest of the race was finished under a virtual safety car. 

which meant 

OSCAR PIASTRI WINS THE AZERBAIJAN GP

and george inherited p3! 

and on his own merit too! no safety cars, no team orders, no weird shit! 

“yes!” he whispered over the radio. 

he almost fell getting out of the car, then gave us all the “one moment” hand gesture before properly celebrating. 

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he also got driver of the day! 

(this was marginally better than george russell, who said over the radio “i cant get any rubber (to pick up on his tires) all im getting is leaves”)

gunther steiner also hosted the post race interviews. which was interesting. 

george said that the most difficult part of the race was “driving full gas into a wall of carbon fiber on the penultimate lap…the vsc should have come out sooner” 

charles bashed ferrari because they didn't do any high fuel runs in practice. 

oscar was entirely pleased. “i managed to overtake and hold onto it for the next 35 laps..one of the better races of my career.” and honestly, oscar winning a race straight after mclaren basically announcing that he was their number 2 driver is nothing short of hilarious.

and! mclaren was now leading the constructors championship by 20 points! for the first time in ten years!!!!

the top three had a moment outside of the car that was filled with baffled: 

and oscar's engineer tom got to stand on the podium with him. he usually takes a selfie with oscar after each race he podiums at, but he was too excited to so george took this picture for them

(george also aparently demomished oscar in a game of uno on the plane, immediately humbling him)

george also shielded himself from the champagne on the podium

the cooldown room reacted to the crash in a very straight forward manner:

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and very quickly cause its midnight and the singapore gp starts in 8 hours, the post race, speed ran: 

-mark webber told off laura winter for thinking that oscar didn't have good tire management

-alex albon was “super happy, that's a lot of points for us” (williams finished in 7th and 8th). he cut his own interview short when ollie bearman arrived, saying “I can go, im happy to go” and then waving comically. 

-williams was so pleased with this result they blasted everyone with champagne. and they overtook alpine in the constructors championship! this was also their best race finish all season

-(and a quick note, if youre going to really blame logan for being that shit of a driver here, please remember that the car he was driving was several rounds of upgrades behind alex's pretty much the entire time he was driving it)

-ollie became the first driver to ever score points in his first two races for two different constructors because the double dnf pushed him up to 10th place. he said that there was not much difference between the haas and the ferrari, the ferrari was just red

-franco continued to charm everyone and flirt with the reporters. 

-they interviewed george and lewis and the camera had to be adjusted for george's height. it was comical and resulted in my favorite edit so far of the season (sound on)

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-lando looked pleased and happy for once. he said about holding off checo that “i didn't hold him up i just had to cool my tires a little.” he was delighted to be leading the constructors for the first time in ten years and he defended alex albon saying “i struggled to get past alex for a while, which is common, alex doesnt make mistakes.” he also ratted on max for going to fast during the VSC and said “i didn't complain, facts were stated.” and to sum it all up he said that “im executing things well, i’m very quick…i’m not going to be the happiest guy, but i am never the happiest guy….car is performing well everywhere…some red cars behind us seem to be our biggest competitors right now” 

-by comparison george insulted all of pirelli. the tire people. “pretty infuriating that it (the pace) changes this so much….its black magic, people who make the tires don't understand the tires…..for 20 laps we had a car not worthy of points and for 20 laps we had a car fighting for victory and the only difference is the tires.” 

-lewis was notably upset after the race and walked through the paddock with his helmet on, not wanting to talk to anyone. but he did talk to franco and ollie and congratulate them on a job well done defending against him and racing against him. franco even fangirled over this on his instagram. 

-charles was clearly upset with ferrari. he was so upset he posted a thirst trap.

-and oscar. oscar was very happy this afternoon. and his mom was there! she doesnt usually come cause it scares her, but nicole was there today! 

-mclaren celebrated with a hell of a lot of champagne. both oscar’s wina and lando’s insane recovery, and the fact that they were leading the championship. red bull have been dethroned, at least for now. 

-there was so much champagne that lando took off his socks to spray it. all seems well at mclaren. 

-at least one thing is for sure, oscar had a better time here this weekend than last year when he got food poisoning and only ate four pieces of toast

and with that. we head into singapore. quite literally as it is starting in a few hours. again, i apologixe about this post. its a little sad, but the next one will be better. pinkly promise. 

see you all soon!!!

[chlix]

baby, it's cold outside (no seriously it's crazy out there)

bf! chan x gn! reader: your car breaks down in a snowstorm and you have to walk home. chan is there to comfort you and warm you back up

pairing: chan x reader

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff

word count: 4.1k

warnings/tags: snowstorms, car trouble, sickness, a long series of unfortunate events that leave the reader miserable for most of the fic

a/n: this is a request from @caticorn61 who wanted chan being apologetic for not answering his phone after reader's car broke down. this is perhaps more than what u asked for 😅 but i hope you enjoy it anyway!

You are on a historic run of bad days.

You've never considered yourself to be particularly unlucky, but this past week has had you rethinking that orientation. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. On Monday your alarm didn't go off, making you late for work. Even worse, there was a meeting you'd forgotten about, so you had to slide awkwardly into the back of the room and pretend you didn't feel everyone's annoyed gazes. Tuesday was grocery shopping day, but you found out they discontinued your favorite brand of chips, and raised the price of an alternative, so you were forced to go home chip-less. Then, when you tried to take the groceries out of the car, one of the bags split open and sent your eggs, cheese, and blueberries crashing to the ground, buried in slush and snow. A total waste. Wednesday you woke up to find your heating had shut off in the night, and you were now shaking fit to break apart. Although maintenance promptly fixed your radiator, you developed an itch in your throat that only grew throughout the day and had developed into a full-blown cough by the next morning.

Which is where you are now on a subzero Thursday morning, ill and irritated and crawling your way towards the end of the week.

Your boyfriend, Chan, talks to you on the phone in soothing tones.

"I'm sorry your week has been so rough, baby," he says, and you can hear the dripping sympathy through the phone. "I know how it feels when little things pile up like that."

"I just don't know if I can take it anymore," you tell him. "It's like I've been cursed. I'm afraid if I walk outside a piano will fall on me and crush me."

You're half-joking when you say that, but Chan can hear that the other half is vaguely on hysterical.

"I don't think anyone is moving pianos in this weather," he says very reasonably. "Just stay away from luxury apartments if you're worried."

You set your bag down and put your face in your hands, taking slow, deep breaths. Your phone is on speaker, and you can hear Chan hum, trying to comfort you even though he's in his own dorm across the city.

"It'll all be okay, Y/n. And I'll see you this weekend, yeah? I'll come over Friday night and you'll have me all to yourself. Just stay strong."

You exhale, long and loud. "You promise?"

"I promise. Be strong for me, babygirl."

You blink the dampness out of your eyes and straighten up. "Okay. I can do that."

"And drink some tea. Your voice sounds kind of rough."

"Don't get me started again, please."

By the time you hang up, you don't feel understood, but you do feel seen. You fill up a thermos with tea, put on your coat, and mentally prepare yourself to leave the apartment.

It's only two more days, you remind yourself. The weekend will fix me. It'll break this curse that's been placed upon me. You force yourself to have a positive outlook. You will not have another bad day. You will be strong.

All day, you force yourself to react to every potentially meltdown-inducing incident with grace and poise. You realize you forgot your lunch and have to eat cheap candy from the vending machine for lunch? That's totally fine. Your boss adds another item to your to list, forcing you to stay later to finish everything and close up? You really don't mind. Your best friend texts you that she's been stalking her ex on Instagram again and you won't believe it but he already has a new girlfriend, y/n, can you fucking believe it, we've only been broken up for like two weeks and he's buying her fucking jewelry, and you respond what an asshole. he has a new gf and he didn't block his ex? while your eye twitches.

By the time you finish all your tasks and close up, your face hurts from holding a smile you don't feel. You're the last one out, so you make sure the building is locked and make your way across the empty parking lot to your car. The forecast predicted snow tonight, and already the ground is littered with white. The flakes are fat and sticky- they're already building up on the undisturbed portions of pavement. You have to quickly brush off your windows and mirrors before you can get into your car, slamming the door behind you.

You made it. You survived. It was a godawful Thursday but you conquered it.

"One more day," you whisper to yourself. "Just one more day."

You lock the door and put the key in the ignition. The dashboard lights up and the engine turns.....and turns....and turns.....

A rock forms in your stomach.

"No," you say. "No no no no no." You twist the key again, but the engine whirs and whirs and whirs...and does not turn over. Your car does not start.

It's not news to you that your car is a piece of shit. You and Chan discuss this almost every night- what to do about this fuckass car. You've been resistant to letting him help you pay for a new one, partially because that's a lot of money and partly because you're sentimentally attached to the old rustbucket. You inherited it from a family member as a birthday gift, and so despite it being less than reliable you're hesitant to seek solutions. It's your first car, after all. It's a part of you now.

In this moment, however, you want to throw all that sentimentally down the drain along with the keys to this absolutely useless fucking rustbucket of a vehicle.

Not to worry, you tell yourself. I'll just call Chan to come get me. We can deal with my car in the morning.

You take out your phone and call him. The call rings out.

You stare at your phone, confused. It's not like him to ignore your calls, especially not at this hour. It's pitch black with winter but it's still arguably early in the night. Chan is likely to still be awake, but it's unlikely he's doing any kind of official task. And it's so late that he would know to answer; you would never call him for something frivolous at this time of night. You call again.

No answer.

Your patience is running thin now. You consider calling your best friend, but she's out of town visiting family. Your other friend, Seohyeon, doesn't have a car, and her boyfriend's car is currently being repaired. The bus you sometimes take is about a fifteen minute walk down the street, but it'll have stopped running this far out by now, so you'd have to walk to a further bus stop and then go to the transportation terminal and connect, which would take over an hour. You could walk to the subway, you think, but you lost your subway card weeks ago and never got around to replacing it, and honestly it just seems like a whole ordeal you can't bring yourself to stomach right now. Chills go down your spine, and you can't tell if it's from the cold or from the increasing precarity of your situation.

You try the engine again. No dice.

You call Chan again. Voicemail again.

You lean your head on the steering wheel and take long, deep breaths. Outside your window, the wind is picking up, making the snow fall at a diagonal instead of straight down. It would be terrible to walk in, especially because the direction you need to go to get home would cause the snow to blow right in your face. Your throat is killing you, but your thermos of tea is long since empty. Maybe you should just go back into the work building and hunker down for the night. Maybe you should sit in the car and turn into an icicle. Your head is a foggy mess, thoughts twisting all around. You're getting hysterical again. You can feel yourself cracking to pieces.

Think, y/n. Who else can you call?

You're all out of people you know personally, but you could call an Uber. It's pricey and arguably unsafe, and you normally wouldn't, but these are extenuating circumstances. It solves the problem of being stranded, and again, you can deal with your car at a later point. And at least when Chan finally calls you back, you'll be safe at home, so he won't have to feel guilty about missing your calls three times.

You lean back in your seat and open the Uber app. Thankfully you still have it installed, and it still has all your info in it from the last time you called someone to take you home. Just as you're about to finish the transaction, your phone freezes. The screen flashes, then goes dark. You press the power button once, then again, frantically.

Your phone is dead.

Immediately, you scramble for your console, searching for a power cable to connect the phone to the car battery. Your cable is gone. You remember, horrified, that you took the cable out of your car because the one in your living room at home had started fraying. You meant to replace it but you never did. You're normally pretty good at leaving the house in the morning with it mostly charged.

But it's nighttime now, and your battery is dead. You have no charging cables, which means you can't call an Uber. You can't call anybody. And you can't even go to the subway now because your debit card is on your phone, so you can't refill your subway card.

A terrible despair fills you.

You have to walk home in a snowstorm.

As soon as the thought materializes, tears start to well in your eyes. This is too much for you to take, would be too much for you even if you'd had a perfectly good day today. This isn't fait. How can this be happening to you? Why is the universe punishing you like this? And when is it going to stop? Again you wish you could just sit in your car and turn into an icicle, let someone else defrost you in the morning. You think having a piano fall on your head would be better than this.

Eventually you manage to get yourself to calm down. Sitting in this car freezing isn't gonna do you any good. It'll only get colder by the hour. You need to walk to the far bus stop and catch another bus before they actually stop running, and you really are stranded instead of just doomed to walk forty minutes in a blizzard.

As if there's a difference, you think bitterly as you put your useless phone into your bag and bundle everything up. You put your gloves back on, and your hat. You step out of your car, slamming the door behind you, and zip up your jacket. Of course, you hadn't thought to wear a scarf today, so your face will just have to freeze. After only 30 seconds you feel your lips cracking.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay okay okay okay."

You set off in the direction of the bus.

-/-

The journey is long and cold. It's not so much the temperature as the fact that you never have the chance to get used to it because it just keeps getting holder as the night wears on. It takes a ridiculously long time to walk to the bus stop, because you're fighting headwind every step of the way. You want to close your eyes against the snow, but if you do that you'll veer off course or fall into the road or trip on an ice slick and die, so you brave the stinging and push forward. Then you wait at the bus stop so long that your already sore feet start to scream with pain. Your phone is dead, so there's no way for you to track the bus, but you conclude you must have just missed the previous one as it takes a full thirty minutes for it to come again. By the time the bus pulls up in front of you, your feet are almost buried, and when you take your seat, every part of you squelches and slides as the snow melts, drenching your clothes.

The bus is at least warm, and so is the transport center, but the second bus drops you off another twenty-five minute walk from your apartment and you're forced to walk- you guessed it!- uphill. Your calves are screaming from the exertion, and from cold, and from keeping your balance as you trudge through the piling snow. You have a death grip on your keys- if they were to fall out somewhere between work and home you would simply lie down on the ground and let the snow bury you. It would be more than you could take. But your keys stay in your tightly clenched fists, and soon your apartment building becomes visible through the dark and haze. You want to cry tears of relief but your tear ducts are frozen shut.

By the time you traipse up the steps of your apartment, you feel more popsicle than person. You are so cold. Your hands shake so much it takes you a few tries to get the keys from your pocket and stick them in the lock. You step inside, sagging as the heat blasts you in the face. All you want to do is collapse into bed and curl under your blankets where the world can't see you, to get a little bit of sleep before your torture begins anew tomorrow. The thought of going to work on Friday strikes a physical pain in you. You've barely survived today, and yet tomorrow looms terrible just out of reach.

You go to turn on the lights only to realize that the lights are already on. Your heart skips a beat. Did someone break into your apartment? Should you turn around and flee? But you don't have a car, and you certainly aren't walking back to the bus stop. You have nowhere to go.

A figure turns the corner and you flinch back, hands half-raised in some pathetic attempt to defend yourself-

It's Chan. He turns the corner and it's your boyfriend, standing on your tile floor in sweats and a big sweater, eyes bright and twinkling with how excited he is to see you.

"Hey, sweetheart," Chan says. "You're finally back. I saw you called earlier and got worried something was wrong."

You burst into tears. You're crying before you even know it, violent sobs that shake you and make water droplets roll off your soaked hair. Salt burns your frozen tear ducts, and snow is slipping down your collar, but all these small discomforts are overshadowed by the pure and all-consuming relief that your boyfriend is here in the flesh, asking after you and taking care of you, and you can finally stop fighting to keep it together. You can rest.

Chan makes a sound of alarm and rushes forward to grab you as you start to list.

"Baby? Hey, hey, what's wrong? Christ, you look terrible. Are you sick?" He tries to put his hand against your forehead but pulls it away just as fast. "You're cold as ice, y/n."

"I w-walked home," you try to explain. Your tongue is thick in your mouth, and it's hard to get enough air to speak through your sobs. "Car broke down, phone died, b-bus was late."

"Fuck, sweetheart. I'm so fucking sorry. That sounds terrible."

His validation of your misery just makes you cry harder. Chan pulls you into a fierce hug and you bury your face in his shoulder and absolutely lose it. All the stress of the last week crashes down on you at once, your misery overwhelming you. You grab at his clothes with gloved hands, and there's about four layers of clothes between you, and it's not enough, you want to be closer. But at the same time you can't make yourself pull away from Chan's embrace. He whispers soothing words in your ear, rocks you back and forth, presses closed mouth kisses to any part of you he can reach. He doesn't shush you, or try to calm you down. He just lets you have the emotional release he knows you sorely need.

When your cries start to slow, he gives you one final squeeze to catch your attention, and whispers, "We need to get you out of these clothes, hmm? Does that sound okay?"

You swallow the last of your sobs and nod morosely.

"Okay then. Let's take your jacket off. It's soaking wet by now."

You step back from Chan, still holding on to his arm as you stumble and sway. You're so tired. Standing up for even a second longer is too big of an ask.

"Just lean on me. It's okay, I won't let you fall."

Together, you unfasten and take off your heavy winter coat, letting it fall to the floor with the slush you dragged in. Chan is the one who crouches down to untie your shoes, and you lean on him for support as you remove one foot, then the other.

"Good job," he praises, pressing a kiss to your snow-soaked hair. "Let's get you warmed up now."

He leads you to the bathroom and starts the water running in the tub. You listlessly undress, leaning on the counter for support when you need it. While the tub is filling, Chan tries to leave, but you catch him by the shoulder on his way past you, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stay?"

"Of course I'll stay," he says. "I just want to get you a change of clothes."

You hesitantly let go of him, and he flashes you a reassuring smile before he slips out. You sit down on the toilet and wait patiently for his return, watching the water fill the tub slowly and feeling your thoughts move sluggishly in your brain.

The sound of the water stopping jolts you back to the present. Chan is back, in a regular t-shirt this time, leaning over the bathtub to make sure the water is the right temperature. Deeming it good enough, he turns back to you and stretches out a hand to you.

As soon as you sit down in the warm water, you feel about ten times better. The warmth unties some of the tension that coils your muscles, and it quells the shivering that had started up as you were sitting on the toilet waiting to be told what to do. Chan urges you to slide down so you're almost submerged, making sure almost all your body is enveloped in warmth, and starts dumping warm water over your head, soaking your hair and washing out the remnants of grime and slush. He's quiet as he does it, humming a low tune, and you close your eyes and let him do as he wants. When he's done, he taps your shoulder, and you sit up, mourning the loss of warmth as your back and chest are exposed to the bathroom air.

"Do you mind?" he asks. You shake his head, uncaring of what he's referring to. You'd let him do anything to you in this state. It turns out "anything" means washing your back, so you again sit still and let him do as he pleases. The pressure of his hands and the sound of his voice, still humming, gradually soothe your mind and body. You stop shivering and tune back into your surroundings.

He's subtly watching your face, so he sees when you come back to yourself and drops his neutral expression. "Back with me?"

You nod. The floaty feelings from being cold and hysterical are gone, but that just means the exhaustion of your day is hitting you full force. You hold out your hand for the washcloth so you can clean the rest of yourself, and he hands it over, but doesn't move to leave, which you appreciate. Now that you're calmer, you think you might be a little more embarrassed asking him to stay.

"I know you said this morning you were cursed, but I didn't think you meant literally," he tries to joke.

You let out a long breath. "I didn't think I meant literally either."

"Wanna talk about it?"

You shrug as you rub the washcloth along your legs, wincing when you remove your still-freezing toes from the water. "What can I say? It was a shit day at work with a shit ending."

"You said your car broke down."

You squeeze your eyes shut. You are not in the mood for this argument. "It just wouldn't start. I don't know what's wrong with it."

"Y/n..." He doesn't say anything more. He knows as well as you do that you'll get nowhere. It's enough to set you off though, now that your exhaustion is making you irritatble.

"It wouldn't have mattered either way if you'd picked up the phone when I called you," you snap. It's unfair and you know it, but before you can begin to feel remorse, Chan's face turns to one of guilt.

"I know, I'm sorry. I still had it silenced from work and didn't realize. When I saw that you called me I tried to call back but the calls didn't go through."

"My phone died. That's why I didn't call an Uber."

Chan shakes his head. "I would call this comical if it wasn't so clearly stressing you out."

"You can still call it comical. Just not within earshot."

"Surely you think better of me than that."

"I do," you say, completely serious. "Sorry. I'm not mad you didn't answer. It's just been a shitty day."

Chan squeezes your shoulder in understanding. "It's alright. I get it."

"I'm really grateful you're here," you say, and you're getting choked up again, emotions all out of whack. "I've never been so happy to see anyone."

"You called three times. Since I couldn't get a hold of you, I hoped you'd still come home and we could talk here."

"You're too good to me."

"I'm exactly as good as you deserve." He leans down to kiss you, long and loving and warm, and the last of the chill in your bones slides away.

-/-

The next morning, Chan calls you in sick before you even wake up. He has to leave for the morning, but comes back around noon with ingredients to make you soup and tea, and rouses you for lunch with all the care and gentleness in the world.  He curls next to you in bed despite your protests that you'll get him sick, but then, it's not like you protest that hard. You're still feverish and needy, and maybe it's not the most ridiculous thing in the world to want to lie in your boyfriend's arms as you recover from what you're pretty sure is mild hypothermia mixed with the flu.

"We were gonna hang out this weekend," you say morosely. "Now I'm trapped in this bed and you're stuck taking care of me."

"Taking care of you is my favorite form of hanging out," he informs you, cleaning away the mug and bowl to bring back to the kitchen. "And hanging up the phone on your boss is my favorite passtime."

"You did not hang up on them," you gasp, hand over your mouth.

Chan shrugs, unbothered. "They seemed a little too annoyed about my request to not tow your car out of the parking lot. I made it very clear that it better be there when you get back on Monday or else."

"So selfless. You could've let them tow it and finally been victorious."

He turns from the kitchen and sits back down on the bed. "You like that car. I'm not going to keep insisting you get rid of it when it means so much to you. Even if I do blame it for the events of yesterday." You glare and he puts his hands up defensively. "If it's not my fault or your fault then I have to blame the car. Sorry not sorry."

"Blame the cursed spirit following me around," you say, sinking miserably into the blankets. "It possessed the engine of my car just to torment me."

"Even more reason to get rid of it."

You're feverish and tired, but the conversation makes you smile nonetheless. "Ask me again when my fever breaks if you still think I should keep it. Maybe it'll burn away the sentimental attachment."

"Don't get my hopes up."

You close your eyes as Chan kisses your forehead, and you slide easily into pleasant dreams.

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Other Ghost Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: When you start avoiding Spencer in the hallway, he thinks it's the end. But maybe your cat can prove him wrong.

Words: 7,1k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of anxiety attacks. angst. hurt/comfort. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I'm so sensitive because THIS IS THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER, and I can't believe it yet😭, but I hope I can post you the end of the series this week along with a couple of extras. I have an oral exam on Thursday (I'm a law student getting crazy), and after that I'll be more free.

Spencer Reid had grown used to the people he loved disappearing just when he needed them most. Always right after he’d let his guard down, when trust came naturally, and when things finally felt safe. That was when they left. Always.

But you don't.

It was a pattern he had identified throughout his life but stopped with you. Because you never left him.

You didn’t walk away the first time he told you about his work, when chilling details of old cases slipped out mid-sentence because his nerves got the better of him. You didn’t flinch when he recited gruesome facts with clinical precision, not realizing how heavy they sounded in a quiet kitchen at night. You didn’t leave the first time he launched into one of his long-winded explanations, full of theories and statistics you couldn’t quite follow but listened to anyway, because it mattered to him. You didn’t leave when he had to cancel dinner—for the third, fourth, fiftieth time—because the job called, because someone out there needed saving more urgently than he needed a warm meal or a quiet night with you. You stayed when he stood in your door with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, crying for the first time as he told you about the parts of himself that made him feel broken. You stayed when he talked about his mother—her illness, her mind unraveling—and the helplessness he carried like a second skin. You didn’t leave, not even when he tried to push you away, when the fear of being loved and then left again made him cold and distant, when he tried to make you angry enough to walk out.

You stayed. Every time.

And yet, he didn’t love you simply because you were the only one who stayed. Spencer loved you for you.

For the way you were always willing to help others without hesitation, stepping into people’s pain like it was your nature to offer comfort. For how you could take the dullest palette—whether a room, a canvas, or a person—and breathe something vibrant into it, as you had quietly and irrevocably done with him. For the way your heart held space for everyone, no matter how broken or distant they were. For how gently you loved your cat, speaking to her like she was family.

And of course, for how you had fallen asleep on the couch this night, curled under a blanket beside his godson’s bed, trying to soothe his fevered restlessness. Spencer had found you there, half-lit by the dim nightlight in the room, your features softened in sleep, your hand still resting near the child’s arm like a silent guardian. You looked so peaceful, so entirely present even in rest, and it had struck him then—undeniably and with a quiet ache—how beautiful you were.

God, the smile on his face and the way his eyes sparkled at the image were impossible to ignore.

“Let her sleep a little longer,” JJ said softly at his side, her voice warm and quiet now that she was seeing Henry resting. Her eyes flicked to the couch where you lay curled up, the soft rise and fall of your breathing matching her son’s. A small smile touched her lips. “They look so peaceful, don’t they?”

He nodded, his gaze still lingering on you with a mix of relief and something softer, something like admiration. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low. “They really do.”

After a moment of quiet watching, they both stepped softly into the living room, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet as the first light of dawn seeped gently through the curtains. The room felt warm and lived-in, wrapped in the hush that comes just before the world fully wakes. Spencer lowered himself into the familiar armchair with a slow, measured breath, a strange calm settling into his chest, like something held tightly for too long had finally begun to loosen. Across from him, Jennifer eased onto the couch, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, studying his face and every subtle shift in his body, the way only someone who truly knew him could. Like a profiler, yes—but more than that, like a friend who already sensed his change.

“Now we can talk,” she said gently, folding her hands in her lap as she leaned back into the couch.

Spencer frowned, his brow furrowing as his gaze dropped briefly to his hands. “About what?” he asked, with his voice low and cautious.

JJ tilted her head slightly, her eyes warm but perceptive. “About you,” she said softly.

He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable beneath the weight of the question. “What about me?”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You look…happy, more relaxed than the last time I saw you.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came, or at least not at first. They caught somewhere in his throat, tangled in the mess of thoughts that always seemed to surface when he least wanted them to. His mind, unbidden, drifted back to you. To the quiet, undeniable way you had started to change things in him.

Because the last time his friend had seen him—just three days ago at his firearm requalification—he had been a different version of himself. More haunted. His eyes had been distant, unfocused, like he was staring through paper targets and into something he couldn’t quite name. He had lingered in the office afterward, pretending to be busy, shuffling files that didn’t need sorting, letting the clock drag so he could avoid returning to his apartment. Because going home meant walking past your door. It meant risking the possibility of seeing you in the hallway, of catching your eye and feeling like a soulless person.

But now, everything felt different. He had released those fears and allowed himself to be close to you again. Closer than he’d been in a long time, if he was being truly honest. And even though it had only been a few hours in your presence, something about being near you had already begun to dull the sharp edges of his worries, like a soothing balm on old wounds. For the first time in a while, he felt…almost numb to the weight he’d been carrying.

“I’m trying,” Spencer finally said, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Trying?” JJ echoed, leaning in a little, her eyes soft but insistent. “Come on, Spence, give me the real story.”

His cheeks flushed a gentle shade of pink, and his voice softened, almost shy. “Something good happened,” he admitted quietly, like sharing a fragile secret. “She knows how I feel…and, well, it’s mutual.”

A full smile bloomed on JJ’s face, sincere and full of relief. “I always knew it,” she murmured, her hand reaching out to squeeze his arm, grounding him in the moment. “I’m really happy for you two.”

He smiled too. But then it faded, like the flicker of a candle disturbed by a sudden draft. He looked down again, shoulders contracted and his friend's full attention on him.

“But…?”

“She doesn’t know everything yet.” Spencer said it as if it physically pained him to do so.

JJ didn't speak right away. Her fingers intertwined again in her lap as she watched him, calm and steady without trying to get too much in the way. But the slight wrinkle between her brows said it all and more.

“Then she knows how you feel about her,” JJ said carefully, “but not everything that happened while you were gone?”

He nodded once. “No.”

The silence hung, but not heavily. Not accusingly. Just waiting for the voice of reason.

“You’re supposed to be honest if you want to build something real with someone, Spence,” she said gently. “You want that, don’t you? Something real?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes drifted toward the soft spill of morning light seeping through the curtains, casting long golden streaks across the living room floor.

He thought about the mornings when the scent of coffee lingered in the kitchen and your sleepy smile was the first thing he saw, framed by sunlight and messy hair. The quiet afternoons spent doing nothing and everything, folding laundry side by side, sharing half-finished books, the soft sound of your laughter carrying through his apartment. The nights when he came home late, tired and worn, and found you curled on the couch with a blanket ready for him, the lamp still on because you were waiting. Always waiting. How lovely it had become to return to that—to you—even in the middle of the night, when the world felt heavy on his shoulders. How grounding it was to know that when the sky turned gray with dawn, you’d be there, soft and warm, pulling him close like home was something he could hold forever.

That thought alone made his chest ache.

“I just want to do this right,” he said quietly, his voice nearly lost to the stillness of the room.

“Then be honest.” JJ leaned forward, her voice dropping even softer, almost like a secret. “Don’t keep shielding her from your past like it’s something she’s not strong enough to see.”

Spencer finally nodded, the movement slow and heavy, like it took effort just to admit the truth to himself. Her words settled deep in his chest, sinking into the hollow space he always felt when he thought of you: the ache of not being fully known and the fear of losing you if he ever was. His hands curled into fists in his lap, the skin stretched tight over his knuckles, trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t said. It wasn’t just guilt. It was longing. Desperation. The quiet, aching hope that maybe honesty could still be enough.

“I want to be honest,” he finally whispered, his voice thick with something like resolve. “But it’s hard. I’m afraid—”

“Afraid she won’t understand,” JJ finished gently, her eyes never leaving his. “Afraid she’ll walk away.”

He met her gaze, vulnerability raw in his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll lose her.”

“Then don’t wait,” she said softly. “Be the man you want her to see, and that will be okay.”

A long breath escaped him. Somewhere deep inside, a flicker of hope stirred, fragile but undeniable.

Maybe he just needed to find the right moment to tell you everything.

It was hard, especially because it was all his fault, being locked in his apartment knowing that you were next door wishing with all your might to never see him again. It was hard, it was painful, and it was so frustrating. It felt worse than anything that had happened to him before, worse even than any of the abandonments he had suffered earlier in his life, because this time, he himself had caused you to leave.

His own home had lost its warmth and familiarity, feeling hollow and foreign without you there. Two weeks had passed since you left, but the absence hung heavy in every corner. Your scent, the faintest trace of it, clung stubbornly to the air, though he fought against admitting it was fading. The candles you used to light, their soft glow once comforting, now sat nearly burned down to stubs, consumed by the many times he’d lit them. His favorite mug, the one you always used, remained untouched and perched in the exact same spot on the kitchen cabinet, making fun of his misery. Even Mittens, your beloved cat who once curled up at his feet without hesitation, had stopped coming by so often. It was as if even she sensed the distance between you two, as if she, too, was quietly mourning the rift his mistakes had created.

Because he never found the right time.

Every night since the last time you’d spoken to him, Spencer found himself haunted by the quiet of his apartment: an unbearable, echoing silence that seemed to grow heavier with each passing hour. Without fail, he wandered aimlessly from room to room, his fingertips grazing the places your presence still lingered.

He’d run his hands along the worn armrest of the sofa where you’d fallen asleep countless times, your head resting against a pillow you’d claimed as yours. His eyes would linger on the small stack of books you’d half-finished, your place still marked by a folded receipt or a pressed flower. He hadn’t moved them. Couldn’t. The floral-embroidered blanket remained crumpled over the armchair, untouched since the day you left. The sight of it was like a punch to the chest. He could still remember how it looked draped over your shoulders, how it smelled faintly of your perfume. Because every inch of the space was saturated with you.

And from time to time, when the silence grew too loud and unbearable, Spencer would reach for the old records you used to play, the ones you’d eagerly recommended, full of warmth and nostalgia. He’d set them spinning on the turntable, letting the familiar crackle and soft melodies seep into the empty spaces of the apartment. But no matter how beautiful the songs were, they could never quite reach past the weight pressing down on his chest. The notes floated through the air like ghosts, brushing against memories instead of skin.

Even sometimes, in moments of weakness, he’d find himself picking up his phone without thinking, scrolling through your messages, staring at your name as if willing it to light up with something. Anything. Even a cold, angry “I hate you” would’ve been better than the aching silence. Or maybe a mistake, an accidental call you didn’t mean to make but hadn’t stopped because you missed him, too.

But the screen stayed still. Black. Lifeless.

A blank reflection of your absence.

And every time it didn’t ring, it was like losing you all over again.

Because he never found the right time.

With each memory dug deep into his ribs like glass, aching with the kind of pain that made him want to scream. But he never did.

Not even once. Not even after the first time he really saw you since that morning in his car.

When Spencer stepped out of his apartment at just the wrong moment, he found himself caught off guard. Across the hall, your door creaked open after two long days of silence, two days where you hadn’t even ventured out except to grab your food delivery. Time seemed to slow as he spotted you emerging, hair still damp from a recent shower, loose strands clinging softly to your face. Your skin was bare, save for the faintest touch of makeup that usually framed your features so gently, now barely there. You wore your favorite worn-in clothes—the ones you always claimed were your “comfy armor”—soft, faded, and unmistakably you.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But his mouth remained closed, his voice buried under the guilt and the sharp pain of watching you from afar. He needed to come closer, to say how sorry he was and beg for forgiveness until maybe you would understand.

But now you weren’t alone. Your best friend stood beside you, chatting softly, her eyes flicking knowingly toward him. She gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod, an unmistakable signal that he was there. Her presence made you seem even smaller, as if she were your shield, silently guarding you. The way she looked at him made it clear in an instant: she already knew everything. Because you had cried to her. Trusted her. She had picked up the pieces while he stood in the wreckage, unsure of how to fix what he’d broken.

You didn’t look at him.

Not even once.

Your gaze remained firmly ahead, like you’d trained yourself not to see him, like acknowledging him might unravel the hard-won peace you were barely holding onto. You didn’t rush, didn’t flinch, but you might as well have been walking past a stranger.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and you both stepped inside. You never turned around.

But your friend did.

Just before the doors closed, she looked at him one last time: stern, protective, almost telling him it wasn't time.

Because he never found the right time.

And then the elevator was gone with all his happiness because you, finally, were avoiding him in the hallway.

“I’m just asking for the sake of asking,” Spencer lied, the words barely convincing even to his own ears. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers threading through tangled thoughts, trying to smooth down the frustration that had built up again.

It was the third—no, fourth—time this week that he’d called his friend and boss, not to catch up, not to check in, but to ask the same question he’d asked again and again, dressed up in different words. He needed to work. He needed to get out of his head and out of his apartment before he went completely mad. The isolation, the guilt, the endless, suffocating silence…it was all too much. He needed the chaos of the job, the clarity of having a purpose, of being needed by someone, by anyone.

On the other end of the line, Emily sighed, heavy and audible through the speaker. He could almost hear her setting aside the file she’d been reviewing, its papers rustling softly like leaves in the wind.

“I want to have you back,” she said, her voice low but honest, carrying that familiar note of empathy only Emily could pull off while still sounding like a boss. “We all do. But I still don’t have an official answer yet.”

He knew what was coming before she even reached for it.

“I’ve been reviewing the return files,” she continued, flipping through something on her desk. “According to this report, you’re still missing your full psychological clearance.”

Spencer froze, jaw tightening.

Of course. The exam. The one he’d sat through half-awake, unshaven, raw with heartache, and haunted by too much truth. He had been too honest. Too transparent about how hollow he felt, how guilt clung to every inch of his skin like a second layer. He’d spoken as if he were still bleeding, and maybe he was. It hadn’t occurred to him then that honesty could work against him. He just needed to say the truth at least one time.

“I understand,” he muttered. “Maybe I should…do it again.”

“Again?” Emily asked, confused, before the implication landed. She went quiet for a beat. “Spencer…”

There was no judgment in her tone, just concern. And maybe a little sadness.

“I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready. You know that, right? You don’t have to prove anything, we can wait for you.”

“I’m ready,” he insisted, though even he heard the crack of uncertainty threading through his voice. “I need to be back.”

Emily didn’t reply right away. He imagined her studying his file, weighing the truth in his voice against the data on paper.

Finally, she exhaled. “Okay. If you say so…maybe I can talk to the Bureau psych team. Try to arrange something. A follow-up exam, maybe. We’ll see how it goes.”

Relief surged in his chest like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.

“It’s nothing,” she replied. “But Spencer?”

“Hm?”

Her voice softened, the way it always did when she was threading careful empathy between her words. “JJ mentioned something…and if you need to talk—”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Loud and frantic. His head whipped toward the front door of his place. The knocking came again, sharper this time, rapid like whoever was on the other side couldn’t afford to wait another second.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “Someone’s at the door. I should check—”

“Of course,” Emily said at once. “Take care of it. And…take care of yourself.”

He ended the call and rose to his feet, heart already hammering again. Something about the knock, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t someone delivering a package or a neighbor with a complaint. It was desperate, and that made his heart beat faster and imagine the worst scenarios.

And when he finally reached the door and opened it, what he saw on the other side stopped him in his tracks. It was bad, very bad.

You. Breathless. Eyes glassy with tears. And barely able to speak.

He was in shock, seeing you after an entire week apart. Seven long, aching days where he’d tried to convince himself that the idea of you showing up at his doorstep again was impossible. That whatever bridge had once connected the two of you had finally burned, quietly and without ceremony.

You stood there, framed by the dull glow of the hallway light, hair messy from what looked like hours of pacing or tossing in bed, and your eyes red-rimmed and glistening with fresh tears. You weren’t dressed to be out long; just slippers, soft sleep pants, and one of your worn-in shirts. The one you used to wear curled up beside him on his couch. The sight of it made Spencer’s stomach twist and made his fingers tighten around the edge of the door.

“What happened? Are you okay?” he asked instantly, his voice edged with panic as his eyes swept over you in a frantic scan, checking for blood, bruises, any sign of harm. His heart was already racing, thundering in his chest as his mind jumped to the worst-case scenarios. He stepped forward slightly, instinctively, as if ready to catch you should you collapse right there in the doorway.

But you shook your head quickly, breath stuttering. “Have you seen Mittens?” you asked, your voice cracking like it physically hurt to speak. “Tell me she’s with you.”

“No,” Spencer said, panic creeping into his own voice as he quickly scanned the hallway behind you, as if she might magically appear. “No, I—I haven’t seen her in a while. A couple of days maybe.”

“No?” you whispered again, like you couldn’t believe it, like the word itself might shatter you. Your shoulders shook as another tear slipped down your cheek, and you clutched your arms around yourself like you were barely holding together.

“She loves you,” you went on, the words tumbling out in a rush. “She always runs to your door. She likes your books and your blankets, and she sleeps on your couch sometimes when I’m gone. She feels safe with you.” You looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Please…please, tell me she’s with you.”

But she wasn’t.

And for a moment, Spencer wished more than anything that he could lie. That he could tell you what you needed to hear, just to take that pain off your face.

“Please.” You whispered, trying to calm the trembling of your hands. “Please tell me she is with you.”

He stepped forward instinctively, hands lifting halfway like he meant to take your shoulders to steady you, but stopped just shy of touching you, as if he wasn’t sure he still had the right.

“Hey, hey, slow down,” he said softly, his voice low and careful like he was trying not to scare you off. “Breathe. You’re shaking.”

His eyes searched yours, desperate to ease some of the panic etched across your face.

“Come inside, okay?” he said, stepping aside and holding the door open for you. “Sit down. Tell me everything, and I’ll help you. I swear I will.”

His tone held no hesitation, only quiet urgency: the kind of calm he used at crime scenes, the kind he only used when everything was falling apart and someone needed to hold it all together. Only this time, it wasn’t a stranger. It was you. And God, it wrecked him to see you like this.

You hesitated, but the weight of it all—the panic, the grief, the bone-deep exhaustion—was too much. Your knees were already starting to give, so you let him guide you in. The moment you stepped across the threshold, a familiar ache hit Spencer in the chest. You hadn’t been here in weeks, since that night you two kissed, and still it felt like you belonged more than he did.

You sat on the edge of the couch like the floor might give way beneath your feet if you leaned back too far, your whole frame tense and folded inward. Your hands wouldn’t stop moving, as if they were trying to keep your heart from spilling out of your chest.

“She’s gone,” you whispered, the words barely making it past your lips. Saying it out loud seemed to make it worse, like admitting it gave it more power. Your voice trembled, thin and raw. “I was staying at my best friend’s place for a few days, I couldn’t—”

You stopped yourself, but the silence that followed said more than your words could.

You couldn’t be in your own home because he was next door. And he knew it.

“I came back two nights ago, and she wasn’t there,” you went on, swallowing hard. “At first I thought she was hiding or maybe mad at me. That she was anxious or curled up somewhere weird like she does when she’s nervous. But I’ve looked. Everywhere. I’ve torn the whole apartment apart. I checked the windows, the closets, under the bed, and behind my paintings. I’ve walked the hallways and talked with our neighbors—”

Your breath caught, and you shook your head, eyes filling again.

“She’s just…gone.”

Spencer’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. He knew exactly what Mittens meant to you. She wasn’t just a pet, not by a long shot. She was your comfort on sleepless nights, the quiet, steady presence that stayed when everything else felt too loud. You’d adopted her six years ago, during one of the darkest periods of your life, and from that moment on, she had been your anchor. She had curled up beside you through heartbreaks and anxiety attacks, padded softly after you through every apartment move, and greeted you at the door like you were the most important person in the world. She was your family. Your safest place. And the fear of losing her now, after everything, felt like the final thread pulling loose. He could see all of that in your eyes, and it made his chest ache.

He knelt in front of you, trying to meet your eyes. “Okay. Okay, listen to me. Cats, especially indoor cats…they get curious, they slip out through open windows, sneak down the hall, and hide in tiny spaces for hours. And sometimes they come back after two or three days like nothing happened.”

“But she’s never done this before,” you said, shaking your head furiously. “Never. She always waits at the door for me. Always.”

“I know,” he said softly, his voice gentle and steady. “But it doesn’t mean something bad has happened. Cats are incredibly smart. Remember that study I told you about? A cat traveled over two hundred miles just to find its way back home. They navigate using scent and memory, it’s amazing how strong their instincts are.”

You let out a shaky breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, brushing your sleeve across your wet cheeks. “Please, not the migration theories right now…I can’t think,” you whispered, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

“I’m not trying to be clinical,” he said gently, his voice steady. “I just want you to hold onto hope.”

That was so him. Always trying to be your calm in the chaos.

Even when his own heart was breaking, even when you were the storm at his door, he’d steady his voice, soften his eyes, and make space for your pain like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He suddenly stood and moved to grab his phone. “I’ll call Garcia. She can help us make flyers and maybe put together a post for local missing pet pages online. I’ll print them myself. We’ll check every vet and shelter within ten miles, I swear. We can even look into pet tracking services or security footage from nearby buildings if she slipped outside. Whatever it takes.”

You stared at him, trembling, overwhelmed, but grateful. “You’d…you’d do that for her?”

Spencer met your gaze, and for a second, you both just looked at each other, everything unspoken thick in the air. “I’d do it for you.”

Silence.

Then, with your voice barely a whisper, you said, “I’m sorry for showing up out of nowhere…I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your words hung in the air, fragile and trembling, like they were afraid to exist. You weren’t just apologizing for the timing; you were apologizing for the heartbreak between you, for the silence that had stretched too long, for all the things you hadn’t said but had felt every day since you’d drifted apart.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, his voice warm and sure. “You don’t have to apologize.”

And for the first time in weeks, as you let your forehead fall into your hands and your shoulders shook in silent relief, Spencer felt something shift, something he hadn’t let himself believe in for far too long. Maybe he could still be someone who mattered. Someone you could lean on when everything else felt too heavy. Maybe, in all the quiet unraveling of the last few months, someone still needed him. And God, he needed that more than he could ever say.

He moved quietly through the kitchen, his every motion careful and deliberate, like he was afraid that even the clink of a spoon might shatter what little calm was left in the room. His long fingers reached for your favorite mug: the one with the faded constellation print he’d memorized long ago. He cradled it gently, thumb brushing over a tiny chip near the rim, as if the act of holding something so familiar might anchor him, too.

He busied himself with the tea, pretending his hands weren’t trembling ever so slightly, pretending he didn’t keep glancing back at you. You were curled in on yourself on the couch, your shoulders drawn tight, your hands trembling softly in your lap like you were holding something fragile, your hope, maybe. Spencer’s heart ached at the sight. He wanted to say something, to reach for you, but instead he turned back to the kettle and let the silence stretch, trying, so desperately, to be the calm you needed when everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Then, boom.

A sudden clap of thunder cracked the silence, and a second later, rain started tapping sharply against the windows. Not a light drizzle. Not a gentle mist. This was full, cold, heavy rain, washing over the street like it had something to prove.

Spencer paused, staring out the window at the downpour. And then he heard it: your breath catching behind him.

He turned just as you stood abruptly, already making for the door.

“No, no, no,” you said under your breath, panic spiking in your voice as you rushed toward your shoes, your arms fumbling into the sleeves of a hoodie that wasn’t even zipped. “She hates the rain, Spencer. She hates it. She’ll be terrified out there…what if she’s cold, or trapped, or trying to get back and—”

“Wait, hey,” he said quickly, abandoning the tea and moving toward you. “You can’t go out like that.”

“I have to!” You snapped, the fear laced in your voice so sharp it nearly broke him. “She’s alone. She’s out there, and it’s raining, and she doesn’t know how to be alone!”

“You’re in slippers and pajama pants,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re not even zipped up. You’ll get sick. You’re shaking.”

You were already trying to pull open the front door, but he reached gently across and closed it with his palm, keeping it shut, not with force but with care. Your eyes flared with desperation, tears streaming freely again now, but you didn’t resist him. Not really. You just looked defeated.

“I can’t just sit here,” you whispered. “I’ll go insane. I keep thinking…what if she’s waiting for me to find her?”

“I know,” he said, softer this time, resting one hand lightly on the doorframe beside your head so you didn’t feel caged in. “I know. That’s why I’m coming with you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked at him.

“I’ll get dressed, grab an umbrella and a flashlight, and I’ll drive,” he said, already mentally mapping out the search radius and already calculating the best routes and how many flyers they could distribute in the area in under an hour. “You can direct me to the places she might go: quiet spots, favorite windows, bushes where she hides. But you need to be warm. You need to stay safe too. I need you safe, okay?”

That last sentence slipped out before he could stop it, but he didn’t take it back. He meant it. You mattered to him. And he would search every alley, every corner of this city if it meant bringing Mittens home and easing that sorrow in your eyes.

Your lip trembled, and then, finally, you nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

Spencer squeezed your arm gently. “Go grab a coat and real shoes. I’ll bring the tea in a travel mug, and then we’ll go.”

And as you disappeared down the hallway toward his room, he turned back to the kettle, which had just started to hiss with steam. He poured the tea carefully, screwed the lid onto the mug, and looked out the window again, watching the rain streak down the glass in frantic lines.

He didn’t know where Mittens was yet.

But he did know one thing with absolute certainty: he wouldn’t stop searching until he brought her home to you.

The rain hammered relentlessly, a steady drum against the city’s darkened streets and the car’s thin windows. You’d searched every alley, every hidden nook you could think of, places where Mittens might have slipped away to hide. Your voice was raw from calling her name over and over, hoarse and cracked, fading into the night air with no reply. The cold crept into your bones, soaked through your damp coat, seeping into your sleeves and chilling your arms. Your pants clung uncomfortably to your legs, heavy and cold. Strands of your hair stuck to your forehead and cheeks, plastered down by the rain. Your fingers trembled, not just from the chill, but from the gnawing, desperate worry that tightened your chest like a vise.

Spencer sat quietly behind the wheel, his eyes flicking between the road and you in the passenger seat, worry carved deep into his features. He wanted to say something, something to ease the storm inside you, but all he could do was keep driving, letting you search, hoping somehow you’d find her.

Hours seemed to stretch and blur until your voice finally broke through the silence, shaky and fragile. “Let’s go back.”

The words were barely a whisper, and you didn’t mean to sound like you were about to break, but the tremor in your voice gave you away. Spencer reached over, gently resting his hand on your arm. You flinched for just a moment, overwhelmed by exhaustion, but didn’t pull away.

When you arrived back at your apartment, the heaviness settled in like a physical weight. The air inside felt colder somehow, emptier than it had before you left. Spencer stood beside you, still dripping wet, umbrella forgotten by the door, curls matted and clinging to his forehead. You peeled off your coat with numb fingers, the fabric clinging to you, soaked through. Water pooled quietly on the floor beneath your feet as you moved toward the bathroom, your movements slow and heavy.

“I’m just going to dry off,” you muttered, voice hoarse.

Spencer nodded, his expression gentle. “I’ll put the kettle on again.”

You barely acknowledged him and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind you. You were ready to strip off your wet clothes, to let the warm water wash away the cold and the worry, to let the tears fall freely, maybe to sob like you hadn’t been able to before.

But then, something.

A low, soft purr drifted through the stillness.

Your breath caught in your throat. The bathroom was dark, but in the dim shadows, movement caught your eye.

There, nestled inside the bathtub, curled into a perfect little ball of gray fur, was Mittens. She was wrapped in something soft and achingly familiar, one of Spencer’s sweaters. Maybe he’d left it behind during one of his quiet visits, or maybe you had taken it for yourself long before things between you began to fall apart. Either way, it still carried the faint, comforting scent of him—books and soap and warmth—and somehow, that was what your cat had chosen to curl up in.

For a moment, you just stared, breath hitching in disbelief. The ache in your chest loosened just a little. “Mittens, my baby…”

You sank slowly to the tile floor, the chill of it bleeding through your soaked clothes, but the cold didn’t matter. Not now. Your hands trembled as you reached out, barely daring to believe she was real. But then your fingers sank into the soft, familiar fluff of her fur, and you let out a sound that was equal parts relief and disbelief.

You gathered her gently into your arms, cradling her against your chest like something sacred, your cheek pressing into the warmth of her tiny body. She was damp but purring: loud, steady, and unbothered. Her eyes blinked up at you lazily, like she hadn’t just broken your heart by vanishing. Like this was all just a nap to her. As if she’d been waiting here the whole time, perfectly content, wrapped in the one thing that still smelled like home.

Her purring vibrated through your bones. You clutched her tighter, your body beginning to shake as the weight of the last few days hit you all at once.

“Oh my God…” you whispered, voice cracking. Tears spilled freely now, hot and sudden as relief and love overwhelmed you.

She was okay.

She. Was. Okay.

“Spencer!” you called, your voice cracking sharply through the apartment. It wasn’t loud, but it was urgent, raw with emotion, with disbelief, with the kind of relief that made your lungs ache.

Footsteps echoed almost immediately, fast and worried. Spencer appeared in the doorway a second later, breath catching as he took in the sight of you: soaked, kneeling on the bathroom floor, cradling Mittens in your arms like something fragile and precious. His eyes darted from you to the bundle of gray fur, then back to your tear-streaked face.

“She was here,” you whispered, voice shaking. “The whole time. In the tub. With your sweater.”

Spencer blinked, and for a moment, his mouth parted like he didn’t know what to say. Then a soft, stunned smile tugged at his lips, the kind that made your chest squeeze.

“Of course she was,” he murmured, stepping inside slowly, crouching beside you. His eyes were warm, soft with understanding. “She missed you.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. “I tore this place apart,” you said, voice hoarse. “Twice. And she was just…here. Curled up like she never left.”

He reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair gently from your face, his fingertips barely grazing your skin. “Cats hide in the places we forget to check. They go where they feel safe,” he said, his voice quiet.

“I feel like such an idiot,” you whispered.

“No,” Spencer murmured gently, his voice quiet but unwavering. “You’re not. You were scared. That doesn’t make you foolish.”

You exhaled shakily, your breath catching on the edge of another sob that didn’t quite make it out. Slowly, you sat back, your arms still wrapped protectively around Mittens. You looked up at him: eyes swollen, red-rimmed, but steady in the way that only comes when exhaustion has stripped away every layer of pretense.

“You can go now,” you said quietly. Your voice was soft, barely audible, but the words landed between you with surprising weight. “Thank you…for everything. Really. You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in gently, but didn’t push further. He just nodded once, slowly, like he understood that you were done for tonight. That anything more would only stretch the fragile thread you were barely holding onto.

He moved toward the door, his steps hesitant. One hand found the frame as he lingered there, half in shadow, half in light, like he wasn’t sure which side he belonged on anymore. His eyes stayed on you, something unreadable flickering in their depth.

After a long pause, his voice broke the silence.

“I know this isn’t the right moment,” he said. “Maybe it never will be. But I have to say this before I go.”

Because he never found the right time.

You stayed quiet, watching him through the dim light.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer continued, the words quiet but cutting through the air like glass. “I really am. For all of it.”

He exhaled slowly and met your gaze again, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “You were right. About me shutting you out, about pushing you away. If I’d let you in…if I’d let you be there with me, maybe things would be easier for me to bear.” He shook his head slightly, a bitter smile ghosting his lips. “But I’m not sure it would have been better for you.”

Your throat tightened. Still, you didn’t speak.

He took a step back, then gave a small, almost defeated smile, like he was apologizing for all the mistakes you both had made. “I’m sorry for lying to you. Not for trying to protect you, because that’s who I am, I guess. Always trying to be the protector, even if it ends up hurting the people I care about most.”

You looked down at Mittens, who had settled quietly in your lap, utterly oblivious to the wreckage of hearts above her.

“Have a good night,” Spencer finished, and this time, he meant it like goodbye.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away. The gentle click of the door closing behind him was painfully final in the quiet room. You stayed sitting there, clutching your cat close, feeling the warmth of her small body against your chest and the weight of everything he had just said settling deep inside you, lingering like the fading echo of his footsteps down the hall.

For the first time since you had discovered the truth, you were no longer angry and hurt because he had just put a band-aid on your wound.

Because maybe he found the right time.

Sadly, what you didn’t know, what neither of you could have known, was that this moment, this moment together brought on by your cat's antics, would be the last time you would see him for what would feel like an eternity. At least for three more agonizing months.

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[hongism]

what lies beneath us. - c. san (m)

➼ genre; fluff, smut, slight angst for the first half but i make it better quickly promise ➼ pairing; san x afab!reader ➼ au; established relationship, college au ➼ warnings; explicit smut ➼ rating; m/18+ ➼ wc; 6.4k

one busy semester is all it took for you and san to find yourselves struggling to find footing in the storm that is your relationship, yet rather than let go, he asked for one more week, one more day, one last chance to help get you back to shore

part of the ...and it's snowing collab.

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➼ smut warnings; unprotected sex, oral: m, vaginal fingering, praise, body worship, service-top san, san has some slightly submissive tendencies, coming inside

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You normally wouldn’t find yourself in Wooyoung’s apartment on a Tuesday morning, sitting at the bar counter beside his roommate with two mugs of coffee sitting on the granite between you, but you also haven’t had any leisure time to waste lately. It’s a miracle that Wooyoung is even up before ten o’clock, though that might be in part due to you pleading desperately over the phone to come over.

“Oh, you make her coffee but not me? The fuck is up with that, Hwa?” Speak of the devil, Wooyoung comes into the kitchen still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“She’s a guest, you live here. And I had to wake you up because you slept through three alarms so my sympathy levels are close to zero right now.” Seonghwa flashes a faux shrug despite the heated glare he’s sent. Wooyoung lets out a huff but lets it go in favor of redirecting his attention to you.

“Right, well, what did you need to talk about so badly that it couldn’t wait until the afternoon?”

“San is coming over tonight, I couldn't do the afternoon,” you mumble.

“Is it about him then? Did something—” he waves a hand through the air like that’ll explain his thoughts, and when confusion shows on both your face and Seonghwa’s, he gives up “—did something happen between you guys?”

“It feels a bit awkward,” you admit over the rim of your coffee mug. Wooyoung scoffs at that, but Seonghwa is far more forgiving than your best friend in that he sends you a sympathetic grin. 

“Awkward?” he prompts, toying with his own drink. Wooyoung pushes away from the counter and turns to the coffee maker.

“I don't know. Yeah, awkward, a bit. I guess. Like we don't know what we're doing or how to be in a relationship anymore.”

The brutal semester you both just suffered has been the main factor in the wedge in your relationship. Weekends full of studying, ones that you spent together at the start of the semester when he would come to your place or vice versa so that you could be together even while working. Then, San started picking up more shifts at his part-time job, and you had to redirect your focus to a particularly important internship that required you to forgo those weekends in the blink of an eye. You did have two weekends free of school and work, but San had to rush home during one of those on account of his mother falling ill. The other one was shot by you falling ill with the worst cold you’ve known in all your years of living. San came by that Friday with your favorite chicken and beer, but you couldn’t bring yourself to risk getting him sick when you knew how important the semester was to him too. It didn’t keep him from coming by again Saturday and Sunday both, soup was delivered to your front door along with voice messages wishing you well throughout the night. Even your text conversations were fizzling into oblivion by the time finals rolled around, which only served to amplify your feelings of dread. 

“Has he been acting differently?” Wooyoung tunes back into the conversation, this time more serious with his tone. “Like, he's pulling away or something?” Wooyoung stands on a different footing in this conversation and knows things Seonghwa doesn't in terms of your relationship with San. He's been there for you since well before you started dating San, and you're certain that he'll be there for you if it were to end tomorrow, the next day, or years down the line. 

“It's gonna sound so childish and stupid but he hasn't been calling me nicknames since the semester ended.” You tuck your hands into your lap and shrink into yourself a little, feeling the hot burn of shame well up inside.

“That's not stupid at all, y/n,” Seonghwa reassures barely a second after you finish your train of thought. “That's not.”

“He's right. That's totally unlike San.”

“Not! Helping!”

“I'm just being honest?!”

“Look, y/n, I don't want you to start having doom thoughts or thinking the worst — that doesn't mean his feelings for you have changed.” You’re starting to think that you should’ve asked Seonghwa for advice from the start instead of Wooyoung. “Maybe he's feeling that awkwardness you are too, or maybe he's feeling insecure. The only way to know is to ask. Have an open and honest conversation about it.”

“But…” You glance past Seonghwa to look at Wooyoung's back. Without even needing to look back, he seems to feel the weight of your stare.

“You're scared that if you bring it up, the worst will happen and y'all will break up.”

“We've been dating for so long that I don't know what I would do if that happened. I don't know how to be single, no offense to either of you, but it's just that we've been together for so long now. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if it ended.”

“If…” Wooyoung bites his words back as though he's unsure of how they will come out. “I don't want this to sound harsh, but if all it takes for him to lose his feelings for you is one busy semester, then that's not someone I would want you to have a future with. I know it's not up to me and it's not my business, but I want you to value yourself more than you value your relationship with San.”

“I truly don't think he's lost his feelings for you, y/n,” Seonghwa cuts in again, hand darting out across the counter in your direction. “Woo is right; you should value yourself more than the relationship you're in, but that doesn't mean you can only have one of those things. They can coexist.”

“What if I’m fighting for something he doesn’t want any longer?” you inquire softly and under your breath.

“The spark isn’t gone, y/n, I’m certain of that much. Maybe you just… need to find a way to reignite it!” The coffee maker dings loudly behind Wooyoung. And like it’s turning on a lightbulb in Wooyoung’s head, his expression turns suddenly bright. “Why not do just that? It’s been half a decade, to be fair, so really you can’t be blamed if things feel a little stale. If you went and did things that made you fall for each other in the first place, wouldn’t that help a bit?”

“I hate to say it…”

“You always say that when I’m right!”

“Ignoring him, that does sound like a good plan, y/n.”

Despite the reassurance from both your best friend and someone you consider to be far more mature and wiser, it doesn’t fully quell the concerns settling in your gut.

It’s only been six days since you last saw San, though you would argue that it feels a lot more like six months given how absent you both have been from each other’s lives of late. While that isn’t particularly your fault or his wholly — it’s definitely a joint effort that’s kept you apart — it does make your skin itch with anxiety every time you think about seeing him again.

It’s all culminated into this moment right now, where you sit on the edge of your couch waiting for the doorbell to ring and announce his arrival. You want to see him, desperately so, you’ve missed him so incredibly much that you can hardly stand it. And yet — you’re rooted to the cushions riddled by anxieties. You tried to rid yourself of the lingering stress after leaving Wooyoung’s apartment by doing chores properly for the first time in months, going so far as to run to the grocery and restock some necessities as well. You hate to be the type of partner who cannot do anything alone without associating it with your partner, but San was on your mind throughout the day.

Will he feel the same as you even though the flame keeping your relationship alive has been inching closer and closer to nothingness? The two of you don’t fight, in fact, your friends like to say that things go a little too smoothly between you two, and while that’s true, they aren’t aware of what it looks like when you and San aren’t getting along. It looks the way this semester has, slow conversations that lead nowhere and less time spent in each other’s presence. You aren’t fighting right now, but you certainly aren’t all sunshine and rainbows. The weather mirrors your emotions — dim greys shrouded by white flurries of snow that have been falling since early afternoon.

You clench your fingers around the seam of the couch cushion. No part of you wants to play the part of the overbearing partner: if you’re too eager to see him, wouldn’t he find it off-putting? 

The doorbell rings.

It takes a moment for you to brace yourself for impact, standing and walking over to the door as slowly as you can manage without it seeming like a deliberate delay. The second you open the door, however, your worries melt away for a moment. 

San smiles so brightly like you’ve not gone a second without reveling in each other’s presence. The weather is clinging to his coat still even though he had to climb three flights of stairs to reach your door. The little snowflakes are beginning to melt into the fabric.

“May I come in?” The facade cracks a bit. It’s not like him to ask such things, but you choose not to hold it against him now.

“Yeah, yeah, I finally had time to clean the other day so everything’s — nice.” 

If your smile is strained, he says nothing about it, stepping over the threshold and into your apartment like it’s the first time he’s ever done so. He’s polite all the time, but now it makes those seeds of doubt sprout further because you’ve been together for five years now, what reason does he have to act like a stranger in your home? A home he’s been in time and time again, one he’s slept in, fucked you— 

“Do you want ramen or pizza?” You force the thoughts to come to a halt before your expression turns bitter.

“Let’s do ramen, I’ll cut up the vegetables for you.”

There’s an elephant in the room that it seems neither of you wants to address, and so you keep your mouth shut just the same as San with the thought of “maybe this awkwardness will pass after tonight”. You watch him remove his coat and hang it up on the door while still picking at your nails. He extends a hand to you, one you take eagerly, and you lace your fingers through the gaps between his. A bit like a well-oiled machine, you think, something that Wooyoung had noted about the two of you as far back as freshman year of college. San presses his lips to the top of your head. You lean into the touch ever so slightly. 

You share in a quiet synergy that carries you through the motions of preparing food, with no conversation exchanged aside from a “watch for the knife” and “careful, behind you” on occasion. You’re still trying to psyche yourself up to bring up what’s truly on your mind, so you aren’t sure that you’d be able to get any conversation out without it spiraling into insanity right off the bat. For the moment, for now, you want to simply drink in San’s presence. 

He hums as he opens a cabinet in search of bowls, but they aren’t there. 

“Oh, I—I moved the bowls to the other side.” Three months ago, your mind adds. It would do nothing but add salt to a blossoming wound. San stops dead in his tracks too. He seems to suffer the same crisis that you do right then. After a few seconds of mental buffering, he resumes his humming and shifts to the adjacent cabinet like the moment didn’t happen at all. 

You sit beside each other at the bar counter, atop the uncomfortable stools you’ve had for well over two years now, but it offers a weird comfort because it’s familiar, it’s something San knows, it’s something you share and have shared for years. 

“Thanks for the meal,” San says, still wearing a bitten-back smile. 

“Of course. Thank you for helping.” But the detrimental reality of not speaking to someone properly for a long while is that part of you forgets how to make conversation with them. There is nothing for you and San to “catch up on” seeing as you’ve been keeping each other updated on your lives through dry text conversations. “Um…” He’s eyeing you carefully now, and you could pass off the watering in your eyes as the spice of the food, but he would call your bluff in an instant. The funny thing about doubt is that once it’s taken root, it’ll keep growing back no matter how many times you chop at the stem.

“What’s wrong, y/n?”

“It’s just — I don’t — are we breaking up?”

San freezes halfway over his ramen, chopsticks nearly falling from his fingers as he rushes to put his noodles back down. Your shoulders start shaking before you can stop it. He doesn’t stop you from turning away from him, but San has always been endlessly patient and gentle with you so you don’t expect him to ask you to look at him anyway. He does rest a hand atop your forearm though, and his thumb drags small, comforting circles over your skin. 

“Talk to me, y/n, what do you mean by that? Why would we be breaking up?” The words themselves sound calm. There’s a slight quiver to his tone, however, that makes you want to crawl inside yourself and disappear. “A-Are you wanting that?” Your continued lack of response makes San more urgent than ever, and he shifts his hand to your leg, spinning you to face him. You can’t be certain of the expression on your face (though you’d wager there is some degree of hurt); whatever San sees makes him let out a distressed noise from the back of his throat. “Come here, duck, talk to me.”

Standing on somewhat shaky legs, you push yourself closer to San, and he instinctually moves his knees apart to let you tuck yourself into the space there.

“Don’t cry, baby, I’m here, you can talk to me,” he murmurs, hands cupping your face in his hands. You reach down to cling to his shirt like it’s a lifeline. 

“That’s the first time you’ve called me that in weeks. This is the first time we’ve spent time together in six days. We’ve barely spoken or spent time together all semester, and I know why — I know we agreed that school and work have to come first. I know that.” Your voice drops to a whisper as you lose the confidence to speak. “I didn’t think it would mean losing you though.”

“You haven’t lost me, y/n. I’m still here, with you, loving you just as much as ever.” San smiles a little as you push your cheek further into his palm. “My feelings have not changed. I thought about you every day, wondered how you were doing, and if you responded to my texts late, I hoped you were eating well and getting enough rest. I listened to your voice memos rooting for me every night. Your face was always the first thing I saw in the morning because I still keep that slideshow of you as my lockscreen.” Reaching around to the back of your neck, he gives you a little tug, and your foreheads bump together. “The thought of you helped get me through the semester because I knew that it was you who was waiting for me at the end of the tunnel.”

“Sannie…”

“How long have you been worried over this, baby? You should’ve come to me the moment you started having doubts. I wouldn’t have let this go on if I had known.”

“I thought I felt you pulling away so I was scared to bring it up. You weren’t calling me nicknames anymore, and I started reading into it too much and freaked myself out.”

“I’m so sorry, y/n. Don’t put the blame on yourself, it’s not a crime to have anxieties. I didn’t even realize I stopped using them. I suppose I just got swept up in my own feelings and wanted to call you by your name as much as possible.” He nudges you with his head again. “Because I missed you so dearly.” Your lips turn up at the corners, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend. “And because I adore you so so much, my y/n.”

“Stop that.” You hope he doesn’t, truly.

“But I’m so mushy and full of love for you, y/n.”

“You’re gonna make me blush.”

“Oh, I can think of other ways to do that, baby.” San stands, subsequently pushing his body into yours, but your hands are still on each other, his moving down to caress the back of your thigh before he hooks his fingers around the bend of your knee and hoists your leg up over his hip. “I haven’t been good to you, my sweet,” he murmurs close to your lips. “What kind of boyfriend am I if I let you feel unwanted?” Your heart skips a beat as he grips tight at your other leg, then you’re suddenly weightless for a second as he hoists you up to his waist.

“We just ate—”

“I don’t plan on letting that stop me.” You let out a gasp as San traces the line of your jaw with his lips, hot breath spilling across your skin as he carries you from the kitchen. “Unless you want it to?” This damned man knows what he’s doing, he knows the hold he has over you — your brain is already turning into a foggy mess of want, and even the prospect of waiting two minutes for him to lay his hands on you is too much to bear. Your nails drag across his shoulders, tugging at the thin material. He misses the doorknob to your bedroom thanks to your antics, sending you against the wood a little harshly and forcing the air out of your lungs. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Still on the pill.”

“Hm?” he echoes, managing to turn it right on the second try and popping it open properly.

“I’m still on the pill,” you repeat. San freezes in place to stare at your face. You bring a hand around to toy at his parted lips with your thumb. “So you can fuck me raw.”

San becomes so dumbstruck that his jaw moves up and down over and over without any semblance of noise coming out.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me come in my pants like a horny teenager,” he says under his breath. You drop your head back and laugh. San’s hold on you feels so blissfully warm. You didn’t even have time for this during the semester, sometimes thanks to your workloads but more often thanks to sheer exhaustion. A few solo jaunts before bed are hardly enough to please you the way San does. Based on how tightly he’s gripping your ass, he seems to feel exactly the same.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

He manages to get you both to the bed without further incident, laying you down on the mattress with a sort of reverence that makes your chest swell with emotion. Even through the barrier of clothing, his fingers are hot and sear a path from your hips up your waist then right back down again as San wastes no time in stripping you of your pants. 

“I missed you so fucking much it’s insane.” You want to respond, but the sight of your lover dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed stops you in your tracks. All you can do is lie there and watch him tug your pants off, lips moving to kiss each bit of exposed skin along the way. Goosebumps rise across your body when he kisses his way up higher. His broad frame cages you in the closer he gets to your face, and despite his hands being on the somewhat small side, they feel all-encompassing when they’re sneaking under your shirt and exploring the skin beneath.

“I missed you more,” you murmur, catching his chin between your fingers and angling his face upwards so you can properly look at him. “I love you so so much, San. More than I can put into words.”

“Yeah?” You make no effort to pull him higher although he moves as though you do and climbs all the way up to be right over your face. He hums before dipping down to kiss the corner of your mouth. “I think I’ve missed you more still though—” another kiss, this time to the opposite side of your mouth “—but you’re welcome to challenge me on that.”

“San,” you whine. He pulls back and sits back on his knees. Your brain goes totally blank watching him take his shirt off. It’s something you’ve seen time and time again, truly nothing new or foreign to you, but something about it now makes your gut twist in on itself. He’s lost a bit of the muscle you’ve grown accustomed to seeing on him, now softer around the edges, at the waist and across his stomach. It doesn’t curb your desire for him in the slightest; if anything it makes you want him more, to cling to him tighter and feel him firmer against you.

He throws the shirt down to the floor and drags a hand through his dark hair. His legs are splayed around yours, putting the prominent bulge in his pants on full display before you.

“I want you to use me, y/n.” He grabs your hand from where it’s resting against the bed and brings it to his chest. You dig your nail into his flesh like it’s second nature to do so. “Tonight, for your pleasure.” His eyes trail after your every moment, watching as you sit up and pull your legs out from under him. You graze the underside of his dick ever so slightly yet it’s still enough to make his lashes flutter. 

“Then…” San is like putty in your hands, conforming to every move you make while still maintaining that unbreaking eye contact. He turns with you, and you climb off the bed to stand despite feeling seconds away from toppling over. All it takes is the slightest push against his chest for him to lie flat on his back. “Will you be good for me?” 

His response comes in the form of a bitten-back whine thanks to you cupping the bulge of his cock as you withdraw your hand. It’s intoxicating to strip him of his jeans and feel every inch of his pretty tapered waist. You urge him to move further up on the bed, making room for you between his legs once you’ve tossed his pants down beside yours on the floor. The tip of his cock peeks out the top of his underwear, already stiff and leaking precum onto the elastic band. Saucy nudes here and there don’t do him nearly enough justice, you think. You tease just the bit of him that's exposed with your tongue, licking at the sensitive and swollen head, and he twitches beneath the fabric. Humming to yourself, you inch his underwear down just far enough to put his whole member on display, along with his balls, but you don’t go any further than that. It’s enough for you to get your mouth around him, after all, and that’s exactly what you do without giving San any time to brace himself for the touch.

He lets out a desperate moan the moment your wet heat envelopes his length, fingers curling into his palms around the comforter. His hips twitch with the desire to thrust upwards, but he keeps himself firmly planted on the bed, fulfilling his end of the bargain for you and being so delightfully good. The weight of him on your tongue isn’t nearly enough; you want him buried deep inside you as soon as possible, and you’d go on and do it now if you didn’t think it would hurt like a bitch given how long it’s been since you’ve taken him. San isn’t distracted enough to miss the way you retract a hand to touch yourself, and he fights to speak through broken moans.

“I w-wanna touch you, pretty.” You lift yourself off his cock until just the tip sits on your lower lip.

“I’ll let you later when I ask you to fold me in half and fuck me into the mattress.” You sink two fingers into your hole, taking San back into your mouth to revel in that full feeling again. You’re just as needy as he is, in reality, because your walls are already coated with arousal and it pools around the base of your fingers in such a way that it makes your cheeks flush. San’s noises aren’t helping in the slightest — for as quiet as he is in day-to-day life, he is ever so vocal when it comes to sex, especially when his cock is buried in your mouth. He’s just long enough to push right into the back of your throat, making it far easier for you to take him fully. 

“Your mouth feels so — fuck, fucking good, baby.” If you weren’t preoccupied, you would love to return his words with your own, so you settle for tugging at his balls a little. It earns you a delightful little yelp, and his hips buck up to drive his dick further into your throat than expected. “Hngh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I want—” you don’t finish your train of thought, too rushed to bother with it as you scramble to rid yourself of your underwear. San greets you with his hands when you climb back onto the bed and grabs hold of your waist. He tugs and pulls at your shirt until it’s gone too, leaving you with nothing more than your plain black bra. However, even that San seems to find issue with, because he toys with the clasp until it comes loose and throws that aside too.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, settling back against the mattress. He’s always told you this is his favorite position, to see you straddling his hips and bouncing on his cock, though he favors missionary quite a bit as well because it lets him see your body and face while he’s fucking you (despite how much he loves your ass). His cock is trapped between your pussy and his stomach now, hard and throbbing for the same kind of stimulation you so desperately crave. You drag your folds along his length a few times just to tease San, but he grips your hip in warning. In hindsight, you should have let him finger you open more before because the stretch is far more than you remember — not enough to hurt, but enough for you to really feel every inch of him entering your body. It makes you writhe atop him, your spine arches, and you drop your head back. San holds you like you're a precious gem, thick arms circling around your waist as you rest your hands on his chest. The position gives you some much-needed stability, but San's fingers have begun to get severely distracting. He rolls his thumbs into your skin, pausing only to squeeze and pinch at the more sensitive parts of your sides. 

“I’m gonna start moving,” you whisper like being too loud will break some sort of seal. San nods and unwraps his arms enough to simply hold your hips. Despite the decrease in definition of his muscles, his strength doesn’t seem to have gone anywhere, because he lifts you with such ease that it’s a bit dizzying. Still, he lets the control rest in your hands. You sink down slowly on his cock, letting your walls get used to the drag, before doing the same motion two, three more times. The first whimper to fall from your lips is what snaps your resolve. San’s hold on you remains firm but only to ease the strain on your thighs as you begin to pick up your pace. 

“Beautiful, beautiful, you’re so beautiful, my sweet.” San rolls his hips up in time with your movements, driving his cock up into your cunt as you drop yourself onto him, and it reaches so deep inside you that you see stars behind your eyelids. “Missed you so much, missed this, seeing your body through photos wasn’t enough — fuck, it wasn’t enough.”

“How many, ah, times did you come to those photos, hm?” You crack one eye open to watch San’s face. He’s already flushed with want, but the red in his cheeks deepens more upon hearing your question. You lean your weight further into your hands. “I fingered myself so many times thinking of you, Sannie. B-But, hngh, it wasn’t good enough. Not as good as your cock. Nothing… n-nothing feels as good!”

San thrusts up with more vigor now, all but taking over for you to go slack above him as he drives your hips down with his hands and pushes his length into you from the opposite direction. Then, suddenly, his movements falter and stutter to a halt, and he looks just as shocked as you are when his cock twitches against your walls. A blooming of warmth fills you right after, along with the realization that San has just come inside you without warning.

“I-I’m sorry, I — I didn’t mean to, ah, I thought I would last longer.” He slings an arm up over his eyes, and the red in his face deepens in hue. “I’m sorry, I should’ve let you come first.” You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth. Leaning down over him, you peel his arm away from his face so that you can see his shamed expression better.

“Your dick is far from the only thing that can make me come, babe. Right?” 

He nods a few times, but there’s still a pout on his lips. You kiss it away. 

“Then—” you detach yourself from his body, bringing about an unwelcome emptiness as his spent cock slips out of you, and roll onto your back beside him. He watches with rapt attention as you spread your legs and open your pussy to him. “Why don’t you?”

San moves with surprising haste for a man who has just come, rolling into the space between your legs, and while you expected him to just use his fingers to get you off, he hooks his hands around your thighs and shoves his face into your used cunt instead. It yanks a startled moan out of you, and it’s only amplified when he closes his lips around your clit. He’s lucky you don’t give him a concussion with how quickly you slam your thighs around his head. You don’t notice that he’s moved a hand until fingers are prodding at your leaking entrance and urging the come he just pumped into you back into your hole.

“O-Oh, San.” 

Normally, he takes his sweet time eating you out, bringing you to the precipice of orgasm before sending you right back down time and time again without release. Though, either out of lingering shame at coming early or simply out of a desire to make you unravel, San laps at your clit so eagerly that it sends shudders through you. You can feel your blood rushing lower as he urges you to come, walls clenching around his fingers. It only takes another second more for the first wave to hit you, and it makes you scramble to grab hold of San’s hair as he keeps curling his fingers over your sweet spot. He does so throughout each wave of your orgasm until tears burn the corners of your eyes and you’re all but pleading for him to grant you some mercy.

“You — you had nothing to prove, you know,” you say between desperate attempts to catch your breath. San giggles and looks up at you from his lewd position. “Ugh!” You shove his head away from you half-heartedly just to spare yourself more embarrassment.

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that, duck!”

You only go as far as the pillows, turning back to him immediately and opening your arms to welcome him into them. 

“I came too early, of course I had something to prove,” he adds once he’s snugly placed against your chest. You slot together like two pieces of a puzzle, his head under your chin and your breath stirring the messy strands of hair in your path. “I’ve fallen out of practice. When was the last time I did that? It’s embarrassing…”

You can’t contain your laughter.

“You always come a little early when I ride you.”

“That’s not fair!”

All you can do to soothe him is pat his head. You feel a tad sticky and gross all over, but San’s warmth more than makes up for it, and if you’re not careful, you’re certain you’ll fall asleep within minutes. A small sniffle coming from the man atop you chases thoughts of rest away in the blink of an eye though.

“San?”

“’m okay, promise.”

“You’re crying, baby, that’s not ”okay“.”

“I just,” he inhales and licks over his lips, skating across your sternum in the process. “I wasn’t sure I was gonna stay afloat without you.” You comb your fingers through his hair.

“Tell me when you need me and I’ll be there. Always.”

“I didn’t want to disrupt your schedule and get in the way.”

“You have to trust that I’ll take care of myself and my responsibilities even if I help you too. You always tell me that when I worry over the same things. It goes both ways, San, okay?”

“Okay.” He nods against you. “Okay, I’ll try to remember that. As long as you don’t lock yourself away when things get tough. Rely on me if you need strength. And talk to me when something is on your mind.”

“Alright, we have an agreement.” Out of nowhere, you remember Wooyoung’s suggestion from this morning. Picking at a stray piece of San’s hair, you mull over your thoughts some more. You could let things settle as they are now since things seem to be back to a pleasant state of balance. But even so, would it do any harm to try anyway? “I’d like to go on a first date again. With you. I want us to go on a first date again.”

“Hm?”

“Like… I want us to go out like it’s the first time all over again. And feel that excitement and giddiness we had back then. We don’t have to, it’s just a thought. I don’t know. Maybe it’d be a good thing after this semester.”

Silence overtakes the room. San’s breathing is so steady that you think he’s fallen asleep, but the second you try to shift and see his face, he tilts his head up and looks into your eyes.

“Alright. Let’s go on a first date again.”

…

“I figured we’d go to that little Thai place by the grocery before heading over to the Christmas light show?”

“Oh!” Your thoughts rearrange themselves around his words. “That sounds really nice, yeah.”

“The guys wanna meet up at Wooyoung’s after for chicken and beer, but I told them I’d leave the decision up to you.” He tilts his chin a bit to the side as he speaks, lips quirked up at the corners, and you find yourself so incredibly fond of him all over again.

“Let’s see how we feel after walking around.”

You offer to drive tonight, but he denies you quickly, whining about how he filled his tank full of gas just for tonight so you don’t push the matter any further than that (though, you still tease him a bit once he opens the passenger door for you). When he turns the car on, music starts blasting through the speakers, a song you recognize well, and the dash shows that he’s been listening to the playlist you made for him at the start of the last school year. 

“Sorry, forgot the volume was up so high.” He scrambles to twist the dial down, but you stop him with your hand, gripping his wrist lightly and giving a firm shake of your head.

“I didn’t realize you still listened to it. Normally you just have the radio going.”

“Ah, well,” San’s cheeks are a bit flush under the low lights of the car, “I suppose I’ve been feeling a bit sentimental these days.” His next move is a bit hesitant; he reaches across the console and lays his hand atop your thigh. You reassure him by putting your hand over his, fingers curling around his once again. It feels normal and familiar, though you can’t count on two hands the last time you’ve done something as menial as holding hands with San. 

“San?” He makes a noise of acknowledgment while watching the road. “I’ve missed you.” His nails dig into your flesh a little, and the pressure makes your heart clench in your chest.

“I’ve missed you more.” You can only see his side profile, but it’s enough for you to catch the upturn of his lips. 

“I’ve missed you most then.” The statement slips out through a pout. 

“And I love you more than the moon loves the ocean.”

The weight of his hand is comfort enough for you to be at ease for the rest of the drive.

────────────

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this work belongs to caly / hongism (2023). do not copy, repost, or plagiarize in any way.

[berritart]

thinking about shotgunning with abby for the first time #needthat

cw - oral (r!recieving), petnames (baby, angel, sweetheart), drug usage, afab reader, overstimulation ?? nawt proofread

you asked abby about smoking around a week and a half ago. she was shocked that her girlfriend would ever be interested weed. if she could recall you absolutely hated when she smoked around you. everytime you went to her place you begged her not to because of the smell. so what's the change of heart now.

"been rly stressed abs. isn't this shit supposed to help?" you point at her stash on her desk. "yeah why? don't tell me little miss i-hate-weed wants to start smoking."

"i mean it wouldn't hurt to try. finals and work been kicking my ass." you plop down onto her bed next to abby, turning to face her.

she already starts messaging her plug. "well i'm gonna be honest i dont want you buying from anyone. so ill buy it for you and test it out, see if its right for you. so maybe next week?" abby suggests.

"aw thank you baby." you whisper against her skin, nuzzling your head in the crook of her neck.

so that was a week ago.

you already requested off the next day, scared shitless you wouldn't even sober up by then.

you watch her intensively as she rolls and lights the blunt with ease. she has you in her lap, laughing at how you're so intrigued over the simple action. "what... stop laughing at me abs." you push her shoulder lightly, shuffling a little bit closer on her lap. abby reaches over for the lighter bringing it up to the blunt. "m not angel, just think it's cute how you're acting over this. here."

she hands you the blunt, placing it between your thumb and pointer fingertips. "just inhale it baby, not that hard." you place the blunt between your lips, taking a drag out of it slowly.

it's seconds after you break out in a coughing fit, gripping onto abby's shirt. you feel like you're about to die, your eyes watering and you start wheezing and coughing. "what the fuck. what am i doing wrong" you question, handing it back to abby. she takes a drag out of her wonky ass perfectly rolled blunt. no coughing, no wheezing, nothing.

"how about we try this. open your mouth." she takes another drag, watching your pretty little lips open wide for her. you close your eyes and abby blows smoke into you mouth. you inhale as she exhales, taking all of what she gives you.

when she finished shotgunning you, you definitely feel it a bit already but nothing crazy. "again abs." you whine loudly. "i like this more than doing it myself." abby takes another drag to blow in your mouth. how could she ever say no to you.

the blunt was completely finished. you being high revealed some things abby didn't even know. you're definitely not a lightweight shockingly and you get extremely horny when under the influence. so much she had to help her poor baby out.

"abs...slow d..down." you whine against one of the pillows on your girlfriend's bed. she's been lapping at your folds for about 30 minutes, not having the nerve to stop after orgasms. her strong arms were wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer everytime you tried to pull away. "mmm just one more please baby" she muffled against your glistening folds, the vibrations making you go utterly crazy.

it was too much. you probably have had three orgasms so far. abby still wanted more. she forgot all about the blunt you two shared almost an hour ago. she was high off your sweet cunt, intoxicated with how your body would squirm within her grasp. one after the other she did not give you a break. she just needed her gorgeous girl to give her one more.

"fuck fuck fuck i'm g-gonna-" you whimpered loudly, wandering hands finding its way to tug at her blonde roots.

"cum? c'mon angel give it to me." she borderline whined just now, her lips perfectly wrapped around your swollen cunt, sucking non stop. her thick fingers found its way inside you, making a slow scissoring motion. "baby- feels s-so good..." you weren't going to last any longer by the looks of it.

after a few more seconds of the constant sucking and fingering, your juices released all over your girlfriend's face and fingers. your back was arched off the bed, hands almost pulling abby's hair out. after catching your breath you looked down at her between your legs, scoffing at the grin on abby's face. "fuck baby, squirted all over my face too?" she chuckled, leaning her head against your thigh.

"when is gonna be our next session sweetheart?"

a/n - been watching tlou 2 gameplays i genuinely need her #bad

[10ava01]

hiii!! Can i request a childhood bestfriends to lovers au with joaquin where he went off to the airforce and they lost contact a little then she is like helping out sam in some way (idk how 😭) and her and joaquin reunite again and thats where the love part starts

i have no idea if this makes any sense but 😍 if not ill re word it😭

Hi darling! Thank you for your request—omg, I totally see your vision! Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy reading it! 😚🩷

"If you want a part 2 of this story, tell me!"

Materlist

Part 2

Falling back in

The very first time you laid your eyes on Joaquin Torres was when you were five years old. He had moved in with his parents next door. From the window in your room, you saw him unpack one box after another. You observed his every move—how he might be your age or maybe a little older, his curls falling into his eyes, his face lighting up as he looked around the neighborhood—and you just hoped that one day, you could become friends with that boy.

When he showed up the next day on your porch with a crooked smile and two popsicles—one already half-melted in his hands because of the Texas sun—you just stared at him in shock. Your wish had come true.

"Hello, I’m your new neighbor. Do you wanna play in the garden with me?" he asked so simply, without knowing that you were exploding inside.

Your shy behavior didn’t turn him away; it only made him more interested in you.

And for the longest time, everything about your friendship was that simple and easy.

You grew up together—bare feet on hot pavement, scraped knees, and whispered secrets under starry skies. Because of him, your childhood became more colorful. Every memory you had was with him. He was always there. Until he wasn’t.

You knew that all Joaquin ever wanted was to make a difference in the world. To become a hero. Only, he didn’t realize that he had been your hero your whole life. He had saved you in ways that were impossible for you to put into words. But he needed to be more than just one person’s hero. You had to accept that fact and let him go.

The day he left for the Air Force, your whole world shattered. You wanted him to become the person he had always dreamed of being, but practically signing up for death? You wanted to beg him to stay, to find a new purpose, to find a different dream—but the smile on his face told you that no matter what, no one, not even you, could change his mind. That’s why you stood at the edge of his driveway, watching him throw his bag into the back of his truck. You forced a smile, shoving down the ache in your chest. You did it for him. You would go to the ends of the earth if it meant he would be by your side. Only for him.

“Don’t forget about me when you get all important and stuff.”

Sure, there was no way he would think about forgetting you. To this day, you had both been glued to each other at the hip, and there could never be a time when you weren’t together. But the pit of feeling in your belly rose with every second. All you could do was push it away because even thinking about it sounded absurd. No one could truly take him away from you—not distance, not fame, not even time itself.

Joaquin laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Like I could.”

At his answer, he reassured your absurd thoughts. So you pushed everything aside as you said your goodbyes and made pinky promises to stay in contact no matter what.

But time had other plans.

The first few weeks, the calls calmed your heartbeat. He was alive, and his voice assured you of that—until they stopped.

The only communication you had with him was through letters, and even those stopped after a while. You wrote him, one after another, but there was no response.

Only radio silence.

And eventually, you forced yourself to move on. To move on from the only person who saw you, made you feel alive, and most importantly, stuck by your side no matter what.

-

The shy and awkward kid you once were should see you now—confident and outspoken. But working for the past five years as a SHIELD agent changed you. You learned so much, even about yourself, that there was no time to look back at your old self. And you were happy that way. You were good at your job, and you wouldn’t dare change anything about your current life.

That’s what you thought this morning—until you saw him on the battlefield. Anywhere else, but not in the middle of this.

The bullets had long stopped flying by now, which was good news and also meant that, after all, Sam Willson was useful rather than leaving you to handle everything. Even Sam’s good work couldn’t put you in a good mood. The tension in the aftermath of this mission was unraveling.

You didn’t notice him while helping clean up whatever mess was left behind. For a second, you tried to gaslight yourself into thinking that you had seen a ghost from your past. But his voice was all you needed to know that the ghost was very real.

“Well, damn. If it isn’t trouble herself.”

You freeze.

You had dreamed so often about finally hearing his voice again, but nothing had prepared you for your nightmares.

As you slowly turn—there he is.

Joaquin Torres. Your first love and heartbreak.

The boy you once knew everything about, but not anymore. His uniform is crisp, his stance more solid, and the sun catches the sharp edges of his face in a way that makes your heart stutter. All the feelings you thought you had left behind betray you at the sight of him standing in front of you.

It’s been years.

You’ve written so much in your journal, but now that he’s here—alive—you have no words. Every system inside you leaves you hanging. Because of him.

Joaquin grins, shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “You look good.”

You swallow, something thick forming in your throat. “So do you.”

There’s a beat of silence as you stare at each other. Everything feels heavy with all the things left unsaid.

Then he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—uh—I meant to reach out.”

Your chest tightens. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes flickering with something almost nervous. “I guess I thought… maybe you moved on. Didn’t need me around anymore.”

You had thought about every possible reason why he would disappear from your life without a word, but his answer leaves you stunned. Because you should be angry. You should call him out for disappearing.

But the truth is, deep down, you know that you need him. You always needed him.

And standing here now, with him looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear on him, you realize something.

No matter how much he hurt you, you will forgive him over and over again as long as you have him. As a lover, a friend, or even a stranger. As long as he is alive and in your life, you are whole again.

[thesummerestsolstice]

How the elves react to Elrond getting sick:

Maedhros & Maglor: Absolutely freak out. Assume Elrond is dying and that the Doom of Feanor's house has finally caught up to them. Maedhros insists he says in bed and makes him soup. Maglor starts planning a lament for his funeral. (He has a cold)

Gil-Galad: Tries to convince Elrond to rest. Always fails. Has resorted to getting Elrond a bed desk so he can do his work while he rests. Frequently checks up on him to make sure he's alright or to bring him little gifts to make him feel better.

Erestor: Also half-elven, so gets it. Inevitably gets sick whenever Elrond does because he refuses to stay away. They always end up sick together, but they are together, and that means something.

Celebrimbor: Has read multiple books on human anatomy for the sake of his cousins (Erestor, son of Caranthir included). Theoretically understands how to care for someone who is ill. *Checks notes* according to this, if I give you chicken soup every day for a week it will cure your *checks notes again* pneumonia. He's trying his best.

Galadriel: Does not understand human or half-elven biology very well. Has taken Elrond on a ten mile hike in the snow when he was getting over a cough. Elrond's Feanorian followers have never forgiven her for it.

Celebrian: I would say she uses Elrond being sick as an excuse for them to stay in bed and cuddle, but let's be honest, she doesn't need an excuse for that. Knows he can take care of himself, and is a lot more Normal about it than everyone else on this list. Elrond loves her very much.

Glorfindel: Fully willing to pick up Elrond (or Erestor) and take them back to bed so they rest. Takes his duty to protect his lord very seriously. A very comfortable pillow for sick half-elves.

Lindir: Absolutely freaks out. You thought his anxiety about the dwarves was bad?? Elrond always has to calm him down and assure Lindir that is, in fact, not about to die. He does sometimes ask Lindir to play for him when he's ill though.

[moonstruckme]

James Potter or tasm!peter parker fluff or comfort?? I dont mind whatever you write ill love 🙏🙏

Thanks for requesting :)

cw: implied past abuse

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Peter’s having a rough week. These things always seem to happen to him. He’s got a big presentation at work on Friday, by which time the project he’s been underfunded and understaffed for has to be finished. His Aunt May has been busy with work, too, so either you or Peter is at her place most nights trying to help out, except she seems to think when it’s Peter it’s familial responsibility but when it’s you it's an unfair burden, so it’s mostly been Peter. There’s also an impressively organized cell of criminals he’s been trying to investigate before they blow up a bank or something. So of course, he’s sleep deprived to boot. 

And while you know the rough edge of frustration in his voice isn’t meant for you, hearing it makes your skin tighten nonetheless. 

“How does a person run out of salt?” Peter stalks through the front door and straight into the kitchen. “Or maybe the better question is, why does it take going to three bodegas to find one with salt in stock?”  

He’s soaked from the rain, and you feel guilty for being all cozied up on the couch while he’s been running around the city. Maybe it’s irrational, but you feel sort of like you should have been stressed out and cold all night, too. In solidarity. 

“May didn’t have salt?” you guess as Peter opens the fridge, stooping low to peer inside. 

“You should see her pantry, babe. It’s like everything either expired at the turn of the century or got bugs in it. Hey, did you make anything for dinner?” 

“No.” You hesitate. “You told me you wanted to eat at May’s, so I had the leftovers from last night.” 

“Shit.” He closes the fridge, resting his forehead on the door. “You’re right. I totally forgot, I only made enough for her.” 

“I’ll make something now.” You stand. Peter gives you a look that conveys both apology and gratitude as you join him in your small kitchen. “You feel like pasta?” 

“Thank you,” he says, kissing the top of your head lightly. 

“Course,” you murmur. Really, it feels like the least you can do. “Would you mind chopping up some basil?” 

“For my own dinner?” Peter teases. The levity in his voice is obviously forced, and the air between you heavies as he realizes you’ve heard it too. 

You almost don’t want to ask, but you do want to be a supportive girlfriend. You can lend him a compassionate ear. “How was work today?” 

He sighs, grabbing the cutting board from a cabinet near your feet and shutting the door with perhaps a tad too much force. 

“It was…ahh.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, stooping again into the white fridge light to find the basil. It casts dark shadows underneath his eyes. “You’ve gotta be sick of hearing about this.” 

“It’s okay. Unless you don’t feel like talking about it.” 

“No, it’s just, how do they expect us to stick to their tight schedule when half of my lab is being pulled away to other projects all the time?” Peter’s knife slices through the basil, hitting the cutting board with a sharp thunk. “Today, we were down one intern who caught the stomach flu, and it set us way back. One intern shouldn’t be that crucial to a big project like this!” 

You hum, ignoring the way the back of your neck prickles. The tension emanating from Peter is completely valid, your reaction a bothersome, purposeless souvenir from an old life. You find yourself staring into the pot of water and waiting for it to boil. 

“And it’s not like it’s anyone’s fault, but all the rest of us are working extra hours to try and get this done in time.” 

Small bubbles in the bottom of the pot, rising tentatively to the surface. Peter’s knife thunks a quickening rhythm on the cutting board. 

“If they’d given us the money we asked for, we could have hired more people, been working with better equipment, but instead—” The water starts to rumble, steam warming your face. It’s thick in your throat. “—it’s like we don’t even work for a top-notch lab. Like, do they think we really believe they don’t have any resources to spare?”

Peter’s voice is rising, irritation sharpening his words. You reach to turn down the stove when big bubbles reach the surface, splattering hot onto your wrist. You ignore the sting. 

“My boss keeps talking about how important this presentation is,” Peter goes on, opening the cabinet next to your head and reaching inside, “but if it were really important, he’d have—” He slams the cabinet door. 

You both freeze. 

To anyone else, it would look like nothing—the way your expression stays perfectly still, your muscles stiffening just slightly, the invisible pause in your heartbeat. But Peter knows you. 

“Sorry.” He sounds as breathless as you feel. “I’m sorry. You okay?” 

“Mhm.” Despite your best intentions, your voice comes out pitchy. You can’t make yourself move in a way that feels natural, so you stay not moving at all. Steam wafting warm up onto your face. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Peter says, tone softer than you’ve heard it in days. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to yell.” The roiling pot has calmed to a gurgle. You can see him swallow in your peripheral vision. “Can you look at me?” 

You take in what you hope is a subtle breath, turning to your boyfriend with a wan smile. “Sorry,” you manage. “I don’t know why I did that.” 

“It’s okay,” he says, brows bunched in the middle. Brown eyes like a puppy’s. 

He shifts his arms, a question, and you step into them. You do it more for him than for you, but the second Peter’s arms wrap around your back the last of the tension shudders out of you. You hug him back, rubbing between his shoulder blades reassuringly. 

“I scared you?” he asks, still in that soft voice like he’s afraid of startling you. It’s not really a question. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to get so mad.” 

“You’re allowed to be mad,” you argue weakly. There’s an embarrassing blockage in your throat. “It’s not your fault if I freak out, you should still be allowed to vent.” 

“No, but I know how you are.” Peter squeezes your shoulders. “I can vent without slamming things. It’s not nice.” 

You don’t have much of an argument for that. Still, “You really shouldn’t be the one comforting me right now,” you point out. 

A light hum. “Says who? I’m feeling a lot better already.” His hand climbs up to cup the back of your neck, his face turning down so his lips rest on your head. “Should’a just gone straight for the hug when I got home. Might have saved us both a lot of ranting.” 

You push your face into his sweatshirt, mindless of its dampness. He smells like rainwater. You don’t know how you could ever have thought, even for a second, that someone like this could be capable of hurting you. 

“I’ll make a note of that,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, please do,” Peter teases, pressing a kiss to your head. He pulls away and sets two still-chilled hands on your face. “Are you really okay?” he asks sincerely. “I know how scared you get, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I did that to you.” 

“You didn’t mean to,” you tell him, “and it wouldn’t be your fault anyways. I’m really okay.” 

Your boyfriend nods, but he still looks troubled. “Another hug for good measure?” 

“For you or for me?” 

A corner of his mouth kicks up. “Does it matter?” 

It doesn’t really.