#what is going ON in your BRAIN if you would COMMUNICATE i might UNDERSTAND!!!!! WHAT is the struggle WHAT is going on

[thebirdandhersong]

the miserable angry person I become when I haven't eaten is, in a word, atrocious. it is 9pm I have not had my dinner murder is about to be on the menu if I don't fix this soon

[connormoving]

also i admire dws refusal ever to engage with language barriers

[fushitoru]

i don't wanna lose this with you a spiderman gojo fic

pairing ⸺ spiderman!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ an amalgation of misunderstandings and stress lead to a very big fight between you and satoru, but you certainly don't expect the way he wins you back.

warnings ⸺ college au, spiderman!au, angst, hurt/comfort, i warn you reader might infurate you, but she's just a woman in stem :(, tooth rotting fluff bc he's a loser for his gf, not edited sue me

playlist ⸺ quantum rizzics

a/n you'll probably need to read the first installation (nsfw, so mdni) to understand this one :3

general masterlist | spiderman!gojo m. list

you've blocked gojo on all platforms.

you don't really remember what caused the "break up" (you didn't really break up). maybe it's the fact that you've been stressed about grad school admissions, your dorm's floor was covered in his boxers, and he's never been able to visit you pre-3am these days. somehow, the city's criminals are determined to keep your boyfriend away from you, and maybe it was your pms, or maybe it was truly just because satoru is annoying. regardless, it's when you guys have plans that's not an impromptu healing-gojo's-wounds-in-your-dorm-at-3am sesh and you're waiting at the coffee shop that you explode.

because he was supposed to arrive ten minutes ago, and when you move to go to the bathroom, you see him. through the window, his white hair is never not noticeable, and who you see next to him makes you falter.

he's standing next to a girl with blue tinted silver hair that you recognize as mei mei, and she's gripping his upper arm as she smiles while looking at his face, his lips with such fuck me eyes that you could tell they were having some sort of intimate conversation.

and if it were an ideal day, you would know that it's all a misunderstanding, you would know your boyfriend is someone you trust. but, again, the cards were stacked against you, and the only things that go through your mind all make your eyes all glossy. he's late to the one date that you planned because you and him were finally free at the same time and you've been busy because you've been desperately applying for internships because unlike your boyfriend you don't have a plethora of papers and coding experience and you've been getting four hours of sleep on average this week and ugh you've heard a rumor that satoru used to hook up with her and fuck now your tampon is poking at you in the wrong way—

great. now tears are fully streaming down your cheeks. in public.

as you rush to the table where your stuff is your vision is so blurry that you also almost fall flat on your face as you stumble over the legs of chairs and tables. blurting out a ensemble of choked up sorry's and excuse me's you hurriedly gather your laptop and notebooks in your backpack and book it for the exit.

the biting cold stings at your face, but you nevertheless determinedly move in the opposite direction of where satoru and mei mei are situated, praying your boyfriend doesn't recognize you. however, it seems that the heavens are working against you because you hear a yelled "baby?"

you don't look back because you know a new set of tears will leave your eyes, and with it being finals season, you're not very hydrated to being with. but you hear footsteps running towards you and fuck your boyfriend's long ass legs because he quickly catches up to you. then, he grabs your hands, attempting to stop you from running away and face him.

"baby," he breathes, baby blue eyes looking into yours as he moves to kiss your forehead. you stay silent, pinning your gaze to the ground while shivering. "where are you going? aren't we supposed to hang out right now?"

look, you and gojo have a good relationship. but recently, things have gotten...strenuous lately. you guys haven't been communicating, and it might not help that half of your calorie intake was from energy drinks. or perhaps what lead you to say what you said next was driven entirely by the brain eating mold on your unwashed dishes, but dumb excuses aside, you sneer. "shouldn't you be busy doing that with mei mei, instead?"

a small part of you--the part that knows you shouldn't be like this--feels relief that hurt doesn't immediately flash across his eyes, only confusion. but lack of sleep has not only stripped away at your sanity but also your people pleasing and overthinking tendencies, leaving you only as a girl frustrated, even irrationally angry, with her boyfriend. so you only avert your gaze when he dumbfoundedly asks, "what?"

"what do you mean, "what?"" you scoff, wrenching your hand from his grasp. "you were ten minutes late to our meet-up, gojo." it is at your use of his last name, instead of your sweet my love, that the hurt you've been looking for flashes across his eyes. he moves to speak but you cut him off, no longer wishing to be here with him. "if you're so busy talking to bitches you hooked up with before, why did you even bother saying yes to hanging out with me?"

he looks at you in confusion, eyes quickly flitting back and forth across you. then, slowly, as if he's still processing the weight of your accusations, he says, "i don't exactly know what you're referring to, but let's calm down---"

and you see red.

"calm down?" you snap, voice sharp and icy, just like the wind stinging your cheeks. "did you seriously just tell me to calm down? you were late again, gojo, and i find you chatting it up with her?" you practically spit the word, arms crossing as a flimsy defense against both the cold and the ache building in your chest.

satoru blinks, his confusion genuine, but you’re too far gone to care. "wait—mei mei? is this about mei mei? she's not—"

"don’t you dare finish that sentence," you cut him off, your voice rising as your blood boils hotter. "i don't want to hear how she's just a friend, or how it's not what it looks like. i’m so tired of hearing the same bullshit excuses."

"baby, you're jumping to conclusions—"

"and you’re jumping at the chance to look like an idiot in public," you snap, your hands trembling now, either from the cold or your rising fury. "god, what do you even say to her? let me guess, you go around telling girls you're spider-man to get into their pants, huh? bet that works like a charm."

the accusation hits like a slap, and for the first time, satoru looks genuinely stunned, his mouth falling open slightly. "what the hell are you even saying right now?"

"am i wrong?" you let out a bitter laugh, one that echoes in the frosty air. "you’re late to the one date i actually planned, and i see you with her, all cozy, like i’m not even waiting for you. like i don’t even matter."

his eyebrows knit together, frustration mixing with something softer. "you seriously think i’d—"

"i don’t know what to think anymore, satoru!" the words burst out of you, your voice cracking as hot tears well in your eyes. "all i know is that i can’t keep feeling like this. like i’m some afterthought while you’re out doing—whatever it is you do. swinging through the city or flirting with your exes or—" you choke on the words, wiping at your cheeks furiously as the tears spill over. "just forget it. i’m done."

"wait." his voice is quieter now, more desperate as he steps toward you, his hand reaching out. "baby, come on, we can talk about this—"

"no," you say firmly, jerking your hand away before he can grab it. "i’m blocking you. on everything." then, mockingly, "you can figure out how to save the world without me."

his eyes widen, his mouth opening like he’s about to plead or argue, but you don’t wait for him to speak. you turn on your heel and storm away, the cold wind biting at your skin as the lump in your throat grows heavier.

you don’t look back. not when he calls your name, not when you hear his footsteps falter. you just keep walking.

it’s 3 a.m., and you don’t know if you exist.

well, you do, but after how light you feel after you’ve cried a disgusting amount, you just lie down on your floor staring at the ceiling and contemplating the meaning of life. or more specifically, the meaning of your life, which right now feels like it’s revolving around nothing but stress and a breakup you don’t even fully understand.

you wouldn’t be having these problems if you were a childless cat lady.

but alas, you’re just a college student. in the few days where you haven’t seen satoru, you’ve finished all your finals—miraculously, considering the fragile state of your emotional wellbeing—and now you’re finally on break in your dorm. you’re supposed to go back home in two days, but the thought of packing feels like trying to climb a mountain barefoot. you can’t summon the energy to do anything except wallow in your self-pity and selfishness, letting it wrap around you like a weighted blanket that’s somehow comforting and suffocating all at once.

you’d like to say this is rock bottom, but truthfully, it’s worse than that. because rock bottom implies a kind of finality—a place to push off from. this? this feels more like you’re sinking in quicksand, the weight of everything dragging you further down.

in your stress and impulsiveness, you’ve managed to kill your entire grind for internships. deadlines have slipped past while you spent hours doom-scrolling job boards and second-guessing every application. the ambitious, career-focused version of yourself feels like a stranger now, buried under the weight of your own doubts and insecurities. and on top of that, you may have potentially lost the love of your life.

it’s laughable, really, how thoroughly you’ve managed to self-destruct in such a short time. the worst part? you can’t even bring yourself to check your socials. if you unblock him and see there aren’t any messages, you think your heart might shatter completely. which, if you’re being honest, isn’t exactly fair to him. you’re the one who had the meltdown. you’re the one who blocked him on everything. he probably doesn’t even know what he did wrong because you didn’t even communicate anything.

your stomach twists at the thought, guilt mingling with the ever-present ache of missing him. he was supposed to be the one person who made everything feel a little less impossible, and now you’ve pushed him away.

there has got to be a taylor swift song for this.

so you make your way to your spotify account to listen to afterglow, putting in your airpods while somberly looking at the ceiling once again as the lyrics fill your ears. tears well up as soon as the lyrics start

i blew things out of proportion, now you're blue⸻

tears well up before you can stop them, hot and heavy as they trail down your cheeks. god, you’re a mess. and yet, as much as you hate it, you can’t seem to stop the flood of thoughts that follow.

you miss him. you miss the way he made you laugh even when you were on the verge of tears, the way his ridiculous confidence somehow made you feel like everything would work out. you miss how he’d stay up late just to facetime you when you were overwhelmed with schoolwork, how he always seemed to know exactly when you needed him most.

and now? now you’ve gone and ruined it. maybe he’s angry, maybe he’s hurt, or worse—maybe he’s just done with you entirely.

the thought makes your chest ache, your breaths coming in shallow and uneven as the lyrics hit their crescendo.

i need to say, hey, it’s all me, in my head—

then, suddenly the song changes. you frown as you hear early 2010's pop blast through your ears.

i threw a wish in the well, don't ask me i'll never tell⸻

why the fuck is call me maybe playing?

annoyed and rubbing at your eyes, you move the change it back to, now, the sad girl hours playlist spotify curated for your and assume your dead fish position on the floor once again.

however, it seems as if your spotify is genuinely tweaking, like it's realized it’s gotten your attention. when call me maybe starts playing again, you groan out loud and move your phone. but before you have a chance to switch the song again, it seems to switch.

baby by justin bieber.

call me, blondie.

i love you, i'm sorry, gracie abrams.

letstalkaboutit, aminé.

i don't understand but i luv you, seventeen.

please please please, sabrina carpenter.

and then, once more, as if to really drive the point home: call me maybe, carly rae jepsen.

again, it's 3am, and you're stuck in a surreal mix of grief and confusion, staring at your phone as your spotify queue seems to have gained sentience. each song feels like a pleading nudge, an unmistakable pattern forming, and your blood runs cold when you remember one very important fact.

you share a spotify account with satoru.

"carly rae jepsen," you mutter under your breath, a mix of exasperation and fondness bubbling up despite yourself. he's hijacking your queue. right in the middle of your emo songs.

you sit up abruptly, tossing your airpods onto the bed, and hover over the call button on your phone. there’s a split second of hesitation—your pride battling with your longing—before you give in and press it.

the line rings twice before his voice comes through, breathless, like he’s been pacing. "baby?"

the sound of his voice sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, sharp and raw like an open wound. the sound of his voice makes your stomach twist uncomfortably, equal parts relief and guilt. "satoru," you say, barely above a whisper. "why are you messing with our spotify?"

"why am i messing with our spotify?" he echoes, his tone incredulous. "why did you block me on literally everything? what was i supposed to do—send you a letter by carrier pigeon?"

you wince at the edge in his voice, your earlier anger wilting under the weight of his hurt. "i… i don’t know," you admit, the words tumbling out before you can catch them. "i was upset, and i wasn’t thinking straight. i shouldn’t have done that."

"yeah, you shouldn’t have," he says, still sounding a little indignant, though there’s something softer beneath it now. "do you know how many songs i had to go through to make my point? do you know how hard it was to resist the urge to rickroll you instead?" then, there’s a pause on his end, the line suddenly feeling too quiet. then he sighs, his voice softening into something that feels too much like an apology. "i didn’t know what else to do. i hate not talking to you. i hate knowing i made you upset, even if i don’t entirely understand why."

you close your eyes, the lump in your throat returning with a vengeance. the silence stretches between you, thick and unbearable, until you finally break it. "i’m sorry," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "i shouldn’t have blown up at you like that.” and now that the dam has been broken, it all comes rushing out as you start choking up. “i’ve just been so stressed, and i’ve been missing you and then i saw you with her and then got irrationally angry when i really should’ve trusted you and oh my god i’m like a possessive tradwife husband that doesn’t let you leave the farm i’m sorry and i didn’t even communicate before i blew up at you like that—”

"hey. hey, hey, it’s okay," he says immediately, his tone filled with an earnestness that makes your chest tighten. "i know things have been hard for you. i should’ve been better, too. more present. i hate that you’ve been feeling like this while i’ve been...doing spider-man things." then, he lets out a dramatic sigh, the kind that’s equal parts exasperation and playfulness. "but wasn’t fair,” and you can hear a whine in his voice, “you blocked me and then ghosted me like i’m some kind of random tinder match. do you have any idea how insane i felt when i couldn’t even check to see if you were okay? i thought you hated me."

your breath catches at his words, guilt twisting like a knife in your chest. "i don’t hate you," you say quickly, the words spilling out in a rush. "i could never hate you. i was just… stupid, and emotional, and i didn’t know how to handle everything piling up. i’m so, so sorry, satoru."

there’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, a little more vulnerable. "then why did you say those things? about mei mei, and… and me using the spider-man thing to get into girls’ pants."

you bite your lip, the memory of your harsh words making your throat tighten. "i didn’t mean any of it," you whisper. "i was just lashing out, and i know it wasn’t fair to you. i know you’d never do something like that, and i trust you, satoru. i just… i let my insecurities get the better of me."

"wait," he interrupts, his voice laced with amusement that shouldn’t make your heart ache the way it does. "you actually think i’d use the spider-man thing as a pickup line? that’s...wow. that’s genius. i should write that down."

"satoru!" you exclaim, half-laughing, half-crying, your emotions unraveling all over again. "i’m being serious!"

"i know, i know," he says, but you can hear the smile in his voice, warm and teasing. "and i’m being serious, too. i’d never do that to you. mei mei’s just...she tripped in front of me, i was just helping her up. i didn’t even realize how it must’ve looked, but i’ve never done anything with her. you’re it for me, okay? always."

you sniffle, wiping at your cheeks as your heart swells and aches all at once. "you mean that?"

"of course i do," he says, his voice soft and sincere in a way that makes your breath hitch. "i love you, even when you block me on everything and make me resort to spotify warfare." he sighs again, but this time it’s softer, the warmth in his voice breaking through his remaining irritation. "i’m not mad. i mean, i was mad, but mostly i was just upset. you really hurt my feelings, you know?"

the lump in your throat grows, your guilt threatening to choke you. "i know," you say, your voice cracking. "i’m so sorry, satoru. i’ll make it up to you, i promise."

"oh, you will make it up to me," he says, the teasing edge returning to his tone. "i want a week of boyfriend privileges—no complaining when i steal your fries, no making fun of my movie picks, and you’re buying me snacks for at least three of those days."

a small smile tugs at your lips despite the tears still clinging to your lashes. "deal," you say softly.

there’s a pause on his end, and then his voice comes through the line, quieter but no less sincere. "you really mean it? you’re not still mad at me?"

"i’m not mad," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "i was never really mad at you, satoru. i was mad at everything else, and i took it out on you. but i’m not mad anymore. i just… i miss you."

"i miss you too," he says, and the raw honesty in his voice---the subtle way it chokes up, as if he had been crying and missing you too---makes your chest ache. "so, can i come over? or are you going to make me keep hijacking your playlists to get your attention?"

you laugh softly, the sound tinged with relief. "just come over already, you dummy. and bring snacks. good ones."

"done," he says, his grin audible through the phone. "i’ll be there in twenty. and for the record, you owe me at least a whole playlist dedicated to how amazing i am and you sucking the absolute soul out of my dick---."

"don’t push your luck," you reply, but there’s no heat in your words, only warmth (and you’re absolutely going to suck his soul out of his cock). regardless, for the first time in days, the tightness in your chest starts to ease, replaced by something lighter, something whole.

general masterlist | spiderman!gojo m. list

a/n he's so cute :( i'll keep on writing stuff for them whether it be small fics like this or long ass fics. i think my next one is gonna be freaky if you guys are nice to this one

TAGLIST im really sorry if i missed you if you sent an ask asking to be tagged pls feel free to remind me again im afriad ur ask has drowned in my shitposts and other asks

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[siriusly-dc]

Okay so there’s this thing that I can’t get out of my brain.

So like for me, I think the reason Bruce hasn’t told the kids anything about his childhood is because he just assumes that they research him. They go a dig and find out shit, because that’s what Bruce did for his parents and Alfred.

Didnt even bother asking just went “I wonder what they were like before? And went to research, found out everything and went “huh” and never brought it up.

So he just never mentions anything to the kids like ever and it’s like an unspoken Wayne family tradition. Thomas did the same to his father and so on. BUT NO ONE TOLD RHE KIDS AB THE TRADITION, no one mentions it, they spent the beginning of their lives in relatively normal ish families or surrounded by less weird people or environments.

And Bruce just assumes that the kids know everything because it’s not like he goes out of his way to hide it, he just doesn’t mention it. But the kids are like “Bruce doesn’t tell us anything 😓” because they don’t realise that’s not how Bruce was raised to operate. Like he never told his parents anything either, his parents stalked him and never brought it up either.

Anyways I just think it would be really funny if Alfred one day maybe after an argument between Dick and Bruce (+ an audience of kids), where dick was like “YOU WERE STABBED Y DIDNT U SAY THINGING” and Bruce went “I did not believe it was necessary to mention” or sm. and Alfred just kinda nudges them towards the unspoken rule:

They’re all in the kitchen

Alfred: *holding a a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel to Tim’s ribs* ah I remember doing the very same thing to Master Bruce after he discovered his mother’s past as a gymnast and attempted to copy her trick from the bannister, he was so intuitive for a four year old

Dick: what

Damian: Pennyworth what is the meaning of this

Jason:

Tim: 👀👀

Steph and cass: 🍪🍪

Duke and Bababra: 🥛🥛

Dick: Alfred what-

Alfred: ahh yes those were good times, *pointedly making eye contact with Dick* I do love the Wayne ritual of discovering your parents, tell me children, do you think you’ve managed to discover all of master Bruce’s secrets

Dick: wha-

Alfred: hmm yes I do suppose you haven’t, anyway if that would be all I suggest you all start making your way to bed

*leaves*

Jason: what the fuck was that about

Duke: I have no clue

Dick: *sheepish* I think I might has an idea

Cue lots of digging, what the fuck, really Bruce? And much more

The kids corner Bruce at some point and aggressively show him concern about how *pointing at a picture of little Bruce with Harvey Dent with baseball bats in a wharehouse littered with unconscious bodies* is not normal,

I love the idea of them going to the Wayne Family Attic or some weird asss crypt or storage house that’s out of the way or hidden in the forest lining the property and stumbling along a bunch of photos or videos from Bruce’s childhood, that just show them how deranged Bruce was and it makes them realise how fucked up their dad is and helps them understand his communication more

[ms-demeanor]

You posted about adhd and I was hoping to follow up to clarify something. I’ve explained to my partner a million times about how the borderline-hoarding mess of his space is very mentally draining to me, and he understands but we’ve both essentially accepted he won’t clean his mess because he can’t because of his adhd. You’re saying he’s actually being a shit head?

This isn't necessarily an issue of him being a shithead, but it also isn't a sustainable situation. It's not good for you and there's a level of clutter that's probably not good for him either.

Large bastard is a lot more clutter-y than I am. The solution we've come to is trying to keep our messes at least isolated from one another; he can have his messes and I can have mine, but he can have those messes in his spaces, not all over the place. Sometimes those messes migrate, and that's when it's important for him to make the effort to rein them in rather than trying and failing to make a daily effort to keep our entire shared space tidy.

I think when you say "we've both essentially accepted he won't clean his mess" what I'm hearing is resignation; you're not happy about this but you don't know what to do so you've thrown up your hands and he feels helpless and unsure of what to do to improve the situation. This is the kind of "it's fine" that isn't really fine.

I think it would be worthwhile for you to each separately think about the mess and talk about it together. Are there areas that YOU *need* to have not-messy? Both for utility and your mental health? Are there areas where you can tolerate more mess than otherwise? Are there areas that are going to be harder for him to keep the mess out of than others? Are there things he doesn't *know* about cleaning up the mess?

I'm obviously a big "communication communication communication" person so I'm going to recommend a lot of talking about stuff, which is probably going to mean a lot of thinking about and interrogating stuff. I'm going to say "talk to him about why the mess bothers you" which means you also have to really articulate to yourself why the mess bothers you (for instance I'm not actually *bothered* by a messy kitchen, but I know it's going to reflect badly on us - and me specifically b/c of presumed gender roles - if someone pops by and the kitchen is a disaster, AND a messy kitchen is going to be harder to use). Genuinely, sometimes knowing *why* something is a problem might make it easier for someone with ADHD to do something. And it's not that he doesn't care that it upsets you, it's just that "Oh if I don't wash my breakfast dishes Anon won't have clear counterspace to make lunch" might be stickier in his brain (and less hard to look at emotionally) than "this thing I forget to do upsets my partner so I should do it."

For the record, I think that people with ADHD should read up on Demand Avoidance and see if it might explain some of the issues that they have in their day-to-day life; I've seen some really unfortunate situations with friends where trying to do things that their partner needed became the subject of demand avoidance. *I* have experienced negative outcomes of demand avoidance. The solution to that, however, isn't to stop making attempts to do the thing OR to simply try harder to do as they're asked/told (which reinforces the demand), it's to work on setting up a situation where the partners' needs are not interpreted as a demand. This is fuck-off difficult and requires a lot of patience and care and many attempts to succeed and will be different for each person and relationship.

(Also for the record demand avoidance isn't *super* strongly linked to ADHD and it's not a definitive symptom; like Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, it is something that occurs in some number of people with ADHD and can be a useful lens through which to examine various behaviors; you don't need to have DA or RSD to have ADHD, and having DA or RSD also doesn't invalidate your diagnosis; they're symptoms. For me, DA often feels like "if I don't look at it, it can't get me" - If I ignore all the messages I've got they aren't real and don't have real consequences so I'll just ignore my texts. If I don't look at the vendor email about the order, the problem with the order isn't real and it won't get added to my task list. If I don't look at the requests in my inbox I can't let people down when I don't do them. It's a self-protective coping mechanism but it's *maladaptive* and I can't just ignore the vendor email or all my texts. I need to work on a way of doing the stuff that I'm avoiding in a way that makes it less stressful and doesn't hurt the people relying on me. That takes a lot of effort, personal insight, trial and error, and )

But before I dive into specifics I want to be really really clear about one thing: sometimes people are simply incompatible. Sometimes one person has such a low tolerance for "mess" and the other person has such a high threshold for "mess" that it can't be reconciled. It sucks that this can end up being a thing that people break up over, but it is MUCH better to acknowledge incompatibility as early as possible instead of spending years and years building resentment.

There used to be a great forum called MiL's Anonymous that I spent a lot of time on. It had a lot of people in a lot of difficult situations struggling to get by and hold their relationships together. The question that was used as a litmus test to approach each situation was simple: If you knew today that everything about living with this person would be the same in five years, would you stay?

Because you can't control your partner. You can't control the future. You can only control yourself and your proximity to situations that are harmful to you. If you knew, 100%, that things wouldn't get better in five years, would you be okay with staying in this relationship? If the answer is "no," then that's that. Don't worry about questions of whether or not your boyfriend is a shithead, start the process of ending the relationship because there's a good chance the situation is going to be exactly the same in five years.

If the answer is "yes," and you'd stay in the relationship regardless of whether or not things changed, then it's time to take actions to improve your life within the context of the relationship.

(No judgement on that yes or no, btw. If you would hate living like this for another five years, and you would feel like you'd wasted your time and hadn't done the things you wanted to with your life, get out. Bail. Go. It will be better for you and better for your partner if you split instead of spending half a decade building resentments and and problems that you'll have to spend another half a decade healing from.)

Also, a note: you describe your boyfriend's mess as borderline hoarding - is the issue *mess* or is the issue *clutter*? I have friends who are very tidy, but whose homes are very cluttered. They like things, they have many things, they keep many things around, but their houses are always clean and well-dusted and orderly, just with a tremendous amount of *stuff.* I am addressing all of this as though the issue is mess, not clutter. If your boyfriend's situation is clutter (the space is busy and packed with things but it is functional and clean) and your issue isn't with *mess* (things out of place, things not having a place, things that need to be cleaned up gathering in stacks, falling behind on regular chores like laundry and dishes and taking out the trash) then you definitely need to assess whether or not you are compatible.

For instance here's a room that is messy but not cluttered compared to a room that is cluttered but not messy:

That first room is a *mess* but it would be very easy to clean up in under an hour. The second room is fairly tidy, but would take significant effort to pare down and declutter. BOTH of these can be difficult to live with but the second one is not dangerous or threatening to anyone's health. (The second one is QUITE cluttered and if every room in a house looks like this it can be overwhelming to live with; this is actually harder to deal with in a relationship than the first one in a lot of ways. I don't have a lot of advice for what to do if your partner is a high degree of tidy-but-cluttered because I don't actually think it's a problem or wrong to have thousands of books or bins full of lego or a million kitchen appliances as long as you have the space and can keep it safe and well-maintained; this is a really significant compatibility issue)

Okay, all that out of the way, here's the hard work.

Talk about this shit

Talk to your partner and define "mess." Make sure you are on the same page about what you mean when you're talking about what a messy room looks like versus what a tidy room looks like. Gather reference pictures. DRAW reference pictures.

Explain not just that the mess upsets you, but *why* and *how* it upsets you. In this context don't think of it as your boyfriend's mess, think of it as an unpleasant roommate. Discuss this using "I-statements". "When I have to pick up laundry all over the apartment, I feel like a parent more than a partner." "When there are piles of miniatures all over the table, I feel like I don't have anywhere to do things I'm interested in." "When there are dishes in the sink, I feel frustrated because I have to clean before I can feed myself."

Discuss, frankly and openly, whether he knows how to clean. I'm not trying to make excuses for him here but a lot of people with ADHD have a lot of stress and avoidance around cleaning because they spent a lot of time getting yelled at for not knowing how to clean properly.

Discuss your needs, be firm about what you require but willing to compromise. You *need* some spaces to be clean, and some spaces may be harder for him to keep clean than others. It may be MUCH harder for him to keep a bedroom tidy than it is to keep a kitchen tidy; if you need a clean and empty bedroom with everything put away and he simply cannot do that, that is a compatibility issue. But perhaps you need *your* side of the bedroom to be very orderly and can tolerate a moderate level of mess and clutter on his side. Maybe you're really really bothered by a messy kitchen, but it doesn't bug you if the dining table is covered with projects and papers. Figure out something more workable than "his mess goes everywhere and i live with it because he's incapable of cleaning" because he probably is not incapable of cleaning and you deserve to have places in your home that are comfortable for you.

Reduce friction for cleaning

Sometimes the problem isn't cleaning, the problem is the many many steps before cleaning, or not knowing where something should go when you are done cleaning. One of the absolute best things I've done for myself for cleaning my space is getting a broom holder and mounting the broom to the wall. Sweeping is now essentially thoughtless. I don't have to find the broom or pull it out from a pile of fans or go scrounging around for a dustpan it's right there on the wall, frictionless. So here are some ways to reduce the barriers to cleaning:

Make sure you and your partner both know how to use your cleaning supplies and know where those supplies are. When I switched dishwasher soap I had to re-show Large Bastard where I was storing it and how it was used, because to him what happened was the dishwasher tabs just vanished one day and he didn't know what I was putting in the machine or the process I used. He sometimes puts tools away in places that I can't see (he's more than a foot taller than me) so sometimes I can't get started on a maintenance project until he shows me where he put the battery pack for the drill.

Consider making a how-to chart to or having him make a how-to chart to keep someplace accessible so he can reference it while cleaning. Goblin.Tools Magic ToDo is great for this. Basically a lot of the time people with ADHD have trouble knowing what to do from step to step even if they've done something before, so having a step by step guide can make it easier (I have notebooks full of step-by-step guides for everything from paying for my tuition to removing licenses for my customers to weeding my yard)

Remove obstacles; don't keep cleaning chemicals in the garage in a box that's behind a stack of parts, keep them in the room you'll be cleaning. Don't keep the cleaning supplies that you use to clean the bathroom in the kitchen. Sometimes this means buying two bottles of bleach solution and two scrubbers and two sets of cleaning gloves but having fewer steps (fetch the windex, fetch the paper towels, fetch the gloves) is often the key to getting things done (open under-sink cabinet and grab windex, gloves, and paper towels that are there instead of in the kitchen).

This sort of overlaps with the next category, which is:

Create Dump Zones

One thing that I've found that seems very different between people with ADHD cleaning and neurotypical people cleaning is that neurotypical people are good at getting to a point where the cleaning is "done." They have checked off their tasks and they have finished and it is over. There are *SOME* chores that are like this (taking out the trash is a binary state, the trash has been taken out or it has not) and some chores are perpetual (horrid cursed dishes) but I think with people with ADHD, some chores that are binary for neurotypicals are actually perpetual chores. For instance "clean off the counter" is not a one and done for me. "Clean off the counter" may involve a three day reorganization project. "Clean off the counter" does not mean "wipe down the tile and put dishes away" it means assessing whether or not I need to make vegetable stock and bleaching three tea containers and reconsidering whether or not the sharps container should live somewhere else and going through the mail and figuring out what needs to be responded to and taking out the recycling and on and on and on.

We have had company at the house for the last two weeks, so I asked large bastard to clean off the dining room table, which is largely a project zone for him. Cleaning off the dining room table meant putting away his meds (and since he's a transplant patient that involves a 30 gallon rubbermade tote), throwing away some trash, and totally reorganizing his workshop. It also incidentally involved picking up a table from facebook marketplace and moving my plants, which has now involved moving my former plant rack outside (moving buckets, finding and organizing planters and gardening tools) and taking the former table to the thrift store (not done yet) and cleaning the rug that was under the former table. So "either the table is clean, or it isn't" isn't really true for us.

HOWEVER "hang on we can't eat until the table is clear so let's drive to Pico Rivera to get that console table right now" isn't a workable plan, so you create dumpzones as areas of holding between the start and the finish of the chore.

A dump zone can be a laundry basket. It can be a craft bin. It can be a back room or under your bed. It is a place to put things that you are going to deal with later because if you deal with them now it is going to derail the thing you are actually trying to do, which is set the table for dinner.

Dump zones are vital to cleaning with ADHD and I recommend them for day-to-day cleaning as well. The day-to-day dump zones might be more for you than for your boyfriend. For instance, Large Bastard works with bullets and he sheds bullets all over the house. I used to get stressed when I found bullets when I was cleaning because are these work bullets? Are these recreational bullets? Are they in testing? Do they need to be pulled? Do they go in the workshop or the office or the garage or does he need these today so they have to stay on the counter? And the answer now is "that's not my problem naughty bullets go in the jar." Which is perfectly sensible because he gets to say "mystery yarn goes in the bin" and "art supplies go in the bucket."

I feel helpless when cleaning a lot of the time. I'm frustrated and lost and I don't know where stuff goes and everything I pick up spins off into three projects in my head and every step feels like a wall to scale. Dump zones help me with that when there's pressure or a reason for cleaning beyond day to day home maintenance. People are coming over? The bedroom is a dump zone, I'll deal with that later. I'm just cleaning up because I need to? Okay I can find a permanent home for this new dish soap.

AS A VERY IMPORTANT COROLLARY TO THIS:

Active projects do not go in dump zones while you or your partner are cleaning. This may mean designating a project sanctuary area like a corner of the table or one particular chair in your main room where a project can be placed so as not to be disturbed. (if my current crochet project ends up in the yarn bin, that may mean that I don't pick the project up for another three months, it lives on the windowsill behind the couch because that's where it'll get worked on)

Do not put things away for your partner, put them in the dump zone for your partner. Your partner has to be the one to put their own stuff away in a way that works for them. I tend to find that this naturally puts a limit on the time stuff sits in the dump zone, because eventually you'll go "hey where's my thing?" and will put stuff away. If that doesn't happen, it's still generally better to have stuff in a dump zone than all over the home.

Do not decide you know what things go together from your partner's stuff and try to "put like things together." The neurotypical urge to put like things together is the mindkiller(j/k). You do not know which things are "similar" in your partner's organization schema and attempting to organize things on your own is going to end up with all of the things "organized" being functionally lost forever from your partner's perspective. Large Bastard's mom would do this and it was infuriating, she'd say "oh I put all the electronics stuff in one box" and she would mean soldering irons, transistors, ham radios, HDMI cables, and cellphone chargers. We are *still* going through boxes of stuff that she "tidied up" when he was hospitalized in 2020 and 2021.

To prevent the need for quite so many dump zones over time, you can work on setting up landing zones and "homes" for projects and tools.

Landing Zones

Landing zones are places where things go when you come inside from doing various things. Sometimes your landing zone only needs to be a tray for your wallet and keys, sometimes your landing zone needs to be a place to take off muddy boots and put a trowel and gloves down before you shower.

To make an effective landing zone, consider what behaviors you're trying to minimize and whether the people using it are ACTUALLY going to use it. For instance I was tired of the corner of my hearth getting cluttered with random junk so I hung up some hooks and put a shelf and a basket there and it became a really effective landing zone for my bag and keys and the mail, but it was VERY ineffective for Large Bastard because it's by a door that isn't the primary door he uses to enter the house. As a result I always know where my keys and bag are but he has trouble finding his keys and wallet. He tends to enter the house through our bedroom and has an overloaded valet next to the door and that's usually where his wallet ends up. Mounting a shelf to the wall above the valet and putting a basket and a hook on it will be a better place for his stuff to land. It's not that he's not using the first zone because he doesn't know that it's there, or because he doesn't care about lost time when I'm searching for my car keys after he borrows them, he's not using it because it's not by the door he uses. That's all.

I have a landing space for when I come in for gardening that's different than the one when I come in from grocery shopping. I have a landing space for when I walk into the dining room instead of the kitchen when I get home.

Landing spaces prevent stuff from piling up all over the place because they are a limited functional space that should be used frequently. Mail ONLY goes in the landing zone. If you have mystery mail or if you're not sure it's safe to toss, you put it in the landing zone. You can't let the mail get piled up too high or you won't have a space for your keys. You can't let the change in your wallet tray get too deep or your wallet is going to slide off, etc., but you also don't just put change on the coffee table or your nightstand because the landing zone is right there.

Homes for items are just what they sound like. They're the place the item goes. It lives there. My meds live on my nightstand. You would not believe how poorly I did with taking my meds on my vacation because they weren't on my nightstand. A while back large bastard lost one of his sets of sorted meds and we tore the house up looking for them because he couldn't find them in his nightstand, which is where they live. *I* found them in his nightstand because I emptied out the entire top drawer (he had only looked on the top layer) and found them underneath a radio and a hammock. Even though they were *hidden* they were in their home, so they were findable. I recently needed ink for an art class. Art supplies live in a dresser by my desk. Ink lives in the art bin or the top left drawer. The ink was not in either of these places (it was on a cabinet in the dining room behind a teacup) so it took me weeks to find it.

Sometimes the reason that ADHD spaces are so messy is because objects have been assigned homes in places that are visible and if they get moved they get lost. This is a genuinely difficult problem that requires a lot of effort to solve and can involve a lot of trial and error for creating a tidy living space. For some people, open shelving and visible storage might be a good solution. For some people, assigning a VERY clear home and inculcating that location by habit is the only way to clean up a space. For some people one very cluttered corner to at least isolate the chaos does the trick (for me and large bastard open shelving doesn't work because anything in one place for too long becomes invisible; that means that I rely on assigning things homes and large bastard relies on having contained chaos and a general idea of where to search but what that DOES NOT mean is that he is clean or tidy. His spaces look like an explosion. But he can mostly find his stuff and do what he needs to do and as long as that's limited to specific places in shared spaces I can live with it; the dining room table can be a disaster, the kitchen cannot).

People organize things differently. It often takes a while for neurotypical adults to settle into an organizational style that works for them and ADHD adults may need to settle into a new system every few months for it to continue working. The cleanup and declutter is most likely going to be a permanent project that is always going to demand some level of attention from everyone in a shared space, but "my ADHD means I can't do it" is not really going to fly. Maybe his ADHD means that he can't keep his space tidy, but it doesn't mean you can't move stuff from shared spaces into dump zones or that he can't do stuff around the house.

If he's insisting that his ADHD means that he can't clean it is possible that he's not being a shithead, he just feels helpless and doesn't know where to start and has adopted the belief that he's a useless piece of shit who can't even keep a tidy space like a grownup because he's internalized a lot of shitty attitudes (hello, my internal monologue about keeping a clean house). But it's also possible that he's just being a shithead.

It's something that's worthwhile to investigate with him. If he's unwilling to make an attempt, then he's being a shithead.

It is also not your responsibility to rehabilitate another person. If he wants to clean and it's something he feels bad about and needs some help and support with the way that someone might need help or support for learning to use a mobility aid, that is fine but you don't have to be the one who gives him that support if it's detrimental to your health, and you don't have to be the one to teach him that stuff if it's not something you're capable of. And if he is NOT interested in working on making your shared living space more accessible for you, that is not your suitcase to unpack and you just have to ask yourself the question from the start: would I stay with this person if I knew the situation was never going to change?

IDK, I'm sure a lot of this reads like "anon you must take on the emotional labor of training your partner to be an adult" but it's really meant to be more of a way of assessing yourself and your relationship. If you created landing zones do you think he'd use them? Would he get angry if you assigned a laundry basket as a dump zone for his stuff while you tidy the living room? Is living with him long-term going to be comfortable for you if nothing changes? Do you have enough of a shared definition of "mess" that you're at least in the ballpark for what counts as a clean house?

anyway good luck, and a reminder to folks that I'm compiling a bunch of adhd resources and other information on my personal website, ms-demeanor.com. It's coming along slowly but it will eventually include stuff like ADHD cleaning tips and how to tackle a hoard, so maybe keep your eye on that space.

[aperrywilliams]

That Green Monster (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Summary: Your relationship with Spencer is fresh new, and some of his insecurities arise when someone new joins the team, making him react in a wrong way to you.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: Fluff and Angst. And then fluff at the end (I don't even understand myself). Spencer lashes out. Spencer is insecure. Reader is mad. Both are so madly in love, though.

A/N: This one has been sitting as a WIP for way too long, so I decided to finish it today!

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A shot in the neck.

That's what it took for you and Spencer to - finally - get together. To confess you loved each other.

Everything happened while working a case in Texas. You had cornered a suspect who was hiding in a restaurant. You wanted to open a communication line with him, but out of nowhere, shots got fired. And one of them ended in your neck.

What happened next was a blur to everyone, especially to Spencer. He barely remembers Morgan pulling him back so that the paramedics could check on you.

The ambulance ride to the hospital and the hours of waiting for news were excruciating.

In Spencer's brain, only the thought that he might lose you forever without coming clean about his feelings for you.

You have been in a similar situation before, but this time, he thought you wouldn't make it.

It would be the loss of a friend and the loss of the love of his life.

If Spencer has to be honest, he realized he loved you after your first month working at the BAU. And with every passing day, the feeling only got stronger. But he was scared of saying anything, afraid of changing - or losing - the strong bond you guys already had.

So, he kept it to himself for years. For six years, to be exact.

But what he didn't know was you had fallen for him, too.

And how could you not? You both went through so many things over the years: Spencer's kidnapping, his Dilaudid problem, your family issues, the injuries, bad cases, unsubs attacks, hospital visits, and so on. With every bump in the way, you both were each other rock. Always together, no matter what.

The team affectionately called you Mulder and Scully, but in reverse roles, of course.

But even if, at some point, both of you realized what you had was much more than a friendship, neither of you did something about it.

Until you got shot in the neck.

In that uncomfortable waiting room chair, Spencer prayed, to whatever or whoever could listen, for a chance to make things right.

So when you woke up in your hospital bed hours later, the first thing you saw was Spencer's face.

He was by your side as always. But this time, he had something to tell you. Spencer didn't have the chance, though, because before he could say anything, three words blurted out from your lips: 'I love you.'

Between happy tears, you both spent hours talking and coming to the conclusion you were both idiots in love.

You didn't say anything to the team, but you all knew they knew, so it became unspoken knowledge after you were released from the hospital.

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With you home due to your neck injury and JJ on maternity leave, Hotch decided that some help would be better than putting more pressure on the remaining team members.

That's why he borrowed an agent from Sex Crimes.

Spencer had already told you that there was a new agent, but he hadn't developed this information in detail.

You knew him on your first day back, a month after you got shot.

Once you exited the elevator on the sixth, you headed through the bullpen glass doors. When you pushed them open, you didn't realize that someone was going in the opposite direction, and you almost hit the guy in the face with one of the doors.

"Oh, my God. I'm sorry!" you exclaimed when you realized what almost happened.

The man shook his head in dismissal. "No, no. Don't be. Nothing happened."

"But I almost hit you with a glass door," you pointed. The guy didn't seem phased by it, though.

"I'm okay, really," he insisted, flashing you a smile. You hadn't picked much of his appearance, to be honest, but the guy was easy on the eyes. Another thing that caught your attention was you had never seen him before.

"Do I know you?" You asked with curiosity.

"I don't think so. I'm Agent Dodds. Jake Dodds," he introduced himself, extending his hand. You've heard that last name before. You told him yours, shaking his hand.

"Really? You are a BAU member, right? I'm the backup agent Hotchner brought to the team," he explained, and then it clicked. He was the new guy.

Jake Dodds was young, fresh and motivated. After his first year in Sex Crimes, he already has a lot of accomplishments to show off. And, of course, he was doing his best to impress Hotch and the team.

Coming to the office bright and early and being the last to leave gave Dodds a chance to engage with the cases and the team members - you included. Due to your neck injury, you were mostly on desk duty, so you had enough time to help Jake with paperwork and all the questions he might have about past cases. And Dodds had many.

In the weeks that followed, he has spent a lot of time by your side, working with you when the team wasn't out of town.

It was part of your nature to be forthcoming and willing to teach others. And having worked at the BAU for almost six years, you felt like you could teach one thing or two.

Spencer loves that from you; it's one of the many things that made him fall in love with you. But for some reason, Jake's closeness to you started to bother him.

Spencer knew it was irrational and without foundation. Still, in the past weeks since Dodds joined, with each laugh from you when Jake cracked a joke, every time you sat together at the office a little too close, or every day you decided to have lunch with Jake rather than him, Spencer's jealousy only got stronger. It didn't help the team's comments about you and Jake.

'Dodds looks hooked by her'; 'The newbie definitely is flirting with her'; 'Really handsome view she has over there.'

Spencer could only bite his tongue. He could easily assume that the team was only messing with the situation, but the green monster growing inside didn't let him think clearly.

Spencer knew you, and you would never do something to hurt him, so why did he feel that uneasiness inside of him?

Maybe the fact you were in the early stages of your relationship made Spencer insecure. It was all new and fresh; he was happy with you, but although you both have known each other for years, he was inexperienced in the love department. Being friends was one thing, but being a couple was different.

So instead of talking to you—which he knew was the right thing to do—Spencer did what he usually does when he feels overwhelmed: he shuts people out.

And you did notice, of course.

Something was troubling him, you knew that, but every time you brought up the topic, he dodged it. You didn't look much into it at first because you knew Spencer would talk to you eventually when he felt ready. Or you assumed he would.

But the days went by, and Spencer still hadn't told you why he had been so distant, so you decided to confront him.

You both were watching a movie at your place, but you noticed Spencer wasn't paying attention to the TV. After an internal debate about whether it was a good idea to bring this up, you tested the waters.

"Spencer, are you okay?" you asked him, genuine concern lacing your voice.

The question hung in the air enough to make you think he might not hear you.

"Spencer?" you tried again, swearing you heard him huff even if he tried to be subtle.

"I'm okay, just tired," he hastened to dismiss, not looking at you.

So he heard you, but you had to call his name again to get an answer. Something is definitely wrong.

Contemplating your options, you chose to end the 'patiently wait until he comes to you' strategy. You were his girlfriend now. Why he couldn't trust you enough to tell you what's going on?

"Okay. This bullshit needs to stop now. You have been weird for too many days to tell me now you are okay and just tired. I know something happened and need you to tell me what it is," you demanded.

Shifting uncomfortably in his spot, Spencer had an inner debate about coming clean to you. He didn't want to admit how much Jake's closeness to you was bothering him. Spencer didn't want you to think about him as the possessive and clingy boyfriend who can't see his girlfriend near other guys.

He wasn't like that, right?

"You are imagining things. I'm perfectly fine," Spencer deadpanned, eyes returning to the TV.

Your mouth went slack. Were you imagining things? Was he thinking you were stupid?

"So I'm imagining things, uh? It's not you being defensive right now, isn't it?"

"No." He gave you a curt answer that meant precisely the opposite of what he was implying.

You wanted to give him a chance to open with you, but Spencer wasn't engaging.

It seemed easier to talk about what was happening to each other when you were only friends. Why is it so hard now you are a couple? You couldn't understand, and your patience was running short.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" you called him out in frustration. "Who do you think I am? A random person who hasn't known you for fucking six years?"

Spencer internally flinched. He saw the confusion and anger mixed in your eyes, and he felt the urge to hug you tight, telling you he was being an irrational jealous asshole. But Spencer didn't bring himself to do it, and instead, he tried to play cool and detached.

"I already told you. Everything is wonderful, at least for me. Not for you?" Spencer asked casually.

You narrowed your eyes at him. He looked calm and collected, but you could feel he was anything but.

"Okay. I'll bite the bullet. So the distance between us in the past weeks doesn't bother you as it bothers me," you concluded.

Spencer let out a bitter chuckle.

"Funny you're bothered by that. You have seemed very busy in the past weeks," Spencer mumbled.

A slip that didn't go unnoticed by you.

"Very busy?" you echoed his words. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Spencer shrugged, unamused.

"Exactly what it is. You have been very busy at the BAU lately. I only have been giving you space."

You squinted your eyes, raking your brain to understand Spencer's meaning. For your mandatory desk duty, you have spent more time in the office than in the field, but besides that, what has been different?

And then it clicked on you. Jake Dodds.

Sure, you've been very willing to teach him things and help him with his work, but that only explains Spencer's annoyance if there is another reason.

"Is this about Dodds? Are you jealous of Jake?" you questioned in disbelief.

Spencer's face paled. You had caught him.

After your deduction, he should have told the truth, but Spencer is stubborn enough not to give in, especially if that meant recognizing something he felt embarrassed of.

"W- what?! No! Where did you get that? I'm not jealous or remotely close to that," Spencer rebutted defensively.

Oh, he was definitively jealous. At the realization, you let out a giggle, eyes softening at your boyfriend. For you, there is no guy he should be worried about- not for Jake or any other person. Your heart is his, and you know there is nobody in this world you want to be with more than Spencer.

But Spencer's face deflated. You were laughing at him, and he felt even worse.

"Spencer, there is no reason for you to be -"

You couldn't even finish your sentence when Spencer cut you off, standing from the couch.

"I already told you! Am I not speaking English to you?"

His face was red, but not by embarrassment anymore. Now, it was a kind of contained rage.

Stunned by his reaction, it took you a few seconds to say anything.

"I - I'm just trying to understand what's going on. Don't be rude," you chimed.

Spencer let out a humorless chuckle.

"Rude, did you say? Am I rude because I disagree with you? Is that? Or am I rude because this doesn't have to do with you?"

"Excuse me? When did this turn into a problem related to me?"

You stood to mirror his stature so as not to look vulnerable.

"I don't know, you tell me. Are you disappointed because not everything or anyone in this world is revolving around you?"

Spencer's voice was cold and sarcastic, something you had seen in him before but never directed toward you. He was outrightly saying you were self-centered.

"Spencer -" you tried to warn him to back off, but Spencer didn't stop.

"No. I get it. You like the attention. But, I'm sorry, I'm not in the mood to indulge your childish self. Maybe the young and funny Agent Dodds could help you with that. But not me."

A dead silence settled in the room. If a needle had fallen on the floor, it would have made a noticeable noise.

You couldn't believe that man was your boyfriend—the man who was telling you such hurtful words.

Spencer saw how your features morphed from confused to hurt and then to offense, and with a twist in his guts, he knew he had fucked up.

"Are you done?"

Your tone was flat and collected, even if, on the inside, there was a storm of feelings. Spencer was deflated and looking for the right words to apologize.

"Hey, look, I'm -"

"I asked if you were done." You questioned harshly this time, and Spencer only gave you a shy nod.

"Okay, now get out!"

Your command was only followed by your actions as you walked to your entrance to open the door.

With horror, Spencer tried to sputter words to change your mind.

"I'm sorry. I - I didn't - Please, don't do this."

"I said, get out! I don't want you here!"

You emphasized your words, gesturing to the open door.

"Baby, I wasn't - I didn't mean what-" Spencer tried again, but you had made up your mind and didn't want to hear him.

"I don't fucking care! You had your time to explain yourself, and I don't want to hear anything else from you."

Spencer knew that nothing he could say at that moment would help his cause, so like a dog with the tail between his legs, he slowly made the walk of shame towards your door, but not before looking at you and begging for forgiveness with his eyes. It was a useless thing because you didn't even look at him back. Once he was out of your sight, you slammed the door shut, and your facade crumbled.

Tears started to fall freely, in a combination of pain and frustration.

It's needless to say, you couldn't sleep that night.

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Spencer looked distracted and visibly sad.

Morgan knew something had happened to him, even if the man had denied the fact for the past two days. And Morgan was sure it was something related to you. It looked like Spencer would combust from guilt whenever his eyes landed on you. Morgan's suspicion turned to be right the moment you caught Spencer's gaze, and you purposely averted it.

"Okay, pretty boy, what did you do?" Morgan questioned Spencer when he caught him pouring coffee in the kitchenette.

"What? Me? Nothing!" Spencer defended himself, but the crack in his voice did nothing to help his cause.

"So she's not talking to you just because?"

Spencer shrugged, leaving the pot over the counter.

Was he being so obvious? If Spencer wanted to maintain the facade that 'nothing is wrong here,' he was failing miserably.

Morgan scoffed, grabbing a mug to pour some coffee for himself.

"Come on, Reid. There must be something. Since yesterday morning, you look like a kicked puppy, and she seems visibly upset, and you're both always attached to the hip."

Dangerous territory, Spencer thought. But at this point, his regret was more powerful than keeping your relationship private.

"She is mad at me," the man recognized. It was a 'vague' recognition, but it was something.

Morgan seemed not surprised, though.

"No shit, Sherlock. The question is why, pretty boy," Derek prodded.

Spencer sighed deeply. How could he express what really happened without telling the whole truth?

Morgan saw the struggle in Spencer's eyes.

"I know you are both hurting by whatever happened. Maybe talking would help you clear your head and think about how to fix it."

Spencer took in Morgan's words. Some advice could help, he decided.

"We fought. I mean, we argued two nights ago, and she kicked me out. And now she is not talking to me, and I don't- I want to apologize, but I don't know how."

Spencer winced, just remembering your fight.

Derek looked at him incredulously.

"She kicked you out? What in the world did you do so she reacted like that?"

The actual question was 'what he said' because, strictly speaking, he didn't do anything besides let his mouth run on its own accord.

He regretted every word he said to you the second they left his mouth, but the damage was done, and you were fed up enough to listen to his apologies, so you yelled at him to let you alone. He didn't blame you. But he was feeling miserable, and it showed.

Spencer told Morgan exactly what happened—word by word.

"Jesus, Reid. I didn't peg you like the jealous type," Morgan acknowledged. Spencer shook his head.

"It's not like that. I mean, I know she loves me..."

"But?"

Spencer sighed. "What if - what if she realizes there are better men than me? That I am not enough for a romantic relationship?"

Morgan's eyebrows knit together. Spencer's face was pure panic, only thinking about the possibility.

"And Dodds would be better than you? You know he's like a kid, right?" Morgan pointed.

"Yeah. A young man with a lot of confidence that makes her smile and has her undivided attention. He's smart and qualified for this job like any of us. I'm not better than him. And I can perfectly be disposable in comparison."

That was the thing. Spencer felt insecure about you finding someone better than him.

Morgan looked at him empathetically.

"Man, I think you are looking too much into it. I don't think you should feel threatened in your relationship with her. And I guess she thinks the same and feels hurt for you thinking that."

Spencer nodded. "That's why I know I fucked up. I hurt her for my insecurities. It's all my fault," he lamented.

"You need to talk to her," Morgan advised, and Spencer whined.

"How? She hasn't spared me a glance in two days!"

"You're a genius, Spencer. And above all, how long have you known her? Five years? Think of something."

"Five years, eleven months, three weeks, and four days," Spencer corrected without hesitation.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. You'll figure it out."

Spencer sighed deeply as Morgan patted his shoulder before leaving the kitchenette. Derek was right; they should talk. Spencer just had to figure out how to make that happen.

-----------------------------------

That night you were sulking at your apartment, laying on the couch and watching some crap on the TV, when three knocks alerted you.

You weren't expecting anyone, and you didn't think Spencer could be outside your door. You were clear in telling him you didn't want to talk to him when he cornered you in the breaking room this afternoon.

But if you knew something about Spencer Reid, it was that he could be stubborn as fuck. So when you looked by the peephole and saw him standing there, you only closed your eyes and sighed.

Spencer knocked again. "I know you are there. And I know you don't want to talk to me. But please, let me do the talk. Please, at least listen to the things I need to say."

"You already said enough," you spat from your spot on the other side of the door. Spencer gulped hard. He said enough hurtful things to you to kick his ass, but he was determined to gain your forgiveness somehow.

"I can't stress enough how sorry I am for that. But I need you to know that I didn't mean any of it." Spencer paused, and when he didn't hear you say anything, he continued. "I'm an asshole, and I would understand if you want to break up and never see me again. I mean, well - it - it would be kind of difficult not to see each other because we work together, but you know what I mean. Or maybe not, I don't know. Jesus, what the fuck am I saying?" Spencer chastised himself, trying to control his nerves.

You could hear him struggling, so you decided to spare him a panic attack in the middle of the hallway. You opened your door and saw him still trying to sputter what he wanted to say.

"If this is your way to apologize, you are doing a terrible job." Your voice was not angry but tired. Because if he had had two tortuous days of you not talking to him, you haven't done it any better, overthinking about your fight over and over again.

Spencer's glassy, pleading eyes found yours.

"I know. It seems it's another thing I suck at," he admitted fidgeting with his hands. "Would you, uh. Would you let me try again? Apologize. That is."

It's true you were still mad with him, but you really wanted to understand why he reacted the way he did that night and said all the things he said. You know him too well to ignore that something else beyond mere jealousy clearly triggered his outburst.

Without saying a word, you gestured for him to get into the apartment. Spencer was quick to comply before you changed your mind.

You both took seats on opposite sides of the couch, eyes overly interested in your living room rug. After some minutes of silence and knowing he needed to say something, Spencer cleared his throat.

"I guess I'm going to start with the beginning," he prefaced, keeping his hands in his lap as you turned to contemplate him in silence. "Uh - you know it took me time to come clean with my feelings for you. A lot of time, almost six years," he chuckled nervously. You nodded, not wanting to interrupt him, fearing to get him more anxious.

"The thing is- I have been in love with you for so long and creating scenarios of us in my mind that - that now I know it is real, I don't - It's still difficult to grasp the idea we are together, you know?"

As Spencer raked his hair, collecting his thoughts, you couldn't help but remember all the things you both went through until you decided to tell the truth to each other. Six years is a long time. But you wanted to believe it has been worth it.

"I'm not used to a life where I get to be happy; when I think I am, things crush down, and I lose everything. It's a rule: good things don't last in my life."

You know how difficult it has been for Spencer to accept that he is not cursed or anything like that—a very difficult task, knowing the things he has been through.

"So my mind began to be haunted by the idea that it was a matter of time before you realized you could do better than me, and I'm only worth it as a friend."

His words made you recall the times you both discussed your love life in the past and all the doubts weighing on Spencer's shoulders. After those conversations, you always swore to make him feel loved and appreciated.

"And then you came back to work, and Dodds was there. I created this whole scenario, telling myself that you would be better with someone like him."

Spencer paused to gauge your reaction. You were openly listening to him, taking in every word.

"I know it's unfair to you. I - I betrayed your trust by mulling those ideas and saying all those hurtful things I truly don't believe. I'm so sorry; I don't have a defense other than my incompetence in dealing with my insecurities," Spencer concluded, letting a deep sigh escape from his lips and averting your gaze. He looked embarrassed and vulnerable, and it hurts you to acknowledge how small he feels about himself. You reached your hand tentatively, touching his forearm, and Spencer's eyes drifted back to you.

"Spencer, you have to know there is no one in this world who I love so deeply as I love you. No man could compare to you. No matter how young or confident or whatever difference you can name. You are the most thorough, caring, and selfless person I know, and I love you so fucking much it hurts," you gave his arm a gentle squeeze to emphasize your point. Spencer's cheeks flushed a bit. He still needs to get used to your compliments.

"What I still don't get is why you didn't tell me. Don't you trust me enough to talk to me about how you feel?"

Spencer hastened to reply, taking your hand in his. "No! It's not that! I do trust you with my life!"

"Then why didn't you tell me the truth at the beginning?"

"I - I don't know. I thought you would see me as the shitty boyfriend who can't see his partner near another man. It's as if I wanted to control you. And that's far from what I want," Spencer explained, scooting by your side as his grip on your hand tightened. "It was my problem, not yours. You did nothing to make this happen. I'm the one who must have to fix it." You shook your head.

"Baby, no. If it is something that upsets you, it is my problem, too. Spencer, we need to talk about those things and resolve them together."

Spencer's head hung low, taking in your words.

"But why? I am the insecure one, and you have done nothing more than show me how unfounded my fear is."

"Well, because you're still my best friend, and I care about you." Spencer's gaze met yours again. "It's the thing I first loved about us, you know? I love feeling safe with you and having the trust to talk about what is happening to us." With loving eyes, you brought his hand to your lips to kiss it.

"I want you to keep being my best friend, too," Spencer said with a hopeful smile. It was all you needed to hear.

"Then please don't forget that. You can always talk to me, and I promise to do the same, okay?" Spencer nodded at your words, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Okay. I promise," Spencer replied before wrapping you in a tight embrace. You melted in his arms, feeling his warmth and inhaling his scent, something you have been missing in the past two days.

"I love you," you mumbled into his chest. "So so much."

"I love you too. And I'm so sorry for my behavior two days ago," Spencer muttered in your hair.

You chuckled, slightly parting to look at him.

"Yeah, we have to work on taming that green monster, doctor. Otherwise, Hotch won't be able to bring anyone new to the team," you pointed, leaning to kiss his lips. Spencer smiled into the kiss.

"That means you forgive me?" he asked hopefully. You narrowed your eyes.

"Yes. But you still have to make it up to me," you teased, faking seriousness.

Spencer nodded eagerly nonetheless. "Whatever it takes."

"You could start making something to eat. I'm starving here after two days with a hole in my stomach," you rubbed your belly for emphasis.

"Yes, ma'am," Spencer smiled, standing and strolling quickly to the kitchen. He felt so relieved after coming clean with you that he swore not to make the same mistake again. That green monster fed by his insecurities dissipating as he thought how lucky he was to love and have you in his life.

------------------

Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @levi-of-starz @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers

[woncheolisms]

primal. (miya osamu x reader)

word count: 2586

warnings: a/b/o dynamics, fem!omega reader, porn with minimal plot, swearing, typical omegaverse jargon (scent, heat, rut, slick, knot)

tags: @keiva1000 @kindnessspreads @msbyomimi @sleepyxxhead @priv-rose

This was getting ridiculous.

Three whole days Osamu had not spoken to you. And for what? Because of a stupid argument you had about his new menu? In your mind, if he didn't want constructive criticism, he really should not have asked you for your opinion.

(You tried to ignore the gnawing guilt you felt that maybe you had been too harsh.)

But still, was it worth being this upset about? He hadn't replied to any of your messages. His phone was going straight to voicemail, and to top it off, even Atsumu hadn't heard from him. The blond twin had told you to just give him some space, and that he was ‘going through it’. But you scoffed. What exactly was he going through? All this over a controversial menu item? You didn't know Osamu could be so unreasonable over something so stupid.

Which is why you were standing at his door now, knocking for the last ten fucking minutes, while he didn't even bother to respond or open up. Your knocking had now progressed to vicious pounding, and you didn't give a shit if the neighbours heard. You were pissed. Osamu was being a baby and not communicating with you and you would make him talk if it was the last thing you did.

“Open this fucking door, Osamu!” You shouted for the tenth time.

“Go away!” Finally. Now that Osamu had gotten tired of your incessant pounding, he had finally responded. Triumph coarsed through you.

“I knew you were in there!” One more smack on the wood. “Open up. Now!”

“I'm tellin’ ya to go away.” His voice sounded strained. Your eyebrows furrowed a bit.

“What's up with you?”

There was some shuffling, and then a pained groan. Your muscles stiffened in alarm.

“Samu?” You could feel your anger drain away, replaced by worry. “Are you okay? Open the door!”

“Just go away. Everythin’ is fine. I'm not mad at ya. I just need ya to…. get away.”

You couldn't ignore the pain in his voice anymore. You tried the doorknob again to no avail. “Please let me in. I'm getting worried.”

Silence again. You leaned against the door, your panic only building. “Samu, please.”

Your anger was non-existent now. It didn't matter to you whatever stupid fight you two had gotten into. Your paranoid mind was racing and all you could think about was a million different ways that Osamu might be hurt. If anything happened to him…

Your heart imperceptibly broke.

You had known Osamu since high school, when him and his brother would melt your brain with their unnecessary fighting and competition. He was young and naive then, with that godawful gray hair that he thankfully abandoned after high school, and an attitude so fiery it left most other people in the dust. You couldn't understand why you were so attracted to him at first glance, but then he presented as an Alpha mere months after you first met, and your attraction to him became quite clear.

More than anything else, Osamu was your close friend. He understood you in a way his twin didn't, and you liked to think you were a good friend to him too. You kept your feelings for him pretty tightly wrapped up in your heart, afraid that an Alpha like him wouldn't want you. He was desired widely by many, many omegas. And he had always turned them down. If all those prime omegas weren't good enough for him, you didn't stand a chance.

So you lived with him as your friend, because you would rather have that than nothing at all.

You knocked on the door again, more softly this time, knowing he was right on the other side. “Samu, please let me in. Let me see.”

There was a thunk. You assumed Osamu had leaned his forehead against the door. “Omega…”

It clicked in you, like gears fitting into place. Your heart raced. You shuffled closer to the door until there was no more space left. You sniffed carefully.

There was his scent, heady and musky, sandalwood and something you had come to associate only with Osamu. A scent you had loved for so long it made you want to buckle to your knees. It was strong, heavier than any time you had smelled it before. It made your eyes cross, your breath pause. Something in your core stirred.

“Your rut?” You mumbled. You knew he heard you.

Osamu groaned low in response. Your thighs clenched.

Over the years, you observed that Osamu's ruts were rare. Maybe once every three months. He would always disappear a few days beforehand, and didn't reappear until it was well over and done. Atsumu said that since his ruts were so spaced out, they would always hit really hard. So you tended to leave him alone until he reached out first, talking normally and as if nothing had happened, picking up where he left off.

In your anger and with your fight fresh in your mind, you didn't realize that Osamu had likely gone off the grid because of his rut, and not because he was ignoring you. Now you were standing here, mere inches from an Alpha in full rut, with your own core tightening and something wet slowly dripping down the crease of your thigh. Your inhibition was slowly dissipating the more you frantically tried to breathe his faint scent. Your omega purred and whined.

“I could help.” You dared say. “I could help you, Alpha.”

Another groan, low and desperate, and you felt like it was rattling through your very soul. You bit your lip hard, hand twitching to move between your thighs, but you remained frozen. Osamu didn't move away from the door. His pants grew louder, and then he whined.

“Are you sure?” His muffled voice came, almost broken with desire. He wanted- needed- you to say yes. You nodded vigorously even if he couldn't see you.

“Yes!”

Some thudding, clicking, and then he pulled open the door. Your breath caught at the sight of him.

He was gloriously shirtless, and his loose sweatpants were doing nothing to hide his problem either. His erection was obvious, straining and standing against the struggling material of his pants. It would look almost comical if you weren't horny out of your fucking mind right now. His bare torso shone with a thin layer of sweat. You bit your lip so hard you were sure you drew blood.

“Holy fuck, you smell good.” Osamu's nose, more sensitive with his rut, twitched. His eyelids fluttered, and he took in a deep breath. You stared at him some more, wondering if you were dreaming.

“What are ya standin’ there for? C’mere, Omega.”

He tugged on your arm, until your body was making contact with his. Your hands rested on his chest, and you could feel how rapidly his heart was beating. He leaned down until his face was mere inches from yours. His breath hit your lips, made them tingle. Your core clenched painfully. His scent got stronger.

“Ya sure ya want this?”

You didn’t even have the strength to nod, feeling lightheaded. You only tilted your face up until your lips brushed his. “Please.”

A breathy curse, and then he was kissing you. His arms wrapped tight around your back, like he was scared you would disappear, one hand gripping possessively over your hip. You suspected it would leave a bruise.

You wanted it to leave a bruise.

He left you breathless when your lips parted. He tugged you in further and shut the door with a loud bang, before pushing you back against it. The manhandling turned you on to no end, the thought that you were someone Osamu was about to use to satisfy himself. Your already aroused mind went wild at the notion and you arched into him when he crowded you against the door, lips meeting in a frenzy. He bit and licked your mouth raw, invading your mouth like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you. You dug your nails into his biceps, reveling in the feeling of him, of finally having him the way you wanted. Your panties were soaked through by now. Your inner thighs held the signs of your desire.

His lips traveled down your neck next, licking and biting, inhaling and exhaling as he scented you. His cock pressed into your hip and you let him satisfy his need to leave his mark on you, basking in his scent that mixed with yours and how he laid his claim on you, albeit temporarily. His hands gripped hard at your sides, pushing your shirt up to run over bare skin.

“Wanted this so bad.” He rasped, biting dangerously close to your scent gland, you leaned into the sting. “Every rut. Ya know how many times I’ve jerked off to ya?”

His accent was thick, his words slurred. You were sure he was completely gone by this point. You gripped his hair hard.

“Wanted you too, Alpha.” You whimpered back. “Touch me, god, please.”

Osamu lifted you up then, two strong hands grabbing your asscheeks and carrying you across the room to where his couch was located. You wrapped your arms around his neck, taking the opportunity to lap and nip at his neck, scenting him back. Your drenched walls fluttered around nothing, crying and weeping for a nice, thick knot to fill you up.

You had a suspicion you wouldn’t have to wait long.

When Osamu dropped you on the couch, his hands immediately tugged on your clothes, pulling off your jeans and panties in one go. The fabric clung to you with how wet it was, and the air was cool on your burning skin. You used the moment to pull off your top until you were bare before him. Osamu kissed your calf, traveling up quickly with a few kisses laid on your skin. Your thigh, your stomach, the valley of your breasts, your jaw. He had tugged his sweats down already, and you felt something hard poke at your dripping entrance.

“Can’t wait, baby.” His voice trembled. “Need ya now. Need to knot ya so bad I’m gonna explode.”

And then he was sliding into your slicked up but unprepped pussy, carving his way through your spasming walls until a sharp pain went through you. You gasped at the glorious stretch, at your walls recognising an Alpha cock and opening up to accommodate him. Your wetness ran down your ass, likely soiling Osamu’s couch but you doubted he cared. He was cursing and whining in your ear, spine bending forward at the relief of finally sinking into a wet, ready cunt. His face was flushed a deep red, sweat building on his forehead. He sank into you to the base, your toes tingling with the sensation of being so full.

“Hold on, omega.” His last words. They almost sounded like a threat. Your breath caught.

Then he was gripping your hips and holding you down, before fucking into you hard and fast. You gasped at the sudden pace, legs pushed even further open as his cock repeatedly bullied itself into you. Your jaw went slack at the sensation, how he hit you so deep, sloppy noises filling the air along with your cries and his moans. His skin slapped hard against yours, leaving the inside of your thighs red and tender. His cock hit every spot just right. You felt your toes curl.

Osamu watched your reactions, nearly delirious himself, barely holding on by a thread.

“Feel good?”

You nodded frantically, fingernails scratching over his shoulders and arms. Osamu leaned down on his elbows, tongue poking out to lick at your lips every now and then.

“Tell me how good it feels. Tell me.”

“I-” You gasped and jolted with the force of his thrusts. Tears built up in your eyes and spilled down the sides of your face. “Can’t- can’t talk.”

“Yes you can.” His hand wound into the hair at the back of your head, tugging hard until you arched into him. “Say it. Say ya love my cock.”

“Love your cock.” You managed to wail, clamping down hard on him. He cursed and leaned down further, pace not even faltering in the slightest. His lips sealed themselves against the skin of your neck and he sucked hard.

“Tell me how bad ya want my knot.”

“Want it so bad.” You parroted, losing every coherent thought and just going along with what he was saying. Osamu continued to pound into you like he wasn’t even talking, like he wasn’t rearranging your guts or turning your legs to jelly. Like the base of his cock wasn’t rapidly swelling and catching on the rim of your hole.

Osamu pushed himself deep into you before stilling completely, and you nearly weeped in frustration.

“Tell me why ya deserve my knot.” He gritted, eyes meeting yours. Little golden flecks shown in his irises, and his incisors elongated below his bottom lip. He was deep, deep in the clutches of his rut. Combined with his messed up hair and flushed cheeks, he looked wild. Uninhibited. Dangerous. Your pleasure hit its very peak, teetering just over the edge, begging for that last push. You sobbed.

“Wanted you for so long.” You gasped and cried, tears pouring from your cheeks. “Wanted you to fuck me and knot me and give me your cum. Please, Alpha, please. I’ll be so good for you.”

Osamu groaned. Something in his eyes softened. He hooked a hand under your left knee and tugged it up, folding it against your torso. His cock pulled out before pushing back in, slowly picking up his pace again. You moaned loud, feeling your pit tighten up again.

“Why don’t ya cum fer me nice and hard, baby? Get me wet with your juice and then I’ll fill you up. Promise. I’ll shove this fat knot into your tiny little cunt. Just cum fer me, little omega.”

And you did. You arched into him, eyes rolling and arms seizing as you came harder than you ever had in your life. Electricity zipped through you and all air was punched out of your lungs until you felt that your very soul was leaving your body. You didn’t even register when Osamu groaned and stuttered in his pace, or when his knot swelled until it was bullied into your thoroughly fucked out and sore pussy. White hot cum filled your insides as he locked into you, hips flush against your own.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist as Osamu’s comforting weight settled on you. He licked and lapped at your neck softly, breathing into you until you were nothing but his scent, his touches, his marks. You panted and tried to catch your breath, legs trembling with aftershocks of the event. You could barely lift your arms to run over his bare back, but you managed. Osamu hummed at your soft touch.

All was silent beneath you two as the fog of his rut lifted. You could feel him slowly cool down, get pliant against you. You could almost sense his apprehension.

“Do ya regret it?”

You smiled slightly, staring up at the ceiling. “I meant it, Samu. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You could feel his own smile against your neck, his embrace around you tightening. “Me too.”

Your skin buzzed with warmth. While Osamu breathed softly against your neck, you let yourself drift into a quiet sleep.

[seadeepspaceontheside]

How do you talk about "proship" stuff without immediately getting bombarded with hate and dismissed as a terrible person?

I'm on your side, but it seems most people are not, and not willing to listen at all.

I wanna make some small things clear lol I am not the spokesperson for this topic. There are far more people who are more articulate and have done more research and I would rather just be drawing lol

I usually state that if you're not a great speaker or can't articulate yourself very well, link to the experts that understand how this stuff works. Like I've said before, a lot of the therapists and articles I have linked have done a better job than I on the topic. Because you might be actually hurting your case when you're trying to explain to someone these things and you are either hung up on the trees over the forest or can't explain something because they catch you on a minute detail.

That being said, the main advice I would give is to not to use these loaded terms themselves, just the dynamic itself. In all honesty, if you use that kind of terminology (proship/anti), it usually turns people's brains off and makes them think you're weird automatically.

I would just point out that there's a wide range of different types of stories (from tv shows to myths of yore) that have spanned centuries--even some of which featuring taboos. And the ills of society do not have these stories to blame.

I am tired, because when I think we've moved on from these rehashed arguments and stupid discourse about media , I come to find arguments that were settled ten years ago are rearing their heads again. And this time they're coming with threats!

They did this with D&D and rock music. (You would be lured into satanic rituals and be deviants) They did this was violent movies and video games (You would want to commit murders or want murderers to go free) They did with this with rap and music videos (You would be hypnotized into violence by the artist and you would want to be a harlot) They did this with anime (Foreign media that is super weird and turn people into super freaks) They did this was queer media (Gonna turn you gay) They did this with superheroes (Children will think they can fly, they think punching will solve their problems)

Now this type of persecution comes for people that are doing taboo fanworks. I am tired of seeing this shit. Hindsight is free--those who were young for these old campaigns can see this stuff clearly for what it is: veiled right-wing rhetoric that is easily adopted by useful idiots who believe they are "helping". This time, the main push has been from young people in fandom spaces.

This is how it works.

All art communicates worldviews to some extent, but that doesn't make everything propaganda. Artists aren't working to eliminate other worldviews or stifle the existence of other artists--that is actually what propaganda is. It often comes from a perspective that embraces the imperialist or patriarchal status quo.

To someone on the fence who might be reading this: art is subjective. Your need to moralize what you consume is fraught. Consuming "good" media made with "good morals" and not "taboo" doesn't make you live a good life or become a good person. You're going to hit a wall one of these days where something you enjoy will be seen as something gross/repulsive/troubling and when you have been cut off from all those who would have defended you, you will have no one around you. If you feel like you are constantly put under a magnifying glass by said friends over what you ship, what art you enjoy.... Its not healthy! When you can't unfollow or say how you truly feel in a group of people and feel "unsafe" if you were to leave…. THAT'S A CULT. I find that it's always the same people who start shit that will be repeating this behaviour wherever they go. They literally act like HOAs but instead of your halloween ornaments staying up for too long, they are saying you can't enjoy your Greek God incest fics.

One last thing to remember: if you're having this conversation, and a person takes the worst possible light from what you say…they are not trying to have a conversation with you, they are acting against you.

[oikarma]

when you fall, you fly 𝜗𝜚 mv1, ln4

summary: (17k) you learn that winter doesn’t have to be cruel and brittle, spring doesn’t have to be full of new beginnings, summer is not only tangle of desire and heat, and fall. it ends the fall of ‘29. fall, beautiful fall, where the wrong things fall away, where home becomes where the heart is.

notes: read part one first!!

part one / part two

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It’s a call. Lando.

“Took you long enough,” he says. Over the phone, his voice is low. That might be because of the volume, which you turn up.

“Sorry. I’ve been—”

“Busy? Yeah. I know. Too busy to text. To call. I had to find out from Instagram you were out with your friends last night.”

“It wasn’t a big thing,” you explain. We just went to dinner after the library.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were going.” Lando exhales, sharp through his nose. “And I was waiting for you, I thought you’d call me or something. I’m not trying to be the bad guy, okay? I just miss you.”

And I was waiting for you.

“I feel like you’re slipping away,” he adds.

Just like that, guilt surges in your chest. He was waiting for you. You should’ve asked first, maybe he thought you were avoiding him. You should be better at communication, stop overthinking. Two overthinkers never make a good relationship. 

“I’m not, I swear. I needed to focus for a second. My professor, well, she’s making me check in every week. She was worried.”

“Worried about what?”

You say, “about me. About if I was okay.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “You are okay, sweetheart. You already made it.”

“I didn’t, though,” you whisper. “I kind of stopped showing up for everything.”

There’s a lulling quiet, before Lando breaks it.

“And why do you think that is?”

You don’t understand. “What?”

“Why do you think you’re burnt out, hm? Who’s been there for you every time you needed to breathe? Me. I’ve done nothing but take care of you, sweetheart. You don’t know when you need a break.”

It’s not untrue. It sticks in your throat. He’s right. When you’re tired, he makes you nap, so you can focus better. When you’re just staring at the screen, he tells you to come back to it later. When you need a drink—fuck, he’s there right beside you.

He softens again. “Just come back. I’ll make everything easier. We’ll go somewhere, forget all this crap. Promise. You don’t even have to come to race week. No media, nothing.”

Your phone shakes slightly in your hand. You sit there, eyes unfocused, staring at your desk piled with papers. “I’ll think about it,” you say quietly.

“No, sweetheart,” Lando says, “don’t think. Just say yes.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He hasn’t responded to you in a few hours, though there’s no ‘read’ to be seen yet. Maybe he’s just busy. You hope he’s busy. You take another bite of your sandwich and go back to your paper, flagged full of your run-on sentences.

Knock. Knock.

It’s late. Who could it be, at this hour? The cursor still blinks on your laptop screen, which you slam shut. You shuffle in your sweats to the door, aware of how raggedy you look. Your bun is barely a bun, more like a knot of hair, and your brain is fried. You must look like a panda. But you’re finally feeling like yourself again, or maybe just starting to. At least you know what you’re doing.

Knock. Knock.

You come to the door, pull it open, and who else could it be?

“You weren’t answering,” Lando says, by way of explanation. No hello. He has his hoodie on, the one you remember stealing in Miami, and a rolling suitcase stands by his side.

“I texted you,” you say, “you didn’t respond.”

“Too busy to say you miss me? You never ask about us, sweetheart, it’s always about your work and your life and I just…” You step back, letting him in before your neighbor gets a look. He drops his bag and starts pacing.

“Lando,” you say, trying to console him.

“What the fuck?” Lando’s voice isn’t raised, no, he would never raise his voice at you. “I haven’t seen you in how long? Two weeks? You’re not answering half my messages, and now you’re, what, academic weapon again?”

“Don’t. Don’t make fun of me for trying,” you snap.

His eyes flash. “I’m not. I’m not. I just,” he runs both hands through his hair. “I don’t get it. We were—God, we were so fucking good. And then you leave and it’s like you flipped a switch. Like I’m out of your life.”

You fold your arms. “I had to leave. My job, my grades, my life, I couldn’t do it if I was following you like a lost puppy across Earth.”

“Your life,” he echoes. “What about ours?”

Ours.

Ours. His and yours, yours and his, him at your job, you at his race, him in your apartment, you in his Monaco place, you in his bed, him, maybe, maybe, in yours. If you’ll just let him in.

“I booked Monaco. You never even replied. I won, and I was hoping you’d change your mind and maybe I’d see you out there, because you thought I was important and I tell you you have nothing to prove to anyone, but sweetheart, I have everything to prove to you. You’re gonna pretend that I didn’t mean anything to you?”

“I didn’t ask you to book it.”

“You didn’t have to.” You hear his voice crack. Your heart does a little, too. “You’re everything to me, you know that? You’re the only one who knows me.”

You don’t know what to say. He looks like he hasn’t slept, even though his skin is still as bronze as you’d expect a fallen deity. There are creases under his eyes to match yours. His fingers shake, like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Those gossamer eyes, they mirror all you want, all you know you shouldn’t want.

“Can I stay, just for the night?” Lando asks. You’re going to say yes, of course, because you can’t leave him out, not when he’s done all this for you. You’re going to say yes, even though you know it’s not just one night. Once he’s back, it’s never just one night.

You nod.

He wraps his arms around you like he’s drowning. Honey and saffron invade your senses, so tantalizing. You hate how much you missed him.

“I’ll be good. I swear. I just needed to see you.”

You let him in. You know he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The coffee’s shit but it’s keeping you going, so it’s half-finished and sitting on the windowsill. Your coursework’s going well again. Your inbox is clean, your professor’s last email had actual praise in it, golly gee! and you finally caught up on shifts at the bar. It feels like your life again.

It’s background, really—you plan on going to Netflix, but the first thing that pops us is the weekend sports wrap-up. The screen fills with F1 coverage, highlights from team press conferences, shots of the paddock in Imola.

You hear a voice say, “still no Lando Norris at media day, we’re missing his presence.”

You glance over your shoulder. The Lando Norris in question is sitting on the couch, a hand on your thigh, like he can’t bear a single moment away from you. He looks up from his phone, to the TV. 

“Turn it off,” he says.

“Lando…”

“Please, baby.” He sets his phone down, looks at you properly. “Just turn it off.”

You hesitate. “When do you plan to leave? You have to race, you know, you booked the tickets, yeah?”

“I know,” Lando assures you. “I’m going. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re not doing your press. Your training. You’re barely checking in with the team—”

He cuts in, lifts his hand from your thigh and intertwines it in yours. “Because I want to be here. I like this. You. This flat. Waking up and seeing your books everywhere, you making shitty coffee in that sweatshirt with the bleach stain.”

“But you have a job, too,” you say, treading carefully. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Lando brushes his thumb over your wrist. Softly: “No, you’re not. But I’ve never had this before. Someone who doesn’t just want me for that other stuff.”

You should feel flattered. And you do. You do.

Yet part of you feels like you’re taking something from him. He’s slipping, a little, away from his life, and you’re letting it happen. You’re causing it, really, because would he be here in this place—probably costs less than what he gets a day—if you’d never met? 

And he’s so happy, so happy he doesn’t see you freezing before you move to turn the TV off. Doesn’t notice the small frown on your face as you close your laptop, too. He’s so happy. You don’t want to ruin it.

This is perfect, you think. This is perfect. You won’t ruin it for him, for you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He lingers in the flat even though he’s gone. Lando only bothered taking the important things: identification, phone, charger, etc. He leaves his clothes, a bottle of his cologne, and everything else with you. It’s a sign of trust, that he’s planning on coming back. The reminder warms you, like you’re a home for someone. That someone feels comfort in your presence.

As promised, you’re watching the live F1 feed. Lando’s on screen again, this time in the post-qualifying interview. You see his caps pulled low, eyes flicking off-camera like he’s itching to leave. He answers the questions, yes, but even you know he’s doing shit at it.

“P3. Not bad at all, Lando. Car performed great today, I hear. But you look a little tense today. Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just tired,” he says. “Car’s great, yeah.” He keeps saying ‘yeah.’

The moment his back is out of the frame, your phone vibrates next to you for the third time in ten minutes.

lan why aren’t you picking up

lan i hate thisi wish you were here

lan i feel like i can’t breathe without you

you i’m watching. you did great, baby

Three dots appear. Then they go away. You don’t blame him. What you sent wasn’t enough.

The broadcast cuts to the paddock camera. Lando’s walking fast, alone, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. He looks out of place, the second time you’ve ever seen him like this. The first time…well, it wasn’t the best situation for him to be in. You’re worried.

Your phone buzzes again.

lan i’m sorry baby i just can’t sleep without you

lan i can’t even eat the sameit’s not fair that you’re not here i know you’re busy i just

lan it hurts

You rest your forehead in your hands.

You want to be strong. You want to stay on track, the way he always said you should. But the truth is, you’re not sleeping either. Not well. There’s a bottle of ambien, open, useless. Your grades might be up, your shifts handled, your life back on its rails. Fuck. None of it feels good without Lando. It’s like he brings you purpose and when he leaves he takes it all with him.

You look at the screen again. He’s already disappeared. Some other driver is talking.

You wish you were in his hotel room. Wish you could take off his fireproofs for him, kiss the red lines from his suit off his shoulders, trace the imprints of the earpiece on his face, tell him he doesn’t have to be perfect when he’s with you.

Because you’re not perfect either. You just want to be his.

You open your texts again. He deserves a little more.

you babyyou’ll win tomorrow

you and then you’ll come home, yeah?

you i miss you too, lando

Your phone lights up again almost instantly. You see his contact photo, him curled up around your knee, eyes closed. He’s calling.

You press ‘accept,’ and before you can even say ‘hello,’ his voice fills your ear.

“Thank god,” Lando breathes. “I was going insane.”

You sink back onto your pillows. “I’m here.”

“I hate being without you,” he says. “I, well, I was in the paddock today and nothing felt right. My helmet felt too tight. My engineer was talking and I wasn’t even hearing him. You’re just in my head all the time.”

You take in his words. “I watched quali. You looked…”

“Like shit?” he offers, trying to laugh. It falls flat.

“No. Like you needed to be somewhere else. Are you okay? Fuck, no, you’re not.”

“Yeah. I’m not,” he whispers. “Know where I need to be? With you.”

You press your lips together. 

Lando says, “you’re mad at me.”

“No, I’m not. I just…I don’t know how to be good at both.”

“What do you mean?”

You murmur, “This. Us. And school. And my job. I feel like when I’m with you, it’s all I want. And when I’m away, I feel like I’m betraying you somehow.”

“You’re not.” He’s fast with it, so fast. “You’re not. You’re so good, baby, you’re everything. I just—” Lando inhales, voice shaking, and you hear in it the same desperate plea as when he called out to the Universe, why, why; it breaks you, “I need you to want me enough to come back.”

“I do, Lan. But I also want other things. Things I gave up for a while. And I’m trying to get them back.”

More quietly: “I just miss you so much it makes me sick.”

You don’t hesitate before you say, “I miss you too.”

“I don’t sleep when you’re gone,” he murmurs. “I barely eat. I just…wait. It’s like, baby, you’re what keeps my world spinning.”

You wonder if he knows he’s saying all this to make you come back. If he knows it’s working. But Lando does look terrible, not like how he looks when he’s with you. You don’t want to hurt him, not like this. And it’s always better when he’s by your side, isn’t it?

“I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll win for you tomorrow. And then I’ll come home to you.”

Home to you. You’re his home now. You don’t know exactly what that means.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The trophy’s heavy in his hands, but it doesn’t feel like anything. P1, win, what does it all matter? All the chaos and sweat and perfect tire management and everything. It worked. It fucking worked. Good to the team, yeah, he says, while scanning the crowd like a lunatic. Hoping. Just in case.

You never said you’d be here. Never promised. He was the one who promised, said he’d win—he did—said he’d come home—and if he’s not on his way right now, fuck.

Lando’s cap is pulled sideways by one of the crew, doused again in champagne. He laughs on instinct, because that’s what you do when the cameras are rolling. He doesn’t think it’s funny, actually.

He wants to leave. Just get on a plane. He wants the hotel room dark and cold, wants your hair on his chest, your voice low, telling him he’s good, good enough for you, good enough for all this. Needs yo, right next to him. He wants your thigh thrown over his, and the weight of you making him feel like the world stops for a second. You make it quiet. You make it better.

Magui’s voice cuts through the haze: “You coming? Everyone’s going to the club.”

Lando blinks at her, like she’s speaking a different language. “I don’t want to fucking party.”

“You just won,” she points out. “You’re supposed to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he snaps, instantly regretting it. “I just. Fuck, Magui, can you let me breathe? I want to go.”

“Where?”

He doesn't answer, not like she’d understand. Lando just shoves a hand through his hair, reaching for his phone. No texts. No missed calls. Just your name in the recents, staring back at him.

God, he misses you. And you’re not even his. Not really. He wonders why you stay. The money? You don’t ask for it, never ask for it first. He always offers. He wonders if he’s really enough, if that’s all you want. 

He won. And all he wants is you.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

lan hi baby, don’t know if you’re up yet but i won

lan i thought you’d be here i don’t even know why you never said you would

lan just wanted you to see it

He doesn’t send the last message he types: Come back to me already.

you hey no i’m up, i was watching you

you you deserve it lan i’m proud of youi wanted to come i really did

you sometimes i don’t know how to be around you when you’re like this. when you win and the whole world wants you and all i can give you is me

you miss you

lan you’re everythingi don’t want the world i just want you

lan please

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The first bottle doesn’t break.

It bounces. Pathetically, a dull thud against the floor of the hotel suite, spinning once on the carpet before rolling to a stop near the base of the bed. Lando stands there for a second, swaying slightly, glaring at the empty bottle of gin. It tasted like shit.

Then he picks up the second one.

That one shatters. Glass explodes against the wall, clear liquid dripping down in sharp streaks like tears. His breath comes out rough, uneven. He watches his work then grabs the nearest object—some expensive hotel vase—and hurls it at the window. It cracks, just slightly. Not enough. Not enough to match what he feels. The vase, not the window. The windows are remarkably strong.

“Fuck,” Lando says under his breath. Paces the room in fast, angry steps. His bare feet crunch over broken glass, probably bleed, he doesn’t care.

The room is a mess now. Pillows on the floor. Curtains yanked half off. The minibar gutted. Two chairs overturned. A lampshade split down the side. It still isn’t enough. Still doesn’t touch what was under his skin.

Your smile haunts him. Your text: “i wanted to come i really did”

Bullshit.

You said it. What does that mean? I love you I really do but then I run off with another guy. Words mean nothing. You’re back at school, posting dumb little stories with your friends and smiling like everything was fine. Like you don’t have a boyfriend losing his goddamn mind three countries away.

Boyfriend.

No, he doesn’t get to use that. Officially, he is your sugar daddy. He trades in money, you trade in companionship and favors. Officially. The ugly truth is that his mind had ignored that a long time ago. You mean things to him.

Clearly, he doesn’t mean things to you. You look happy and he can’t fucking stand it, because Lando doesn’t know how to be happy without you. Not anymore. Doesn’t know how to sit still, or think clearly, or go more than four hours without checking if you’re online. You made him feel real. You make him feel real, when he’s next to you. Without you, he doesn’t know what he is anymore, just a shaking, destructive mess of ego and want and desperation.

He takes another drink straight from the bottle—vodka this time. Bitter and burning and useless, just like him. He thinks that blithely. Lando wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and snarls, “she says she wants me but she’s fucking fine. She’s fine without me.”

He’s trembling now. He swears he can smell your perfume, feel your skin under his fingers, hear your laugh from across the room. He hates how much he misses you.

It feels like being fourteen again. Like being small and lonely. Like everyone good eventually leaves. 

Two knocks on the door. He doesn’t register it at first, too wrapped up in his own fury.

“Lando?”

He turns around slowly at the sound of your voice. Like a man possessed, he’s turning the door handle. You, an apparition, in the doorway. Your expression is caught between confusion and fear. He can’t speak, can only stare at you. 

“Lando,” you repeat, gently this time. You look around the mess of a room. “What the hell is going on?”

“You said you wanted me.”

“I do, baby.”

He knows he sounds childish when he says, “then why the fuck are you smiling in pictures with people who aren’t me? Why does it look like you’re happier when I’m not there?”

You step in and shut the door slowly behind. “Lando. I came back.”

“Not because I asked you to,” he says, bitter. “You didn’t come when I needed you.”

“Don’t be an ass, Lando. I came once I could.”

“Me? You left.”

“I didn’t leave you. I just went home. I told you I’d be back. I told you I wanted you. Why can’t you believe that?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His face twists like he’s trying not to cry. But then he is already crying—just quietly now, silently, the kind of tears that come when there is nothing left to throw or scream or burn.

“I don’t know how to keep you,” Lando whispers.

“You don’t have to keep me. I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t. But he can’t say it, so he falls into you instead, hot with shame.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The hotel bed smells just like him. You’re overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sensory details—honey and saffron, Lando curled into you like a child, one arm around your hips, his hair tickling your jaw. 

You remember that night, how you found him. Trowing things like the rage might turn into wings and take him somewhere far from the hollow ache of missing you. You’d stood in the doorway, too stunned to speak at first, your suitcase still in hand. He had looked at you like salvation. Then he collapsed.

Now he sleeps, days later, face pressed to your skin, like nothing happened.

You brush a hand through his curls. Lando sighs, burrows deeper. You don’t move. You don’t breathe too loudly. There’s something fragile about this moment, like if you shift wrong, you might tip him back into that chaos.

It worries you, really. He wrecked a whole place over you. To be flattered or frightened, that is the question.

Lando stirs. “You’re awake,” he mumbles, voice sleep-warm.

“Yeah. You okay?”

“Mhm. You’re here. I’m okay.”

It’s simple. Sweet.

He opens his eyes and you see it: the desperate joy, the relief so intense it makes his hands tremble as they skim your back. “Don’t leave again,” he whispers. “Please.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t promise. Something inside you knows you can’t, not if he keeps unraveling like this. Not if his love starts to feel like a trap lined with silk sheets and broken glass.

You hold him anyway, for as long as you can.

Bzz.

“I’ll get it,” you murmur, untangling one arm to grasp for your phone. 

He makes a quiet noise of protest, tightening his grip on your waist. “No. Stay.” You slip out of bed as gently as you can.

Your phone is face-down on the floor, near a toppled plant. You crouch, pick it up. 

“Baby, c’mon. Leave it.”

You turn slightly. He’s watching you now, chin in his palm, yes sleepy but alert. 

“Is that work?” he asks flatly.

“No, Mara.” 

“Of course it is.” Lando flops back onto the bed with a sigh, one hand thrown dramatically over his face. “She wants to take you away again.”

“She’s just checking in. Haven’t texted her in a bit.”

“You’re here now,” he says, sitting up suddenly. “That’s what matters. Right?”

You don’t answer right away.  He climbs out of bed and pads toward the kitchen. “I’ll make coffee. You want breakfast? I got those stupid little French pastries you like.”

“Lando—”

“I’m fine, really,” he calls over his shoulder, cheerful in a way that feels like armor. “You being here fixes everything.”

mara(malade) you know if you run off you should really turn your location off

mara(malade) look babe i think you both need space

mara(malade) is he okay?

mara(malade) more importantly, ru okay?

You want to say yes. You want to believe it. Lando—beautiful, brilliant, broken Lando—is now singing softly to himself in the kitchen. You move to sit at the counter, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“I warmed up the croissants,” he says, placing a small plate in front of you with a flourish. “Fig jam, your favorite. You’re spoiled, you know that?”

He’s smiling too much. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You pick at the corner of a croissant. “Lando.”

“Black or oat milk?” He’s already reaching for the mugs.

“Lando.”

He pauses. “What?”

“I just…I wanted to talk about…that night.”

“What about it?”

“You were upset,” you say carefully. “And the suite—”

“I said I was fine.” Lando won’t look at you.

You set the croissant down. “I know. But seeing all of that, it scared me a little.”

“You’re not scared of me.”

“I didn’t say I was. I just, well, I want to understand.”

He laughs under his breath. It’s not happy. “Understand what? That I missed you? That I didn’t know if you were coming back? That I was losing my fucking mind because I thought you were gone?”

Your heart twists. “You weren’t losing me. I texted you that morning.”

“I don’t know that.” Lando’s staring at you now. There’s something wounded in his eyes. “You don’t need anything from me. Not money, not help. You have this whole life without me, and I’m just—fuck, what am I supposed to be if you don’t need me?”

“I want you, Lando. That’s supposed to be enough.”

“You say that like it is.”

He doesn’t mean to sound cruel. You know that. His hands curl into fists on the counter. You stand up, come around slowly. Place your hand over his.

“Then let it be enough. Let me want you. You don’t have to break everything to make me stay.”

Finally, he exhales. Presses his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to be okay without you.”

You don’t answer. You hold his hand tighter. You don’t say what you’re thinking, which is you didn’t know how to be okay when your mom died, that’s how I found you. I made sure you didn’t die that day. Will you always associate your escape loneliness with me, now? 

The coffee finishes brewing, but neither of you move to pour it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re watching a sitcom on the television. Lando loves making fun of you for your taste, but you know he secretly enjoys them too.

His phone buzzes on the counter. Lando looks at it and groans. “Manager.”

You don’t say anything. He answers on speaker. “Yeah?”

“Lando,” the voice is clipped, slightly exasperated. “We need to talk. We just got the hotel’s report.”

“About what?”

“You know what. Smashed mirror, broken fixtures, bottle damage, water damage, hell, they said there were footprints on the mini bar.”

You stare straight ahead at the show. People are laughing. You try to remember what the joke is about.

“I’ll pay for it,” Lando says, flatly.

“That’s not the problem. They’re asking if you're okay. We’re asking if you’re okay. Lando.”

He doesn’t respond.

His manager continues, “they’re saying you’ve been off since Miami. We all saw you show up with someone. You know. She’s not in the tabloids, her reputation isn’t a problem. We don’t know who she is. The problem is that ever since then, you’ve been unpredictable.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, though the person on the other end can’t see. “Unpredictable?”

“You trashed a hotel room,” his manager snaps. “You skipped media. You haven’t answered half your PR scheduling emails. You’re supposed to be gearing up for Monaco, and instead you’re—”

“What? Instead I’m where? Taking a fucking break for once? Letting myself feel something?”

“We’re not saying she’s the problem. We just don’t know what this is. And you won’t tell us. You’re shutting us out.”

“Because you treat everything like damage control,” Lando mutters.

“We need to know if we’re dealing with a temporary shift or a full derailment. If we’re going to step in.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. Step in. Right. You stepped in real well when Luisa was getting death threats. You stepped in real well with Magui and look how that turned out. What the fuck do you ever do right?”

“Lando. You don’t get to disappear without people asking questions. You don’t get to change overnight without consequences.”

In response, he snaps, “I’m not changing. I just—fuck—I finally feel like myself. And you’re mad it’s not the version you can market.”

You shift on the couch, quietly turning off the TV. 

“She’s not the problem. We just need to know if she’s going to become one. For the team. For you.”

Lando hangs up. He stands, frozen, then walks back to you, lying on the couch with his head in your lap. “They don’t get it,” he mutters. “They never fucking get it.” 

“I don’t think they’re trying to blame me.”

“I know. They just don’t know what to do with you.”

You blink. “Is that bad?”

He looks up at you. “No. It’s perfect.”

He says it’s perfect, you want to think it’s perfect, but the way he clings to you tells you exactly how tightly he’s holding on. How scared he is that the world is trying to take you away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

“Can I use your laptop for like ten minutes? Just email stuff. Mine’s broken.”

He yawns over his phone. “Yeah, yeah, it’s in the office. The black one. Passcode’s your birthday, you know.”

You kiss his forehead. “Thanks, baby”

You sit cross-legged in his desk chair, crack open the laptop, and type in his passcode. Mail is already open.

The first email, unread, sits bold at the top of the inbox:

Subject: RE: PR Proposal - Confirming Relationship Partner for Next Quarter Re: Images from Miami

You click before you can talk yourself out of it. The thread is long, too long. God, this is invasive! Someone from marketing has pasted photos of you and Lando at Miami. Lando leaving your bar. Lando and you at dinner. Another of him reaching for your hand when you cross the street—bloody hell, when was this? You don’t remember half of these. 

Below that: paragraphs discussing “optics,” “alignment with brand image,” and suggestions for “alternatives with higher familiarity quotient,” i.e., influencers with cleaner public profiles. One name is underlined.

The last message, from his manager, is curt:

Let’s discuss timing. If we move forward, need confirmation he’s on board by Friday. Otherwise we’ll have to talk to her.

What? Who is the “her” they refer to? You? Too many questions. You log in to your own account, reply to your professor Back in the living room, Lando’s messing with his new camera lens. He perks up when you return. “You find it, sweetheart?”

Yeah. Thanks.”

He pulls you back onto the couch by your wrist. Tugs you into his lap. “You’re quiet.”

“Just tired, baby.”

His fingers skate down your spine. Don’t work too hard. You don’t need to, you know? You could just not worry.”

There’s something curling in your chest that you don’t have the words for yet. You can feel it: the ache of being wanted, and the sharp sting of not knowing exactly why.

It’s late afternoon when he brings it up. You haven’t brought up the email, and he hasn’t asked why you went quiet, but you know he noticed. Lando notices everything when it comes to you. He finds you on the balcony just before sunset, staring out at the curve of the harbor. “You saw it, didn’t you?” His voice is low.

“Saw what?”

“The email.”

You don’t answer. Not really a point in lying.

“I was gonna tell you. I just didn’t want it to ruin anything.”

You stay quiet, waiting.

“They’ve been on me since Miami,” he continues, looking down at the tiles. “Didn’t tell you about it, didn’t think it would affect anything. They think you’re making me weird. Like I’m not showing up the way I used to. Like I care too much.” He laughs once, bitter. “Can you imagine? Caring being a problem? They’ve always pegged me as a crybaby, that kind of thing. Don’t know why it changes now.”

“I told them to fuck off,” he says. “I didn’t even open it until today.”

You turn fully now. “But you read it.”

“Yeah. Only because I knew you would. They don’t know you,” he murmurs. “They don’t get it. They think I’m just distracted. But I’m not. I’m clearer than I’ve ever been.”

“You’ve been drinking every night,” you say softly. “You’ve skipped stuff.”

“Because they don’t matter. Only you do.”

Not receiving a response, Lando brushes your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. I know what this is. I’m not going to let them replace you with some model who smiles for photos and goes away when the weekend ends. I’d lose my fucking mind. I already have Magui, you know? Why do they have to fix me with someone new?”

You flinch at that, because you’ve seen what that looks like.

“I don’t want to be a problem for you.”

He tilts your chin up. “You’re not. You’re the only thing that makes sense.” And then, softer: “Please don’t leave again.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sundays are race days. Today is Friday, the last day before race weekend, and he’s not here. He has a meeting in person.

He comes back scowling. “Lando?” you ask softly.

“I’m going to have to do it.”

You sit up straighter. “Do what?”

“The PR thing. They’re making me.”

You blink. “What do you mean making you? I thought you said—”

“I thought I had a choice. They pulled out numbers. Sponsorship clauses. Told me my Q-rating dropped after Emilia Romagna. Isn’t that bullshit? They’ve never cared that much about my Q-rating before. Said I wasn’t showing up right, too emotional, too impulsive, not focused enough.”

You stand. “That’s bullshit. You’ve been winning.”

“I know,” he snaps.

You reach for him, but he flinches back like your touch might break him. “They said you’re the problem. They showed me photos. You walking into the hotel. Me leaving early. That night I skipped the debrief? They think I was with you.”

“…you were.”

“Exactly.”

He looks at you for a long time. His eyes are glassy. He’s holding something in

“If I don’t agree, I risk my contract. Maybe not officially, but it’s leverage. They’re not going to make it look like a relationship,” he adds bitterly. “Just appearances. Photos. Maybe a dinner or two. Smiling next to a pop girl they can tag in headlines.”

“And me?”

His face crumples. “You stay here. You stay mine. No one touches this. I’ll lie to everyone else if I have to. I just can’t lose you.”

You think. “I don’t want you to lie,” you say.

“Sweetheart, just let me do this so I can keep everything else. So I can keep you.”

He says it like you are the only part of his life worth telling the truth for.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando’s wearing a shirt he didn’t choose, sitting at a table he didn’t reserve, waiting for a girl he didn’t ask to meet. She’s late. His manager checks his watch three times in the span of a minute.

When she arrives, it’s obvious why they picked her. She’s radiant, perfectly curated. Every strand of hair in place, nails glossy, lips done in the exact shade the camera likes. Based off the briefings, she’s basically Magui with no scandals. Some kind of television actress-slash-model, too. How coincidental.

“Lando,” she greets, sliding into the seat across from him like they’ve done this a hundred times. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

He forces a smile. He can do this, has done this before. “Yeah. You too, uh,” he remembers her name. “Camilla.’

Click. Someone’s taking pictures. Subtle. Just a phone angled from behind a wine glass. Another click. He doesn’t even bother to turn his head. She leans in, conspiratorial. “I think we’re supposed to look like we’re flirting.”

“Aren’t we?”

“Not unless you want to.”

Lando gives her no reply.

She reaches for the menu. “So here’s what I heard. We’re doing one dinner per city, you tag me once a month, and I show up in your team colors at Silverstone.”

“That’s what they told you?” He wanted to take you to Silverstone.

“Yep.” Camilla gives him a look. “Calm down. I’m not trying to ruin your life. I’m just trying to sell a dream. You drive fast cars, I look good in photos. Everyone wins.”

He looks down at the menu, even though he’s not hungry. He doesn’t want food. He wants you, hair wet from the shower, curled up on the couch in his hoodie, scrolling through your busted old laptop even though there are so many other things you could be looking at.

She must catch the change in his face.

“They told me about her, too. She’s not part of the deal, you know,” Camilla says, almost kindly. It startles him.

“I saw the photo,” she explains. “The one they showed you. Don’t think I’m stupid, they put you up to this because they didn’t like her. Or you, when you’re with her. You look different with her.”

Lando swallows. Charming and smart. Fuck.

“Don’t worry,” Camilla says, settling back into her seat, voice returning to breezy indifference. “Your secret’s safe. Just so you know, pretending gets easier. Eventually. I’m sure you already know.”

The hell’s that supposed to mean?

He wants to walk out. But he’s already here, already in it. Damn it. One dinner, one photo, one fake smile at a time. He wonders if you’re still at his apartment. If you’ll still be there when he gets back. What if you’re already back at school? He checks his phone under the table. No messages, but Lando opens your chat anyway. He types something, deletes it, closes the app.

Click. Another photo.

When they come out, people notice he’s not smiling in any of them.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The crowd is loud, even from his balcony. Here, high above it all, you’re watching on TV. Not from the paddock or hospitality, because they thought it was better if you weren’t there.

“We just think,” Lando’s manager had said yesterday; his name is Mark, you think, “that it might be best if you keep a lower profile during race weekends. There’s a lot of media interest, and it’s distracting him, and we need him focused. I’m sure you understand.”

You nodded. You didn’t really mind. Lando had a nice apartment, good food, nice views. On the other hand, Lando had been furious. “It’s my pass,” he’d snapped. “I get to decide who comes.” But then he’d gotten quiet, and you could all but hear what he was trying not to say. They told him it wouldn’t look good, that he’d already raised flags by skipping events and showing up late. That they needed him to toe the line a little.

When the camera cuts to Lando in the garage, your breath catches.

He’s focused. Calm and zoned in, of course, but you can tell he’s tired. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he crosses the line and the commentators shout P2.

You don’t scream. You just smile and hug the pillow close.

The door unlocks forty—maybe an hour?—later. You stand from the couch instinctively. Lando walks in like he owns the world. His curls are damp with sweat, and he looks exhausted but triumphant.

“Back so soon, baby?” You say, then his arms are around you. “I thought you’d have interviews and all that. Tell Charles congrats for me, yeah?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he mumbles into your neck. “Stop talking about Charles.”

“Sure, sure. I watched,” you say. “You were incredible.”

“I would’ve gone faster if you’d been there.”

You pull back. “Don’t say that.”

Lando snaps, “I hate that they’re keeping you away like this. Like I’m some kid who needs managing.”

“You don’t want them pissed before the race.”

“I don’t care,” he says. His mouth is on yours. “You’re not a distraction. You’re the only reason I’m even still here. Y’know that, right, sweetheart?”

You kiss him back, but it makes you a little sad, his words. You don’t want to be the reason he’s spiraling or winning. You just want to be his.

After he’s taken a shower and fallen asleep on your legs, you let yourself open your laptop. Race day is tomorrow and your flight back home is tomorrow, too. You think he’s sleeping. You’re mistaken.

“You working?” Lando asks, the words causing a sensation along your skin.

You coax, “just a little.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, baby. Just have finals to get through and I’m all your for the summer.”

You feel him frown. “What, now? For how long?”

“A week. Maybe two.”

He shifts, props himself up on his elbows. “So you’re gonna go back?”

“I need to.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can see it all flicker across his face in real time, how quickly the relaxation falls away.

“You just got here,” he says finally.

“I’m staying ‘til your race is over, okay?”

“I’ll come with you,” he says.

“You can’t. You have Barcelona in a week.”

Lando mutters, “fuck that.”

“Lando.”

He looks at you then. “So what? You just disappear now? I did all this without you in the paddock, without even seeing you all weekend. And now you’re leaving again?”

“I’m not leaving, I’m doing my finals. Like a normal person. like someone who has other things going on.”

That’s what does it. The line stiffens him completely. He says, “I’m not enough, is that it?”

“No—” You shift closer instinctively. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

“No, it’s not. You’re enough. You’re more than enough. But I can’t lose everything I’ve worked for just because I love you.”

His eyes flash at the word. Love. You’ve said it before, but not like this. Frazzled, worn out, spine slightly hunched under the weight of everything you’re trying to balance. Suddenly, Lando straightens and pulls you in for a kiss. When you break apart, he’s quieter.

He says, “I just don’t know how to do this when you’re not around.”

“Then learn,” you say, not unkindly. You mean it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The café isn’t crowded. You still choose the booth in the corner, where the shadows feel soft and safe. You stir your tea until the milk clouds settle into a forgettable grey, and then Mara slides into the seat across from you.

“You look—” she starts then stops.

“Tired?” you offer.

“I was going to say thin.”

You glance down at your sleeves, tug them a little lower. “Not even a little tan?”

Mara doesn’t push. Just says, “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Only for finals.”

“I know.”

“I miss him,” you say eventually.

She watches you. “I figured.”

“It’s not that he’s bad to me,” you add quickly, because she has that look again, that braced-for-impact stillness. “He’s not. It’s just that he needs me. Like really, really needs me. All the time. It’s like I’m the only thing that keeps him from—” You break off. “He didn’t take it well when I left.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“No.” Your response is immediate. “But he drank a lot. Broke things. I came back and his hotel was a mess. And he was so happy to see me, like I fixed everything just by walking in.”

“That’s a lot to carry, babe. Over-dependency isn’t good.”

You look down into your cup. “I think part of me likes it. Being the only one he wants. The only one he lets close.”

“But?” she presses.

“But I can’t do this forever. I forget who I am when I’m with him too long.” 

Mara doesn’t say anything for a moment. You don’t have to prove your love by breaking yourself to keep him whole.”

“I know.”

Your throat is tight. You do, but you’re not sure Lando does.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando feels like an animal in a glass box.

Across from him, Camilla looks like she’d stepped out of a commercial. Her smile is perfect. Always just enough teeth, just enough warmth. She even reached for his hand when the first camera flash went off outside the window. He didn’t take it.

“So,” she says, tilting her head. “Did your team tell you about my Vogue piece? They want a few shots of me by the water. Something soft, romantic.”

Lando took a sip of his wine and didn’t answer.

“You’re in such a mood tonight,” Camilla says.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to be here. Everything about this was wrong. Your voice had sounded small on the phone earlier, when you said you had to study. That you weren’t sure if you’d make it to Barcelona. You’d been quiet all week, and now he’s sitting here with a girl who knows which angle to turn her face toward the lens but doesn’t know shit about him.

“Still no word from your girlfriend?” Camilla asks lightly, swirling her drink.

Lando glances at her. “She’s not—” He stops himself. You are, to him, just not to you, maybe he should talk to you about that sometime. He doesn’t know how to hold onto you anymore.

Camilla leans in. “It’s just…people notice, you know? You haven’t been this moody in years. You were calm after Miami, happier. And now it’s, well.” She gestures vaguely. “The hotel room. The yelling at your engineer. You don’t seem yourself, Lando.”

“You don’t know me,” Lando says flatly.

She blinks once. Smiles again, this time a little too knowingly. “But I do know what they think of you. And how quickly the story shifts when sponsors get nervous.”

I don’t care about the fucking narrative.”

“Sure you do. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Lando looks away. He wants to throw something. Instead, he reaches for his glass again. Third refill. He doesn’t feel it yet.

“I get it. She’s the one who makes you feel real. Like you’re not just a brand. That must be addictive.”

That catches him off guard.

She leans back in her chair. “It’s okay. You can hate me all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stares at her, something bitter rising in his throat. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“I enjoy doing my job well. You should try it sometime.”

Lando scowls at her, about to get up. “Tell them I smiled. Tell them I held your hand. I don’t care. But don’t talk to me like you know what this is.”

“I had a boy like that, too,” she says, and Lando stops in his tracks.

“What?”

“I had a boy like that, too. Worshipped the ground he walked on. You know why he left me?”

He’s confused.

Camilla continues, “left me ‘cause he found someone less suffocating. Who didn’t want me and all the shit out there, too.”

“All the shit out there?” he echoes.

“Press. Money. That kind of thing.”

“Are you saying I’m superficial?”

She points out, “you’re on a PR date with me.”

“She’s going to leave me for someone more real? Like her?”

“No, that’s not what I said. I said that’s what happened to me. Sorry if I’m a little cynical about it all,” Camilla says, not sorry in the slightest.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You had the photo saved. You didn’t want to, obviously, but it was there, at the bottom of your camera roll, right after a screenshot of your calendar and before that blurry video of Mara singing in the kitchen.

Lando. Camilla—that was his new PR girl, he told you; didn’t even tell you the name, you found out by clicking the tagged accounts. Outside the restaurant. Standing close.

He told you. 

And still, when you looked at her, at how easy she looked in her dress and the way her face didn’t flinch under the camera flash, you felt it. That gross, clawing thing in your chest. Jealousy. 

You’d googled her once. Just once. (Okay. Maybe four times.) She’s an actress, breakout role in some Netflix show. Dating history: one boy for the majority of her career, break-up four years ago, coinciding with when her show got popular. You watch Buzzfeeds where she plays with dogs, does lie detectors. 

The interviewer asks, “you’re single, Camilla?”

“Yes.” The lie detector makes no noise.

“What happened to you and long-time boyfriend Jude?”

Camilla, half-smiling, says, “oh, you know Jude. He has a book out now. We’re still friends, but it didn’t work out in the end. I think he wanted someone who didn’t care as much. Not about him, you know, just preferred a quiet life.”

This is a different Camilla, less composed. The wranglers haven’t gotten ahold of her yet. You sense she wouldn’t say these words now. Too revealing. You stare at the subtitles for too long.

Mara walks in with two mugs of tea. “What now?”

You shake your head. “It’s not even the photo. It’s just. Why does he have to do PR?”

“You know why. You told him to go for it, babe.”

“Yeah but juggling is unfair. I hate that he has to be one thing for the world and another with me.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mara said, settling beside you. “But you also knew what this was. Who he is.”

You groan. “I know. I know. But I saw that photo, and she looked like she belonged there. And I don’t know how to not care. I want to be okay with it. I want to be cool. I want to say, ‘it’s PR, it’s part of the job.’ But sometimes I think I’m the problem. That I make him look messy. That I love him wrong.”

“There’s no such thing as loving someone wrong,” Mara says.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

He asks to see her. Not his team, not his friends, but his fake girlfriend. The car’s already waiting when she steps out of her building. When she climbs in, Lando’s quiet. He has sunglasses on even though it’s dusk.

“Thanks for coming,” he mumbles.

Camilla raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize it was urgent.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I wanted to talk. About stuff. And this is good for PR, right? We’ll look like we have something going on.”

She waits. 

“About your ex,” he elaborates.

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

She leans back on the nice, plush car seats. “You’ve got PR girls, therapists, a race engineer, assistants, a 12-million-follower fan base, and you’re asking me for relationship advice? Your fake relationship?”

He shrugs. “You said you dated someone who wanted less of you? Or the public shit, whatever it was you said. Who wanted someone that didn’t care so much about everyone else.”

“Yeah,” Camilla admits. “I needed more than he could give.”

Lando nods slowly. “I think I’m doing that to her.”

Camilla stares at him. For a second, she thinks maybe he’s being dramatic. But then she notices his hands: how hard he’s gripping the edge of the seat. How he won’t stop bouncing one leg.

“I’m not trying to. I just, well, when I’m not with her, I lose my fucking mind. And when I am, I don’t know how to calm down.”

She notes how he’s being weirdly earnest.

“She came out of nowhere,” Lando says. “Didn’t care about the sport. Didn’t care about the attention. I liked that. I liked her. Y’know, I tried to pay her and she wouldn’t take the money. Had to show up at her job like a lost dog to get her attention. She hated me, you know? Despised me. Now she’s back home, and I’m here, and I feel, fuck, I don’t know. And I keep dragging her into this PR stuff and she’s probably sick of it, me having this double life.”

Camilla muses. She studies Lando’s face, says, “you’re not like me, you know.”

“I think I am.”

She shakes her head. “As much as that flatters me, I don’t think you care as much as me about the media.”

Lando scoffs. “Still sucks.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“You’re alright. Not what I expected.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?”

“No.”

She says, “okay,” and they leave the conversation at that. So Camilla thinks.

Then Lando says, “but you said he wanted someone less suffocating.”

“What?” Not this again.

“It’s not just the media part. You said he wanted someone who didn’t want him and the media.”

“No, no, no,” Camilla says. “It’s the juggling, I think. You have to pick one. I was trying to do both and he realized before me.”

“What did he realize before you?”

“Doing both wasn’t just hard for me. It was hard for him, too. So he left.”

Lando frowns. “You’re saying I have to pick one. I can’t make her go back and forth while I want to just have her.”

“Oh, young love,” Camilla says.

“Seriously.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. My life isn’t your life, Lando. What happened between Jude and me isn’t what’s going to happen between you and your girl. We are not the same people.”

“I’m just looking for examples.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Lando is in Barcelona. Camilla is sitting next to him in the car. They’re talking while the car is parked. Late night conversation. He didn’t tell you about this.

The caption reads: “F1 driver Lando Norris and actress Camilla Young getting serious? Not the first time we’ve spotted them.”

You stare at the image. The angle doesn’t help. They’re leaning toward each other, talking like no one else is in the world. You can’t tell what he’s saying. You just know he’s engaged. He’s looking at her like she’s enough, that she’s answering his problems.

Your mouth is dry. You remind yourself that he told you. He said there’d be PR stuff. Dinners. That it didn’t mean anything. But this isn’t a PR dinner. They’re out at night, for fuck’s sake. You’re not even allowed in the paddock anymore.

mara(malade) babe i know you’re scrolling

mara(malade) stop thinking about it

You just photos i don’t care

You do. And Mara knows you do, because she doesn’t respond with “okay” or “cool.” She sends a voice memo.

“Look, you said this was PR. You know it’s PR. That girl probably got handed a clause and a Chanel bag. You’re the one who knows where he lives. You’re the one who sees him without all that. And he’s the one who broke a goddamn hotel for you, remember? Flew across the country for you? Look, I think he’s clingy but in this case, I think that’s something to reassure you.”

You leave her on read.

What you keep thinking, the thought you can’t get out of your head, is that maybe he likes it better this way. When things are clean. When it’s professional. When the girl across the table doesn’t cry at night or ask for space or say, “you scare me sometimes.” When he knows he’s loved and doesn’t have to fight for it.

You know it’s unfair. You’re the one who asked for time. You’re the one who told him you had a life. Still. It feels a little like juggling. And you’re not winning.

Your phone lights up. You think it’s Mara, again, asking why you’re not responding. It’s Lando, and he’s blowing up your phone. He won’t stop texting. Calling. Double texting. Triple texting. Guilt-tripping you with voice notes that sound like they were recorded half-drunk, half-panicked.

You hate this. You hate that you love him like this. You also hate that you’re starting to feel like you can’t breathe.

He won’t tell you where he’s been. You saw the photos. You know it’s PR. You know it. He told you about it, technically. (He just didn’t mention the part where he spent the whole ride talking about you, asking Camilla how to not be too much. He’s embarrassed. He thinks you’ll leave if you know how desperate he is.)

You press call.

When he picks up, sounding like he sprinted to the phone, breathless, you don’t even let him speak.

You say: “I think we need a break.”

“Just for a little. I need to breathe, Lando. You’re everywhere and I love you but it’s starting to feel like I’m all you have and I can’t be that for you all the time. It’s not healthy. I don’t want you to be not okay if I’m not there.”

Still silence. You check if the line dropped.

Then he laughs. “Fucking knew it. This is what Camilla said happened. He told her the same shit. ‘You’re too attached. It’s not healthy.’ It’s not healthy to love someone that much, is that it?”

“Lando—” You say. What did Camilla tell him? About her ex? What does this have to do with you and Lando? You’re trying to make things make sense.

He cuts in, “no, no, just say it. You don’t want me like this, even if I love you. You don’t want me if I’m not put together and calm and acting like I don’t need you. You want someone who doesn't have a PR girlfriend, too? Look, I want you to be my girlfriend. We haven’t even talked about this.”

Even if I love you.

This is the first time he’s said those words.

“That’s not what I said,” you say, and his tangent is really confusing you. What about being his girlfriend?

“It’s what you meant.”

“I just need a little space. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Lando: “If you did, you’d be here.”

That one stings. You hang up. You don’t mean to, but your thumb slips and that’s it. Silence.

Lando stares at the “Call Ended” screen. He flings his phone across the kitchen. It hits the marble and clatters. He doesn’t care. It won’t break, fucking case. He presses his palms to the counter and breathes. In. Out. He’s not Camilla. He’s not. Right now, he can’t tell if he’s any better.

He has whatever’s left in the wine bottle on the counter. Red, too warm, acidic. Doesn’t care. It makes his throat burn and that feels like something.

He doesn’t even blame you. You didn’t sign up for this. For the cameras. For the pressure. He wanted you because you saw him inferior, wanted you so no one else could know that side of him. You didn’t want him, not at all. Not for the money, not for…so why did you end up staying? And now, he’s like this—spun out and raw and clinging too tight to someone just because she said I love you and sounded like she meant it. 

He’s scared. He doesn’t know who he is without you, isn’t that fucking crazy? A few months into your life together and he’s nothing without you. Lando grabs a dish towel and wipes at the tears that surprise even him. Tries to pull himself together. He’s better when he’s with you, he thinks. How did you even start liking him? Maybe you liked him when he was suave and just playing cat and mouse.

It’s so pathetic, and he knows that, but he can’t stop thinking:

She said she loves me.

Why doesn’t that feel like enough?

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

mara(malade) u okay??? i saw your location was back at the library so. finals or breakdown?

you it’s both i think i told him i needed space and he flipped like fully lost it i think i broke him

mara(malade) hey no you’re not responsible for his spiral

mara(malade) and if you are then that’s… kind of the problem no?

you yeah i just feel like i made a promise i can’t keep like i said i loved him and now i’m backing out

you but it’s not that it’s that i can’t breathe around him sometimes and he’s scared all the time that i’ll leave

you but him being scared is making me actually want to

mara(malade) that makes sense

mara(malade) that’s what i meant before when i said he’s not all bad but he’s heavy

mara(malade) like intense love is beautiful but not when it burns you alive to keep him warm

you man when you’d get so poetic

mara(malade) when my own life started going good and your life became a soap opera

you fuck off

mara(malade) ❤️

you he talked to Camilla about it

you apparently she had an ex who left her bc he said her love was too much and lando saw himself in her

you and now i feel like i’m just proving him right

mara(malade) babe if he’s projecting that onto you that’s not fair

mara(malade) you’re not her ex. he’s not camilla. you’re YOU. he’s HIM. and if he can’t tell the difference, maybe a break really is the right call

mara(malade) even if it hurts

you he didn’t even tell me they talked that’s the part that’s pissing me off the most

you he didn’t tell me anything he just bottled it and drank and spiraled and then begged me not to leave

you it’s exhausting

mara(malade) i’m so proud of you for saying you needed space

mara(malade) i know that wasn’t easy and i’m here if you need me

you ty

you i think i just need to remember who i was before him for a second like just me

you not someone’s everything

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The sun’s out, annoying as hell. He hasn’t opened the balcony doors. His phone’s dead, face-down on the counter since last night. No new notifications. No new you.

Lando slumps lower on the couch. He hasn’t eaten. There’s a coffee from yesterday he keeps sipping, even though it tastes like shit. All it does is remind him you used to steal the first sip and make a face when it was too bitter. The front door buzzes. He ignores it. Buzzes again. The spare key turns, and Max Fewtrell steps inside like he’s done it a hundred times. Which he has. Just not lately, because Lando’s always with you. He can’t even say your name. 

“You look like shit,” Max says cheerfully, dropping a bag of pastries on the table. The same pastries you used to like. Like, probably, you’re not dead. “I assume that means you’re not dead.”

Lando grunts. His friend kicks his feet up next to Lando’s and starts unpacking the bag. “I brought the fig ones.”

The exact ones you like. Lando doesn’t move. Max says, “you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Lando presses the cold rim of the coffee cup to his lip. Finally: “She said she needed space. That we were too attached.”

“Was she wrong?”

He closes his eyes.

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

“She said I scared her, Max. She said I made her feel like she’s all I have. That I don’t know how to be okay without her. I thought I was just loving her. The way she needed.”

Max says, “you did. You do. Sometimes people still drown in that.”

Lando huffs, “that’s what Camilla said. Suffocating.”

“You’re taking relationship advice from your PR cover girl?”

“She’s been through it.”

“Yeah, but she’s also an Oscar-nominated woman who drinks red wine before noon.”

Vaguely defensive, Lando says, “she’s nice. How do you know that?”

“Friends of friends,” Max says, “looks nice, yeah. Half the stuff I hear about her, though.”

Lando looks down at the half-eaten pastry on the plate. “I thought if I was good enough, if I just loved her enough, she’d stay. That she’d choose me, even when it was hard.”

Max says nothing.

“She said I made her happy,” Lando says. “I’m the kid who thought love would be enough.”

“Maybe it still is. But not like this.”

Lando’s hands drop to his lap. He stares ahead, eyes dull.

He doesn’t know how to love you less. He’s not sure he wants to learn.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Someone’s yelling about football, someone’s crying in the toilet, and you’re perched on a sticky barstool with Mara, laughing so hard her cheeks ache. 

“Okay,” Mara says, poking you with a straw. “You’ve been smiling all night and I don’t trust it.”

“I’m done with finals,” you say, shrugging like that explains everything. “Also, I think I flirted with a guy who works in Parliament. On accident. He was like, shockingly boring. But hot.”

Mara snorts. “You’re deranged.”

“I’m fun.”

“You’re healing,” Mara corrects, more gently.

You don't flinch. You just knock back the rest of your drink and make another. You haven’t thought about Lando—really thought about him—in two hours. That’s a record.

When your phone buzzes, you don’t check it. You know who it won’t be. Instead, you fish a crumpled envelope out of your purse and slap it on the bar.

“What’s that?”

“My future, apparently.”

You unfold it with a little dramatic flair, sliding it across the counter. Mara scans the letter and immediately goes wide-eyed.

“Wait. Belgium?”

“Mhm.”

“For six months?”

“Yep.”

“With some freaky academic?”

You say, “little out of my area of expertise, but you know, work’s work!”

“You’re going to become a nun.”

“I’m going to become a scholar,” you say.

The offer is real. Your grad professor sent it over that morning, saying you’re one of the top students they’ve ever had. That a colleague in Amsterdam is running a new deep-dive research team. Your name came up.

You haven’t told anyone else yet.

Not even your mum. Not even Mara until now. You just wanted to sit with the idea. Let it feel like yours. Like something that isn’t about a boy or a breakdown or a stupid Monaco apartment you couldn’t breathe in.

Mara bumps your shoulder. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you’re kind of glowing right now. Are you wearing highlighter or is that just the joy of emotional detachment?”

You kick her. “Shut up.”

“You know what I mean. You’re laughing again. You’re thinking again. You’re living again.”

You swirl your straw through your drink. “It’s weird. I think I loved him. I think maybe I still do. If I see him I don’t know what I’ll do. I think part of me maybe always will.” You pause. “But I don’t think I like who I was with him.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

"You’re sure you have your passport?" Mara says for the fifth time, clutching her chai latte.

You nod, bouncing on your heels. “Yes. And the visa letter. And the housing confirmation. And my reading list for the first three weeks. Mara. I’m not an idiot.”

"You are, though,” Mara says, voice thick with pride. “But a brilliant idiot. A Belgium-bound idiot. A—”

“Please stop.”

Mara does, but only to hug you again, tight and fast. It feels so final, standing there in front of the departure gate with your suitcase, your passport, and a hundred unread chapters in your inbox. Your coat is slung over your arm, your phone is buzzing with a reminder to change your SIM card once she lands, and your cheeks are flushed with the kind of nervous excitement you haven’t felt in years.

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” Mara whispers.

“Me neither.”

They sit down on a bench near the gate, just to wait. Your heart is doing that jittery dance again. You lean back and watch the world pass by. Your future is somewhere over the Channel.

Then you see it.

Him.

Not him, not in the flesh. Him, plastered over a luxury advert. Sharp jaw. That same signature stare. Lando Norris, standing on a balcony like he owns the sun. You can almost smell his cologne.

Your stomach sinks. “I hate airports.”

Mara follows your gaze. “Want me to key the ad?”

“No. It’s okay.” You don’t cry. You haven’t cried in weeks. You just stare for a moment longer, then blink it away.

Your flight’s boarding. Your life’s waiting. And he isn’t part of it anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The door doesn’t open. 

He’d left it unlocked this morning. Not on purpose—he tells himself that, at least—but when he walked back in after his run, he paused by the foyer and waited.

For you.

He keeps using your shampoo.

Not because he wants to, but because it’s just there. It smells like winter, when you first met; like spring, when you warmed to him, like snow thawing; like summer, when you were in love. If he closes his eyes, it almost feels like you’re in the next room.

He sits on the edge of the couch in the hoodie you left behind. He scrolls through his phone, not really reading anything. Sometimes he retypes messages to you and deletes them. Other times he just stares at your contact name.

The cafe you loved, with the fig pastries, closed down last week. He didn’t know until he walked there this morning.

The press says he’s locked in, matured.

What they don’t say is that he doesn’t go out anymore. He hasn’t brought anyone back to this flat in months because the idea of someone else sleeping in that bed, in that indent in the shape of you, makes him sick.

People notice. His friends don’t mention your name anymore. Max does, once, and Lando doesn’t answer.

You’re gone. Left. Disappeared into a world that doesn’t include him, with grad school and espresso and maybe, someday, someone new. He doesn’t want to think about that. He might puke. Lando breathes in the smell of your shampoo, trying to hold it fast. Pathetic.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You sit across from two of the most brilliant people you’ve ever met. It’s warm in the little canal-side restaurant, all amber candles and slow jazz. Samantha—Sam—orders for the table. And Johannes, with his thick-rimmed glasses and absurd vocabulary, keeps asking you questions like your opinions matter.

It’s disorienting.

You tell them about your undergrad thesis, and instead of blinking politely, Sam leans in and goes, “wow, you could expand that. Something publishable.” Just like that. Like it’s a casual thought. Like it’s no big deal. And she likes it. You try not to blush and fail, so you smile anyway.

Johannes, you learn, is only your age. He looks older, has the beard to make up for it. He speaks with a thick accent, tells the funniest jokes with the straightest face. Sam is a little more serious, but only a little more.

Sometime around dessert, her phone buzzes. She checks it and turns the screen toward you. You’re already friends. Oh, you love these people.

“This is my idiot cousin. You’ll probably meet him, he likes hanging around and trying to understand stuff. Don’t let him get into a debate unless you want to lose a full afternoon.”

You glance down. The photo’s grainy, taken outside in harsh sun. A man in a zip-up jacket stands half-turned to the camera. He squints mid-laugh, holding what looks like a massive trophy. Shit. You’ve seen those trophies. He has dimples, you note. You read the contact name aloud, “Max?”

“Unfortunately.”

The name rings a faint bell, like a headline you scrolled past once, or a conversation you half-heard. Something Dutch. Maybe racing? Definitely racing. Lando has the same trophy. Had? You push him out of your mind. Max. You’ve heard it before.

“He thinks he’s very charming,” Sam says. “He’s not. But he is useful. And he’s blunt. Sorry if he scares you off, I promise the rest of my family is normal.”

You smile politely and hand the phone back, already forgetting the photo. Just another face, another cousin.

You, on the other hand, have work to do. You walk home after, cheeks pink from wine and wind and compliments you’re still trying to believe were real. Sam is a big deal in the scholarly world. A big deal. Your flat is tiny, one room and a kitchen nook, but it’s yours. You unpack slow and careful. Books first, then the photos you didn’t think you’d hang but now decide to. Lots of Mara, of your mum, of your uni friends. You check the group chat, send a meme, and turn off your phone.

The reading list is already waiting: annotated articles, an attached PDF from Sam with a note—“welcome to the real world.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sam’s office is beautiful. You want to live here. She also has great tea, which you poured a mug full of while Johannes argued about a footnote. He lost, so you’re laughing and choking on the hot liquid.

Knock. Knock.

Sam doesn’t look up, just calls, “it’s open!”

The door swings in, as does a tall man. His hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms, blonde-brown hair a little messy. He doesn’t look like he belongs in an academic office, but he does look like he belongs in a room.

“Sorry,” he says. He sounds like Sam with a stronger Dutch accent. Not exactly, just the same cadences. “Didn’t know you were in a meeting.”

“No meeting, Max. Come in,” Sam says. She gestures to you, “hey, this is my cousin. Max. Max Verstappen.”

Oh, you’ve heard that. Definitely. Max Verstappen, Formula 1 world champion, retired. Lando’s talked about him.

You offer your hand, “hi.”

He shakes it, firm and quick. “Nice to meet you.”

You introduce yourself. His eyes pass over you like you’re just some grad student in a knit sweater and boots. Which, to be fair, you are. 

“I came to borrow the espresso pods,” Max adds, glancing at Sam.

“In the cabinet. Far right.”

He starts rummaging through the drawers. You go back to your notes, trying not to think about the gossip photos, or the phone calls you haven’t answered. Sam is saying something to Max in Dutch, and you’re relieved. You’re not excluded, just invisible. It’s peaceful.

He says bye a minute later, espresso in hand. You glance up once, watch the way he ducks his head when he smiles at Sam.  After he leaves, Sam murmurs, “ignore him. He doesn’t sleep. He also haunts this place because he has no friends.”

You laugh a little. “He seemed normal?”

“He is. Mostly.”

Martine, Sam’s good friend, says, “you’re just annoyed he always takes the good pods.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re squinting at the back of a box of cereal, trying to decode the language with your phone translator, when someone brushes your arm.

“Sorry—oh.”

You look up. He’s flushed from running. Max. You hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone here, at this random corner store five minutes from your apartment.

He blinks, equally surprised. “Hey. You’re Sam’s intern, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, setting the cereal down. Hopeless case, your translator. All it told you was the brand’s name. “You’re Max.”

“Didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew.”

You don’t really know him. Still, you nod. “You live here?”

He gestures vaguely behind him. “Just outside the center. Needed air.” Awkward. What else are you going to tell him? “You finished shopping?”

“Almost. Unless you have cereal recommendations.”

“Not really. I buy whatever has the least sugar and looks edible.”

You grin, grab a random box, and fall into step with him outside. Somehow, you’re walking together. You don’t ask where he’s going and he doesn’t ask where you’re heading either. You go along with it, the silence. Not too bad, actually. Neither of you feel like you need to talk.

“How’s the internship?”

“Hm?” you say, startled by the question. “Honestly? I’m kind of loving it. Sam’s great.”

“She’s a menace. Not actually. Sam’s good at that. Letting you find your footing.”

You both cross a street, the sky softening overhead with hints of fall. Bree isn’t big, more quiet than Bristol. You like that nothing demands too much from you here.

“She mentioned you were coming. Didn’t think you’d actually show. She scared the last one off.”

You smile. “Funny, she said you’d be the one to scare me off. Anyway, I almost didn’t. Needed to get away from some things.”

Max looks ahead while he walks. “Yeah. I get that.”

You pass another block in silence. When you reach the turn for your place, you turn your head in that direction. Max nods once. “Good luck with the cereal.”

“Good luck with the running,” you shoot back.

You’re not sure what that was. It felt okay. Max Verstappen is a lot more down-to-Earth than you would’ve expected.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Today’s your day off! You start by taking a long nap, after which you see that dearest Mara has texted you.

mara(malade) soooooooooooooo

mara(malade) up up up!! rise and shine!! wakey wakey!!

You facetime her.

“Someone took their sweet time,” she says snarkily.

“I love you too.”

Mara smiles, “oh, you’re sappy today. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing. My DMs are as dry as the Sahara desert.”

With a cackle, she says, “funny, funny. You’d be a wonderful comedian, you know?”

“Sure. How’s Dan?”

“Cut his hair. I’m mourning.”

“Hah.”

“You make any friends?”

“My boss is great. My coworkers are great,” you say.

“Work is going to eat you alive,” Mara scoffs. “I mean actual friends, babe. You go out to drink?”

You make a face. “Surprisingly—I mean surprisingly, I worked at a bar for so long—no.”

“Your life is miserable,” she says, but she doesn’t mean it.

“Actually,” you say, “I think I do have a friend. It’s funny, though. Don’t laugh. I know it’s ironic.”

“Go on,” she says, expecting the worst.

You blow a raspberry. “So, this guy who used to race with, well,” you can’t say Lando’s name, not yet, “he’s my boss’s cousin. And he’s a big deal.”

“Driver?” Mara interrupts, “let me guess which one. Dan’s educated me.”

“Go ahead.”

“No, I need details. Personality? Don’t give too much away.”

You think. “Um. He’s Dutch—”

“—Max Verstappen.”

“What? How’d you get it so fast?”

“It’s that or Nyck de Vries. You said big deal.”

Bewildered, “who?”

Mara rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. That’s crazy. He’s a biiiiiig deal.”

“Thanks, Mara. I didn’t know.”

“Is he nice in real life?”

“Yeah, I’d say. We’re not super close, though.”

“Well,” Mara concludes, “one half-friend is better than none. Miss you.”

“Me too. You visiting me anytime soon?”

“My broke ass? I wish.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The thing about living in Bree is that everything’s walkable, and that’s a bit dangerous when you’re used to structuring your life around needing a car or a schedule or something big to do. Here, your calendar is soft. You have a little structure in the meetings, reading hours, and grocery runs. 

Max keeps showing up on those.

You never plan it. Yet, most Saturdays, when you walk the streets toward the market square, you’ll hear the soft rhythm of footsteps behind you—quicker than yours, like he’s jogging—and there he is. 

“Do you time these, or is it just fate?” you ask him this morning as he falls into step beside you.

“I have a sixth sense for overly ambitious grocery lists,” he says, pretending to peek at your phone. You’ve learned about his sense of humor. You enjoy it. “Tell me you’re not buying three different types of mushrooms again.”

“I like mushrooms.”

“You bought oyster mushrooms last week and forgot them in the fridge.”

You scrunch up your face. “Snitch.”

“Clean your fridge. You’re going to die of something,” Max says, straight-faced.

The walk to the market is short. You both pause by a new flower stall. He eyes the tulips. “Too obvious,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“If I brought someone tulips, they’d think I picked the first thing that came up when I searched ‘romantic flower Belgium.’”

You tease, “You spend a lot of time thinking about being romantic?”

He gives you a look. “I spend a lot of time around Sam. She tries to set me up with her yoga instructor every time I breathe.”

“Is she cute?”

“Very,” Max deadpans, “but she thinks Formula 1 is a type of protein shake.”

You laugh harder than you should. At the produce tent, you hold up a tomato. “Good or bad?”

Max squints, shakes his head. “Looks smug. Pick a different one.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m helpful. It’s my only marketable skill.”

“Sure, driver,” you say. You’re halfway through your list when you realize he’s carrying half your items. Max has two apples in his hoodie pocket, a baguette slung under one arm, and a jar of honey that he’s twirling idly in his hand. “You know you don’t have to do this with me.”

“I know,” he says easily.

And he does. He always makes it feel like he’s just passing by, just joining for a bit, just walking you home because it’s on his way. There’s a difference between obligation and presence, and he’s never once made you feel like a chore.

He pauses outside the bakery, staring at the cinnamon buns in the window. “Do I want one or will I regret it?” he asks you.

“You always regret it. But you also always eat it anyway.”

“Sounds like a metaphor.”

You lift a brow, say, “about?”

Max shrugs. “Something Sam said. About people, who we trust, that kind of thing, bad decisions. You know Sam. I think she’d be a psychologist if not…whatever she does.”

You don’t laugh, even though it’s funny. It rings a little too close to home. “Get your cinnamon bun. I’ll go grab the milk.”

When you meet again outside, he’s already taken a bite, cinnamon dusting his fingers. Max tears off a corner and offers it to you, which you accept.

The walk back is quieter. You’ve said enough for now. You know he’ll walk you all the way to your front step. He always does. As you unlock the door, he leans against the wall, still chewing thoughtfully.

“You ever think about staying longer?” he asks suddenly.

“In Bree?”

He shrugs. “Here.”

You don’t answer. You think about tulips and expired mushrooms and his hoodie pocket filled with apples.

“Maybe,” you say.

Nodding, Max responds, “See you Monday.”

“Don’t forget your bun wrapper on the ground this time.”

“Wow. No faith.”

You hear him chuckling down the street long after you close the door. You open your bag of groceries and see another cinnamon bun inside. It makes you smile.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The article William sent you makes your head swim. You need to talk to him about it, not now, he’s never in the office. He’s always running around and finding new papers other people should read. Must be fun assigning work.

Sam walks in with two mugs of tea. Hers always smells like something earthy and medicinal, yours sweeter. She sets one down beside you without comment, then plops into the chair opposite.

“You and Max went shopping again?”

You shrug. “He just shows up. I don’t invite him.”

Sam lifts a brow. “Of course not. He just senses your lack of upper body strength and offers to carry potatoes.”

You grin, half-embarrassed. “That was one time.”

“Mmhmm.” She lifts her mug to her mouth. “You know he doesn’t do that for everyone, right?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Grocery walk. He likes his solitude. Usually dodges people like they’re reporters.”

“Maybe he’s just bored,” you say, a little too fast. “Or being nice. Or, I don’t know, we live nearby, it’s easy.”

Sam gives you a look. “Max doesn’t do things just because they’re easy. He’s too stubborn for that.”

You glance back down at your article.

“He told me,” she adds, “that you gave him grief about his cinnamon bun habits.”

You groan. “He eats so much, I’m concerned about his health. I know they’re good. That many, though, he’s going to get diabetes.”

“I think he likes that you tell him things no one else does.” You pause, your pen frozen in hand. Sam watches you quietly. “He talks about you, you know. Not much. More than he talks about most people.”

You don’t know what to do with that. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she says gently. “You just seem happier.”

“I’m still me.”

She agrees, “You are. But you’re not looking over your shoulder anymore. Anyway! William has notes for you. Thank me, not him, I requested them.”

Later, after she’s gone and you’re packing up for the evening, you find a folded receipt tucked inside your notebook, from the market bakery. Two cinnamon buns. Scrawled across the top, in Max’s messy handwriting: 

you’re right.

regret but worth it

You stare at it for a while. You don’t throw it away.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

As you said at the very start of this tale, the death of what, exactly? You don’t know. The death of the old Lando. You mourn, sometimes, what could have been. If you had been an artist, maybe you would’ve captured it like this, him the fire, you the tinder. Eventually, you would’ve burnt out. It was a matter of keeping yourself alive. Would you have died for his happiness? Maybe the old you. There, the death of that too.

You see him in the tabloids, less than before. He’s still single, as far as you know. Camilla has a boyfriend, but they seem to remain friends. His career’s going great—this, Max tells you. You trust him on that. You think, good for him. In the end, he didn’t have to choose between loving his sport, his fans, and you. And he seems happy. He smiles on the podium. Smiles everywhere. Not the same smile he used to give you, of course, but he still smiles. That’s better than nothing. Then again, it’s none of your business, not anymore.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The second-hand bookshelf you picked up from a Facebook group is stubborn. You accept the truth: you are going to break it, or yourself, or both. Your toolbox is open. Your patience is waning.

So, somewhat shamefully, you text Max.

you ru busy

you i have a shelf that’s defeating me

You’re not even sure he’ll reply. It’s a Thursday afternoon, and he’s probably on one of his mysterious forest runs, or on his SIM machine again.

Three minutes later, he responds:

maximilian On my way.

maximilian Don’t touch anything. I mean it.

He types like an old man. You always say his name wrong, on purpose. Maximilian, like it’s one word. That’s how you greet him at the front door. 

“Why are there two fucking screwdrivers?” he asks.

“Dunno.”

He snorts, crouches beside the pile. “You have it upside down.”

“Oh.”

You sit on the floor again while he sorts the screws into neat little piles with a strange kind of reverence. You watch him from the side, the way his brows draw together, the precision of his hands.

“Is this what you do for fun?” you ask.

He glances at you. “You invited me.”

“Fair.”

You laugh whenever he swears under his breath in Dutch. He teaches you a few of them, a favor you can’t return because English doesn’t have enough. Godverdomme, you now say instead of goddamn.

At one point, you accidentally knock over one of his carefully balanced structures and you think he’s going to die from exasperation, but instead he says, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“What?”

He blinks, unfazed. “I said—”

“No, I heard you.”

“Okay then. Don’t get a big head about it.”

Eventually the shelf stands, slightly uneven but proud. You both sit back against the wall, staring at it like it might collapse just from your gaze.

“Honestly,” you say, “I hate to say this, but I might never put anything on it. Too risky.”

“Probably smart.” His arm is warm beside yours, close but not touching. You look over at him and find him already looking at you.

“What?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

He shakes his head. “You’re different from when I met you.”

“Different how?”

“Less sad.”

You blink. You hadn’t realized how much you’d carried into Bree, how much of it had slowly started to peel off without you noticing. You don’t answer, and he doesn’t push. Instead, Max tilts his head toward the shelf. “Think it’ll hold at least a book?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But maybe plants.”

“Plants are good.”

He gets up, stretches, and offers you a hand. You take it.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Wine, what a glorious thing! Sam had left you both a bottle as a thank-you—something about helping her rearrange boxes in the archive room—and you’d cracked it open after dinner, half as a joke, half because you were too lazy to leave your apartment to get anything else. Max is sitting on your floor again, following your choice.

He asks, “you always sit on the floor?”

“You always ask obvious questions?”

“Fair.”

The wine is good, warm in your chest. Your bookshelf, the one he built, is already half full. He noticed earlier and made a quiet joke about it. Something like, “you didn’t even wait a week to tempt fate, huh?”

The new development is that he brought up Lando a week ago and you went completely still. You knew they were friends, yeah, but not still in touch. Max knows you dated, just didn’t tell you. He knows. What to do with that? He offers, “was he really that bad?”

The ‘he’ needs no clarification. You don’t talk about Lando, not here. Not in Belgium, your new life. But Max’s voice is careful. Just curious in the way of someone who might actually care.

You sigh. “No. I don’t think so. Not at first. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. You know how we met? He was drunk at the bar I worked at. After he lost his mum, yeah. Then he kept coming into my life, wanted me to be his sugar baby, then I guess I was his girlfriend. Then it was everything. And then it was too much.”

The sentence stops there as you watch your wine catch the light.

“He got really intense,” you say, finally. “Jealous, mostly. Not of anyone in particular. He just needed to feel like I needed him.”

Max nods slowly. He looks at the carpet. “That’s a hard kind of person to let go of.”

“He told me he loved me when I said I needed a break.”

“Did it work?”

You shake your head. “I felt bad.”

Then: “He ever hit you?”

You look up sharply. “No. God, no.”

Max breathes out, almost like relief. “Okay.”

“But it still felt like I couldn’t breathe,” you add. “Like I was being watched all the time. And the worst part is, I think he thought he was being romantic. Like, that he was proving something. That he loved me more than anything else in his life.”

“Some people mistake possession for love,” Max says quietly.

You repeat, “he didn’t hit me. But he scared me. A little.”

He nods again. You appreciate that he doesn’t tell you what you should have done. Doesn’t offer advice. Eventually, you nudge his socked foot with yours. “You ever been in love?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Thought I loved someone else. Too late when I wanted to turn back.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Probably for good reason. I didn’t know how to be soft with her until it was too late. Then I just stayed with Kelly. We had a happy family.”

You look at him a long moment. You know Max is divorced, that was a stupid question. But the love he talks about is not his ex-wife. It’s a girl, a woman before her. Love is complicated, hard to understand. Something in your chest folds up quietly into itself. You can understand this much of Max.

You don’t say any of that. Instead, you pour him the last of the wine, and when he bumps your glass with his in a quiet toast, you grin.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Sam might be a terrible cook, but she makes great bread. So the house smells like rosemary, just how she likes it.

Max stands near the edge of the kitchen. His free arm rests loosely against the counter. Familiar voices cloud his senses, people he’s known forever. He watches the doorway.

He doesn’t mean to. He tells himself it’s just curiosity—you said you might come, after all. Said you had to finish a draft for Johannes, but maybe you’d show up later. No promises, just the kind of answer you give when you’re trying not to assume you’re expected.

Then you do show up. At the right moment, when people have stopped glancing at the door, when the first bottle of wine is already gone and Sam is mid-speech with a cookie in her hand. Max sees it before anyone else. You looks around the room, scanning. Max doesn’t think. He just moves.

“Hey,” he says, reaching you before anyone else can.

“Hey.”

“You came.”

“Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t figure out what to wear, and then my email crashed, and—”

“You look good.”

You stop, brain short-circuiting. “Oh. Thanks.”

It comes out too fast, too easy. He doesn’t take it back. He watches your shoulders drop a little, relaxed. “You want a drink?” he asks, already stepping toward the kitchen.

Later, you end up on the balcony together.

It’s colder than either of you expected. You wear a thin sweater, shivering slightly, so he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders without asking. You smell like cinnamon, or maybe it’s just the drink you’re nursing.

Inside, someone’s laughing too loudly. Sam, probably. She’s a little drunk. Everyone’s a little drunk.

“Happy birthday,” you’d said earlier, pressing the tiny bag into Sam’s hands. “It’s just a notebook. But it’s handmade. I saw it and thought of you.”

Sam had actually teared up. Max hadn’t even brought a gift. Whoops. He did bring drinks, though, which makes it up a little.

“You’re good at this,” he says now, tilting his glass toward you.

“What, parties?”

“No. Showing up.”

You look over at him, brows drawn slightly. “Is that a compliment or an accusation?”

He shrugs. “Maybe both.”

“You’re weird, Maximilian.”

“You’re not the first person to say that.”

You lean forward on the balcony rail, letting the wind lift your hair slightly. He watches you in profile, the curve of your jaw, the way you press her lips together when you’re thinking.

It hits him then, low and sudden and unannounced. He wants you to stay.

Not just tonight. Not just in Bree, even if you have to leave after these six months are over. He wants you in his routines, in his late grocery runs, in the silence of his mornings. In the spaces he never thought anyone could fill without making noise. You’re not doing anything extraordinary. You’re not even looking at him.

Max thinks about how easily you fit into this evening. How naturally you’ve been showing up in his days, one by one.

Shit.

He knows, now. He knows.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you stop. Just stop, mid-circle, toothpaste foaming, because the way Max looked at you tonight won’t leave your brain. Not in a creepy way, not even necessarily in a romantic way. He noticed something and didn’t rush to define it. You spit and rinse before grabbing your phone.

Mara picks up on the third ring, groggy. “It’s like, two a.m. here.”

“Okay, sorry—”

“No, I’m awake. I’m awake. Are you okay?”

You sit on the edge of your bed, still in Max’s jacket because, yeah, you forgot you were wearing it. “I think I have a crush.”

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t. Don’t say anything yet.”

Mara’s silent. Which is worse than anything, actually.

“I didn’t mean to,” you say, curling your legs under yourself. “We were at Sam’s birthday party, and he gave me his coat, and then we were talking outside, and he made this weird joke about how I ‘show up,’ and like, who says that? But also, it was nice. And I didn’t feel weird. I didn’t feel like I had to try.”

Mara exhales. “Woah. Stop. Max Verstappen?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure he’s not just being polite?”

“No. I mean, well, maybe? But no. I don’t think so. He helps me carry groceries sometimes. And he built my bookshelf. And he remembers how I like my coffee. And it’s not like. I don’t know. It’s not like Lando.”

There it is, his name, the pause it still pulls from you.

Mara catches it too. “You think he’s different?”

“I know he is. It’s not the same thing. Max is so calm. He doesn’t ask for anything. He’s like an old man, you know, he’s retired and has money and just does what he likes. Not a lot, surprisingly. He doesn’t need me to reassure him. He just shows up.”

She hums, “so why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?”

You bite your lip. “I think I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

You look at the ceiling with its yellowing corners. 

“I think I’m scared it won’t last. That I’ll ruin it. That I’ll care and he won’t. Or worse, he’ll care, and I won’t be ready. I don't know if I'm capable of doing this again, Mara. Not after what happened with—”

“Hey.” she cuts you off gently. “You’re not the same person anymore. And he’s not Lando.”

You say, “he stayed on the balcony with me. Didn’t even check his phone once.”

“Then maybe start there,” Mara says. “One small thing at a time. You don’t have to fall in love. You can just let someone care about you.”

You sniff, smile. You didn’t realize you were crying. She adds, “also. If you do fall in love, please tell me before the internet does this time?”

You laugh. “Deal.”

You leave his jacket on when you hang on. You don’t need to decide anything tonight. But Godverdomme, it’s warm.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Your canvas tote is a little heavier than usual, but Max carries most of it without asking. Like always. Like always. You're going to miss this. You're already missing it, and you're not even gone yet.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, looking at you.

“Just thinking.”

He doesn’t push. Like always.

You say, “I think I don’t want to leave.” You don’t mean it to sound so honest. Still, it comes out that way.

“You’re not going far, are you?”

“No. But it’s not here.” You admit, “I didn’t think I’d like it so much. When I first got here, I didn’t even know what side of the street to walk on. I was scared all the time.”

Max says, “And now?”

You smile, looking up at him. “Now I know which stall has the best tomatoes. And that Sam always brings pastries on Mondays. And that you take the same running route every morning.”

His mouth quirks into a smile. “You’ve been spying?”

“I have eyes.”

He laughs. You walk a little longer, past the bookstore that always has one light still on, even when it’s closed.

“I’m going to miss this,” you say.

He’s quiet. Then Max says, “I’ll miss it too.”

You glance over at him. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like to stop moving?”

“Sometimes. But I’m not very good at standing still.”

“You seem like you are.”

“That’s because I like walking with you.”

You stop walking. He does too, but doesn’t look away. You eye the bread in your hands, and say, “it’s still warm.”

“You want to eat it now?”

“Obviously.”

So you sit on the nearest bench and tear the loaf in half. It’s no cinnamon roll, but it’s good. No promises, you think, just this. You, and Max, and something that might last even if you leave

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It’s been a long week. Final paperwork, goodbye emails, thank-you cards. Everyone at the institute has been kind. Sam said you’ll always have a place here. William, in his way, offered to write you letters of recommendation for any program you wanted. Johannes gives you a nice pen with your name on it. He says he presents a similar one for each of his good colleagues. 

“Hi,” Max says, on your doorstep.

“Hi.”

You step aside.

“Are you busy?”

You glance at the half-folded t-shirt in your hand. “Nope.”

He nods. You shut the door behind him. He stands in the center of your living room before holding out the bag. “I brought those stroopwafels you like.”

Your brows rise. “From that café near the canal?”

With a grin, Max says, “I bribed the guy. He’s closed Mondays.”

“You didn’t. Max!”

“I did.” He shrugs, smug and sheepish all at once. “I figured if you’re leaving next week…”

You take the bag gently. “Thanks.”

He looks around, sees the half-packed suitcase near the kitchen counter. “So it’s real, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Feels fake.”

He doesn’t say much. He never has to. You just fell into him, quietly, slowly, like water finding the cracks. “So,” Max asks, “what happens when you go back?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ll go back to your life. That guy?”

You shake your head quickly. “No. No. That’s done.”

He studies your face. “I think I forgot how it feels. To want someone and not have to perform it. Not for cameras, not for anyone. Just want them.”

You look at him expectantly.

Max says, “you made everything quiet again.”

“Max…” You look at him, look at his eyes. Lando’s were clear and only reflected what you wanted. Max’s are the color of the ocean, more green than blue, resolute in the way he holds himself, knows himself.

“If I kiss you,” he says, “are you gonna pretend it didn’t mean anything?”

“No.”

“Then don’t kiss me unless you mean it.”

You’re already moving. You don’t know who leans in first, just like you don’t know most things with him. It just happens, a breath you’ve been holding in for weeks, maybe longer. His hand cups your face, slow and reverent. He’s asking with his gentleness.

You answer him in how you don’t pull away. In how your hands find the hem of his hoodie.

It deepens. Max exhales into your mouth.  “That okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drops his hand, pulls you in by the waist for a hug. “Good.”

You sit like that for a while. This is, you think, the aftermath of something that’s been building since your first grocery run. You think, this isn’t complicated.

It really isn’t.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

It ends the fall of ‘29.

Maybe ‘30, if you want to be specific with these things. Somewhere late in ‘29 is when you fall in love with him. ‘30 is when you start dating “officially,” meaning that the rest of the world finds out. It takes a while. It’s never easy, learning a new pattern, a new language that means love; but with him, it’s never difficult. There’s no question of reassurance. But you don’t feel like categorizing everything meticulously. With Max, you take what comes and he’s always full of surprises, so that’s not a problem.

This is where you’re meant to be. This is something real, something that stays even when the autumn leaves fall, when nights get cold and neither of you want to leave the bed’s comfort. He stays, as do you, through all the seasons, all the moods, all the years. 

You gave a part of yourself to Lando, fit it into his heart—saying his name doesn’t hurt; you look back and maybe even smile—and the emptiness no longer bothers you. It’s no longer there.

“Lieverd?” you hear the familiar nickname. Sweetheart, Max calls you, in his own way, in Dutch. Sweetheart, just like how Lando used to. You tell him this and he only laughs.

Same and different, he comments. You mull over his words. Same and different. Same love, different love. You stop thinking about it. Max calls for you again, so you hurry over. Tonight’s dinner is his patat special, your favorite, too.

Max: how do you begin? He is not your life, not all of it; he makes everything that is better. You included.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

a/n: thank you for reading! please let me know any of your thoughts <3 i love hearing them

[walkingzombiegirl]

hiii can i request some fluff with toge inumaki and fem!reader? like headcannons on how it would be like to date him and how their relationship grew? i love your works you do such a great job! <3

━ 𝘿𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙄𝙣𝙪𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙞

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 - Toge Inumaki x Fem!Reader

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 - Headcanons for dating your favorite partial mute!

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 - Cursing? Maybe? Alludes to death

𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘀 - My brain ran out of ink I might add more

You guys met when you joined the school as a first year and the first thing you seen was a talking panda

A surprise fr

But then you met him, and it was bonito flakes at first sight

Okay no more jokes

But seriously he was really cute and you were extremely awkward around him for the longest because it's already hard wondering what your crush thinks about you

But you couldn't physically understand yours

Not at first I mean

Inumaki thought you were also also very pretty however he knew that there was definitely going to be a barrier until you began to understand him like his friends did

It's when the notes began

He first began them when he asked you for a pencil right before an exam and it carried over

Each time he needed to communicate with you, he'd write a note

You'd pass them back and forth in class as well, when you were supposed to be being quiet

Gojo pretended he didn't see that part

Until finally his words, though very few, began to click

Like Groot, you caught on, faster than anyone else had and even Maki was impressed with that

He still likes leaving you notes though

Especially in your desk or just around where he knows you and you only will find them

And one day, a note on your desk said, DATE? YES NO

Panda couldn't stop giggling, so you knew something was up

Obviously, as seen above you said yes

I could just imagine all the ways he'd show his love without speaking it for the most part

Like the notes

Also a firm believer that he's very much a hand holder as well, he likes playing with your fingers

Also stares a lot

Especially when you're talking and telling something bro gets extremely zoned in and stares you down like you've hung the sun and stars and are the best thing that's ever happened to him

Which you are

He's whipped

All his friends know this as well, they love it

You don't get to see much happiness often in their world, all you really have is each other and long live happy relationships as long as they last

He likes taking walks, the clear his head since y'know, saying certain things might murder everyone in a few mile radius

They're very personal to him

So he starts taking you, and sometimes it's silence, sometimes he likes just hearing you talk because it helps calm him

Sometimes you both share earbuds

Whatever it is they're some of his favorite things ever and he'll take secrets pics of you if you skip ahead

Great insta posts the man CAN take a photo

He's the type of boyfriend to get in the most awkward poses if you need a good selfie

YES GIRL GIVE US SALMON

*squats*

He truly loves you and worships the ground you walk on

DIY king also btw

Idk why that thought just popped in my head but I feel like he truly can do anything if you ask him

Build you a bookshelf? Five minutes, no sweat, zero mistakes and it's done and he just stares at you like :3

Great listener obviously

HIS BITCH POSE IS NASTY

if you say something even remotely untrue he gives you the biggest most diabolical silent side eye ever seen before

Shakes the ground

Eyebrow game is strong, very expressive man it's very attractive

My thoughts are running out but he's just a king of being a boyfriend

a/n: best friend break up!!!!!!!!!!! THEY STUICJK

[thezombieprostitute]

What's Mine

Summary: Bucky pushes you too far and decides to explain how your situation works. Or doesn't.

Word Count: ~2.3 k

Warnings: Dark Fic, Implied dub/non con, Power imbalance. Please let me know if I missed any.

Previous Part; Next Part

It's been a few months since Bucky "claimed" you. He followed up on his promises of taking care of you. You frequently woke up to some surprise gift or another. One day it was a fully stocked kitchen. Another day it was the leak in the bathroom sink getting fixed. More than a few times it's been jewelry with his initials on it.

And all it cost was letting him use you. You swear a piece of your soul dies every time he makes you cum. Every time he coats you in his semen. Every time you match his fervor. It might not be so bad if he didn't gloat every time. That damn smirk haunted your dreams. Or was it nightmares? What was the difference anymore?

It had definitely affected your standing in the community. People were scared to interact with you. Fewer parents brought their kids to the library when you were there. Ruth and her friends had no problems calling you all sorts of degrading things under their breath. You definitely caught them giving you the evil eye more than a few times.

Part of you suspected that if you'd quit trying to fight him he'd lose interest. He liked when you were in a fiery mood. If you could just give in, give up, he'd likely stop using you. But you couldn't help yourself. You hated him. You hated yourself for enjoying the pleasure he gave. That hate needed an outlet.

You pull into your driveway, no longer surprised to see Bucky's bike there as well. You sigh, wondering if you can talk him into to leaving. You're exhausted. Walking into the house you don't even have a chance to take your jacket off before Bucky is on you.

"Bucky, please no. I'm just too tired."

He chuckles, "don't worry. I'm just really happy to see you. We're going out tonight."

You sigh, "I'd rather stay in."

"Then that means you have the energy for me all night."

"Ugh, fine. Where are we going?"

"I've got you an appointment at the tattoo parlor."

"WHAT?! I hate tattoos! I can't get any!"

He smiles as he growls at you, "you're going to get a tattoo just for me. No one else is going to be able to see it, but we'll know it's there."

"Isn't the jewelry enough of your 'ownership'? You even got me a brooch for my cardigans with your initials!"

Bucky licks his lips, "it was just the beginning, Doll. So far everything I've done to mark you are things that can wash away or heal up. This is the next step."

"I refuse," you declare, crossing your arms.

"Fuck, Doll, you're getting me riled up." He puts his arms on each side of your head, boxing you in against the wall. "And you're getting that damn tattoo. We can either go now, while you're still cleaned up, or after I've fucked your brains out and you're a cum covered mess."

"Fine," you drop your head. "Let's go to the tattoo parlor."

"Not yet." He grabs you chin and makes your look at him. "You need to thank me, first, Doll."

Bile rises at the back of your throat. "Thank you for letting me preserve my dignity."

He laughs. "Give me another," he taunts, using the same voice as when he's telling you to give him another orgasm. You hate yourself for the involuntarily clench your pussy does.

"Thank you, Bucky, for...for introducing me to Bunny. It is nice to have a friend." A friend who understands how fucked you both are, you think.

That gets a more sincere smile on his face. "It is important to me that you know my best friend and his girl. I'm glad you're good to them. Bunny is gonna need you when she's pregnant."

"What are friends for," you dryly reply.

"That's my good girl, Doll."

The tattoo is pretty much what you expected. His initials, right over your heart. If you wore anything low cut, it would be obvious. You were sure that was the point: can't even show a hint of skin without reminding everyone who it actually belongs to. At least it wouldn't be a problem at work, given you always dress conservatively.

By the time you're home Bucky is practically salivating at the memory of the tattoo on your chest. He might be eager to see this permanent mark of his claim on you but at least he's willing to follow instructions for proper care so it doesn't scar or make you sick. You made sure to thank him for that, knowing he likes to hear it, and he reiterates, "I take care of what's mine."

"Any chance I can just get some sleep tonight? I wasn't lying when I said I was tired."

"I'm all worked up, Doll."

"I thought you take care of what's yours," you snap back. "How is keeping me awake, not letting get good sleep, taking care of me?"

He grips your chin and gives you a thoughtful look. "I suppose you're right," he admits. "Even a vibrator's batteries gotta recharge every so often, right?" You roll your eyes and he grins. "But I'm going to hold you all night and when you wake up, it's on. I know you don't work tomorrow."

"Is that why you helped with my budget? So I'd have more free time to be your personal toy?" You can't fight the fire in your voice. You're tired, yes. Tired of being so angry all the time.

"Aww, you admit you're mine," he teases.

Unable to hold back any longer you smack his face. "I have never been so angry or tired as I have been since you showed up. You want to take care of me? You want me to be yours? Treat me like a fucking person!" Tears are pouring out of your eyes, the stress and frustration of the months finally finding a kind of release.

Bucky glowers at you and grabs your throat with his metal arm. "You shouldn't have done that, Doll."

"I don't care anymore," you croak.

That seems to catch him off guard as his hand loosens and his face softens.

"Oh, Doll," he shakes his head. "You really should've said something sooner." You squeeze your eyes shut as more tears start falling. He removes his hand from your throat and brings you in for a hug, causing you to cry even more. He pats your hair and coos, "there, there," until you can't cry any more.

"Let's get you to bed," he says quietly.

"I...I don't...I don't understand."

He gently lifts your chin, "you know, before Bunny ran, I tried to warn Steve he was being too controlling. That she was going to bolt. He didn't listen and, sure enough, she escaped. Wouldn't surprise me if she continued to try because he hasn't learned to loosen his grip. I don't plan on repeating his mistakes. Yes, you're mine and you'll never be rid of me. But that doesn't mean I can't be benevolent."

You sniffle as your brain tries to comprehend the sudden change in his demeanor.

"Now lets make sure that tattoo is properly cared for," he says with a soft kiss to your forehead.

"I...I hit you," you stammer.

"You're over-stressed and tired," he shrugs. "If I thought you were doing it just because you wanted to hurt me, yes, there would be repercussions. But I've apparently been overworking my poor Doll, so I'll forgive that one smack." His tone at that last part implies any more attempts to lash out at him will be punished.

"Thank you, Bucky," you murmur as you hang your head.

"Mmmm. That's more like it. Now let's get you to bed and tomorrow we'll work on your communication skills."

You wake up feeling like you're hungover without having had any alcohol. The delicious smells of breakfast lure you out of the bed, even though you dread meeting the cook.

Bucky's shirtless and smiling as he works. If you were in anything close to a healthy relationship you'd smile at how happy he is. Instead you keep your head down, trying not to think about that metal hand wrapped around your neck. About how those muscles feel pressed against your back, or on top of you.

He sees you and gestures for you to sit at the table. He brings you a plate of breakfast, a mug of coffee and kisses the top of your head before sitting across from you. You don't eat right away like he does, lost in your confusion about this change in behavior.

"Eat, Doll," he orders. "I didn't stock your kitchen and cook this up just for you to let it go cold."

"What is going on?" your voice is barely above a whisper.

"I'm taking care of my girl," he answers, nonchalantly. You look at him like you've never seen him before and he sighs. "Eat, or I will force it down your throat."

You grab a slice of the toast and start chewing. "Thank you, Bucky," you grumble and he nods in his approval.

"One of the differences between me and Cap is that I know I'm a monster," he tells you between bites. "He likes to think we've done all of this to keep his girl safe and give her the life she always wanted. I know better. But we've been best friends since we were kids. Ride or die, you know? So I'm always going to have his back. I've just made peace with the fact that it means ruining lives."

"You never tried to talk him out of it? Out of taking over an entire town?"

He shakes his head. "Steve's the kind of guy who can never be talked or distracted from his goal. One of the things I find endearing about him."

"So, he gets you all to take over everything here and you, what? Enjoy the spoils?" Feeling the bile rise at the back of your throat, you go for another slice of toast to try to settle your stomach while keeping Bucky happy.

"It's a balance," he grins. "We take over and just start doing whatever the hell we want, a lot of people are going to die trying to get rid of us. So we set up some rules for our men. People will remain upset, of course, but they're less likely to 'rise up' so long as we have a level of restraint. It's, honestly, the biggest part of my job as Cap's second."

You think on this for a minute, mindlessly eating. "I get why the town, but why me?"

He shrugs, "I needed the stress relief. It ain't easy keeping a crew in line and I was initially just hoping for a quiet spot to read to calm down. Then I started watching you. Saw you expertly handle all kinds of difficulties. When you snapped at me, I figured, like me, you could use some stress relief."

"Stress relief?!" He gives you a look that has you clamming up.

"And fuck you were so good," he muses. "That first photo is still the background on my phone." Heat rushes to your face. "I decided to go ahead and keep you as mine. You're not only a good fuck, but you were quick to befriend Bunny. Everyone else who sees her with Cap has decided to avoid her. Something I know you've been experiencing, even though you haven't told me." You look down, unable to say anything. "I honestly thought you liked the rough treatment and was happy to give it, but I'm guessing we hit a limit for you."

"You branded me," you snarl.

"No, I got you a tattoo. Branding is something else and would've hurt you a lot more." His tone is stern and you return your attention to your food. "You've played a critical role in helping me keep things under control. Plus, since you're my girl, you get some privileges and protections. You think Steve would've beaten up Walker for some random librarian? No. But for his best friend's girl? That's another story."

"So, you're just going to keep using me?"

"Yes," he nods. "And now that I know more about your limits, I'm less likely to get stabbed in my sleep."

You look at him, aghast, "that's why you never stayed the night before?"

Bucky chuckles, "so smart. I love it. And now that you have more information, hopefully you're smart enough to put the rest of the pieces together."

"If I hurt you, Steve drops everything to find and kill me. Probably painfully." He nods. "If I make you angry, you're likely to take it out on someone who doesn't deserve it or you lose control of your men for long enough that they hurt someone who doesn't deserve it." He nods again, smiling at you. "And if I stop playing along like everything is okay, it's another sign to the townsfolk that might set them over the edge and have them shooting, getting hurt, or worse."

Bucky finishes his breakfast, nodding at your conclusions. "God, I love that you're so smart. Makes a lot of this so much easier." You start sniffling and he reaches across the table to gently grip your chin. "I get that this is a lot to take in, Doll. But I know you'll make the right decision. If you really didn't care about this town, you'd have left when you only had a skeleton budget. You're willing to work yourself to the bone to take care of these people, you're willing to be mine to keep them safe."

"I can't say 'no'," you whimper.

"But it doesn't have to be all bad. Remember, I take care of what's mine."

Previous Part; Next Part

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly

[vulpisnocturna]

My tired brain 🧠 possibly misunderstood, but hc requests are still open? If not disregard this ask, but if so what are your hc on Uchiha Males discovering their spouse or s/o, having an intrauterine device for birth control? I would say not done out of spite but just something their s/o has had for years (some IUDs last for 10 yrs or longer!). Maybe it was a slip of the tongue, since it’s not something most women spend all day thinking about. At least I don’t.

Maybe a slight misunderstanding over the whole scenario. It can be NSFW as well. 😈

HC requests are in fact still open, as they don’t take me long to write. Fic requests are closed.

Mhhh I’m not sure, this would be quite hard to gauge I think. I’ll try my best.

Uchiha Men finding out you have an IUD/views on contraception

Indra:

-This man would not be happy to hear you say you cannot conceive when he wants you to. He would absolutely tell you to get it removed ASAP. You don’t want children with him or something? Is that a joke? You need to give him an heir.

-If you tell him you’ve had it for a long time, he will retort that now you’re his wife and it is time to have a family with him.

- 10/10 commitment, 1/10 general approach, 0/10 women’s rights

Izuna:

-He’s secretly a sweetheart. He would ask you why you did it and if you’re comfortable removing it because he wants a family with you. If you’re not, he’ll try to coax you into it, but he won’t push too far. He wants peace for his clan as much as peace in his household.

-Will be asking routine updates on whether you’re ready to take it off.

- 7/10 general approach, 9/10 communication, 7/10 women’s rights

Madara:

-Is perplexed when he starts to see that no matter how many time he breeds you, you never get pregnant. There is no way he’s the problem. Could you be infertile? That’s not a thought Madara likes. He needs to pass on his genes, and he singled you out as the best woman to help him do that.

-So he asks you, and you tell him you cannot conceive at the moment because of your IUD. Madara is not happy. He isn’t going to be as controlling as Indra, but he will try to literally fuck the need to be bred into you. Will manipulate you into a breeding kink. And then he will dote on you, making sure you know how much he is committed to creating a family with you, how much he wants you to bear his children. Until you suddenly want it too and get that blasted thing removed. Another win for Madara.

- 6/10 general approach, 6/10 women’s rights, 8/10 gaslighting

Obito:

-This man will break you with simping. When he finds out, he’s genuinely upset and a little embarrassed. After all, he’s been raving about putting a child in you when you two were having sex and now he finds out it was literally impossible for him to do so.

-He will shower you with love, say he wants a family with you so badly, tell you how good you’d look pregnant, say how much he wants to be a father and how good of a mother you’d be.

-Genuine love bombing: Obito is genuine in the efforts he’s putting in. He’s not trying to manipulate you consciously, he just wants it that badly, and is so upset that you have that IUD and he can’t make it a reality. What you’ll do is up to you, but he’ll never stop nagging you.

- 7/10 general approach, 8/10 women’s rights, 10/10 simping

Shisui:

-Is the most normal about breeding kink. Will say it’s fine, but asks if one day, you might still be open to having children.

-Laughs it off with a sex joke.

-‘That’s good to hear, sweetheart, I’m not sure I can be trusted with pulling out in time’ he would laugh and joke.

-Sometimes will get thoughts of how cute it would be and how happy it would make him to make a family, and he asks how long you think you’re going to keep it.

-Engages in playful jokes about being a dad. Quick glances in your direction to see how you take it.

- 10/10 women’s rights, 9/10 general approach, 9/10 joking as a coping mechanism

Itachi:

-Itachi is completely understanding of the notion of contraception. After all, who would want a child when they’re not ready? But he does want a family with you, and if the time is right and he doesn’t plan to play suicide with Sasuke, he will want you to be the mother of his children.

-Will inquire when you got it… for purposes. You don’t need to know he’s counting down how much time is left until it gets removed

-Will also inquire what the purpose of the contraception is. Is it to be able to have sex without risks until you are ready, or are you planning to not have children at all? He needs to be reassured that you do want a family with him one day, even if it’s not today. He’s patient, but he needs the constant reassurance that one day, he can go wild and give in to his breeding kink. Being an Uchiha is not easy.

- 9/10 general approach, 10/10 women’s rights, 9/10 paranoia

Sasuke:

-You can do whatever you like, but he’s silently brooding over it. Secretly asks himself if you are trying to avoid having a family with him

-Wants to rebuild his clan with you. Will not say he wants you to get it removed. Will say “whatever”.

-You’ll have to go to him to have a conversation about it, and the fact that he wants a family has to be pulled out of his throat with pliers. You’ll have to do the leg work to communicate, but it’s really sweet once he lets go and is vulnerable enough to show you his true feelings.

- 3/10 general approach, 9/10 women’s rights, 10/10 emotionally stunted.

[mahoganyrust]

So Im new to the httyd fandom and I was curious about the hijack ship. I don’t think Jack Frost is in httyd. Was it just one of those things where you saw Rise of the Guardians and thought Jack would go well with Hiccup? I’m just curious. ☺️

Hiiii. So I’m definitely not the one that came up with Hijack XD The ship has been around for over a decade now it’s not exactly news. But I understand when ppl first come across it it seems strange so I’ll give you a rundown.

And you’d be right. Jack isn’t in httyd and nor is Hiccup in Rotg. So in the fanon community, this is what we call a ‘rare pair’ or aka, a ship that crosses fandoms and is made up mostly of fanon content. It might seem strange but it happens a lot. It’s fanon. And crossovers are the traditional crux fun of fanfiction so it’s not that weird.

Hijack is heavily associated with a very popular quadruple crossover known as ROTBTD or Rise of The Brave Tangled Dragons. This is an intersection between Disney Merida and Rapunzel with Dreamworks Jack and Hiccup. Rotbtd went craaaazyy in the 2010s and there’s a lot of different content with fics and fanart.

From this, some ppl often ship Jackunzel or Mericup or etc etc you get the idea there’s a lot of different dynamics.

I never really dove too heavily into the rotbtd stuff but I’m still familiar.

So that’s the history. As for Jack and Hiccup? They’re weird as hell I get it lmao. Like wtf is this? XD.

Hiccup’s married with kids. Jack’s in the modern era etc. They have a lot of canon hurdles so why do people ship them?

My answer?

They work.

They work together so well in so many different ways that it takes over your brain. Hijack grows on you bit by bit.

As for what they have in common. They’re both big fliers and adrenaline junkies. They both question their purpose. They both know what it’s like to lose family. They both have gone through years of loneliness. Jack is a guardian, Hiccup is a chief - they’re both protectors. They’re both fighters. They’ve both been suddenly shunned after feeling like they were finally beginning to belong. They both have issues with footwear (lmao sorry). Hiccup creates inventions, Jack creates frosty art and fun with his powers. They both do their character development by a lake in a forest lol. They both have burly accented father figures XD. Jack is the boy who fell into icy water. Hiccup is the boy who fell into blazing fire.

There’s a beautiful parallel in lines here.

Rotg: “Jack Frost is many things, but he is not a guardian.”

Httyd: “You are many things Hiccup, but a dragon killer is not one of them.”

And they both originate each from their own book series that got adapted.

And that’s just the factual stuff. When it comes to their personalities whooowheeeeee.

From the last decade I’ve seen lots of stuff that does them a disservice when ppl reduce Jack to the outgoing ‘jokester’ and Hiccup to the introvert ‘nerdy guy’. In the earlier days some ppl were shipping httyd1 Hiccup, which personally I find extremely weird. Never engaged with that lol. After httyd2 came out that disappeared mostly but still it’s unsettling.

Anyways I don’t like the simplification of their characters and prefer when maybe older creators can take them in a more emotionally complex direction and when they do ohhhh my goddddddd. You end up with storytelling masterpieces with amazing character dimensionality.

I could go on for hours. There’s just something about them. It’s hard to put it into a single word but when they’re done right they just work.

[vigilante-3073]

Texas Honey

Joel Miller x Female Reader

Summary: The story of how Joel Miller fell in love with Y/N, a girl sweeter than Texas honey.

TW: Joel is smitten, age gap, mentions of infected people/death.

Y/N was only five years old when the Cordyceps brain infection began to spread. She was lucky enough to make it into the Boston Quarantine Zone with both of her parents and her grandmother.

Her parents had quickly established a reputation for themselves in the smuggling community. They were brave enough to go where few people went and the items they had were highly sought after.

Joel thought they were stupid.

Those people had a kid at home and they were putting themselves in danger for absolutely no reason. Nobody was shocked when they were eventually torn apart by infected while on some ridiculous run.

Y/N was understandably devastated, but it was bound to happen at some point or another. After the death of her parents, Joel hadn't heard anything from her or her grandmother.

He didn't see Y/N again until sixteen years later, she had grown into a beautiful young woman and he was almost caught off guard. Y/N had recieved medical training during her time in the QZ and many people turned to her when they were sick or injured.

FERDA officials would be suspicious of certain injuries and some individuals had nowhere else to go. Y/N had quickly converted a section of her apartment into a clinic of sorts and people came to her at all hours for medical care.

Joel found himself on her doorstep when he sliced his hand open while he and Tess were on a run. He had wrapped it in duct tape to stop the bleeding, but he knew that he needed stitches.

Y/N was kind and gentle with a feather light touch as she cleaned his wound before stitching it closed. He watched her closely as she worked, delicate and meticulous as she pushed the needle through his skin.

"How long have you been doing this?" Joel asked.

"I've been working with one of the doctors since I was fourteen. He said he wanted to pass on his knowledge to someone who cared and I guess that's me," She said, picking up a pair of scissors and snipping the thread.

"Is your grandma still around?" Joel asked.

"She is. Did you know her?" Y/N questioned, pulling out a small roll of gauze.

"Knew your parents more, but your grandma was always a nice lady," He said.

Y/N carefully wrapped his hand, she cut the gauze and tore off a piece of tape before taping it in place.

"I have no idea what you cut yourself on, so I want to see you again in a few days, okay?" Y/N questioned, he nodded.

"Thanks," Joel muttered, standing up from the table.

"Wait, Joel... I-I'm sorry if I'm putting you on the spot, but if you and Tess are going on a run anytime soon I can come with you. My medical training can be really helpful, I'm not the best shot, but I'm fast and a good climber," Y/N said.

Joel stared at her for a moment, "Where's this coming from?" He asked.

She huffed, tears gathering in her eyes as she crossed her arms, "I need ration cards," She admitted softly.

"How bad off are you?" Joel questioned.

"I haven't eaten in two days... I have enough for my grandmother, but I don't know what else to do and I won't let her go hungry because of me," She said shakily.

"Sweetheart, I know you might think it's a good idea, but it isn't. The world out there is dangerous and you can lose your life in a second," Joel said.

Y/N nodded, "I understand... I'm sorry for bothering you, Joel," She mumbled, wiping away a tear quickly as it rolled down her cheek.

Joel felt incredibly guilty for refusing her help, but he couldn't be the one who got her killed. He wouldn't.

"Honey, listen. I can help you out, alright?" Joel said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a stack of credits.

"Joel, no, I can't just take your credits," She said quickly, resting her hand over his.

"I haven't even done anything to earn them, it's wrong," Y/N added.

"You stitched me up," Joel stated.

"That's nothing," Y/N said dismissively.

"Your big heart is making you go broke, babygirl. Take the credits, I have plenty," Joel said, counting out a stack and placing them in her palm.

He closed her fist around the crumpled bills, "Take 'em," Joel said.

Y/N hesitated before reluctantly nodding, "Okay," She said softly.

"Ill see you in a few days. Make sure you eat somethin', alright?" Joel said.

She nodded again, "Thank you, Joel. You don't know how much this means to me," Y/N said shakily.

"You deserve it," Joel stated.

Y/N watched him leave her apartment, closing the door behind himself before she looked down at the pile of credits he had left for her.

Maybe Joel Miller wasn't all bad.

He had a reputation in the QZ, but she couldn't imagine someone so evil being capable of such kindness. Y/N was able to eat for the first time in days and she would always owe him for that.

...

Joel had seen Y/N on multiple occasions since that initial exchange, she always greeted him with a smile that made him want to melt. Y/N had always been the sweetest thing, she never complained and she had an awful habit of putting everyone else first.

Joel couldn't think of a time where he'd seen her be ungrateful, angry or irritated. She was always happy and willing to help, dropping whatever she was doing in order to care for someone else.

Joel had one hell of a soft spot for her.

He would never admit it, but he would move heaven and earth for that girl. Y/N was a genuine ray of sunshine and people tended to take advantage of her.

Joel would always remember the day when Y/N started avoiding him. He had a bad feeling and the second he saw her, he knew exactly why she had been staying away.

Her face was covered in bruises and her lip was split, Joel had to do everything he possibly could to keep himself calm. Joel tilted her head up and examined the damage, her lip trembled as she turned her head away from him.

"Who did this to you?" He asked, tone scarily calm.

Y/N sniffled, body trembling as tears welled up in her eyes, "His name is Trevor. H-he came looking for pills and I've never had them, but he kept saying that I did. He trashed the apartment and took a bunch of supplies," Y/N said.

"I want you to go find Tess," Joel instructed.

"No, Joel, you can't hurt him," She said shakily.

"I won't hurt him, I promise. I'm just gonna get your stuff back," Joel stated.

He wouldn't hurt the kid. He'd kill him.

"Go get Tess and tell her to stay with you until I get back," Joel said.

Y/N hesitated before reluctantly stepping out of the apartment and rushing off to go and find Tess. Joel stood in the apartment, silently seething as he waited for her to return before he could punch the punk's teeth down his throat.

Joel knew of the guy, he was an asshole and he definitely deserved to be beaten within an inch of his life. Y/N came back with Tess following closely behind her, she was obviously worked up and wanted to make it better.

"Joel," Tess started.

"I'm just gonna talk to the kid. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on her while I'm gone," Joel said.

Tess huffed, "Fine, but keep the conversation short," She advised, Joel nodded.

He left the apartment and came back two hours later with everything that had been taken from her along with a set of seriously bruised knuckles.

Tess had always known that he cared about Y/N, but the lengths he was willing to go to for her still shocked Tess. Y/N was not a person who would ever stand up for herself and Joel quickly slipped into that role for her.

Joel was incredibly hesitant when Y/N kept insisting on joining them on runs outside the QZ. She wouldn't accept his ration cards without doing something to earn them and he was struggling to keep her from venturing outside the safe zone.

Y/N eventually went to Tess and they came to him as a united front and he knew that he wouldn't be able to argue his way out of it. Y/N joined them on a few simple runs, she brought a pack of medical supplies but she was also surprisingly agile and quick.

Y/N helped them cut their travel time in half during certain runs when she was able to get through a tiny space and clear away debris for them. She didn't like using guns, but she was pretty good shot and it made him feel better about bringing her out of the QZ.

Joel always had Tess slip some of his cut of the ration cards in with Y/N's and she teased relentlessly him for it. Joel wanted to help Y/N without her knowing he was helping, she wouldn't accept the funds otherwise.

When Joel passed Tess a small stack of ration cards for her to add into Y/N's cut, she smirked.

"Softie," Tess teased, taking the cards.

"Shut up," Joel muttered, shoving his stack of cards into his pocket.

"Why don't you bring the cards to your girlfriend this time, huh?" Tess said, holding out Y/N's ration cards to him.

"She's not my girlfriend," He stated.

"Bet you'd like her to be," Tess grinned, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

...

Joel went to deliver the ration cards to Y/N, his stomach dropped when he saw her sitting out in the hallway. Y/N was crying, body curled up against the wall with her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Joel made his way over to her, "What happened? Is it your grandma?" He questioned, she nodded.

"I came back from my shift and she was in bed. I-I thought she was sleeping but then I realized that she- she wasn't," Y/N hiccuped, breath catching in her chest as tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Take a breath," Joel instructed gently, kneeling down in front of her.

Y/N took a shaky breath before continuing, "She wasn't breathing and she was cold. I tried to help her, but sh-she was already gone, Joel," Y/N said with a sob.

"I'm so sorry, honey," Joel said.

"She was all I had," Y/N mumbled shakily.

Joel looked into the apartment as two men made their way towards the door carrying a body bag.

Joel stood up, "C'mere," He said, holding out his hands to her. Y/N took his hands and Joel pulled her to her feet, he wrapped his arms around her and held her body close to his chest.

Joel turned his back to the doorway, blocking her line of sight as the men carried her grandmother's body away to be burned. Y/N wrapped her arms around him, her hands gripping onto the material of his shirt. Her lip trembled, a fresh wave of tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobbed.

"You did everything you could for her, sweetheart. You gave her the best years she could've had," Joel assured.

"Sh-she died alone, Joel," Y/N said shakily, tears soaking into his shirt.

"I'm sorry, honey. She was a good woman," Joel said, rubbing his hand over her back gently.

Y/N slowly managed to calm herself down, reluctantly pulling away from his embrace. Her eyes were red, her cheeks were damp and her skin was blotchy. Joel cupped her cheeks, gently wiping the tears from her skin.

"Joel, can I stay with you tonight? I don't want to go back in there," Y/N said softly.

"Of course, honey," He nodded, hands dropping from her cheeks.

"You can say no if you want to," Y/N mumbled.

"Why would I ever say no to you?" Joel questioned.

"I just wanted you to know that you don't have to say yes," Y/N said.

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart. You can stay with me for as long as you need," He assured.

"Thank you, Joel," Y/N nodded.

He walked her down the hallway to his apartment, unlocking the door and allowing her to enter first. He watched her as she looked around the room, lingering in the middle of the apartment awkwardly.

Y/N had never been in his apartment once in the years that they'd known each other. Joel always came to her apartment while she looked after her patients and her grandmother.

"You can have the bed, I'll take the couch," Joel said.

"I'm not kicking you out of your own bed," Y/N replied.

"I'll be fine. It's one night," Joel assured, moving over to the couch.

"Why don't we just share the bed? I mean, we've slept next to each other before," Y/N offered tentatively.

It was true. They had slept beside each other on multiple occasions while outside the QZ. They had even shared a sleeping bag once or twice, but Joel still hesitated.

"I-I'm sorry, that was a really stupid thing to say," Y/N muttered, realizing that she may have overstepped.

"No, it's alright, we can share the bed. Just don't be clingin' onto me, alright?" Joel said.

"I won't, I promise," Y/N nodded.

That night, they fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed but woke up in each other's arms. Her body was pressed up against his side, her arm thrown across his stomach and her leg slotted between his. Her head rested on his chest and his arm had found itself wrapped around her waist, holding her close to him.

Her skin was warm and her hair was soft when it brushed lightly against his chin as she shifted. Joel knew he needed to get up soon for his shift, but he couldn't bring himself to leave quite yet.

He wanted to spend every second he could in her arms and he was reluctant to leave her. Y/N seemed to feel the same way, gravitating towards him after the loss of her last surviving family member.

Y/N started to come around his apartment almost every day after the passing of her grandmother. She cooked for him and Tess, cleaning the apartment and had even started doing his laundry.

Y/N had a need to be needed after all those years caring for her grandmother. She had never experienced life without being a caregiver and she felt like she didn't have a purpose now that her family was gone.

Y/N stood at the stove in his apartment, heating up some soup in a pot on a hot plate. She scooped it into a bowl before placing it in front of Joel at the table.

"Thanks, honey," He said, she smiled.

"Tess, do you want any?" Y/N questioned.

"No, I'm good," Tess said, shaking her head.

"Okay, well, I'm gonna run back to my apartment. I have a few people coming to see me today," Y/N said.

"You're not gonna eat?" Joel questioned.

"No, I'm not hungry but I didn't want you to go without. The hot plate is off, but it should keep the rest warm until you're done," She said, Joel nodded.

Y/N stepped out of the apartment, closing the door behind herself gently. Tess stared at Joel across the table as he started to eat silently, he didn't acknowledge her but he could feel her eyes on him.

"She your little housewife now or something?" Tess questioned.

"Leave her be," Joel stated firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Joel would be happy if Y/N spent the rest of her life with him in his apartment. If she needed to cook and clean to feel useful, he'd let her.

This incredible person had chosen to care about him and he needed it more than he was willing to admit. Y/N was a light in his life and he loved her more than anything.

Maybe he would eventually come clean about his feelings, but he was content with the way that things were.

For now.

[scoriarose]

There's something important I've been wanting to share with fellow snake caretakers, and it's that if you have been sweet to your snake and love them, they have probably told you hundreds of times they love you- but because we speak different languages most won't understand. It makes me a little sad thinking how hard they try to tell us, and some folks just don't recognize that and they hope their serpentine friends love them but never know for sure- or even believe the lie snakes aren't even capable of love at all. They are, they have brain structures similar to birds and not only are physically capable of feeling love, they also regularly display traits associated with love including empathy and self sacrifice to protect others they care about both in captivity and the wild.

Snakes express love through touch. Through cuddling, and vibing (being near someone not touching just happy to be in their company). There's another outdated lie that snakes cannot and will never enjoy being pet - likely this comes from someone seeing cats and dogs lick their young and enjoying being pet because it feels similar to what is natural to them but since snakes do not lick their young it was believed they could not enjoy this sensation outside of their nature.

But that's wrong. It IS their nature! They just don't use their tongue, they use their whole body! Thing is, a lot of people who see them slither over another snake don't realize it's more than just them going somewhere, and they think they're carelessly going over another snake. Sometimes that may be the case, but touch is also how they bond. I read an article detailing how a mother snake was tolerant of her babies climbing all over her. Tolerant? It's like if a toddler hugged their mommy and said they loved her- tolerant would be such a strange word to use. They are telling their mommy they love her through their very limited means of communication.

Isn't it incredibly sweet that a creature who is so so limited in communication made sure to have a way to say, "I love you." I think that's just the best news ever.

If you doubt what I'm saying well, a number of snake keepers can vouch for me they've also accidentally discovered that touch can also be romantic if you touch the wrong place where most wouldn't expect it to be.

But the point I'm trying to make is, I bet there's tons of people with pet snakes who are telling them over and over they love them, hoping their human understands. If your snake doesn't do this action it doesn't need they don't love you- it would come from them not having figured it out. They learn not just from instinct, but from each other. Not having a parent snake to teach them (like some species including rattlesnakes) they have to figure out everything on their own for the most part.

Many figure out how to express, "I love you" through touch. Most snake caretakers I imagine don't recognize the attempt to communicate as anything more than the animal slithering around- but if you look for it you might see your pet telling you! If they are on you and start slithering around but not going anywhere in particular (sometimes back and forth) ESPECIALLY if you pet your snake and they relax/enjoy it- they are probably trying to pet you. And in doing so, show they care about you too, that they love you.

Scoria pets me with her chin, and I've never heard of anyone else's snake do this. She has, however, taught this to her sister who now pets me both ways.

It would be neat to hear if anyone sees their snake doing this and realizing what it really means. (Your snake might have even learned another way if you don't pet them and show them love another way- sometimes they learn by copying us too.)

Hope this helps someone- please share if your snake has a way they show they love you, I see very little on this from other caretakers and would be so happy to hear if others have similar experiences.

[dreamjoymemoir]

yoooo anaxa and the herta with a reader who is fluent in 3-4 languages? like they use a main 1 to communicate with them but occasionally the characters catch reader muttering something they dont understand. i feel like reader's langauge settings on thier pc/phone will be different (might even read other books in their other languages

awesome!!

-anaxagoras is of course delighted to have such a multilingual partner; though language studies aren't his primary field, he's also someone who would find it interesting and at least look into learning another language or two himself, maybe dabbling in several amphorean dialects just to learn about different grammar structures and sentence constructions. if he is to spread knowledge to the world, he understands that becoming familiar with different modes of communication is necessary. if you ever want to talk about your studies, he's open to discussion. you might teach each other something new!

-when he hears you speaking to yourself in a different language, he listens closely to see what he can glean from your mutterings even if he can't understand you. he lets you have your secrets but he is also deeply curious. could it be that some languages are more useful for expressing your thoughts than others? or is it that some things can only be conveyed in different words? he wants to know if you'll tell him.

-he's fascinated when he glances over at your phone and notices that it's in a completely different language than you normally use. he likes that you're such a varied person and would never want to limit you to just one language if four is suitable. if he finds interesting books or articles in a language that you speak, he'll share them with you in hopes that you'll find it enlightening. the fact that there are things in this world he can't understand isn't a downside to him but a reminder that he has yet more to learn, and he heartily cherishes that notion.

-herta may sometimes take intellectual talents for granted as the genius she is, but make no mistake she is still impressed by your dedication to language studies. it's one thing to be smart and another to have the means to communicate it with! she might even goad you into learning more languages just for fun. after all, why content yourself with three or four when you could keep going? she doesn't doubt that you have the brains to do it.

-i'd bet anything that herta has a puppet who's programmed to speak basically any known language in the universe. if you ever have a need to chat when no one's around you at least have a little puppet friend to bounce ideas off of. she'll think it's very funny if you sit down and have a conversation with it.

-this does mean that some of your notes or favorite books are inaccessible to her without a translating application (which she surely has), but she takes this in stride and only complains a little when there's a fascinating article or a clever joke she can't grasp the nuances of. she's more interested in science and technology than anything else, so she's not especially keen on learning more languages herself, but she will remember what you tell her if you try to teach her a little bit. if something has to do with you, it becomes interesting to her! i think it would also be fun to read to her in a different language. even if she doesn't understand it, she can appreciate the beauty of your voice pronouncing sounds unfamiliar to her.