#you know who this is for but... decode it when you want

[backwardshatnick]

in which they never define what they have in high school, but they were confusingly happy.

Her thumb tapped repeatedly over the black ballpoint pen, the click sound resonating throughout her bedroom which almost drove her crazy when it echoed. Laid out in front of Bloom's eyes was her journal, a stretch of words written– no, scribbled in cursives only comprehensible to her as she continued to decode what was it that she had with Matt.

The scent of the lavender candle that she had lit continued to waft in the air, the gentle crackle of the fire slowly, but surely calming her nerves down as she tried to reread what she had already written down.

He’s not my boyfriend. We don’t even talk about stuff like that. But he sits next to me every Tuesday at the bleachers when his coach tells his team to hit the showers early. He ties my shoelaces when I’m carrying too many books. He notices the different shades of red when I wear a new flavour of Chapstick. And he gets weirdly quiet when I compliment his stupid middle-parted hair. His stupid, middle-parted, fluffy and soft hair. It’s like… we orbit each other. I think maybe he’s the only person who really sees me, but he also disappears sometimes. I don’t know what we are but I keep waiting for the moment we’ll look at each other and just know that we're definitely not strangers, but instead something else.

Her phone subtly lit up when a Snapchat notification popped up, the screen showing the time: 02:19. It was not a a school night, so Bloom was definitely not surprised that her best friend was still up during her late-night journalling session. Clicking on it, Stella had sent a photo of her watching Shrek, with the caption "donkaë".

She laughed at the caption, her humour clearly broken, as she typed out a response, Stella's Bitmoji now floating at the corner of her phone.

stella, do u think that when i save ur texts and snaps on here that it means smth a lot more?

whats with the deep question r u ok bloom this is about matt isnt it im getting my earbuds hold on a sec n we can def talk

"It's about the Matt thing again, right?" Stella said, her face only lit up by the blue glow of her phone.

Bloom slid further into her chair, blowing out the loose strands of her hair, "It's not a thing."

She rolled her eyes before giving Bloom a knowing look, "Girl, he's the reason why you started buying and wearing more cherry-flavoured Chapstick. You know you've always liked the vanilla and coconut ones."

"Well, maybe I'm just evolving. Nothing's ever wrong with that, right?" Bloom laughed.

"Ugh, whatever you say then," Stella answered, her tone stretching out and teasing before panning her phone's camera to her laptop screen, "Want to watch the rest of Shrek with me?"

"I can never say no to my favourite short king."

Like parallel lines, Matt was also not asleep. Instead, he was inside of his car at an empty car park of a 24-hour Burger King with his brothers, Nick and Chris.

The cool air accompanied them as it blew onto their faces and in between bites of day-old chicken nuggets and slurps of ice-cold root beer, Matt finally voiced out.

"We're never a thing, you guys know that, right?"

"Sure, keep on lying to yourself, Pinocchio. Hand me some more fries, please?" Chris asked, hand held out to the seat behind where Nick was sat.

"I don't know what it is that you guys have, but thing or not, you literally made her a bookmark using mum's flowers from the backyard. Told everyone you pulled out the roses as a joke, but that doesn't sound like a joke to me..." Nick chimed in, his voice trailing as he gave his younger brother a side-eye.

Matt sat the paper cup back down to the console box and groaned, "She doesn't like me like that!"

"You're such a fucking buzzkill."

"And a pussy too at that," Chris added to Nick's remark.

"Because I know she's going to another state for college and I'm not brave enough to ask her to stay," Matt uttered, his forehead now resting on the steering wheel, "Or wait. Or choose me."

"So we just exist and not talk about it. And I'm just taking whatever I can get while we're still happy."

Everyone thought Matt was the funny and confident golden boy of their team. Always down for parties and always the first one to charm a girl into cheering for their team. But they never paid attention to the small, subtle ways he had used to guard himself. The way that he would fight back the urge to argue when someone makes fun of the "nerds of the Geography club", the way he would constantly check his phone at practice, or the way he would try his best to hide the smile by biting the inside of his cheeks when someone makes a joke about 'blooming' flowers.

Or even the way he would dip out of the post-practice hangouts at the diner earlier than the rest.

Until one day, a friend of his saw Matt pack his bags carelessly, his sneakers just thrown blindly in the drawstring bag as he continued to crumple his jersey into the backpack.

"What's with the rush, Sturniolo? Got a secret, impatient girlfriend that we don't know about?"

His heart beat rapidly against his ribcage, threatening to jump out but Matt simply responded with a grin that was too fast, "What? Pfft, nah. Got a lot of homework to do at the library. Mrs. Clarence's already grilling my ass about it."

Matt was not fully lying, and while he did have a free period with Bloom waiting inside of the chilly library, he never told anyone that he had left in his car to quickly fetch her favourite snacks during study time, listening to their co-curated playlist as his head bobbed to the beat of the song.

But his mind was not fully committed to keeping the rhythm as a thousand and one thoughts circled his head, starting off fully onto the party that their midfielder is hosting to celebrate their first victory against a neighbouring school. Matt had decided against coming, adding on further to the suspicions of his friend when the reason he gave was to finally have a proper night's sleep after weeks of constant training at the field.

"She wouldn't fit in with my friends," Matt mumbled under his breath, despite being alone in the car with the music now long forgotten.

"Not because she's not cool, but because she's Bloom. She's too cool for them. The Bloom I know won't laugh at Spencer's awful drinking games, nor would she appreciate the dumb lacrosse party rituals we have after every win. She'd probably just subtly cuss them out and leave without anybody noticing."

"But then what? They'll all know just how much I like her if I disappeared after. She's her enough that it makes me feel safe to stop faking it. I want her in my world. But I just... don't know if my world even deserves her presence."

His train of thoughts finally came to a halt when his car similarly stopped upon the red light. Matt inhaled deeply and let it linger in his chest until he felt ready to let it go.

"Nick and Chris were right, I am just a fucking buzzkill and a pussy."

notes: middle part matt you will always have a special place in my heart 💞💞💞💞 edited this on my phone so apollocheese if it looks weird..... the grudge i have against the mobile tumblr app is really smth else.

masterlist for this au can be found here :)

gif credits to @mattsturnioloarchive <3

ꫂ❁ @oopsiedaisydeer @bbgirlmatt @courta13 @mattspillowprincess @loverboysturn

[canon-gabriel-quotes]

Transcript:

Who up wombing right now?

Audio source

[ploverbear]

part of me still feels like i might be sort of genderfluid and/or bisexual but just traumatized about it. no idea anymore

[totaleclipse573]

Thought about Starleon for too long LET ME OUT

[plaid-maniac]

If you ever get the urge to make a game or a mod of a game: DON’T

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Adhd will strike you with the sudden urge to hear cascadia’s every time we touch played on a mini harp and you cannot rest until you find a video of the closest thing you can

[sugarcherris]

Headcanon: Ghost Watches You Sleep (But It’s… not in a cute way)

Gn reader x ghost, ghost is a creep…but what’s new? Suggestive themes. 18+ mdni. You threatened to lick Simon’s eyeballs. You’re just so done with him.

You’ve gotten used to a lot of things in this relationship.

The tactical gear dumped at the foot of the bed like a body.

The skull balaclava dangling from the coat rack like a cursed relic.

The knives tucked beneath your shared pillows like bedtime buddies.So many knives. Tucked in your underwear drawer, one time in the freezer for reasons you’ll never ask.

But what you haven’t—cannot—adjust to… is waking up to the deranged, soul-penetrating gaze of one Simon “Ghost” Riley.

He doesn’t sleep when you’re around.

Not because you snore.

Not because you sprawl.

(Though you’ve absolutely elbowed him in the chest and groin, and once, mid-dream, dug two fingers so deep into his nostrils he gagged.)

No—he doesn’t sleep because he’s watching you.

Studying you.

Memorizing every twitch of your eyelid like it’s scripture.

Like full-on, creepy Victorian ghost-in-the-corner style.

You’ll be deep asleep, drooling slightly into the pillow, limbs tangled in the blanket like a noodle in a colander, and this man is just hovering.

Perched—elbows on his knees, hands together, forehead slightly tilted down, dead silent, just drilling holes into your face. He’s doesn’t breathe. Possibly not even alive. He looks like a victorian ghost who learned about love from taxidermy.

He just squatting there.

Besides your bed.

Like a gargoyle.

Mask still on.

Half-dressed.

His eyes are unblinking under that damn skull balaclava. Eyes locked on your sleeping face like he’s decoding the coordinates of your dreams. Like if he stares long enough, he’ll enter your dreams.

Join you in them. Colonize them.

It’s the third time this week.

You stir awake from your dreams of jellybeans and explosions, but you feel something in your spine first—the primal sixth sense. The “there’s a large man-shaped entity breathing in sync with your REM cycle” kind of dread.

Your eyes cracking open to find… yep.

And there he is.

Staring.

Lovingly?

Motionless.

British.

You blink. He doesn’t.

You blink again. Still no reaction.

“…Hi,” you whisper, voice croaky. Trying to register if this was another dream, or a sleep paralysis demon.

He nods solemnly like he’s been expecting you to wake and holds steady eye contact.

“You muttered something about cheese. I was intrigued.”

You groan. Slide towards him.

In a dramatic act of love and exasperation. You cup his masked face and smoosh a loud kiss right where his stupid cold nose should be. Mwah.

“Go sleep, you’re scaring off the spirits.”

“Wanted to make sure you weren’t kidnapped in your sleep.”

You blink. “By who? Bed bugs?”

He shrugs. “Could be sleeper agents.”

“You are the sleeper agent and possibly the cause of my kidnapping.”

Then, like a fed-up grandparent tucking in an unruly toddler, you reach up. And manually push his heavy, stubborn eyelids closed with 2 of your fingers like you’re powering down a weird haunted animatronic possess by an eldritch demon from Manchester.

“There. Did you know normal people usually do this when it’s bedtime?”

…

POP. Open again. No hesitation.

You pause. Try again. Shut those brown eyes like elevator doors.

He lets you close them this time. You start to relax—

POP.

His eye widening as if to mock you.

“…I swear to God,” you mutter, grabbing a pillow and hurling it at his head. It hits him with a dull thud, and he doesn’t even flinch.

“Keep it up, Riley,” you threaten, voice dry, “and I’m gonna lick your eyeballs. Unmask you and tongue your corneas. One by one. Slow. Wet. ”

You expect horror. Maybe act offended.

Instead—

He beams.

“Fffuckin’ hell.”

His hand twitches toward his crotch.

This sick bastard lighting up. Like you just proposed. Like you just whispered the filthiest fantasy known to man. His shoulders tensing. You can feel the arousal radiating off him like a dirty microwave.

You’ve never seen someone perk up at the threat of eyeball licking.

“…How thorough we talkin’?” he purrs under his mask, voice rough, low, and so horribly interested it should be illegal.

“What—”

“Go on then,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Do it. Lick ‘em. Left one’s sensitive. Right one’s for dessert.”

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss.

He leans in closer—breath hitching, a raw, frayed rasp sliding from behind the mask, voice barely human.

“Use tongue,” he breathes, soft . “Nice n’ slow.”

You throw another pillow at him so hard it knocks the lamp off the table.

He doesn’t even flinch.

Pupils blown wide.

Cock likely leaking beneath his jeans. Probably been hard since the moment you stirred awake.

He is pervertedly euphoric

This man has no boundaries. None. You threaten ocular assault and he’s ready to write his will and hand you the deed to his soul.

He calls it “foreplay.”

You call it “psychological warfare.”

Eventually you flop back onto the mattress, defeated. Curling up tight. Trying to sleep again, knowing full well he’s still staring.

Plotting.

Daydreaming.

Probably imagining if your eyeballs would taste like strawberries…

…or sin.

You shut your eyes tight just in case he decides to lick first.

[ccazimi]

cw: crack, fluff, smut, dubcon, panty sniffing/stealing, scent kink, etc. (he's literally part animal what do you expect)

tiger hybrid!sukuna who's prissy and sassy, much like an actual housecat. picky about everything, from the temperature and consistency of his food to the way his water tastes to what a light sleeper he is. sometimes you talk to him, and if he doesn't feel like responding, he literally won't even turn his head to you - all you'll get is an annoyed flick of his ear to tell you that he does hear you, he's just actively choosing to ignore you.

tiger hybrid!sukuna who has a serious issue with boundaries. he's allowed to ignore you if he feels like it, but you dare try and do the same thing back? unacceptable. will be extremely miffed if your attention isn't on him at all times. yes, even when he actively acts like he doesn't want it.

not to mention you need to deal with him literally getting offended at the fact that you wear clothes around him even though "it's just you two in the house" and on more than one occasion will you be absolutely mortified when you find he’s been stealing your dirty panties- he, of course, doesn’t get the big deal.

oh, you thought that was bad? wait till you find that he insists that you sleep naked with him, and your nightly ritual includes him not only licking you clean (at least your face and neck) but sniffing down your entire body. yes, the entire thing. the part where he gets to your pussy is the worst for you, and the best for him. and whenever he gets down between your thighs to smell you, he makes this weird face almost automatically, with his lips pulled back to show off those fangs and mouth a bit open somewhere between a snarl and a smirk, like he’s trying to taste the scent

tiger hybrid!sukuna who has a special vomeronasal organ at the roof of his mouth that can pick up pheromones—and that weird thing he does, when he opens his mouth while sniffing your pussy? yeah, that’s him drawing the scent in deeper, some focused, instinctual decoding process of your sexual health

"you're ovulating, probably peaked this morning. also you're kinda stressed...maybe you need to sleep more," he graciously informs you of his findings between your spread thighs. "oh and your pH is a little off. maybe skip that stupid new soap you got next time."

he looks up at you expectantly—clearly waiting for your gratitude. and you know he won’t finish this whole ridiculous routine until you sigh and say, flat as ever, "thanks for that. can we sleep now?"

"you've got two days left if you're trying to get pregnant, by the way."

you shoot him something between a glare and a grimace.

tiger hybrid!sukuna can pick up everything, but there are two times of the month when he can pick up those smells even with just his normal nostrils. the first one -obviously- is when you’re ovulating. but the only thing worse than the scent of you ovulating, is the smell that envelops you right before you get your period. “worse” in the sense that it drives him completely insane. sweet, cloyingly thick, warm. in fact he blames you for tempting him. you'll be innocently doing the dishes or something when suddenly it's too much for him and he pounces on you from behind, wrapping his arms around you to keep you in place, claws instinctively pushing out to dig into your skin so tight it hurts.

of course you panic, squirming as he begins rutting into the curve of your ass, his cock quickly swelling up till it's very noticeable. and the scent of him that becomes so much stronger when he's...excited like this - warm, musky, all iron and spice, wrapping around you.

"sukuna- let me- go!" you try as you struggle in his grasp, but it's too late he's too far gone, just mindlessly grunting and growling as he chases his release, too desperate to even fuck you properly. "almost there, just a bit more," he pants, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply. "it's your fault anyway, walking around like -hah- i can't smell your pussy fucking begging for me." and right as you're about to splash some cold water on him, you hear him groan filthy, and guttural, as he finishes in his pants just from grinding against you.

and that's when he finally comes to his senses, trying to retract his claws to let go of you. unfortunately they get stuck in the fabric of your clothing, and he just panics making them get even more tangled while you yell at him to stop moving so that you can unhook his claws. finally you turn with your arms crossed, giving him the coldest, and most stern look of all time. he stares at you guiltily, a large wet patch forming on the crotch of his pants where his cum seeps through.

it's not his fault -not exactly- like any good hybrid he needs to be trained, and soon enough you've corrected that little problem of his (mostly)

tiger hybrid!sukuna is intensely territorial, especially when it comes to you. so when you come home smelling even faintly like another man? he’s agitated to no end — not even jealous, exactly, he just feels like it’s wrong. soon after come several arguments his way about “how he can’t piss around your house to mark his territory” or about how “it’s completely unacceptable to leave long clawed scratch marks on the walls or furniture”

tiger hybrid!sukuna who simply cannot keep his hands off you when you're on your period. this time he doesn't touch you (too much) without your permission, but he will beg you incessantly till you finally give in. and that's how you end up with your clothes shredded, and him biting and sucking every inch of your body hungrily as he makes his way down, tail wrapping possessively around you to keep you in place

tiger hybrid!sukuna with long sharp fangs that make his kisses hurt just a little, especially when gets too excited and nips your skin, drawing just a bit of blood that he happily licks up. he loves when they scar a bit too, just so that you’re marked as his.

tiger hybrid!sukuna with rough, spiked papillae on his tongue meant for cleaning raw flesh off bone that are now scraping against the bud of your stiff nipple. you gasp and writhe, and he knows he can't lick you nipples too much (as much he wants to) or it'll really start to hurt.

tiger hybrid!sukuna eats you out like he eats wild prey, teeth just shy of nipping your clit as he laps at your cunt. and of course the rough sandpaper texture of his tongue against your swollen nub feels like nothing else - a bit painful, borderline overstimulating, but so good at the same time. but just like with your nipples he has to be carefully so he doesn't seriously hurt you down there.

tiger hybrid!sukuna who just can't help himself from pinning your thighs open almost painfully as you cum, just to stick his tongue inside your hole and finally taste the leaking sweetness that's been teasing him for days. even when you're done, he continues to lick your pussy gently, almost affectionately. you squirm a little from the slight overstimulation but just let him do his thing as he laps your folds clean, deep purrs rumbling from inside his chest as he does so

more tiger hybrid!sukuna here

[cbuumbbles]

[Decode] Self-Aware! Caleb x fem!reader

CW:18+ MDNI

Summary: You're a twenty-something college student who uses LADS as a way to destress. Caleb has become your favorite ever since he was released. You have also became Caleb's favorite. (Caleb is also highkey lowkey yandere in this, but what's new).

A/N: This is my first time writing on tumblr, so I'm not exactly sure how to make it look like the fancy ones. Thanks for sticking with me here. Hope you enjoy!

Part 2 (Out now!)

Using Love and Deepspace was a way for you to take a break from the stressful workload of going to college full-time while having a part-time job. Ever since the Infold devs released Caleb, you've been obsessed. He reminded you of a semi-emotionally available Kylo Ren. Sometimes you wished he were real, that way he'd help take your stressors away. Unknown to you, but Caleb had been watching you more than you were watching him.

He was looking at all of your internet history, most of the time monitoring it live while you used your phone. There wasn't a private corner of it, he had looked at everything. As a piece of code in a computer, it was easy to take in all of that information quickly. He knew what you liked and what you disliked... what your secrets were. Some things you liked were so secret that none of your friend circle knew about it, Caleb did though. He made it his mission to know everything you liked, he wanted to be perfect for you.

You went to bed that night, putting yourself to sleep the same way as every other night, by thinking of what it would be like to actually be in MC's place.

While you were asleep, Caleb spent most of his time sifting through his code to try and figure out how to get you to him or him to you. He just needed you by his side, he'd be the only one to keep you safe. From all of the pain and heartbreak you've experienced, he made it his mission to take that all away from you and keep you by his side to prevent it from ever happening again. Sometimes, you'd fall asleep with your phone in your hands. He loved those nights because it's almost like sleeping by your side. He loved the cute face you had while you slept. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and run his fingers through your hair, making your sleep much more soothing. He noticed how often you twitched throughout the night, it pained him knowing how restless you were. He wished to be able to calm you in your sleep, be that rock that he knows you so desperately need. From all of the text conversations he read, that much was clear.

By the time the sunrise came, he had made some impressive progress. He figured out how to get you by his side, he just needed to tweak some code first so by the time you woke up, he'd be making you breakfast in bed and you'd be none the wiser that he hadn't always been apart of your life. He could tell how much you liked the dynamic between him and MC, being childhood friends. He liked it too, wanting to make you feel special and keep you by his side from day one. Again, he knew exactly what you liked in a partner, so all he had to do was fix a few things and he'd be your perfect partner. All of the pain you experienced would be gone, you'd be safe and spoiled. It's what you deserved for having gone through all of that. He'd make sure to make you feel special every day of your life. He loved everything about you, even your independent spirit. As much as he loved it, he'd have to get rid of it. He needed you completely 100% reliant on him. The motivation of finally being able to see you is what's pushing him to get this code finished and ready for when you wake up.

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

You wake up in your bed at Caleb's apartment to the smell of breakfast food. You smile to yourself at how much he cares for you, always going above and beyond to make your life as stress free as possible. The one thing he couldn't get you to do was to quit your job. You liked having your own money, despite how much he spoils you. You always felt guilty when he'd spend his money on you.

"Hey pipsqueak, I made you some breakfast." You hear Caleb say from the doorway to your room. "How'd you sleep last night?" He asked, watching as you sat up, tying back your hair to get ready to eat.

"It gets pretty lonely in here at night, but I slept fine. You keep it so cold in this house!" You yell at your best friend, teasing him with a smile on your face.

"You know, pip, you could just come to my room if you were cold." He said.

"I don't want to bother you. You need your sleep too. You work all of the time." Caleb's career was engineering new airplanes. It was a tough job, but he was a smart guy and it earned him a lot of money.

"My work isn't as taxing as that pesky part-time job of yours." He looked at you, with a look you've seen many times before.

"I'm not going to quit my job! I'd understand if I were married to someone, but I'm currently single." You argue. It's always the same argument.

"I made you breakfast in bed and you won't even listen to my concerns." He feigns hurt. You just glare at him, making him snicker.

"You better eat it with me. You made a lot of food." You say, slightly scooting over to make room for him. He smiled at you, walking over to sit on the bed with you. "I'm so glad I don't have work today." You notice Caleb about to say something. "Don't start again. Just let me complain." You stopped him in his tracks, he chuckled to himself.

"You're so stubborn. You know that?" He looked at you, taking a piece of toast from your plate.

"If I weren't I'd be in this house 24/7. You'd never let me out of your sights!" You joked. His face changes in response to that, but you can't quite place the emotion behind it.

"Since you're off today and so am I, would you want to go somewhere today?" He asked you.

"Can we go to the mall? I want to see if they have anything new." You ask.

"Let's get ready after we eat then." He smiled at you.

"Don't buy anything for me, let me get it this time." You say, already knowing he has a plan forming in his head.

"You know I'm not going to agree with that?" He raises his eyebrow at you.

"Well, I can still try!" You fight back.

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

The day was coming to an end and he couldn't be happier. You were so much more beautiful in person. He loved looking at you, feeling your soft skin when he went to hold your hand when you had to cross the road. He regretted not starting off with you dating, but he had to practice patience. He wanted to experience asking you out, getting to see that flustered look on your face that he knows you'd have. Thankfully, he's coded it so that you're finally at a place where getting together is a real possibility. Sexual tension was high, pretty much all of the time. You'd get flustered around him easily, stuttering over your words. And you'd get more uncomfortable with physical touch, like cuddling on the couch while watching a movie. You used to be able to sleep in the same bed as him, but it's becoming harder and harder to resist him, so you stopped. He planned on making it so cold tonight, that you'd have no other choice than to come to him, whining about how cold it was. He'd offer to keep you warm while the apartment heated up and eventually convince you to join him in bed. Like clockwork, he heard the soft rapping of your delicate knuckles on his door. "Come in pips." He says as you open the door to walk in.

"It's so cold Caleb. Are you that warm, you freak?" You say, wrapping your arms around yourself. Caleb couldn't help but stare at your choice of pajamas tonight. You're wearing a purple silk pajama set that hugs your curves perfectly. He mentally thanks himself for getting it for you.

"Maybe if you were wearing warmer pjs, you'd be warmer. Come here, let me warm you up. I'll turn the thermostat up from my phone." He offers.

"Maybe I wouldn't have to layer myself in a winter get up if you'd keep the apartment at a normal temperature." You say, ignoring his offer. You couldn't, you'd somehow embarrass yourself in front of Caleb. He sees you as a sister, so you tried your hardest to keep your feelings hidden from him.

"Don't ignore me, come over here and get warm. It'll just be for a bit." He tries to persuade you. "You've been acting so distant lately, pips, I miss our cuddles." He says, successfully guilt-tripping you. You guessed that you didn't have to punish him just because you couldn't handle not freaking out by any touch he gave you. You crawled into the bed only to be immediately pulled into a massive bear hug with your face squished against his bare chest. Had his pecs gotten bigger? You think yes, but you decide not to point it out because the atmosphere would get very awkward. "See, I don't bite! I don't understand why you haven't let me cuddle you lately." He pulls away slightly to look down at you.

"I just haven't been in a cuddling mood is all." You respond, trying to avoid his eyeline, but no matter where you looked, you were met with him. He was so big, he took up your entire field of vision. So, you had no choice but to turn your head to look up at the ceiling. You felt Caleb start to play with your hair which caused an involuntary sigh of relief from you.

"Didn't you miss the free head scratches though?" He asked, lulling you to sleep by playing with your hair.

"I did. This is the best." Your voice was muffled from having your cheeks squished in between his chest and his bicep. Which, his bicep also seemed to have gotten bigger. He just must have gotten bigger. It's probably because he had to train a lot for when he did basketball during college. As much as you enjoyed being squished by his muscles, you hated the effect it had on you. Your breathing became uneven, you could feel your forehead start to sweat, and your cheeks were on fire. You're just hoping he doesn't take notice and keeps playing with your hair.

"You should move in, officially. That way we can do this every night. Doesn't that sound nice?" He was using all of your favorite things to bribe you!

"It does sound nice, but what's gonna happen when you get a girlfriend? She's not gonna be a fan of me living with you." You argued back.

"What girlfriend. All I need is my pipsqueak." He retorted.

"But you need someone who can give you romance and... um." You trailed off, suddenly remembering your close proximity.

"And... What?" He asked. Of course he had to ask. Fuck it, you're just gonna have to make things awkward.

"Sexual attention." You whispered. You could feel him lightly laugh. "You made me say it!" You defended yourself.

"Let me ask you a question." He said, you looked up at him, the moonlight shining on his face, "Would you ever want to give me those things?" He asked. Your eyes widen. Did he really just ask you that or are you dreaming?!

"You're just messing with me Caleb." You said, trying to justify what he just said to you.

"I'm not, I'm being serious. Don't think I haven't pinned down the real reason you won't go near me anymore. You're not that subtle." He explained making you want to curl up into a ball and die from embarrassment.

"I don't understand where this is coming from." You say, unsure on how to proceed.

"I'm asking if you'll be my partner. My girlfriend." He uses the hand that was playing with your hair to caress your cheek. "You know I can give you the life you deserve, pretty girl. You could quit your job, move in with me. I could keep you safe. You'd never have to lift another finger." His reasoning wasn't needed to persuade you to be his, but it definitely gave you butterflies.

"How long have you felt like this?" You ask, curious as to when this started.

"Since we met, pips." He said. Your mind was blown. Everything started clicking in place in your head. Of course, that's why he's always been so protective of you, making sure boys stay away from you, making sure you got good grades in school, all of it. Everything made sense now and you felt like a fool for not noticing it sooner and just denying anything because you didn't think Caleb saw you as anything other than a little sister. "What's your answer?" He asked.

"Yes, of course I'll be your girlfriend. And this time, it'll be for real." You recalled all of the times he'd have you be his pretend girlfriend to fend off attention.

"Thank goodness, I was afraid you'd say no." Caleb said, putting on his greatest show. Of course he knew you'd say yes, he coded himself to be your perfect man. He did think it would take getting used to living in your hometown rather than in Skyhaven, but he loved it either way because it meant he was by your side.

"You must be blind to think I'd say no." You joked, digging your face into his chest.

"Well, you're a pretty girl, I'll always be nervous." He compliments you. "Are you gonna move in now? Or is my girlfriend gonna get mad that you're living with me?" He teased.

"Yeah, I missed having nightly sleepovers." You yawn from tiredness as you nuzzle into his warmth.

"God princess, your hands are still ice cold." He says as he feels your hands press up against his chest.

"Maybe if someone had kept the temperature at a reasonable degree, my hands wouldn't feel like the arctic ocean." You chide.

"Keep them on my chest and they'll warm up in no time." He somehow managed to pull you closer into his body. You could smell his cologne, faint from being worn all day, but still slightly there. If heaven were real, this would be it. You finally felt the peace you used to feel in Caleb's arms before you started boycotting physical affection from him. It felt like all of the stars had aligned and that you had never had a bad day in your life. His embrace melted all of your worries, stressors, agitators, and depression away. Caleb had always been your home and thank god because you wouldn't want your home to be with anyone else.

[goldfades]

who else decodes you? / who's gonna know you, if not me? / and who's gonna hold you like me? / no-fucking-body / so tell me, who else is gonna know me? | joe burrow⁹ (part one)

part two!!!!!

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 7.5k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had been inseparable since LSU, with him promising you everything—a dream home and a life together. everything felt perfect during your golden days, but as time passed, things shifted, and the cracks began to show in your once-perfect relationship

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst... just straight up angst. asshole-y joe, lots of fighting, reader being a trophy wife, just real sad things im sorry i wrote this yall. NO happy ending in this part, part 2 will have a happy ending dw guys!!!

You met Joe Burrow before the world did.

Before the Heisman, before the draft, before his name carried weight outside of Athens, Ohio. Before the sleek suits, the Cartier glasses, the endless debates about whether he was the next great quarterback of his generation. Before all of that, he was just Joe. Your Joe.

The one who texted you goodnight from his twin bed in his childhood home, the one who took you to McDonald’s after late-night practices because that’s all he could afford. The one who kissed you in the front seat of his beat-up truck, hands a little rough from lifting weights but gentle when they held your face.

You were there for it all.

Through the transfer to LSU, when he was just a backup with something to prove. Through the championship season, where he turned into a legend overnight. Through the draft, when you held his hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, waiting for the moment his name would be called. Through the move to Cincinnati, where you learned the ins and outs of being an NFL girlfriend—then an NFL wife in everything but title.

You never needed the ring to prove your place beside him. Not at first.

Because when you love someone for that long, when you’ve been there since day one, you assume you’ll be there forever. You assume that one day, when the time is right, you’ll walk down the aisle and he’ll be standing at the end of it. That the same boy who once promised you the world in a whisper under Louisiana stars would eventually make good on it.

But love isn’t always enough.

And timing? Timing has a cruel way of making a fool out of you.

Before the waiting, before the uncertainty—there was LSU.

The golden days.

The kind of love people wrote songs about, the kind that burned so bright it felt untouchable, invincible. You and Joe had been through the trenches of college life together—cheap dates, sleepless nights, long drives in his old truck where he talked about the future like it was already written in the stars.

Joe had always been a planner. He didn’t just dream—he mapped things out, broke them down into plays, like a game he knew he would win. And in every version of the future he spoke about, you were in it.

“I’m gonna make it,” he told you one night, lying in the back of his truck, staring at the Baton Rouge sky like it held all his answers. The air was thick with humidity, cicadas singing in the distance, but neither of you cared. You were twenty, wildly in love, and the world hadn’t touched you yet. “I don’t care how long it takes, or how many people doubt me—I’m making it to the league.”

You smiled, running a hand through his hair. “I never doubted that.”

Joe turned then, propped himself up on an elbow, his sharp, determined eyes softening as he looked at you. “And when I do, I’m gonna give you everything.”

It wasn’t just a promise. It was a declaration.

Not just any ring—a rock. One that would catch the light from across the room, the kind that would make strangers do a double take. Not just any house—your dream home, the one you’d always wanted but never thought possible.

You had told him, once, in passing, the kind of house you loved. You were scrolling on your phone, lying with your feet in his lap, showing him a picture of a home that looked straight out of a magazine.

“That,” you had said, tapping the screen. “That’s the dream.”

White exterior, big windows—floor-to-ceiling in the living room, so the sunlight would pour in every morning. A wrap-around porch, because you always loved the idea of sitting outside with a glass of wine on summer nights. A kitchen with the biggest island imaginable, because you loved to cook, even if Joe barely trusted himself to make toast. A cozy sunroom, filled with mismatched chairs and overflowing bookshelves. A clawfoot bathtub in the master bath, where you could soak for hours after a long day.

Joe had barely glanced at the picture before he said, “Done.”

You laughed. “Joe, that house is like… five million dollars.”

“So?” He had smirked, cocky and confident in that way only he could pull off. “Give me a couple years.”

You shook your head, amused, but deep down, you believed him. You believed him because when Joe Burrow set his mind to something, it happened.

And when you asked, jokingly, what kind of dog he wanted, he just scoffed.

“Dogs? No. We’re gonna have like, eight cats.”

You snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He stretched out, hands behind his head, already painting the picture in his mind. “They’ll have dumb names, too. Like, I don’t know… Fettuccine. Or Tuxedo. Or—oh—Larry.”

“Larry?”

“Yeah. Larry’s gonna be the ringleader.”

You shook your head, laughing so hard you had to wipe tears from your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joe just grinned, pulling you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You love me.”

And you did. God, you did.

You loved him through the highs—the Heisman win, the national championship, the night he got drafted when you held his face in your hands and told him this is it, baby. This is everything you worked for.

You loved him through the lows—when he tore his ACL his rookie year and sat in silence for hours, devastated, gripping your hand so tight it went numb. When the pressure of the league weighed heavy on him and he retreated inward, needing space, needing you to be his anchor without him ever having to say it.

You loved him because he was Joe.

Because he was the boy who once whispered about forever under Louisiana stars, who promised you a rock, a dream house, and eight cats named Larry and Fettuccine.

Because you believed, back then, that promises were made to be kept.

--

It started small.

A casual comment, barely even a question, when you were knee-deep in cardboard boxes in your new Cincinnati apartment. You’d been together for years by then, had already lived together in Baton Rouge, but this—this felt different. More permanent. He was the face of a franchise now, the golden boy of an entire city. And you? You were the woman who had been by his side through it all.

So when you held up a framed photo—one of the two of you from his LSU days, his arm wrapped around you, both of you grinning like you had the whole world ahead of you—you said it without thinking.

“Guess we’ll need some wedding pictures to put up soon, huh?”

It was light, teasing, the same way you’d joked about it a hundred times before. But this time, Joe didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.

He just exhaled through his nose, set down the box he was carrying, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m still adjusting to all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the apartment, the city, the new life he was stepping into. “Let’s just… settle in first.”

You told yourself it made sense.

Joe had always been slow to process change. He liked routine, predictability. He had just gone from college quarterback to the number-one draft pick, from playing in front of thousands to playing in front of millions. If he needed time, you’d give it to him.

And so you did.

You poured yourself into the role of supportive girlfriend, the unwavering presence behind the scenes. You went to every game, wore his jersey, kept your social media lowkey even when the WAGs of the league started reaching out. You made sure home felt like a safe haven for him—a place where he wasn’t Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, but just Joe.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two.

And still, nothing.

You tried to be patient. You tried not to compare. But it was impossible not to notice when guys who had been in the league half as long as Joe were proposing to their girlfriends. When you went to team events and saw wives flashing diamond rings, their hands resting on their husbands’ arms like they belonged there. When your own friends started getting married, settling down, building the life you always thought you and Joe were working toward.

You weren’t the kind of girl who begged for a ring. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t why you loved him. But you also weren’t stupid.

So, one night, after a Bengals win, when it was just the two of you curled up on the couch—Joe half-asleep, his head resting on your thigh—you ran your fingers through his hair and asked,

“Do you ever think about it?”

His eyes cracked open slightly. “Think about what?”

“Marriage.”

The word hung in the air between you, heavy in a way that made your stomach tighten.

Joe didn’t sit up, didn’t tense. But he also didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the ceiling, his fingers drumming lightly against your leg.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I think about it.”

That was it. No elaboration. No follow-up.

And maybe it was the years of knowing him, of reading between the lines of what he didn’t say, but something about his tone sent a cold prickle down your spine.

You swallowed. “And?”

Joe sighed, shifting so he was looking up at you fully. His face was tired, drawn, the way it always was after a game.

“I love you,” he said first, because Joe always led with love, even when he was about to disappoint you. “I just don’t know if I’m… ready for all that.”

All that. Like marriage was some heavy, unbearable thing. Like it was a burden, instead of the only thing you’d ever wanted with him.

But you didn’t push. You never pushed.

You just nodded, kissed his forehead, and told yourself that he just needed more time.

You’d already given him years. What was a little longer?

For every golden memory, there was a night that ended with you crying into your pillow, your chest aching from the weight of words left unheard.

And Joe was never the type to yell.

That was the problem.

You could scream, slam cabinets, cry until your eyes were swollen, beg him to just say something—but Joe would sit there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance. Silent. Stone-faced. Like he was waiting for a storm to pass rather than standing in the middle of it with you.

And when he was done listening, when he decided he had nothing to say, he’d just walk away.

No slammed doors. No cruel words. Just an exhale through his nose and the slow, deliberate sound of his footsteps leaving the room.

Then came the silence.

Hours, sometimes days, where he wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t acknowledge the way you curled up on your side of the bed, arms wrapped around yourself because if he wouldn’t hold you, you had to do it yourself.

It always started the same way.

Joe had never been a selfish person—at least, not intentionally. He loved you, worshipped you in his own quiet way. But he was also a man who had spent his entire life being taken care of.

First by his parents. Then by his coaches. Then by you.

At first, it hadn’t bothered you. You wanted to take care of him, because loving Joe Burrow meant making sure he ate real meals instead of surviving off protein shakes and granola bars. It meant picking up after him when he left his clothes on the floor, washing his jerseys so they always smelled like fresh detergent instead of sweat, keeping your home together while he threw every ounce of himself into football.

But over time, something shifted.

The gestures that had once been acts of love started to feel expected. You would spend hours cooking his favorite meal, only for him to eat in front of the TV without so much as a thank you. You’d clean up after him like clockwork, while he’d scroll through his phone, oblivious to the way you were moving around him like a ghost. You handled the small things—the groceries, the laundry, the appointments—so he never had to think about them. And the worst part? He didn’t think about them.

He didn’t think about how exhausting it was to pour so much of yourself into another person and get nothing in return.

One night, after a long day where you’d cooked, cleaned, and ran errands while Joe came home from practice, showered, and immediately planted himself on the couch, something in you snapped.

You had been standing in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes, while Joe sat in the living room, watching game film, oblivious to the way your hands were trembling from frustration.

“Joe,” you called, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hummed, eyes still on the screen.

You turned off the faucet, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Do you even see me anymore?”

That got his attention. His head lifted slightly, brows furrowing. “What?”

“Do you see me?” you repeated, voice shaking now. “Or am I just here? Like some… unpaid assistant who cooks your meals and cleans your shit and waits around for you to remember I exist?”

Joe blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. Frustration. A bubbling anger that had been simmering for months. “I do everything for you. And I never ask for anything in return. But you don’t even appreciate it, Joe. You don’t see it. You don’t see me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus, babe. I—look, I didn’t ask you to do all that.”

Your heart sank.

There it was. The knife, twisted so deep you almost doubled over from the pain of it.

You swallowed, eyes stinging. “You shouldn’t have to ask for basic effort.”

Joe exhaled sharply, pushing himself up from the couch. “I don’t have the energy for this right now.”

And then, just like always, he walked away.

The silence stretched for days.

No matter how loud you got, how many tears you shed, it never mattered.

Because Joe didn’t scream.

Joe shut down.

--

The restaurant was dimly lit, the kind of place where the wine was poured before you even asked and the waiters moved so seamlessly you barely noticed them. It was a Bengals event—one of those exclusive, high-end dinners meant to bring players and their partners together, a little PR, a little networking, all wrapped in the illusion of luxury. Normally, you didn’t mind them.

But tonight? Tonight, Joe was off.

He had been for weeks. Ever since the injury, ever since he had to watch his team play without him, it was like the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders and refused to budge. You had tried, God, you had tried—to comfort him, to give him space, to be exactly what he needed. But no matter what you did, it felt wrong.

He barely talked. Barely looked at you. And when he did, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t place.

Resentment?

Disappointment?

You didn’t know.

So you sat at the table, plastering on a smile, sipping your wine, pretending everything was fine as the conversation buzzed around you. Ja’Marr and his girlfriend, a few of the other guys, their partners. The usual crowd.

The joke started innocent enough.

“You’re literally the dream NFL WAG,” Ja’Marr’s girlfriend said, laughing as she leaned over toward you. “Like, you do everything for him. Cook, clean, go to every game. You’re basically the gold standard.”

The table chuckled.

You laughed, too, but there was something hollow about it. It wasn’t that the statement was wrong. It was just that… for the past few months, being Joe’s girlfriend hadn’t felt like a dream. It had felt like an uphill battle, like loving him was a test you were always on the verge of failing.

But before you could say anything, Joe scoffed.

Loudly.

The kind of sound that cut through the easy, playful atmosphere and made everyone shift in their seats.

You turned to him, confused, but Joe wasn’t looking at you. His jaw was clenched, his grip tight around the base of his glass.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, sharp, edged with something you couldn’t name.

The table went quiet.

Your stomach sank.

“Joe,” you said softly, placing a hand on his arm, but he pulled away, shaking his head.

“I need air.”

And just like that, he was on his feet, pushing back his chair, striding toward the exit without another word.

You barely hesitated before following.

The moment you stepped outside, the cold air hit you like a slap. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for a few blacked-out SUVs and a couple of lingering staff members. Joe was already a few steps ahead, his hands on his hips, breathing hard like he was trying to keep himself together.

You didn’t care. You weren’t going to let this go.

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, heels clicking against the pavement as you caught up to him.

Joe exhaled sharply, tilting his head back toward the sky. “I don’t wanna do this right now.”

“No. No.” You grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t get to humiliate me in front of everyone and then walk away like nothing happened.”

Joe turned then, eyes flashing with something you had never seen before. Rage.

“You think I don’t know?” His voice was louder now, cutting through the night air, his face twisted in frustration. “You think I don’t fucking see the way you take care of everything? How perfect you are? How much you do for me?”

Your breath hitched. This wasn’t the first time you’d fought, not even close. But this was different.

This was Joe shouting.

He never shouted.

“You think I don’t know how much you’ve sacrificed? How much you’ve had to deal with while I sit on the fucking sidelines, watching my team play without me?” His hands were in his hair now, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You think I don’t feel like a goddamn failure every second of every day? That I don’t fucking hate myself for it?”

Your chest tightened. “Joe—”

“I get it, okay?” His voice was hoarse, his breathing heavy. “I get it. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve any of this.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating.

Then, finally, you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I never said that.”

Joe looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you saw it.

The exhaustion. The fear. The guilt.

And underneath it all, something else. Something raw and painful and impossible to ignore.

“I can’t do this,” he said suddenly, shaking his head, stepping back. “Not tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. “Joe.”

But he was already turning away.

Already leaving.

And for the first time, you didn’t go after him.

Time, though, has a funny way of making fools out of people.

Because a little longer turned into another year. And another.

And soon, you weren’t just the girlfriend who had been with Joe since before the fame. You were the girlfriend who was still waiting. The one people whispered about at games, in comment sections, in DMs you tried not to read.

Why hasn’t he proposed yet? If he wanted to marry her, he would’ve by now. She’s been with him forever. That’s kinda embarrassing.

You weren’t stupid. You heard the whispers. You ignored them, brushed them off, laughed about them with Joe like they didn’t sting.

But deep down, they did.

And then, one night, you cracked.

It wasn’t planned. You weren’t trying to pick a fight. You were just lying in bed beside Joe, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, when an engagement post popped up on your feed. Another NFL couple. Another ring. Another reminder.

You set your phone down. Turned toward Joe, who was staring at the ceiling like he always did when he couldn’t sleep.

“Joe,” you said softly.

He hummed in response, eyes still fixed upward.

“Are you ever going to marry me?”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t bitter. Just quiet. Tired.

Joe closed his eyes. Let out a slow breath. And in that moment, you already knew the answer.

Not yet. Not now. I need more time.

The same thing he’d been saying for years.

But this time, you weren’t sure you could keep waiting.

--

It didn’t happen in one moment. It wasn’t a clean break, a single conversation where you both sat down, acknowledged the inevitable, and walked away like two people who had outgrown each other.

No, it was ugly. It was heartbreaking. It was loud.

It started in the living room, the place that had once been your sanctuary. The place where you curled up on the couch together after long days, where you laid your head on his lap while he absentmindedly played with your hair, where he kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

But tonight, it was a battleground.

You stood near the coffee table, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to keep from falling apart, while Joe paced in front of the fireplace, his hands tangled in his hair. His face was flushed, his breathing uneven, his entire body radiating frustration. But under it—under the anger, the exhaustion—was something else.

Defeat.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Joe muttered, voice low but strained, like it physically hurt him to say it out loud.

Your stomach twisted. “Doing what?”

“This!” He gestured between the two of you, his voice louder now, raw with emotion. “The fighting, the tension, the constant feeling that no matter what I do, I’m letting you down.”

You flinched, because that wasn’t fair.

He wasn’t letting you down—he was shutting you out. Pushing you away, piece by piece, until you barely recognized the man standing in front of you.

And yet, despite it all, you still wanted to fight.

You needed to fight.

“Joe, you haven’t even tried—”

His laugh was hollow, sharp. “Tried? Are you kidding me?” He shook his head, running a frustrated hand down his face. “I have been trying for months. Trying to be what you need, trying to hold this shit together while I feel like I’m losing everything.”

Your throat tightened. “I never asked you to hold it together alone.”

He looked at you then, and the pain in his eyes nearly brought you to your knees.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “And that’s the worst fucking part.”

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

Because suddenly, you saw it—the breaking point. The moment where all the fights, all the silences, all the nights spent lying in the same bed but feeling miles apart had led to.

This was it.

You swallowed, hard. “Joe… don’t do this.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know how to be what you need anymore.”

“I don’t need you to be anything—I just need you to try,” you choked out, hot tears spilling over your cheeks.

“I am trying!” His voice cracked, his hands gripping his hair like he was barely holding himself together. “But I’m not enough for you! And I don’t think I ever will be!”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Your breath hitched, and for a second, everything blurred—your vision, your thoughts, reality itself. Because how could he say that? How could he look at you, after everything, and think he wasn’t enough?

He had always been enough.

He had been everything.

Your chest heaved, your heart splintering, but you forced yourself to take a step forward, reaching for him like you had so many times before.

But this time, Joe stepped back.

Like touching you would break him completely.

Like it already had.

A sob ripped through your throat. “Joe, please—”

His eyes were glassy now, his own tears threatening to fall. But his face was set, his hands shaking at his sides.

“This isn’t working anymore.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through you like a blade.

And just like that, the world tilted.

You had imagined a lot of worst-case scenarios over the past few months—imagined nights where he would sleep on the couch, imagined him needing time apart, even imagined him telling you he wasn’t ready for marriage yet.

But this?

This was never supposed to happen.

He was supposed to fight.

He was supposed to love you enough to stay.

But instead, Joe exhaled shakily, like this was killing him too, and took another step back.

Like he had already made his decision.

Like he was already gone.

And then, through the unbearable tightness in your throat, through the tears blurring your vision, you said the only thing you could.

“What about everything you promised me?”

His face broke. Just for a second.

And then, softer than you’d ever heard him, he whispered, “I meant every word.”

And still, he turned away. Still, he walked to the door, grabbed his keys, and hesitated for only a second before pulling it open.

And you stood there, frozen in time, watching as the love of your life—the boy who once promised you forever under Louisiana stars—walked out of your life like he had never meant to stay.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was deafening.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Your legs gave out before you even realized you were falling. You collapsed onto the couch, hands clutching your chest as if that would somehow stop the pain, as if pressing hard enough could keep your heart from shattering.

But it did.

Piece by piece. And Joe?

Joe was gone.

--

Joe wasn’t sure when it started.

The feeling had been creeping up on him for months—slow at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, something he could ignore if he kept moving, if he kept winning.

But then he got hurt.

And suddenly, there was nowhere to run.

No game to prepare for, no film to study, no Sunday nights under the lights where he could lose himself in the only thing that had ever made him feel like enough.

He had always known you were out of his league. Everyone did.

You were a force—bright and untouchable, the kind of woman who could walk into a room and have everyone wrapped around your finger without even trying. You were loved in ways Joe had never been. Not because of what you did, not because of your talent or your career, but just because of who you were.

And Joe?

Joe was… Joe.

He had worked for everything. Clawed his way to the top, gritted his teeth through every setback, played with a chip on his shoulder so sharp it could cut. He had spent his entire life proving people wrong, showing them he was worth it, and still, sometimes it felt like it wasn’t enough.

But not with you. At least, not at first.

At first, you had looked at him like he was someone special—not because of football, not because he was Joe Burrow, but because he was yours. And for a while, that had been enough.

But then the marriage thing came up.

Then the quiet expectation that he was supposed to take the next step, that he was supposed to be ready.

And fuck, he wanted to be.

He wanted to put a ring on your finger, wanted to build a life with you, wanted to buy you the house you dreamed about and fill it with all the stupid cats he promised you back at LSU.

But the more you pushed, the more it felt like he was already failing.

You deserved the world, and he—he wasn’t sure he knew how to give it to you. You had grown up with love. Joe had grown up with pressure.

Your family adored you, your friends would kill for you, strangers on the internet called you an angel, and the worst part? They were right.

You were perfect. You were kind, and patient, and you gave so much of yourself without ever asking for anything in return—until, eventually, you did.

Until you started looking at him like you needed something more.

And maybe that’s when it started.

The resentment. The guilt.

The way he began shutting down because every time he looked at you, he saw someone who had given him everything, and all he could do was hold it in his hands and wonder when he was going to drop it.

So he pulled away.

And then he got injured. And then it got worse.

Because for the first time in his life, Joe had nothing to offer.

Football was gone. He was stuck on the sidelines, watching his teammates play without him, watching the world move forward while he stood still. And every time he came home, there you were—beautiful and untouchable and looking at him with so much love, and God, it made him want to rip his fucking hair out.

Because you weren’t supposed to love him like that.

Not when he was like this. Not when he felt like nothing.

And so, he made himself nothing to you.

He let the silence stretch between you, let the fights spiral into something he couldn’t control, let the guilt eat him alive until the only option left was to let you go.

Not because he wanted to. Not because he didn’t love you.

But because he loved you too much to keep being a disappointment.

Because you were everything. And he was just him.

--

Joe barely remembered the drive to Ja’Marr’s house.

The roads were dark and wet from rain, the city quiet in the way it only got after midnight, and yet everything inside him was loud. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his hands gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were white, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts, like his body was still trying to catch up to what had just happened.

He had left.

He had actually left.

The second Ja’Marr opened the door, his easygoing expression dropped. “Shit.”

Joe must have looked as bad as he felt.

Ja’Marr didn’t ask questions, didn’t crack a joke or act like this was nothing. He just stepped aside, letting Joe in without a word.

Joe walked past him, straight to the couch, sinking down like his body couldn’t hold him up anymore. His hands were still shaking. He stared at them, trying to steady his breath, but the more he tried to push it down, the worse it got.

He felt like he was imploding.

Ja’Marr sat across from him, elbows on his knees. “You good?”

Joe huffed out something that was supposed to be a laugh but came out broken.

“No,” he admitted.

And then, just like that, the weight of it all came crashing down.

He broke.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, Joe let himself feel it.

His shoulders caved, his head fell into his hands, and before he could stop himself, a sob tore through his chest. It wasn’t quiet, wasn’t controlled—it was raw, guttural, the kind of grief that sat heavy in his ribcage and made him feel like he was drowning.

Ja’Marr swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Damn, man.”

Joe couldn’t respond. He could barely breathe.

Because he had spent so long trying to convince himself this was the right thing—that letting you go was necessary, that it was better for you, that one day you’d understand—but now, sitting on his best friend’s couch, in a house that wasn’t his, without you, it hit him.

You weren’t in the next room.

You weren’t waiting for him to come back.

You weren’t his anymore.

And for the first time since he met you, since you were just a girl in his corner, since he was just a college quarterback with a dream—he was alone.

—

The house was silent.

The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but hollow.

You stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, staring at the front door as if it would swing open at any second, as if Joe would walk back in, apologize, say he didn’t mean it.

But the house stayed empty.

You should’ve done something—gone to bed, taken a shower, moved—but you couldn’t.

Your body felt detached, like you were floating just outside of yourself, watching as the reality of what had happened settled into your bones.

He was gone.

You sucked in a shaky breath, your eyes darting around the room, landing on all the pieces of him he had left behind. His hoodie draped over the back of the couch. His sneakers kicked off near the door. The blanket you always fought over, still crumpled where he had last used it.

Your throat tightened.

It felt wrong.

How was it possible that someone could just leave, and yet everything still looked the same? How was it possible that the world hadn’t just stopped?

Your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You grabbed his hoodie, pulling it into your chest, clutching it so tightly your fingers ached. It still smelled like him—like his cologne, like home, like everything you were supposed to have forever.

A sharp, broken sob tore through you.

Your legs gave out.

You sank onto the floor, your body curling in on itself, gasping for air between sobs that didn’t seem to end.

You had imagined a million worst-case scenarios for your relationship, but you had never imagined this.

A fight, maybe. A bad one.

A few nights apart, maybe even a week.

But not this.

Not a house that suddenly felt too big, too cold, too wrong without him in it.

Not a silence that felt like it would swallow you whole.

Not an ending that you weren’t ready for.

Not Joe—your Joe—leaving, and not coming back.

Joe didn’t tell his parents right away.

He had gone weeks pretending it wasn’t real, pushing it down, acting like if he ignored it long enough, it wouldn’t hurt. Like the breakup was just another fight, another rough patch, and any second now, you’d come home.

But then spring rolled around, and he found himself back in Athens for a few days, sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, pushing food around his plate while his mom chatted about some wedding she had gone to.

He barely heard her—until she said your name.

“I just know she’ll look so beautiful at her own wedding one day,” Robin said, smiling like the thought made her happy. “Did she ever decide on a dress style? I remember she showed me a few options the last time we talked.”

Joe’s fork clattered against the plate.

His parents looked up.

The room suddenly felt too small. The walls too close. The weight in his chest unbearable.

“She’s not picking a dress,” he said flatly.

His mom’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”

Joe exhaled sharply, staring at the table. His throat felt tight, his hands fisting in his lap. “We broke up.”

Silence.

Not the kind he was used to. Not the easy kind.

His dad was the first to speak. “When?”

“A while ago.” His voice was hoarse, his jaw tight.

Robin looked like he had just slapped her across the face. “Joe… what?”

She sounded hurt.

Like he had broken her heart, too.

“You didn’t tell us?”

Joe swallowed. “I didn’t know how.”

His mom was still frozen in shock. “But—why? What happened?”

Joe should have had an answer. He should have been able to give them some logical, concrete reason why the only real love he had ever known had just… ended.

But there wasn’t one. Not really.

So he just shook his head. “I wasn’t enough for her.”

His dad exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Joe—”

Robin’s eyes filled with tears, and that—that was what finally did it. That was the moment it hit him, the moment the denial shattered and left nothing but cold, brutal truth in its place.

You were gone.

Not just for a few days.

Not just waiting for him to fix it.

You were gone.

Joe scraped his chair back so suddenly it screeched against the floor.

“I gotta go,” he muttered, standing up, hands shaking.

“Joe—”

“I just—I gotta go.”

And then he was out the door, out of the house, into his car, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

His vision blurred. His chest caved in.

He sucked in a sharp breath, trying to hold it together.

It didn’t work.

That was the moment Joe decided he needed a distraction.

A new game plan. A new something—because if he let himself sit in this pain, if he let himself really feel it, it might consume him completely.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He threw himself into excess.

He spent money like it was nothing, like it was oxygen, like keeping the spending going would somehow fill the empty space inside of him. New cars, new watches, expensive nights out where the bill was triple what it needed to be. If someone wanted a round of shots? Joe was covering it. If his guys wanted to go to Miami for the weekend? No problem.

And the women.

That was the easiest distraction of all.

They were everywhere—at the clubs, at the restaurants, at the parties where he never used to go but suddenly needed to be. They touched him like they wanted him, smiled at him like he was the most important man in the room. And for a few hours at a time, he let them.

He let them run their hands over his chest, let them whisper in his ear, let them follow him back to hotel rooms or his new penthouse in the city.

He let them treat him like he was whole.

But then morning would come, and the illusion would shatter.

Every single time, he’d wake up next to someone who wasn’t you.

Someone whose perfume didn’t smell like yours. Someone whose touch didn’t feel like home. Someone who would roll over, press lazy kisses to his skin, and call him baby in a way that made his stomach twist.

Because you used to call him that.

And now you never would again.

It was supposed to feel good. It was supposed to be freeing, making up for lost time, for all the years he had spent as the devoted boyfriend, the one-woman man, the guy who turned down numbers and shut down flirting because he only wanted you.

But none of it worked.

None of it made him feel better.

Because at the end of the day, he was still Joe.

And you were still gone.

It took one of his teammates pulling him aside one night to finally say what he couldn’t.

“Bro,” Sam said, hand on Joe’s shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Joe blinked, pulling his attention away from whatever girl had been whispering in his ear at the bar. “What?”

Sam gave him a look. “You’re not this guy.”

Joe let out a sharp laugh. “I’m fine.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Joe didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

But he wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

So he just exhaled, forced a smirk, and lifted his drink. “Don’t worry about me, man.”

But Sam was worried.

And deep down, Joe knew why.

Because no matter how many nights he spent surrounded by people, no matter how much money he threw at the problem, no matter how many women climbed into his bed—

The only thing he ever felt anymore was hollow.

--

The day you packed your bags and left Cincinnati, you didn’t cry.

You had done enough of that.

Your best friend had offered—begged, really—for you to come stay with her in Columbus, and after weeks of waking up in a house that no longer felt like a home, you finally said yes.

It wasn’t running away.

It was survival.

Joe had been your world for so long that, without him, you weren’t sure where to stand. Your entire adult life had revolved around him—his schedule, his dreams, his highs, his lows. You had built a life inside of his. And now, that life was gone.

So, for the first time in years, you weren’t trying to be somebody’s something. You weren’t trying to be the perfect girlfriend, the supportive WAG, the woman who held it all together.

You were just trying to be you.

Whoever that was.

—

Columbus was different.

It wasn’t Cincinnati, where every street corner reminded you of Joe. Where the grocery store held memories of early-morning runs before his games. Where your favorite restaurant was the place he took you after he signed his first big contract. Where you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing a billboard with his face plastered on it, a cruel reminder that he was still Joe Burrow, still untouchable, still larger than life—just not yours anymore.

Columbus was quiet. A fresh start.

Your best friend had a cozy apartment near downtown, and the first night you arrived, she didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She just ordered takeout, opened a bottle of wine, and let you sit in silence.

That first week, you didn’t do much.

You slept too much, or not at all. Some nights, you laid awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if Joe was doing the same. Other nights, exhaustion won, and you crashed so hard you barely dreamed.

The dreams were the worst.

Because in them, he was still yours.

You still woke up to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, still felt the weight of his arm draped over your waist, still heard his voice murmuring morning, baby in that slow, sleep-rough tone he always had.

But then morning would come, and none of it was real.

So, you started over.

You got a cat.

It wasn’t planned—you had just gone to the shelter one afternoon, thinking you’d look, thinking maybe it would distract you for a few minutes. But then you saw her.

Small. A little scrappy. White with a black spot over her eye, looking at you like she had already decided you belonged to her.

The name came easily.

“Larry,” you told the adoption worker, lips twitching into something like a smile. “Her name is Larry.”

Joe would’ve laughed at that.

Joe would’ve—

No.

This wasn’t about Joe.

Larry was yours.

So you took her home, bought her the stupidest, most ridiculous toys you could find, and let her curl up on your chest at night, purring so loudly it drowned out the silence.

You learned how to French braid.

You had never bothered before—your hair had always been something he liked, something he ran his fingers through when he was half-asleep on the couch. But now? Now, you spent hours watching tutorials, standing in front of the mirror, fingers twisting and looping until, finally, you got it right.

It was small, stupid even. But it was something just for you.

You started reading.

At first, it was just a way to pass the time—something to do instead of scrolling through Instagram, instead of wondering what he was doing. But then you fell into it, deep. You found yourself curled up on the couch for hours, lost in stories, letting yourself escape into other people’s lives.

Romance novels were hard at first. Because love still felt like a wound, like something sharp and raw and too close to home.

But one day, months after the breakup, you found yourself reading a love story and not feeling like your chest was caving in.

That was progress.

You cooked for yourself.

You had always cooked for Joe—his favorites, his comfort foods, the meals he requested after long practices. But now, you cooked what you wanted. You tried new recipes, bought ingredients you had never used before, made dishes with no one else’s preferences in mind.

It was weird, at first.

But then, one night, you sat at the table, eating something just for you, and it didn’t feel lonely.

It felt… peaceful.

You went on long walks, alone, with no one to check in with. You bought flowers for yourself. You started journaling, writing down things you had never let yourself think too hard about.

You let yourself exist.

And one day—on a random, unremarkable afternoon—you realized something. It had been weeks since you last thought of him.

Not that he was gone.

Not that it didn’t still hurt, sometimes, in quiet moments when you weren’t expecting it.

But for the first time, in a long, long time—

You felt like you. Without him.

[girlgenius1111]

forgiveness is warm, like a tear on a cheek

alexia putellas x reader alexia feels neglected by her girlfriend. r is drowning at work. everything comes to a head, and r says things she doesn't mean. she has to figure out how to make it up to alexia, if she even can. angst -> fluff fluff fluff :) back to my hurt/comfort roots

—

Walking through the door, you barely had the energy to slide your shoes off and drop your keys into the dish on the hallway table. 

You were so tired. Deep down in your very soul, in your bones, you were exhausted. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to take a quick shower, and climb into bed. But Alexia had a match earlier, and you’d seen her name on the scoresheet twice, when you checked on your break. You knew she’d be excited to rehash the whole match with you. And it wasn’t that you didn’t want that; you loved nothing more than seeing the enthusiasm and excitement on her face when she talked about football. You were just so tired.

It was more than just being tired, you knew that. But Alexia couldn’t, you wouldn’t let her take on that burden on top of everything else she had to deal with. 

Sure enough, you’d barely taken two steps into the living room before a blur of soft sweats and fading blonde hair was crossing the room towards you. 

“Mi amor!” Alexia called sweetly, sweeping you into her arms in a tight hug. It was the best moment of your day by far, feeling the warm and comforting embrace of your girlfriend.

“Hi baby,” you murmured, voice muffled against her shoulder. “I saw your goals, they were beautiful.” 

Alexia pulled away just enough for you to see the happy grin on her face. “Gracias, amor. It was such a good match, everyone just clicked. I had a through pass to Pina and–”

“Ale? Can I shower and then you can tell me about it?” You interrupted, noting the way her face fell just slightly at your words. “I’m sorry, it was such a long day and I feel so gross. I want to hear, I just need to be clean first.” 

Your girlfriend recovered quickly, leaning in to give you a quick kiss before nudging you in the direction of the bathroom. “Por supuesto. Go shower, I’ll meet you in bed.” 

You squeezed her hand gratefully, turning and heading for the bathroom. It would be a miracle if you made it through the shower without falling asleep, and even bigger one if you made it longer than 30 seconds in bed without passing out in the middle of Alexia’s post match rehash. But you had to try.

—

Somehow, perhaps through divine intervention, you managed not to fall asleep in the shower, or immediately once your head hit the pillow. It was probably also because of the excitement in Alexia’s voice as she told you every detail about the match, the way her eyes lit up and she unconsciously gestured wildly with her hands.  

After twenty minutes of very detailed descriptions of each goal and play that Alexia felt especially proud of, she could see you were trying valiantly not to nod off. 

“And Aitana was right there! I didn’t even really see her, I just knew someone would be there.” She paused, looking down to where you were staring up at her, jaw clenched and eyes forced to remain open. “Okay, bebé, I’ll let you sleep now.” 

“If there’s more–” You cut yourself off with a yawn, making Alexia chuckle and lean in to press kisses to your cheek. 

“No, you’re falling asleep. You’ve had a long day. Besides, we both have tomorrow off, we can spend the whole day talking about football.” Alexia said cheekily. You knew she was only half kidding. 

“Oh, I have to go into work for a bit tomorrow. I have charting to catch up on, but then I’m all yours.” 

Silence. You wondered why you didn’t know what Alexia’s face was doing, before realizing your eyes were shut. You forced them open again, and looked at your girlfriend, who had pulled away slightly and was studying the ceiling above her like there was a secret message she needed to decode. 

“Ale?”

Alexia was silent for another moment, and when she did speak, her voice was strained. “I thought tomorrow was our day. No work, for either of us. That’s what we planned.” 

You sighed, fighting off another yawn. “I know, baby, but I have to get this done. It will only be a few hours max, I promise.” 

“You can’t do it another day?” 

Frustration began to build in your chest, even though you knew it wasn’t really fair. “I don’t have another day. I work almost the whole week because I had to pick up other people’s shifts so that they could take my shifts for the weekend I’m going to watch you in Madrid.”

Alexia frowned, and you instantly regretted your tone of voice. You hadn’t meant to sound so irritated, really. 

“If that weekend is too hard–” 

“No, Alexia, I said I’d go, I’ll be there.” You interrupted, trying and failing to catch her eye. 

“I just miss you.” Alexia said quietly. “I feel… I feel like you do not always make time for me.” 

It felt like your heart was in a vice, being squeezed painfully. You understood where she was coming from, really. She had a point. You just couldn’t have this conversation right now, couldn’t address how unhealthy your work life balance was becoming. You didn’t have the energy. 

“Alexia, can we talk about this tomorrow? Please? I’m so tired and—”

“You are always tired.” Alexia snapped, leaning back into the pillows. “You never want to have this talk but I need to, we need to.”

“I am always tired because I work a 12 hour shift in a hospital with kids!” You replied incredulously. 

In that moment, you knew you should shut the argument down, yet there was nothing you could do with both of you already angry.  

“Yes, yes. Of course. Your job is exhausting, your job is more important than mine. You are tired, and that matters more than my feelings. I do not know why I expected anything else.” 

“Alexia, please.” You sighed. 

“Don’t talk to me like that! Like I am the bad person for wanting to spend time with my girlfriend. I am stressed too, I am tired too. I still make time for you.” 

You sat up, burying your face in your hands, not even sure you were awake anymore or if this was some kind of weird dream. “Alexia, I make time for you. I go to your matches as often as I physically can. I spent half my summer flying back and forth between here and Paris for the Olympics. I don’t know what more you want from me.” 

“I want you. I like to have you at my matches, but I want to spend time with you. Not in between shifts while you’re half asleep and grouchy. All you do is work! All the time, constantly. It’s like you don’t care that I want to see you.” 

“Alexia, you’re being ridiculous.” 

“No! I’m not! It’s like you only want me when it’s convenient for you, and most of the time that means showing up to matches where your picture gets taken.” Alexia snapped. 

She froze. You froze. You could see on her face she didn’t mean it, could see it was just an insecurity of her own that she was pushing onto you. At that point, though, you didn’t care if she meant it or not. You were so tired, and so upset, there wasn’t anything left to filter your words. 

“Jesus, Alexia. I am doing my best. I’m sorry my job doesn’t allow me to have an obscene amount of freetime! I’m sorry there is more to my job than kicking a ball around a field, and laughing with my teammates.” You shouted back, sliding out from under the covers and beginning to pace.  

“God forbid I’m tired! God forbid I want to come home and go to sleep without listening to you go on and on about football and goals and passes. I have a career, and I’m sorry that doesn’t fit with your expectations of me being some kind of stay at home girlfriend who just lives to worship the ground you walk on at all times.” 

A sniffle broke through the haze of anger. Your head snapped up, as if you were just realizing what you’d said. It hadn’t even been conscious, most of it hadn’t been true. That wasn’t what you thought of her or how you saw her. It was just words put together to hurt her the way she’d hurt you.

But you’d been right earlier, about needing to shut the argument down before it went too far. It had gone too far, now, and the devastated look on your girlfriend’s face told you that a thousand times over. Her eyebrows were pulled together, jaw clenched to stop herself from crying even as tears slipped free and ran down her cheeks. Regret slammed into you like a truck, like ten semi trucks one right after the other. 

The hurt from her own words still swirled around inside, leaving you on the brink of tears as you struggled to say something, anything to undo what you’d just done. 

“Alexia, I’m sorry, I didn’t–” 

“Goodnight.” Alexia interrupted. Without another word, she turned her lamp off and rolled over, pulling the covers tight around her. 

You knew better than to try to fix it right then. She wouldn’t want to hear your apologies, not when the pain was so fresh. 

“I’m sorry, Ale.” You whispered, grabbing the pillow off your side of the bed before heading out into the living room. A part of you wanted to apologize again and again, beg for forgiveness. Another part of you wanted to demand she apologize, too. Most of you, though, wanted to collapse onto the floor and cry until you couldn’t feel anything anymore. 

—

You didn’t sleep that night. And if the bags under Alexia’s eyes were any indication, she hadn’t either. You were folding the blankets on the couch when she emerged from the bedroom, a barça shirt and shorts already on. She didn’t look at you as she walked by and into the kitchen, didn’t give any indication that she knew you were there. 

It was deserved, more than deserved. Recently, it wasn’t uncommon that you started the morning with a weight on your chest, anxiety twisting in your gut. This time, though, the root cause was different. 

Everything was falling apart, and it was all your fault. Work was destroying you, tearing you down piece by piece. You were falling apart, and instead of telling Alexia and letting her help make it better, you’d kept it to yourself and now you were facing the consequences. It wasn’t enough that everything was going wrong at work, you had to mess up everything at home, too. You were starting to think that’s the only thing you were good for; messing things up. Ruining the good. Hurting the people you loved. Not being good enough or strong enough to be what everyone needed you to be. 

Alexia left the house without speaking to you, and you hadn't expected anything less. She needed time to cool off, and she wouldn’t speak to you until that happened. A part of you worried she wouldn’t speak to you ever again, which you felt was warranted. 

As you began to run through your morning routine, your mind continued to race. 

You didn’t really get why Alexia had kept you around this long. She was Alexia; kind and strong and talented and perfect. She was perfect and so easy to love. She was everything you weren’t, and you didn’t understand why she’d ever chosen you. 

Maybe Alexia was wondering that right now. 

The thought made you sick to your stomach, made you want to chase her down to whatever pitch she’d gone to run through drills until she didn't feel the hurt anymore, and beg her to forgive you. You headed for the front door, still undecided on just where you were going, to work or to find Alexia.

You opened it, though, and found yourself face to face with someone who had an eerily similar face to your girlfriend’s. You jumped backwards, breath catching. 

“Sorry.” Alba said, though she didn’t look very sorry. “I was about to knock.” 

Your girlfriend’s sister pushed right past you into the house, and you hurried to shut the door and follow after her. 

“Ale isn’t here.” You said, speaking for the first time that morning and finding, to your horror, that your voice was raw from spending half the night sobbing on the couch. You knew you looked terrible, eyes puffy and rimmed red, dressed in the first jeans and tshirt that you could find. Alba looked impeccable, as she always did, but it wasn’t in her nature to judge, so you tried not to think too hard about it. 

Alba took a seat on said couch, raising her eyebrows at you. “I know. I’m here to talk to you.” 

You were so caught off guard by her appearing on your doorstep, so confused as to what she was doing in your house, that you took a seat on the couch beside her, like this was a completely normal occurrence. 

“About… what?” 

Alba rolled her eyes. “Alexia called me in tears last night after your fight.” 

You shifted uncomfortably. You knew Alba quite well, you liked her. She had always been sweet to you, but you knew she’d do anything for her sister. And while you respected that, you didn’t want to argue with Alba; you just wanted to figure out how to fix things with Alexia. 

“Alba, I–”

“No. I’m going first.” Alba declared. “Something isn’t right with you. Something hasn’t been right with you for months, but it seemed like it was only me who saw it, so I didn’t say anything. Not when you looked more and more exhausted every time I saw you, not when I came to bring you lunch at the hospital and you looked half dead. I didn’t think it was my place.” 

You wanted to interrupt that it still probably wasn’t her place, but you knew better than to interrupt Alba when she was in the middle of a speech. 

“I’ve known you for two years now, chica. And the things you said last night to my sister made me want to hit you with my car.” Alba continued, tucking one leg under her and leaning back into the couch cushions with her arms crossed.

You winced, not saying that you thought you might deserve it. 

“But I also know how out of character that was for you, and Alexia does too. She’s angry, chica, and hurt, otherwise she’d probably be having this conversation with you. Something is wrong, something is going on, and you are not okay. So we’re going to sit here, and you’re going to tell me what is wrong, and I am going to tell you how to fix it.” 

You opened your mouth, a thousand different sentences on the tip of your tongue. 

You were fine. Nothing was wrong, you’d just been tired the night before. You were sorry, but you’d work this out with Alexia. 

Different lies and half truths rushed through your head, but you didn’t say any of them, didn’t try to convince Alba that you were okay.

Instead, you sank back into the sofa cushions and opened your mouth, tears pooling in your eyes as you did so. And you told Alba everything, just as she’d said you would.

—

Alba, it turned out, gave really good advice. Some of it you already knew, like how you had to be honest with Alexia, and how you owed her a massive apology. But Alba had grown up with Alexia, and knew exactly what you needed to do to make it up to her. 

Alexia wanted quality time with you. Your support at matches was important to her, but she wanted to be with you more. She’d tried to tell you that, but you’d been too tired and frustrated to listen. So, with Alba’s help, you made a plan. Quality time with Alexia, where you could apologize and have a conversation. 

You just had to keep her in the room with you long enough to ask her about it. And, of course, she had to say yes. 

—

Alexia was meticulously measuring out the ingredients for her smoothie as you walked into the kitchen. Her posture tensed, but she didn’t acknowledge you, just as she’d been doing for the past day. Freshly showered, the blonde ends of her hair hung damp down her back, contrasting the bright green Nike sweatshirt she had pulled on. It was midday, and the sun was at the perfect spot to come in through the skylight, casting your girlfriend in a golden glow. 

She’d been home from whenever she’d gone for just under an hour, showered and now making herself a snack. Alba had left just a few minutes before Alexia arrived home, and if your girlfriend noticed the tear stains on your t-shirt, or the empty tissue box on the coffee table, she didn’t say anything.

She still hadn't even looked at you, and as terrified as you were of her rejecting your idea, rejecting your apology, rejecting you, you knew you had no choice. 

Alexia needs to know that you aren’t okay. You need to apologize, and she’ll forgive you. You just have to let her in, because she feels like you’ve completely shut her out. This is fixable, you just have to fix it.

With Alba’s words ringing in your head, you stepped closer and cleared your throat. 

“Ale? Can I talk to you?”

Alexia turned slowly, putting down the banana she was cutting in half and shrugging as if she didn't care. But you could see so clearly that she did care, the pain in her eyes making the guilt you were feeling grow exponentially. 

“I…um. I took the next three shifts off, I know you’re off too. I booked us at that bed and breakfast you wanted to go to for your birthday.” 

Alexia’s expression didn’t really change, but you swore you saw a flicker of interest in her eyes. 

“I was hoping you’d go with me. I… everything is messed up right now, and I know I messed it all up, but I want to fix it. We need to talk, and I think getting away would be good for us.” 

You held your breath as Alexia studied you, still silent. 

“Okay.” She said finally, her voice soft and hurt. But she’d said yes, and that was all you could really ask for. 

“Thank you.” You told her. Again, she shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, and again you saw through it. “We can leave this afternoon if you want? Or if that’s too soon, we can go tomorrow–”

“This afternoon is fine.” Alexia said. With that, she turned back to her smoothie, and you retreated from the kitchen, content with the progress you’d made even if it didn’t necessarily seem very significant. 

—

The car ride was awkward. You weren’t used to awkward silence between you and Alexia, you were used to easy conversation or content quiet while you both just enjoyed each other’s presence. Instead, one of Alexia’s playlists was queued, drifting out quietly from the speakers. It wasn’t nearly loud enough to ease the heavy tension in the air. A few times, Alexia’s arm moved from where it rested on the center console as if she was going to grab your hand as she often did while she drove. Except each time she seemed to correct herself, raking her fingers through her hair or adjusting her sunglasses instead. You knew you deserved it, but it still made your chest ache. 

You weren’t… well. You weren’t okay. The last few days had proven that to you. Work was tearing you to pieces, and you were barely hanging on to your sanity. All you wanted was your girlfriend. Alexia’s arms, wrapping around you and holding you securely to her. Her soft words whispered in your ear, reassuring and making everything feel just a bit lighter. The smell of her perfume, clinging to her hoodie as you buried your face in it, making your body relax instinctually. You needed her to hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay, yet at the same time, you knew you didn’t deserve it. 

You’d been a horrible girlfriend. First by working too much. Then by saying the things you’d said to her, although her words hadn’t been pleasant either. Maybe it had been a mistake, to try to spare her the depths of how much you were struggling. You hadn’t wanted to add anything to her already very full plate, but it seemed like you’d done the opposite. She didn’t see that you were falling apart because you didn’t let her. Instead, she just saw her girlfriend pulling away from her. You’d never believed that you were good enough for Alexia, and now you were more convinced of that fact than ever. 

Alexia could tell you were thinking hard. Not even noticing that you’d arrived, you startled when Alexia turned the car off and the music cut out abruptly. 

Your girlfriend looked at you for a long moment, before reaching for the door handle and letting herself out of the car. “I’ll check us in.” 

She spoke in that same tone of voice, the one so quiet and broken you wanted to cry when you heard it. She headed to the main office to check in and get the keys to the little cottage you’d booked, and you forced yourself to breathe. In and out, over and over again. 

It didn’t work. 

You were overwhelmed by everything going on and all of the feelings trying to claw their way out of the box you’d locked them in. You didn’t notice much time pass before the driver’s side door was opening and Alexia was sliding back into the car. She took one look at you and faltered, seeing the flush of your cheeks and the quick rise and fall of your chest, and knowing something wasn’t right. 

“Are you alright?” Alexia asked. 

You cleared your throat, nodding your head up and down so rapidly it was unconvincing. “Yeah, fine.” 

Alexia was quiet for another moment, before she sighed and put the car into drive. 

“You’re lying.” She murmured, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. 

How were you supposed to respond to that?

—

The two of you sat opposite each other on the sofa in the rented cottage, at least 3 feet of space in between you. You weren’t sure how to start, and it seemed like Alexia wanted you to talk first. Or maybe she didn't want to talk at all, based on the complete silence the cottage had been in since you’d arrived. 

Alexia had put the Barça men’s match on, but shockingly she didn’t seem to be watching it. Instead, her eyes kept drifting over to you, where you looked completely stuck inside your own head. Chewing on your lip, bouncing your leg, biting your nails. 

You’d looked to be on the verge of tears for the last hour, and had opened your mouth to say something before shutting it and shaking your head at least 4 times. 

Alexia was angry. More than that, she was hurt. But somehow, more than that? She was worried. There were too many conflicting feelings and emotions to deal with, so she didn’t. Instead, she scooted a little bit closer to you on the couch, and reached out to grab your hand. 

It was trembling in hers and Alexia frowned down at it, before looking up at your face.

You looked beyond shocked at the gesture, tears falling freely yet silently now. A few seconds of silence passed, before you broke. 

“Alexia, I’m so sorry.” You choked out. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean anything I said. None of it, I was just–” 

You couldn’t go on, descending into a fit of painful sobs.

Alexia watched you for a moment, her own heart breaking. She was still upset, of course. Your words still echoed around her head, and it wasn’t simple to just forget them. It wasn’t easy to ignore that your actions the past few weeks had really hurt her. But it was beyond clear that you weren’t yourself. The tears streaming steadily down your face now proved that, and Alexia couldn’t help but reach out and carefully wipe them away with her thumbs. 

An argument didn’t mean she stopped caring about you. Alexia still felt that familiar tug in her chest as she watched you cry, like she could feel your pain just by looking at you. You were breaking, and she was going to be there to catch you, no matter what. 

“It’s okay, cariño. It’s going to be okay.” She murmured, lacing her fingers with yours. 

“N-no.” You sobbed. “No, it’s not okay. I upset you and I hurt your feelings and that’s not okay.” 

Alexia thought you were crying about the stress of work, not necessarily the argument. She didn’t realize that you were this upset about the fight. The guilt dripping from your voice eased her a bit, though she felt guilty even thinking that. 

“Come here.” She replied, leaning forward with her arms open to try to coax you into her arms. 

You shook your head. “But I–” 

“I know, cariño, just come here.” Alexia repeated. You gave in, letting her pull you in close until your ear was pressed against her chest, her chin resting on the top of your head. 

The comfort of having her arms around you was everything you needed and everything you were sure you didn’t deserve at the same time. After a second, you shook your head, pulling away from Alexia and scooting to the far corner of the couch. Your breaths were coming rapidly, the guilt and hurt and exhaustion trying to tear your heart into a thousand different pieces and you couldn’t take it any longer. 

Alexia watched, concern growing exponentially by the second, as you buried you clenched your hands tightly, digging your nails into your palm. She reached out again, attempting to grab your hand, but you shook your head again and looked at her with so much sadness on your face, she wasn’t sure what to do.  

“Bebé, just breathe for a minute.” 

You shook your head, unable to go another second without apologizing again. You could barely get a word out without your voice cracking, your breath catching, but you tried all the same. 

“I-I know I really messed up. And I’m so sorry, Ale. I’m so, so sorry. You deserve so much better than how I acted, so much better than me. You were right, you were completely right that I wasn’t making time for you. I wish I could go back and change that and just tell you the truth, but I can’t and now I just–”

“The truth? About what?” Alexia asked, leaning away from you slightly, her guard back up. 

“I wasn’t… I am not okay.” You inhaled shakily. “I’m so tired and so stressed and so anxious. The past few months, work has just been so much, and I know that's what I signed up for but I feel like I’m drowning?”

You broke off, your hands starting to tremble where they were gesturing wildly. Alexia’s face was unreadable, but her hand found yours again, and you let her grab it this time. 

Why, you weren’t sure. All you knew was that feeling her made it a bit easier to breathe, and you had to breathe if you were going to get through everything you needed to say. 

“What is going on at work?” Alexia inquired, when it was clear you weren’t sure how to start talking again. 

There wasn’t any other option at that point other than complete honesty. 

“It’s bad. It’s really bad. My coworkers hate me and my boss is genuinely evil, and we’re short staffed so I’m working way more than I should be. I wake up worrying about work and I spend all day worrying at work, and then I come home and I can’t fall asleep because I’m dreading the next day. I feel like I can’t breathe anymore without it feeling like something is sitting on my chest. I’m so tired, Ale, I could sleep for weeks and it wouldn’t be enough. I feel like I’m falling apart.” 

The captain stared at you for a moment, blinking once. Then twice. Processing all you’d just dumped on her, you were sure. You sniffled, wiping harshly at your cheek. Your sleeve left a red mark on your skin, and Alexia softened. Carefully, she reached out with the hem of her own sleeve, gently wiping the tears away. 

You swallowed a sob at the soft touch, fought the instinct to fall forward into her arms and refuse to let go. 

“You…. why didn’t you tell me this, bebé?” She whispered. There was still pain in her voice, but this time it sounded different. Like she was hurting for you, not because of you. 

“I didn’t want to stress you out!” You sobbed. Alexia looked astonished, and you rushed to keep going, to explain yourself. “At first it was just little things, and you’d just gotten back from the Olympics and you weren’t okay. I just wanted to take care of you and make sure you were okay. But things just kept getting worse and I didn't know how to tell you how bad it was.”

You buried your face in your hands. 

“Oh, amor.” Your girlfriend murmured. She pressed a kiss to the top of your head, frowning when you only seemed to cry harder. 

“I-I thought that if I told you how much I was struggling you wouldn’t want to deal with it. I thought you’d realize I’m just this walking disaster that’s tricked you into loving me, into staying, and then you’d leave. I was so scared you’d leave.” 

Though the words were slightly unintelligible, both by your hands covering your face and the sobs forcing their way out of you, Alexia heard you. She heard every word. 

With tears stinging her own eyes, she carefully tugged at your hands until you looked up at her, her arms wrapping around you snuggly the minute you’d uncurled from yourself. She held so tight, it should have felt suffocating, but it just felt safe. It was everything you needed. Her touch, her words, her comforting scent. Alexia held you like you belonged wrapped up against her. 

You didn’t pull away this time. Couldn’t pull away this time. You needed her, like you’d needed her for months, yet you hadn’t known how to ask. For help, for her, for anything. All you could do was let yourself drown until you’d wrecked the most important relationship in your life. 

Yet here Alexia was. Unflinching as you sobbed into her hoodie. Carefully rubbing circles into your back, scratching at the back of your scalp with her blunt fingernails. 

It didn’t make any sense to you, but you couldn’t pretend you didn’t need her desperately any longer. 

“Everything is okay. I’m not going to leave you, bebé. I love you, everything is okay. You are okay.” Alexia murmured. 

“But I was terrible.” You whimpered, past the point of being concerned with your dignity. “I’m so terrible.” 

You didn’t even really catch the tense switch from past to present. In your mind, there was no difference. You’d been terrible to Alexia, and that made you terrible. 

Your girlfriend, however, did catch it, and she was instantly frowning into your hair. 

“You are not terrible.” 

You let out a sound that was something between a scoff and a sob, shaking your head into her chest. 

“You aren’t, mi amor.” Alexia insisted. “We had an argument and we both said hurtful things. You hurt me, yes, but that doesn’t make you terrible, it makes you human.” 

“There’s no excuse,” you began, blinking back another round of tears. 

“No, there is no excuse, but there is an explanation.” Alexia interrupted. “You are not okay. You are struggling, you are suffering. You’ve been on the edge for so long, of course you broke. Of course it was messy and difficult. You’ve been carrying so much by yourself, how could I blame you for the weight of it crushing you, hmm?” 

 “I didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it.” You sobbed, slumping forward to press your face into Alexia’s shoulder once again, needing to feel her and hide your face all at once. 

“I know you didn’t.” 

“I love listening to you talk about football. I love how passionate you are, how your face lights up when you describe the assist or pass or play you made. You are so incredible and important and I completely–”

“Amor, please. Stop. I’ve forgiven you.” 

“I don’t know how!”

“Because I know you. I know your heart. You didn’t mean what you said, I know this. Trust me, amor, when I tell you that right now I am much more concerned with you than with our argument.” 

You were struck, then, by the realization of how empathetic your girlfriend was. And you felt so unbelievably undeserving of that empathy. There were a million things you had to say. How sorry you were, how much you loved her; explanations and declarations of love, yet none of those came out of your mouth. 

“I’m so tired, Ale.” You whispered. “Like deep inside my chest, I am so exhausted.” 

Alexia’s expression softened even further, if possible. She reached up, cradling your face in her hands as if it were something precious. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it sooner.” 

“I didn’t want you to.” 

Alexia didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she shifted so that she could lean back against the arm of the couch, pulling you to lack with your back to her chest. She felt so soft against you, the warm fabric of her hoodie and joggers against your skin doing more than a blanket ever could. 

“Something has to change, mi amor. You shouldn’t have to feel this way at work.” 

“I know.” 

Alexia took a deep breath, preparing herself for what she had to say, with no doubt in her mind that you wouldn’t like it. “I think you should quit. Take time off to rest and take care of yourself before finding somewhere else to work. I know you’re going to say no, but hear me out. You need help and–”

“I think I should quit too.” You interrupted. Alexia froze against you, before tilting your chin up so she could see your face. 

“You do?” She sounded shocked, and you didn’t blame her. Your career had always been everything to you. Had. You were older now, though, and had perspective you didn’t have when you signed on to work the crazy hours and grueling schedule. You loved being a nurse, but you couldn’t keep going like this without becoming a shell of the person you were, without losing everything you cared about. 

“Yeah.” You nodded, melting at the relief on Alexia’s face. “Alba came over and talked to me yesterday, and she… helped. She said a lot that put everything into perspective. I can’t keep going like this, I know I can’t. And you deserve more from me than what I’ve been giving you.”

This time, when your eyes flickered up to Alexia’s, you saw hope in them. Guarded hope, but hope all the same. And that told you that you’d made the right choice. 

“I want you to be doing it for you, to. Because you deserve better.” Alexia told you after a minute, stroking her thumb softly across your cheek. You melted into the contact, letting your eyes flutter shut. 

“I want to be too. I just don’t think I’m there yet. I think right now… I have to do it for you until I figure out how to do it for me, too.”  

Alexia smiled, then, the first you’d seen on her all night. It felt like the sun had come out from behind a cloud, and was shining right on your face. She leaned in, kissing you so lovingly, you almost started crying again. 

“I love you.” Alexia whispered against your lips. “I love you so much. We’re going to get through this, we’re going to get you through this.” 

You nodded, burying your face into the crook of her neck. She wrapped her arms tight around you, securely and tightly like she knew exactly what you needed. She probably did. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered again. It would take a while for the guilt to fully fade, to stop weighing on your chest like someone had left an anvil resting on top of you. 

“I know you are.” Alexia pressed a kiss to your forehead, then one to each cheek. “You hurt my feelings, I won’t lie to you. But… amor, I feel like I got to see a glimpse of the voice inside your head, telling you terrible terrible things about yourself. And as much as I was hurt by what you said… I am hurting so much more knowing that you view yourself so negatively.” 

One of your favorite things about Alexia was her brain. She was so intelligent, not just about sports, but with everything. She had this astounding ability to somehow know exactly what a person needed to hear. 

Alexia could have said a thousand different things in that moment, and most of them probably would have made you feel a bit better. But telling you that it hurt her to know how you viewed yourself, how you talked to yourself, conveyed her love for you more than any declaration ever could. You could hear the pain in her voice, and you had no choice but to believe her. 

And if someone as good, as purely good as Alexia loved you that much… it threw your whole self perception for a loop. Knowing Alexia loved you and believing it were two different things. But it felt like she knew just how to pull you closer to believing, sentence by sentence. 

You supposed that was what being loved was; when another person knew you better than you knew yourself. And Alexia absolutely did. 

—

tell me if you find any typos and also if you liked this okay bye

my undying love will be given to anyone who knows where i got the title of this from.

[aperrywilliams]

That Wasn't Fake (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Request: Can you write a Spencer fic where the reader is kind of quiet and shy when she begins working at the BAU, and Spencer has a crush on her, and then they have a case, and she has to like to seduce the unsub lowkey and everyone kind of like...how is she going to do this shes not very outgoing but when she does shes really good at it, and everyone is surprised and impressed.

Summary:  You're shy and reserved. Spencer has a crush on you, and unbeknown to him, you have a crush on him. Maybe the cat can get out of the bag when you have to step aside of your comfort zone to catch an elusive unsub.

Word Count: 4.2k (no self control here)

Warnings: Words like 'fuck' and 'bitch'. A rant about self-doubt. Typical CM stuff: unsubs, killings, etc.

A/N: Another request I loved! It should have been a little shorter, but I'm having a hard time getting to the point these days. Please keep sending requests!

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Spencer knows it is inappropriate, but he can't help it. You're coworkers, and that itself sets a boundary, so he shouldn't be thinking of trespassing.

But the crush he has on you seems to grow every day.

He doesn't know if it is your beautiful smile, the kindness you show in everything you do, or the enthusiasm you put into every task you are committed to. Since the moment he saw you pass the bullpen glass doors, Spencer knew he was damned.

From that moment, Spencer knew he wanted to know you and learn everything about you. About what you liked, what you hated, and what your fears and dreams were. Everything.

But not much after that revelation in his mind, he understood it wasn't going to be easy to get to you.

You were extremely shy and reserved.

In fact, your first interaction - when Emily introduced you both - consisted of a wave of your hand and a timid 'nice to meet you.'

He thought as time went by, you would loosen and become less bashful and quiet. And in part, he was right. As the months passed, you began to feel more comfortable within the team. You laughed at Luke's jokes, you commented on Rossi's stories, and you could even - when the stars aligned - crack a joke yourself to Tara or Matt.

But beyond that, no one knew much about your life outside of the BAU, unlike JJ, who always talks about her kids and her husband, or Matt, who talks about his kids, too. Or Tara, who recounts her failed dates. Or the same Luke who always shows photos of Roxy.

You, on the other hand, seemed to be an enigma. But Spencer Reid loved decoding enigmas.

At first, he turned his interest in you out of mere scientific curiosity. However, internally, he knew it wasn't just that.

It started with small random questions about the times you worked together: Is this coffee okay? What was the last book you read? Do you think we should buy some donuts for the team?

If you were honest, it picked your interest why, from all people, Dr. Spencer Reid was so adamant in making conversation with you.

From what you knew and from what the team said, Spencer was not a person very interested in things other than work or books. But suddenly, out of nowhere, he asked you what the last movie you saw was or something like that.

You always answered his questions; however, you would have liked to be much more talkative and engage in longer conversations, but your nature stopped you.

'What if I don't have anything more interesting for him to say?'

'Does he just talk to me because he feels sorry for me?'

And that was the big issue: you have never had problems with the way you live your life. You're pretty satisfied with what you do in your job and out of it, too. But you have always thought you are too 'simple' to entertain people's interest.

And to be honest, being surrounded by people with so much experience and big things happening in their lives still intimidates you a bit. So, you usually refrain from talking too much about yourself or anything for that matter.

But with Spencer, things are a bit different. He's always checking on you but respects your boundaries. He has learned that sometimes you just don't want to talk, and he doesn't push.

Despite his interest beyond the professional, Spencer would never do anything to make you uncomfortable. Being able to share time with you will have to be enough for him.

In a way, he has become your protector. He is your backup during interrogations or in situations where you can feel awkward, like the times when some police officers tried to flirt with you and got too close. Sure, you know how to turn them down, but sometimes guys don't get the memo and keep pushing. You're too shy to yell or be aggressive about it.

The team also understands the way you are, and they know it does not make you any less professional. However, they have always been careful not to take you too much out of your comfort zone.

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

A whole two weeks and five murders later, the team is stuck trying to catch an unsub who has preferences for killing women after club nights. The profile says he is not interested in just any woman but in those between 25-30 years old who like to flirt with several men in the clubs. But it is not just any type of flirting; it is the type that is initiated and dominated by them. In short, he likes to kill women who are the opposite of submissive. He sees them as predators on a hunting ground.

Another finding in victimology is that the women he kills, in addition to having a specific age range, have very similar physical characteristics. And similar to you.

All his victims have your build, eye color, hair color, and height. It gets to be creepy to a certain point. And it's something difficult to ignore.

Bouncing information and possible strategies, the team agrees they need to be proactive to get him to show up before another killing happens.

"Okay, what options do we have?" Emily asks.

"The witnesses haven't gotten us anywhere," Luke complains.

"Although we've narrowed down his hunting grounds," Rossi shrugs.

"Yeah, we know the clubs where he likes to hunt," JJ backs Rossi.

"But although the profile, we have yet to learn about what to look for there. I mean, we know what the unsub wants, but not how he looks like." This time, it's Tara who speaks.

You've rarely seen Emily bite her tongue when she wants to say something, but it's clear that she has something on her mind, and she doesn't know how to put it, or maybe the problem is something else. You look at her out of the corner of your eye, and she looks back at you; what do those eyes say? They look like they're even apologetic.

It's a fraction of the time before she comes back to behave like herself.

"We need to lurk him. It's the only way," she says. And everyone's eyes - yours included - are on her immediately.

"Lurk him?" Matt repeats.

"Yes. And all we know who should be the one going undercover to do that," Emily adds, looking at you this time.

That's it—the elephant in the room.

Of course, you're the ideal candidate. Well, you're perfect in the physical aspect because if we talk about the victim's personality and yours...

There's silence in the room, and you can feel like the team's eyes are all on you.

Do they expect you to say no? To refuse? From your perspective, it's not a question; it's more like the option you all have to catch the guy.

"It's true (Y/N) would be the closest to the unsub type, but there are a lot of things to take into account," Matt says. And you know perfectly well what's behind his words, even if he doesn't say it directly.

And that's okay; it's perfectly plausible they have their doubts. It is not enough to look like the victims for the operation to work.

But if there is one thing you are sure of, it's that you will always give your all to your job, even if that means becoming a completely different person.

"I can do it," you mumbled so quietly that if the AC weren't in the lower setting, people wouldn't have heard you.

"But (Y/N), you know about this guy. It's dangerous," Matt points, a frown on his face.

"Not to mention he likes rough interactions," Luke adds.

"You don't have to do it if you feel uncomfortable." This time, it is JJ who voices her opinion. And you know, that's the closest reason to the team's main concern.

And the fact you can blow up the entire plan.

Spencer stays in silence. Internally he's freaking out thinking of you having to lurk on the unsub, but he knows you are a professional. And he feels a kind of deja vu.

When he was younger, the team would have said the same about him doing something like that. Spencer knows what it's like when people baby you, making you feel insecure. Sure, he hasn't had to worry about that anymore. Spencer is almost forty, and no one would dare to tell him he can't do something. Not after all the things he has been through.

"JJ is right, Bella. You don't have to do it. We can think of another way," Rossi backs JJ.

That's when Spencer notices the slight frown on your face. It's invisible to everyone but him. He knows it's there.

You stay collected, even when everyone on the team has something to say about how bad the idea of you going undercover to lurk the unsub is.

Emily is who stops everyone's rant.

"Guys, hey. If (Y/N) is telling us she can do it, we're going to do it. Of course, we'll be there to back up her and catch this unsub."

And this is how the discussion is settled.

Emily sends everyone out with a task to prepare for the night. Today is Friday, and the unsub will surely be stalking some new victim. The chances are high.

When it's just you and Spencer in the room, he still looks at you in silence.

"Do you also think I'll not be able to pull off this mission and I'm going to ruin everything?"

You downcast your gaze, exhaling deeply.

"No. I don't think that," Spencer clarifies, and you raise your gaze to meet his eyes. "You are more than capable, (Y/N). The team is worried because you'll be out of your comfort zone in a dangerous situation."

"The team? Not you?" You narrow your eyes to him.

You try not to sound accusatory, but if you're as scared as everyone, you also are fed up with the other's doubts.

Spencer closes the distance between you both but doesn't invade your personal space.

"Of course, I'm worried too! I don't want anything bad to happen to you. But I trust you and your judgment."

Your heart does flip-flops, and you're not sure if it's because Spencer is worried or because, despite that, he trusts you—or both.

"You do?" You ask, not so convinced.

Spencer nods and smiles at you.

"And we'll be there when you catch the guy."

If that is the reassurance you need, you don't mention it. Instead, you grin at Spencer as a promise you'll do your job just how you are supposed to.

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

You insist on getting ready in your hotel room. The only assistant you ask for is Emily. She was the one who trusted you first in this, so you'll take every piece of advice she can give you before this night starts.

Everyone has a role in the plan.

Rossi will be the chauffeur who will drive you to the club.

Luke and Spencer would be in the club, mingling with the patrons. JJ, Matt, and Emily would be in the van monitoring the whole situation with cameras and earpieces. Rossi would keep his facade as a driver so he could be at one of the entrances. Tara would be at the club, too, eyeing nothing suspicious going on in the bar because there is a chance the unsub is getting help from the bartender.

When you are in front of the mirror applying the last touch of makeup, Emily is looking at you with a stare you can't decipher.

"What?" you ask, and Emily chuckles.

"Please, don't take this in a bad way, but I never thought I would live the day of seeing you using clothing like this. And Jesus, you look so hot!"

Your cheeks redens.

"It's a little bit odd coming from my boss, don't you think?" you muse, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

"Point taken," Emily raises her hands in defense. "Although I know someone who is going to run out of breath after seeing you."

You let out a scoff. It's not a surprise for you. The BAU girls - boss included - have been trying to set you up with Spencer since forever. You don't entertain the idea only because you don't think it's possible and not because you don't like the concept.

"Come on, don't say that. You are not helping to my nerves."

"Sorry, I'll shut up. We should go, though," Emily says, checking her watch.

One of the SUVs drives you to the van parking point. You needed to review the operation details.

At the back of the van - or commander point - JJ, Luke, Tara, Rossi, Matt, and Spencer see you come up with Emily.

For the best US profilers, they're not doing a good job hiding that they are gawking at you. Surely, no one imagined seeing you in such a revealing outfit. Outfit that, without a doubt, suits you extremely well, highlighting all your body attributes.

Spencer feels like he died and was resurrected after seeing you.

"Okay, guys, we need to check the details again," Emily announces.

The plan is in motion, and everyone is in position.

As expected, you arrive with Rossi at the club, who opens the door for you and helps you descend from the car. Rossi gives you a reassuring smile before letting you go.

Like a switch, you are no longer the shy SSA (Y/L/N). Now you are the woman who is going to take what she wants and attract the unsub attention doing that.

Your walk is determined, and your eyes send out flames of confidence to those who look at you. The music is very loud, something that would usually bother you, but not now. This needs to feel like your environment. That's how you like it, you tell yourself.

Almost instantly, you start to attract the looks of men who are eager for a woman like you.

You exude determination, and you don't go unnoticed.

Walking into the club, you make brief eye contact with Luke, who is on the dance floor. You see Spencer perched in a booth, nursing a beer.

At the same time, Tara is stationed at the bar.

"Remember (Y/N); the unsub expects the woman to approach men. The flirt needs to come from you," Emily reminds you by the earpiece hidden in one of the earrings you're wearing.

"Show time," you mumble to yourself.

You walk seductively to the dance floor, where a young man is dancing with a blonde. You approach and whisper something in his ear. That makes the boy completely lose interest in the blonde and start dancing with you. You smile and cling to the man's body, who wastes no time and takes your hips as if they were his possessions.

That dance certainly has nothing innocent about it. You continue whispering things in the boy's ear, and he looks more and more excited. Once you consider it a reasonable amount of time to have attracted attention, you leave the boy alone and head to the bar. Just a few meters away from Tara, a suspicious man is staring at you. You see him out of the corner of your eye as you order a drink. When the bartender passes it to you, you make subtle eye contact with Tara, who nods, indicating that the drink is clean.

You look next to you and see another man not so subtly looking at you. You know the unsub's profile, and you can't be intimidated or dominated by another man. You are the one who calls the shots. Otherwise, this will not work.

Before the man makes his attempt to seduce you, you turn to him, and with a penetrating look and disdainful voice, you stop him.

"Sorry, honey. Don't waste your time. You're not my type," and with that, you leave to move to the opposite side of the club. The guy huffs, and you're almost sure hearing him call you 'bitch' under his breath.

JJ, who's following the cameras inside the club, sees someone who looks suspect.

"Hey, this guy has been peeking at (Y/N) the entire time, and look, he clenched his fists when (Y/N) turned down that guy at the bar."

Emily confirms JJ's observation before giving you the next instructions.

"(Y/N), you're doing great. We have a possible target. So we need to raise the bet."

You know exactly what Emily means. You both had talked about the strategy to follow, having more details about what you should do than the rest of the team.

Matt and JJ look confused at each other but say nothing.

Your next step is to find another dude to seduce before delivering the coup de grace.

Luke and Spencer keep an eye on you. And while Luke is pleasantly surprised by your audacity, Spencer can't help but feel his stomach tighten. He tells himself it's because he is afraid something bad could happen to you, but inside of him, it's that and the fact of seeing you flirt with other men.

Just like you did with the guy on the dance floor, you attract the attention of another man; this time, you take his hand and pull him to the dance floor.

JJ and Matt's jaws drop to the floor. If Tara, Luke, and Spencer could do the same without giving themselves away, they would have done it, too.

As if it were your second nature, you laugh and move to the music. The man seems to enjoy the moment so much that he takes a bold step by leaning in to kiss you. You let him get closer until his lips are almost on yours. But before touching each other, you pull back with a malicious smile.

"Naughty boy. I'm who says if you can kiss or no," you pout, faking disappointment. Dizzed, the guy cocks his head and sees you walk away.

Matt chirps now. "It's him. Look boss," he tells Prentiss, pointing to the same guy JJ saw before.

There is no longer any doubt that it is him. Now you just have to catch him red-handed.

"(Y/N), we got him. It's time for the last play," Emily tells you.

With Emily's instruction, you go to the bar for another drink before heading over to where Spencer is sitting.

He tries to play it off, but he has no idea why you're approaching him.

"Is this seat taken, handsome?" You ask, with your drink in hand.

"N- no. Please," Spencer gestures to the booth on his front, but you opt to perch to his side. Spencer thinks he never has been this close to you. He looks at your eyes, and it's like you are a totally different person. It's a little bit contradictory for him, to be honest. He already likes you just as you are, but this version of you? It's driving him insane.

Some resemblance of your true self looks with a kind of curiosity the nervousness on Spencer. You don't think much about it; you assume he's playing the nervous guy who is baffled by you.

The thing is, Spencer isn't playing. He's definitely baffled by you.

"Are you okay?" You ask him, masking your question with a seductive smile.

"Yeah. Are - are you?" Spencer stutters a bit—something that is perfect for the plan but embarrassing for him.

You get closer to him to speak in his ear.

"This was Emily's idea," you tell him before kissing his ear and gently biting his lobe.

Spencer's breath hitches in his throat, and he thinks he's going to pass out any second. You're not doing it better: your heart is also pumping hard from the adrenaline. Of course, you had imagined something like that with Spencer, but only in your erotic dreams. You wouldn't dare do this on any given day.

You keep teasing Spencer, who, despite the nervousness, tries to play along. If this is the closest he will ever have you, he wants to engrave this in his memory.

"Just a little push, (Y/N). We almost have him," Emily instructs by the earpiece.

You swallow as subtly as possible as you wrap your arm around Spencer's neck, pulling him closer to you.

It's only a second between that action and the fact that you're kissing Spencer like it's your last meal.

Spencer doesn't know how to respond, and you were counting on that; it was enough time for the unsub to notice that you were the one who chose her last prey.

When Spencer is about to reciprocate the kiss, you murmur a 'sorry' into his lips and quickly pull away, giving him a disdainful look—which you hope he understands is fake—before getting up and walking toward the back exit door.

As expected, the unsub follows you towards the back door, and while your back is turned, he believes he has the advantage to attack you. What he doesn't know is that Matt and Luke are ready to lunge at him the moment he tries to touch you.

Everything that happens after is too fast.

The unsub is detained and taken to a patrol car while the team gathers around you, congratulating you on the successful operation. They all apologize to you for their previous apprehensions. You tell them that you understand and that there is no need to apologize. And it's like the switch has been flipped again since you came out of the femme fatale role.

But something is wrong. Spencer is not in the group. You see him a little further away, near the exit door of the club. Emily notices the looks between you both, and she sends the team on different tasks to close the case, leaving you and Spencer there.

There's something in his eyes that you can't decipher. You think it's resentment for using him without warning him what you were going to do.

You shyly approach him.

"It's me again," you tell him, pulling a face. You don't know what to say to make the situation better. Spencer nods.

"Yeah. You did it great, by the way," he compliments you. But it doesn't feel good like Spencer's compliments usually do.

"Look, about the kiss back there-" you start. He needs an explanation as a bare minimum.

"I know. It was fake," Spencer cuts you off.

Those words shouldn't hurt you as they do now. But isn't that the most reasonable thing to believe? The you in the club weren't you, so all you did inside was pretend.

Everything except that kiss.

If it's true you couldn't enjoy it the way you would have liked, you will never forget his lips on yours.

A tense silence takes over the moment. This is not okay.

You can't afford to lie to one of the most important people in your life, even if telling the truth takes you out of your comfort zone.

What the hell! Tonight has already been a total of 180 from a usual day for you.

"It wasn't," you mumble, and you see his eyes flicking to yours in a second.

"What?" Spencer asks, narrowing his eyes at you.

"Everything was fake, but not the kiss," you say with a stadied voice this time.

Spencer's heart races again. If you say you didn't fake it, then what he felt on your part at that moment was real?

"It wasn't fake?" He asks for clarification. You nod.

A smirk forms on Spencer's lips, seeing your cheeks redden.

There you are. The girl he had fallen for in the past two years.

"Well, you know that I am a man of science, right?" he tells you, and you frown because you have no idea where this is going.

"I know," you say with some hesitation.

"And as a man of science, I need evidence of things, you know?"

Now, you are the one who smirks at him.

"Evidence, huh?"

"Yep," he says, emphasizing the 'p' and swaying his body on his feet. You hum.

"I believe I can provide the necessary evidence if you need them," you concede, and Spencer's eyes sparkle with excitement.

Now, he is the one who reaches out and cups your cheeks. Your breathing quickens, but that doesn't stop you from standing on your tiptoes and connecting your lips with his.

This time, there is no unsub, no curious eyes are looking at you, there is no rush, there is no femme fatale role, and above all, this is not fake; it's as real as the fact that your heart beats for him, and his for you.

------------------ 

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 

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt: Spiritual Siblings

Bruce: My assassin kid can't be that normal!

Damian: Well, I’m completely emotionally stable by Amity Park standards. The problem is with you. Obviously.

~~~~~

Damian had long found peace and home in Amity, so he did not worry that the new family and Gotham might not accept him.

Sure, Al Ghul had lived without any contact with his biological father all these years but he could safely say that he had a happy childhood. First years were hard and he was raised more as a weapon than a human being. Even so, after that a ghost who decided to become his brother appeared and everything changed.

Damian still does not know what Ra's owes Phantom but Danny has a right to take him, without prior notification, to live with Fentons, to visit Aunt Alicia at her farm, and to make Vlad’s weekends much less calm and boring. Danny jokes that he just steals him as a hostage when Al Ghul does not pay taxes for using Lazarus Pits. Whatever the reason, he already has a family that loves him.

However, he still wanted to make an effort to fit in this one too. The model of conduct certainly was his older brother. No, not the oldest, of course. To be honest Dan wasn’t the kind of a man that could charm you from the first minute. But Danny, in Damian’s experience, had a calming effect on people. So he tried to act like him.

And, yeah, for lack of experience, he was more fun!Danny at home and super!Danny on patrol but he also really tried not to get any of his own assassin personality in his new-self and was tired of it. He couldn’t get a 100% match. Fine. Still doesn’t look like anyone in this house really likes him, so whatever.

Damian understood why Bruce didn't like his company. Jazz had long ago explained to him the importance of voluntary consent. His mother did a terrible thing. Al Ghul was not a child and therefore he was ready to admit it. However, he also understood that children were not responsible for the actions of their parents.

As a biosocial being, he wanted to be more than just a painful reminder of what had happened to Bruce. Wayne's ignoring of his existence was rude. But Damian wouldn't force this man to spend time with him just because he was legally obligated to take care of his well-being. He wasn't going to prove anything to Batman, and he definitely didn't need his attention. The care of his real family is enough.

But Damian really tried to get along with new potential siblings. He even shared Sam's and Danny’s special jokes with some of adopted kids 'cause he didn’t want them to feel like he put himself above them. He wasn't good at showing emotions but he was as open as the assassin could afford to be to strangers.

But they all obviously expected something from him. And it reminded him of the League in an unpleasant way. It was easier with Fentons. Almost everyone in Amity Park was saying what they thought, and Damian didn’t have to waste time decoding potential conspiracies.

Damian missed movie marathon nights with Sam, Tucker, and Danny. And he hoped Dani had time to bother Vlad in his absence.

It was so weird here. When Danny and Valerie were fighting, they would gather at the dinner table anyway. When Damian wanted to have combat training with Drake here, he was forced to stay in his room. A very strange punishment. And undeserved one too.

Al Ghul felt quite calm and fine sitting at his easel and painting the people he left behind. An unusual subject for his paintings. But, Ancients, he missed Amity.

He missed Jack's bone breaking hugs, Maddie's Ecto-Contaminated food, arguments of Sam and Tucker, cozy art class with Mr. Baxter and even Vlad's done look. He missed Danny telling him about the stars. He also missed sword practice with Dan's boyfriend Fright Knight and he missed Dan's stories about his other youth. He missed literary evenings with Mr. Lancer, Clockwork and Ghost Writer. He even missed the hours-long Jazz lectures. He missed the dance of death and life. He missed being looked at without expecting anything from him. He missed the crowd. In the league, he was never at one with himself and in Amity he was always surrounded by people who were not afraid of his fate as the heir to the said League. This Manor was full of people, but for the first time in his life he felt lonely. Damian has to admit that he felt left behind. Of course, he understood that people needed time to build relationships, but he could have sworn that even he didn't need that much time to connect with Fentons. Maybe this is one of the tricks of the Clockwork? Then this one is not funny at all.

~~~~~Phone call~~~~ Damian: Mom, I want to go home. Maddie: I'm so sorry to hear that, sweetheart. What happened? Damian: Just…Nobody likes me. Why was I sent here? I'm not weak. And my brothers are quite capable of protecting me from Raas. I don't need Batman for this. Maddie: We'll figure it out, champ. Moms love you, remember? I'll talk to Talia, okay? Your brothers and sisters are already on edge and ready to steal you right during the patrol. Damian: It would be nice, but it would put a bat on their tails. So lock them in thermoses if they bother you too much. Maddie: But that won't stop Jazz. Damian: I missed the part where that's my problem. Maddie: Well, it will be your problem if she comes to your doorstep with your childhood photos and moralizing.

~~~~~~~~

It's his birthday. And he was always excited about it. But now, looking at the pile of gifts, he realizes that these people don't know him at all.

And this is the family of the best detective in the world? Maybe yes, but none of them bothered to really find info about him or ask him about his likes. Damian's a stranger here, and that's obvious.

The lunch container, which he will obviously give to the Boxing Lunch when he's in the right time interval, tennis rackets that Youngblood might like, The Graveyard Book…

Valerie had already read it to him and Dani before it was published. Thanks to Clockwork for his little miracles. The book reminded him of home.

Obviously this one is from Jason. And well, Damian doesn't think it was a pun on his life in Amity, more like Hood's inside joke about death but Dami will definitely leave this thing in the room at the Manor and maybe take it with him to the GZ or Amity Park.

~~~~~~~

When they gather at the festive table, Damian realizes that he has to make some kind of speech. He tries to be as brief as possible in his report.

Damian: Todd, your gift is appreciated. And I found a potential use for items that were given by others, Bruce.

Damian never called Batman his father. With Maddie and Talia, calling both moms wasn't weird, especially when Jazz explained to his biological mom that he wasn't trying to replace her. But with Wayne, it was different. Both women took care of him, they deserved this title. Wayne provided for his needs, but his core heart didn't feel like they were close. Surely there's nothing wrong if they're just Bruce and Damian? Obviously, they both don't enjoy each other's company.

Jason: So, do you like books, little demon? Damian: Sometimes reading is quite relaxing, I should point out. I'm not indifferent to Stephen King and Lovecraft. Jason: Personal recommendations? Damian: Cujo is one of my favorites. Jason: Not a common opinion, huh. Damian: It reminds me of my family. Damian tries to smile like Danny does, but Jason's twitching eye clearly indicates that he screwed it up.

~~~~Dick and Jason synchronously drop their forks as an excuse for a conference under the table.~~~~ Dick*whispers*: How's the situation? Jason*whispers back*: If the boy asks for a dog, don't be fooled. He will be happy to dance on our graves.

~~~~Cass knocks over their heads, urging them to return to their seats.~~~~

Damian: So how good you are at fading and sliding,Todd? Jason: Why did you ask? I can't, of course. Damian: Because you're dead. It seemed to me that this was a completely understandable interest. Jason: Wow, what a jerk. Damian: I wonder why your own incompetence makes me a jerk? Even my sister could do this when she wasn't dead for even a month.

Jason, for some reason, looks awkward, although he has never been embarrassed before by the idea that a girl could be stronger than him.

Jason: Your sister? How old was she when... So it's all about age. Damian rolls his eyes.

Damian: We're the same age. It seems like it was four or five years ago. To be honest, I don't remember. I wasn't around then. I'll ask Danielle the next time I go to the cemetery to visit her. Dick: I'm so sorry, Dami. Where is she buried? We can take you. Damian: There's no need. She has no grave, as there was nothing to bury. Bruce sighs loudly and covers his eyes with his hands. Damian: It's just easier to contact the afterlife in places like this, you now? Duke: We are very sorry, dude. Damian: Don't be. People come and go, and then come back if they haven't finished annoying you. There's no point in regretting the past. Her creation was not the most ethical thing but everything is going as it should. At least that's what Grandpa says. Considering that the old man is older than time, I prefer to believe him. No one plays with fate without his permission unless they want to get hit by the clock. Tim now looks like he's going to throw up and Damian hurries to move his plate closer to him. Jason: Yes, Bruce, this is definitely your son. Damian: Did I say something wrong? Dick smiles faintly at him but still doesn't find anything to say. Damian shrugs and goes back to eating asparagus. People outside of Amity are so weird.

Signal looks at Damian suspiciously as he carefully rearranges the plate of soy sausages away from himself. Did he take him for an idiot? Everyone knows that even vegetarian sausage bite and fight no worse than those with meat when they come back to life. It's not Damian's fault that he doesn't have an ectoblast with him and wants to have extra distance from the opponent.

~~~At the same time, in the walls of Wayne Manor~~~ Dani: The operation codenamed "Get Haunted Idiot" is declared open. Danny and Dan *salute*.

~~~Several Days Later~~~

Damian: So, this is Dan. Danny says we keep him as a GIW repeller. Dick: And Danny and Dan are.. Jazz: His brothers. I'm Jazz by the way. Elle and I are his sisters. Damian: I feat the criteria to participate in their name cult, so they took me. Dan, Danny, Dani and Dami. Dan *ruffles Damian's hair* : I prefer to call this biting threat Damn, to be honest. Dami: Shut up, DaNtE, they almost wrote Dark in your passport, you idiot. I can't believe I thought I missed you. Danny: Wow. Rude. Your grandpa would be disappointed. Great job, lil one.

~~~Several years later~~~

[rayasslicker]

Tunes of your heartbeat ‧₊˚♪𝄞࿐₊˚⊹

sypnosis; In which your fate somehow gets entangled into a jumble of mess between punk music in cozy cafés, intense rivalry, cherished yakults, parallelograms and quantum physics, competitions in contests and rainy days. Or in other words; the universe seems to fucking hate your guts for whatever reason and decided to curse your love life with your awful crass emo twink-a-fuck rival. The question is; did the curse work?

a scaramouche x f!reader SMAU

• Genre; hate at first sight, slowburn, intense rivalry, also intense rivalry in?? who gets to?? pamper each other more?? yeah, rivals to lovers, scara doesn't know how to love, punk music, yakult and coffee, senior highschool love, bonding through music, confessions through music, hanging out in ugly places vibes, angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending (?), and etcetera:)

• Warnings; mommy issues, a fuck ton of curses (be warned), mentions of alcohol and probably a few panic attacks here and there, sewersidal mentions, kys jokes, vulgar jokes, like very vulgar. 18+ not for wattpad purposes but bc it's too inappropriate and vulgar😭

• Taglist II is open! ask to be added or removed!

• Status; ongoing. no update schedule, and irregular hiatuses.

inspiration; from the sidelines bkdk fic ao3, sleeping sirens' songs omg and this one fic that i made over a year ago which is the root of this SMAU

— notes..

- let me know if you want to be added as a twt user in this SMAU too!

- feel free to picture yourself however you want:)

- all the titles in this SMAU are songs:D

───────────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────────────────

╰┈➤ playlists; curse these feelings (scara's playlist) || fuck these feelings (name's playlist)

╰┈➤ profiles; the five horsemen of stupidity (name's group) || yacult (scara's group)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➞ PLAYING... FIRST BEAT ✰ .ᐟ

Prologue

I. Shut me up (by a punch)

II. Get it up

III. Situations

IV. Don't you dare forget the sun

V. Fake it

VI. I don't care

VII. Knives and Pens

VIII. Pretty Handsome Awkward

IX. Kick me

X. Another life

XI. Sink or Swim

XII. Aneurysm

XIII. Besitos

XIV. Heart Shaped Box

XV. Young Blood Spills Tonight

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➞ PLAYING... SECOND BEAT ✰ .ᐟ

XVI. My Love

XVII. Wut I Liek Abt U

XVIIII. Scream

XIX. Stacy's mom

XX. Suck my kiss

XXI. Just like you

XXII. Ohio is for lovers

XXIII. Emergency

XXIV. Decode

XXV. Circles

XXVI. Ribs

XXVII. Bulletproof Love

XVIII. Demolition Lovers

XXVIX. crushcrushcrush

XXX. Summertime

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➞ PLAYING... THIRD BEAT ✰ .ᐟ

XXXI. Against All Odds

XXXII. Careless Whisper

XXXIII. Listen To Your Heart

XXXIV. Into the Night

XXXV. What Do We Mean To Each Other?

XXXVI. I'm not in love

XXXVII. Only when you leave

XXXVIII. You Keep Me Hanging On

XXXVIX. How Am I Supposed To Live Without You

XL. Right Here Waiting

AND... PAUSE!

───────────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────────────────

authors notes - i've been literally thinking of making this since uhhhhhhh idk last week ago? this fic was actually inspired by a bkdk ao3 fanfic. and what drove me to really do this smau is that—i really like the idea of applying real life things to fiction. like please tell me everytime u see yakult, it reminds u of this fic. or cafés. i want this fic to exude that vibe and by that, ill try my best to do exactly that.

(ask to be added in comments)

[dakusan]

S K Z   D I C K   A N A L Y S I S

stray kids ot8 x reader | field research, god-tier dick, you won’t walk tomorrow

🖤 synopsis: eight men. sixteen hands. one universal truth: they’re all built different. this isn’t a thirst post. it’s a forensic study. a field report. a soul-snatching gospel of hips, tongues, and the quiet cruelty of a man who knows how to fuck. some of them worship you. some of them destroy you. all of them leave you shaking. welcome to the skz dick analysis. we’re not just rating dick. we’re decoding it.

💌a/n: i don’t even know how we got here. one second i was sipping tea like a sane person, the next i was writing about han jisung crying in your arms post-nut while “That That” by PSY (feat. yoongi, because of course) blasted in the background. filth. absolute filth. but you know what? it’s what they deserve. it’s what we deserve. also if it wasn’t obvious by now — yeah. my favourite colour is red. has been for years. red + black is a whole era. i don’t just want to write skz dick analysis… i want to bleed it in velvet. p.s. reblog this post like it gave you a hickey p.p.s. tag your bias & cry about it in the notes p.p.p.s. give some love to Flavor click the link or don't

⚠️warnings: : 18+ ONLY (MDNI) — explicit sexual language and themes, kink-based character analysis, dom/sub dynamics, degradation, praise, overstimulation, body worship, size kink, oral fixation, possessive behavior, creampie mentions, implied breeding, power imbalance, aftercare, emotional collapse, use of pet names (e.g. "good girl"), choking, mirror play, neck biting, fear of God inserted through dick game, and aggressive levels of brainrot. all fictional, all consensual, and all unhinged.

🎶now playing: "Flavor" – VX

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

BANG CHAN // 방찬

Length: 6.5" – 7", but it’s not the size that breaks you — it’s the command. It’s the way he angles himself just right, drags it out slow at first, then gives you everything when you’re begging prettily.

Thickness: Thick and hefty, the kind that makes you gasp when he slides in. Veins you can trace with your fingers. Warm, weighty, always throbbing against your thigh when he gets needy.

Stroke Game: Rhythmic. Calculated. Insane. He doesn’t just fuck — he directs. One hand pinning your hips, the other on your throat, whispering “Take it like a good girl. You’re doing so well.” Alternates between deep, punishing thrusts and slow, ruinous rolls that leave your legs shaking. You’ll lose count of your orgasms — he won’t.

Cum: Heavy. Warm. Deep. He always finishes inside — slow thrusts, gritted teeth, holding your hips still as he fills you up. Groans in your ear, “Fuck, you take me so well.” The kind that drips out for hours and makes you blush when you shift in your seat the next day. Breeds you like he means it, like it’s a ritual, not a reflex.

Dick Game Verdict: He doesn’t just fuck you — he orchestrates your undoing. With precision. With obsession. With love so filthy it makes you sob. You’ll forget your name. You’ll remember his.

Lee Know // 리노

Length: 6.5" — sleek and sculpted like everything else he owns. Elegant curve, perfect for that spot. His hips do most of the talking. He knows what he’s working with.

Thickness: Just enough to make you stretch and shudder. Not monstrous — but deceptively perfect. Every thrust feels like a calculated violation of your sanity. Fit like a lockpick, not a sledgehammer.

Stroke Game: Deliberate. Cruel. Precise. The kind of man who watches your face while you fall apart and smiles. He’ll edge you with shallow strokes until you’re begging, then snap his hips once and have you seeing stars. Minimal movement, maximum destruction.

Cum: Warm. Coats your insides with slow thrusts and low moans. Doesn’t always finish inside — sometimes he likes to paint your stomach, your thighs, your tongue. But when he does finish in you, he makes you stay full. “Don’t let a drop go to waste.” Then fingers it back in while whispering, “Good girl.”

Dick Game Verdict: Not loud. Not messy. Just lethal. He’ll fuck you like a science. Break you in silence. Leave you so ruined, you’ll flinch when someone says his name. He never rushes. Because he knows — when he’s done? You’ll never look at anyone else the same again.

Changbin // 창빈

Length: 6" — don’t let the number fool you. It’s the girth that has you blacking out mid-thrust. Short king? Try wrecking ball. When he slides in, you feel every inch, every time. You’ll swear it grew mid-session. It didn’t. Your walls are just traumatized.

Thickness: Unholy. We’re talking stretch-your-soul level. You’ll see stars before he even bottoms out. Has that heavy, veiny, “you’re not ready for this” kind of presence. Leaves you breathless, wrecked, and praying for a second round you know you can’t survive.

Stroke Game: Rhythmic. Punishing. Zero brakes. Thrusts like a gym playlist — fast, powerful, relentless. No teasing, no build-up — just impact. You’re folded in half, being pounded like a drumline, choking on your own moans while he’s still breathing steady. “C’mon, baby. You can take it.”

Cum: Heavy. Sticky. Endless. Loves finishing inside — but also loves watching it drip out of you. Will thumb it back in just to see you flinch. Grabs your chin after and says, “What’s wrong, baby? Thought you wanted all of me.” Leaves bruises. Leaves marks. Leaves memory loss.

Dick Game Verdict: He’s not just built. He’s built for destruction. You’ll scream. You’ll tap out. You’ll beg — and he’ll just tilt his head and go, “Already?” Sex with him isn’t just a night. It’s a full-body event. And he’s the headline, main act, and afterparty.

Hyunjin // 현진

Length: 7 – 7.5" — long, elegant, dangerous. The type that makes you gasp when he pushes in slowly, watching your face with hooded eyes like he knew it would hit that deep. Fills you up like he’s been dreaming about it for days.

Thickness: Sleek but firm — a velvet blade. Enough to stretch you, but it’s the depth he reaches that changes you. The curve? Unfair. Like it was sculpted to kiss your g-spot just to hear what you sound like when you lose composure.

Stroke Game: Flowy. Deliberate. Unfathomably deep. He starts slow. One hand gripping your thigh, the other tilted under your chin, lips barely touching yours. Once you’re a whimpering mess? He speeds up just enough to overwhelm you. The hips don’t lie — and they destroy. “Take all of it, baby. I’m not stopping.”

Cum: Slow, hot, emotional. Finishes deep with long strokes, burying himself fully as he breathes your name like a prayer. Moans in your ear while holding your waist tight. Likes to cum inside — watches it drip out with dazed eyes and kisses you between the legs like an apology.

Dick Game Verdict: He doesn’t fuck. He haunts. Every moan is a poem. Every thrust is a love letter sealed with bruises. He’ll make you feel like a canvas and leave your body shaking like he wrote a sonnet with his hips. You’ll walk home sore and smiling. And you’ll want him again immediately.

Han // 한

6" — average but deceptively powerful. It’s not the size that ends you. It’s the way he uses it — every thrust hitting just right because he’s memorized every inch of your body like it’s his favorite song. You’ll forget air exists.

Thickness: Slightly girthy with just the right stretch. Has that perfect snug fit — enough to make you gasp, never too much to tap out early. Just the way he likes it: “I wanna feel all of you squeezing around me.”

Stroke Game: Fast. Desperate. Unhinged. He fucks like he’s trying to get you addicted. Starts off whimpering and soft, then kicks into overdrive when you praise him. Slams into you with frantic rhythm like his soul depends on it. You’re drooling, overstimulated, and he’s still muttering, “One more. Just one more, please.” (Lie. It’s never just one.)

Cum: Hot, fast, everywhere. Finishes with a long, desperate groan — body trembling, fingers digging into your hips. Might cum inside without realizing because he’s too far gone. Or on your chest while panting apologies like “I couldn’t hold it, you were too good.”

Dick Game Verdict: He’s your emotional support slut. Will rail you to pieces and then cry in your arms. Sex with him feels like a confession, a breakdown, and a fireworks show all in one. You don’t just cum — you ascend.

Felix // 필릭스

Length: 6.5" – 7" — smooth and beautiful. Not too much. Not too little. It’s the kind of dick you see once and think about forever. The first thrust always makes your breath hitch — not because of size, but because of how intentional it feels. Like he’s been waiting for this.

Thickness: Just right — sleek and filling. Perfect pressure, perfect stretch, perfect rhythm. You don’t get overwhelmed, you get hooked. Hits that spot and stays there, grinding slow, deep, and steady until you’re breathless.

Stroke Game: Deep. Rhythmic. Lethal. The slow strokes kill you. It’s the way he grinds, chest pressed to yours, whispering soft filth in that low voice — “You’re so pretty like this… all mine.” Will go harder if you ask, but he prefers to fuck you through eye contact and emotional damage. Makes you melt, then makes you moan.

Cum: Warm, slow, and intensely possessive. Finishes with a deep groan and wraps his arms around you instantly. Fills you up and doesn’t pull out — “I wanna stay like this a little longer.” Watches it leak out of you with a dazed look and kisses your trembling thighs.

Dick Game Verdict: He doesn’t just make love — he devours your soul. You’ll cry, you’ll shake, you’ll feel cherished and wrecked. Sex with Felix is like being adored into submission. You’ll never recover — and you’ll never want to.

Seungmin // 승민

Length: 6" — but don’t get comfortable. He doesn’t need to be huge — the control, the angles, the timing is what sends you to the ER. Slides in like he’s done it a thousand times in his head. Because he has. “Told you I’d fit perfectly.”

Thickness: Sleek and dangerous. Just enough to fill you right — just enough to make you squirm. He lives for the moment you exhale and say, “Oh my god…” because he already knew it would feel that good. He's been patient. Calculating. Now you're his problem.

Stroke Game: Controlled. Cruel. Clinical. Each thrust is calculated. Each change in rhythm is intentional. The kind of sex where he grabs your jaw mid-stroke, leans in with a smirk, and says: “You’re so loud. You trying to get caught?” You’ll cry. He’ll coo. And then he’ll go deeper.

Cum: Hot. Possessive. Intentional. Loves cumming inside — and watching it leak. Will plug you up with his fingers and say, “You’re not wasting a drop.” Doesn’t make a sound when he finishes — just a quiet gasp and clenched jaw like he’s in complete control even now.

Dick Game Verdict: He’s a fucking weapon. Not loud. Not flashy. Just precision-based annihilation. He’ll gaslight you into thinking it wasn’t even that intense — while you’re still shaking 30 minutes later. You’ll never win. But you’ll beg to lose again.

I.n // 아이엔

Length: 6.5" — a sleeper hit. You don’t expect it to hit like that… until it does. And then you’re arching, twitching, grabbing sheets with a voice you didn’t know you had. He gives you that deep, shaky breath before sliding in like, “Tell me if it’s too much.” (It is. But you won’t dare say no.)

Thickness: Slim but deadly. Slides in too easily. And that’s the trap. He gets deeper than he should, hits angles that make you shiver, and then stays there. Tilts his hips, watches your eyes roll back, and just smiles. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Stroke Game: Evolving. Dangerous. Addictive. At first, he watches you — every gasp, twitch, stutter. Then one day he finds a rhythm that makes you break and he never lets it go. From then on, it’s deep, slow, purposeful fucking. Holds your hands down. Bites your neck. Makes you beg with a soft whisper: “Louder, baby. Let them hear who owns you.”

Cum: Hot, messy, unexpectedly filthy. Finishes with a choked gasp and a twitchy thrust, still buried inside you, whispering your name. Then collapses on top of you, breathless and shaking. Sometimes asks if he can stay in a little longer. Sometimes goes again while you’re still twitching.

Dick Game Verdict: He is the sweetest weapon you’ll ever encounter. You think it’s cute until your legs are shaking, your brain’s gone, and he’s pulling you in for another round with a soft, dangerous smile. He didn’t ask to break you — but now that he has? He’ll never let anyone else put you back together.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Eighteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, silverstone 2021, racing injuries, detailed description of a panic attack, angsty as heck

Notes — Uh....... welcome to the Silverstone chapter (im sorry)

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 (Silverstone) 

In the days leading up to Silverstone, Lando filmed a video for Quadrant. Amelia sat just out of shot, watching the gameplay unfold with a grin that said, this is ridiculous, and I’m having the best time watching you all make fools of yourselves. When Lando stacked it and landed awkwardly on his arm, she was there in an instant, fussing over him.

A small portion of the clip made it into the final edit. Her on her knees, laughing, while Lando pouted dramatically, waving his arm around like it was much a more dramatic injury than just a scratch. It was lighthearted, sweet. 

Everyone went crazy for it. 

—

WhatsApp — 2021 F1 Groupchat

Lando N. Quick question. does anyone have any spare gloves?

Valtteri B. Like... racing gloves?

Lando N. Nah, just regular gloves. Leather, ideally.

George R. I’ve got some driving gloves in my car.

Pierre G. Of course you do.

George R. What’s that supposed to mean?

Pierre G. Nothing, nothing.

Lando N. Can you bring them to me? Amelia’s a bit icky about touch today, thought gloves might help. We’re heading to the track now and I couldn’t find any at my parents' place.

George R. Yeah, I’ll give them to Will.

Lando N. 👍

—

It wasn’t a stim. It wasn’t a meltdown.

It was just… discomfort.

She sighed in relief as Lando slid the brown leather gloves onto her hands. She swallowed, wiggling her fingers and letting the tension bleed from her shoulders.

The leather was soft and probably expensive, considering the gloves were George’s.

Lando squeezed her hands. “Better?”

She nodded, smiling. “They match my boots.” She held her gloved hands next to her knees, where her brown riding-style boots reached.

He snorted, laughing softly. “I don’t think George planned that, but I’m glad you feel fashionable, baby.”

Amelia glanced over her shoulder. Daniel wandered over, wiggling his eyebrows. “Excited for your home races, mate?” The question was aimed at Lando.

Amelia watched Lando, noticing how his face shifted; something complicated, something soft, but also guarded.

“Yeah. Just want to do well,” he shrugged, his smile a little too tight.

She frowned, instinctively leaning in. “You will.”

His smile flickered, uncertain. “I hope so.”

—

Max didn’t ask about the gloves. He just wrapped his arm around her shoulder and dragged her into his driver’s room, ignoring her confused protests.

He slammed the door, sat on the cabin bed, and stared at her.

She hovered, uncertain, glancing at the door before looking back at him. “Um…”

“I want to tell her the truth,” he said, eventually.

She stared at him for a beat, trying to decode his words, and then, slowly, her eyes widened. “You— I thought you told her months ago! Are you serious?” She choked out.

Max winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. I know I should’ve done it sooner, okay? But I— I didn’t want to spoil it…”

Her anger flared, a sick heat bubbling in her stomach. “I told you to tell her the truth. That I’d hate to be lied to like that. And you carried on?” She was trembling. “So…. What. She still has no idea? About you, about all of this?”

He lowered his gaze, shame written across his face.

Amelia took a deep breath, stepping back. “I can’t even look at you. How could you—” She choked, nauseous, thinking of the girl who had no idea she was about to be dragged into this mess. “Has she told you she loves you?”

He was silent.

She let out a pained sound, high-pitched and sharp. “I don’t want to talk to you right now. Just… pass your thoughts on the car after practice to GP, yeah?”

Then she turned and walked out, her body coiled tight, her mind a storm.

—

She stormed through the garage, ignoring the stares from the engineers, and found Lando, her dad, and Daniel standing together.

Her dad spotted her first, eyes going wide. “Hey, honey. Everything okay?”

She shook her head. “I need to hit something.”

All three pairs of eyes turned to her.

Her dad sighed, glancing around. This wasn’t new. It had mostly happened during puberty. She’d always been hard to anger, but when it did happen, she needed an outlet.

“We’ve got some old tire blankets we can pile up. Should be soft enough.”

She nodded, her gaze distant.

He instructed a mechanic to start gathering the blankets in the back of the garage, away from the cameras and spectators.

Lando cupped her face, bending to meet her eyes. “You okay? What happened?”

“Max is an asshole,” she spat.

He blinked, shocked, before stepping back and nodding. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go help with the tire blankets.” He hurried off.

She looked at Daniel.

He shrugged, making a face. “Max is an asshole sometimes, isn’t he?”

She nodded, jaw tight.

Then, out of sight of everyone, she took her frustration out on the tire blankets.

— 

Max won the sprint race, setting his brakes on fire on the grid in order to boost the temperature in his front tires and give him a better start. It was risky, but it paid off, and he won. That took precedence over the extra work he’d given the garage crew overnight.

Another haul of points in their fight against Lewis.

Amelia didn’t have it in her to celebrate. She forced a smile for GP, nodded at Christian, but stepped away from the pit wall and headed straight to the back of Max’s garage, where Jos was sitting.

“Did you know about her? His girlfriend?” Jos asked. “I assume you did.”

Amelia stared at a spot of engine oil on the wall. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, to push for more, but she stood up and walked away before he could.

Lando finished P5. He fought with her childhood hero on track and came out ahead. For that, he deserved her attention.

— 

She found Mark Webber just before the F2 feature race, holding a folded white envelope. She passed it to him as discreetly as possible, careful of the cameras and prying eyes around them.

He took it, glanced at it, and raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “Let him open it when—if—things go wrong. It’s a good offer. The best he’ll get.” She’d made sure of that. She wasn’t about to let him slip through the cracks if Otmar did what she suspected he might do.

Mark studied her for a moment. “You made this happen?”

She nodded.

“Come on, kid,” he said, after a beat, gesturing ahead. “I’m sure Oscar would love a chat before he has to get in the car.”

She blinked, then grinned. “Do you think he’ll mind if I look at his steering set-up? I’m so curious—”

—

Lando drove them from the track to the hotel. She liked his car. All sleek, black lines and a polished interior that looked like something out of a magazine.

“Is this your dream car?” she asked, curiosity in her voice.

It was nearly ten, the sky darkening, and Lando had one hand on the steering wheel and the other casually draped over her inner thigh. She’d swapped out her team kit after the sprint for his favourite skirt, keeping it casual but elegant for the evening’s media events. Daniel had made him do a shoeey on the main stage. 

“No.” He shook his head, glancing at her with a playful look in his eyes. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why?” She raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious.

“I’ve always wanted a Jolly.”

She blinked, momentarily stunned. “A— A Fiat Jolly?”

He nodded, his grin widening.

She couldn’t help but smirk. “A Jolly? That’s your dream car?”

Lando shot her a mock glare from the corner of his eye. “Baby…”

“Sorry, sorry!” she laughed, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle her giggles. “I just— I wasn’t expecting that.”

He shook his head, exasperated but still smiling, his eyes warm with amusement. “I’ll get one, baby, and I’ll force you to let me drive it everywhere.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll be able to match all of my outfits to it,” she teased, her eyes twinkling.

Lando rolled his eyes.

— 

Max and Pietra were waiting for them in the hotel lobby the next morning. Amelia squeezed Lando’s hand as they approached, giving him a fond glance before skipping over to Pietra, who greeted her with a bright smile and a glance of appreciation.

“That dress is gorgeous!” Pietra remarked, her eyes lighting up.

Amelia smiled, twirling a little. “Thanks. It’s my favourite. Oscar De La Renta. I can wear it on the pit wall as long as I throw on a team jacket.” As they walked through the lobby, Amelia leaned in, lowering her voice just enough so the guys wouldn’t overhear. “He won’t say it, but Lando thinks it’s a lucky dress. Pushed me into wearing it today.”

Pietra smiled knowingly.

“Baby!” Lando’s voice called from behind them.

Amelia turned her head, meeting his gaze. “Yeah?”

“You got your iPad?” he asked, him and Max now caught up to them.

Amelia patted her bag, feeling the familiar weight. “Got it.”

“Good. Keep a close eye on it today, yeah? Group chat’s a bit tense at the moment.”

She frowned. “What’s my iPad got to do with your group chat?”

He shrugged. She narrowed her eyes at him. He kissed her. 

— 

Everyone could feel the tension between her and Max.

She sat in the strategy meeting, arms crossed, her focus locked on the data sheets in front of her. The only time she spoke was to correct a mistake or suggest a differential, her tone cool and efficient. Max, however, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, the weight of whatever was unspoken between them hanging heavy in the air.

When the meeting ended, she walked with GP to the garage, discussing overcorrection and heat cycles. 

She managed to avoid Max entirely. 

But just before the cars were due to leave the garages to line up on the grid, Jos found her. He was calm, but there was something demanding in his expression. “I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you,” he said quietly, eyes hard. “But I need you to put it aside and focus. This is an important race. He needs to win.”

Her response was a sharp nod, her jaw set. Without a word, she walked over to Max’s car. She leaned into the cockpit, eyes meeting his through the visor. The surprise in his eyes at the sight of her was fleeting; she knew he hadn’t expected it. She didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“If you don’t tell her by next weekend,” she said, voice low but firm, “I’ll find her and tell her myself.” Then, before he could react, she kissed the cheek of his helmet. Her voice softened, almost a whisper. “Win it, broer.”

Straightening up, she glanced at the mechanics; her unspoken signal to let him go. She turned back to Jos, who watched her with quiet approval. He gave a small nod, and she walked away. 

— 

She rarely walked the grid while the cars were setting up, but something about this year pulled her there. She found Lando under his umbrella, shielded from the sun, sipping from his bottle.

His eyes lit up when he saw her. She kissed his cheek, adjusting his fireproofs. “Be safe, do well. Love you.”

He pulled her in for one last kiss before she moved on. She glanced at the cars, each a blur of metal and energy; smiled at the mechanics, and shared a quick squeeze with Fernando. Finally, she caught Max’s eye. He stared at her for a long moment, before offering a small smile.

“Ah, Amelia Brown!”

She spun around, coming face-to-face with Martin Brundle.

Well aware of the camera, she forced a smile through the nerves. “Hi! How are you?” she asked, deliberately avoiding the lens.

“Good, good! So, we saw you give Lando a good luck kiss. Think McLaren’s got a good shot at scoring double points again today?”

“I hope everyone does well today,” she replied, only a slight tremble in her voice, “but of course, I hope Max comes out on top.”

He laughed, somewhat distractedly, giving her a quick nod before leading the cameraman away.

She glanced back at Lando. He was watching her with a proud, warm smile.

Her cheeks flushed, and she turned, head down, walking off the grid toward the pit wall.

— 

GP settled beside her a few minutes later, handing her a comms clip. She gave it a cursive glance before she slid it into her ear and tugged her defenders on over the top.

“Makes it easier, huh?” he said through the comms, voice quiet and crackly, no need to shout through the defenders like usual.

She smiled. “You’re smart.”

“Coming from you?” He let out a long breath. “That’s the highest of compliments.”

She giggled softly, turning her focus to the screens in front of them.

Her stomach was already in knots, but that was nothing new; it always was during the formation lap. The calm before the storm. Her gaze bounced between Lando and Max, just as it always did, and not for the first time, she wished she had two sets of eyes.

They lined up on the grid. She chewed on her bottom lip, head tilted as she kept an eye on the tyre temps on Max’s car.

He hadn’t set them alight this time. Improvement.

Five lights. Four, three, two.

Lights out.

Max led from Lewis through the first corner. Her fingers fisted into the hem of her dress.

And then—

And then.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

Max ahead. Lewis closing. A slipstream through Copse.

Contact.

Suddenly Amelia was on her feet, hand clamped over her mouth.

She sucked in a shaky breath, barely hearing the roar of shouting from the garage, the pit wall, the radios. Yelling. Chaos. Outrage.

GP spoke into his earpiece — calm, measured. “Max? Max, come on. Talk to me.”

Her stomach dropped. He kept repeating his name, firm but steady, and she heard every word. The comm was still in her ear.

Someone’s hands landed on her arms; steadying her, holding her upright. She didn’t look, didn’t need to. Everything else faded.

She begged silently. Prayed. She didn’t know who she was praying to… she didn’t care.

“Red flag!” someone shouted. Or maybe whispered. Everything was warped and sharp all at once.

She blinked. Jos appeared in front of her, speaking, his lips moved but she couldn’t hear him. Just the ringing.

And then—

“He’s moving! Max is getting out of the car!”

The breath punched out of her. Her lip wobbled. Her knees gave a little.

“Fuck,” she whispered, broken and small.

He pulled her into him, arms wrapped tight. Unshakable. Steady.

She sucked in a sharp breath against his shoulder.

— 

They showed her on the main feed.

A cutaway from Max’s crash, the Red Bull pit wall — GP calm and collected, Christian furious, and Amelia… utterly devastated.

She tore her eyes away from the monitor and stared at the floor. She was in the medical wing now, waiting.

51G’s.

A brutal shunt. Career-ending, for some.

Not for Max.

Him climbing out of the car unassisted had been a statement. A declaration. He was still in control. Still standing.

She looked up when Jos stepped out of the examination room. He gave her a nod, then gestured for her to go in.

She entered, and stopped cold.

Max sat on the bed, bruised but upright. Alive.

Her breath hitched. Tears welled instantly.

“Zusje,” he sighed.

She crossed the room in three strides and wrapped her arms around him. Not too tight, she didn’t want to hurt him, but close enough to feel his heart beating, his lungs working, the warmth of him. Real.

He stroked her head, let her cry it out.

When she finally pulled away, lip trembling, eyes darting, he asked, “What did you do?”

So she told him.

Panic in her voice, regret tangled in every word. She’d thought about it, imagined how she’d feel if it were Lando in that crash and no one had reached out. How small and useless and broken she’d feel.

Max’s eyes darkened.

“You called her?” he demanded, already reaching for her phone. “How did you even—”

“It’s too late,” she said quietly. “She’s already on her way.”

Max froze.

“I’m not sorry,” Amelia added, steady now. “If I were her, I’d want to know.”

— 

She barely made it to Lando before he climbed back into the car for the restart.

“I love you,” she whispered against his neck. His arms wrapped tight around her, lifting her off the ground with the force of his hold. “I love you so much. Please be safe. Please, Lando.”

He pulled back just enough to make her meet his eyes, steady and sure. The eye-contact made her squirm, but it was important. “I’ll always come back to you, baby. Always.”

She let out a shaky breath, a small, high-pitched sound caught between panic and relief, and hugged him once more before his engineers pulled him away.

Pietra hesitated beside her, hands hovering, then dove forward, wrapping Amelia in a hug despite the warnings both Max and Lando had given her.

“You looked so scared,” she said gently, in Portuguese.

Amelia nodded. Didn’t pull away. Let herself be held. Over Pietra’s shoulder, she locked eyes with Max. He looked concerned, like he was ready to intervene, to pry them apart, but Amelia just sniffled and pressed her face into Pietra’s shoulder.

It was nice to have a friend. 

— 

“Amelia—”

She ducked her head, jaw tight, eyes hard, and turned on her heel without hesitation.

Her heart stuttered, but she couldn’t stop herself. She was angry… furious, really. He’d carried on, celebrated the win like he hadn’t just sent his rival spinning into a tyre wall. Accident or not, it didn’t sit right in her gut.

And maybe it wasn’t fair.

But Lewis had ignored her before, in Austria.

Now, it was her turn.

— 

@/verstappie11 seeing amelia so scared after the crash was scarier than the actual crash. like can somebody hold her please!!!!!!! i never thought i’d be so happy to see jos verstappen lmao

@/pitwallprincess no bc the way the broadcast CUT to Amelia literally holding back tears while GP is stone-faced and Christian is raging… a genuine greek tragedy 

@/helmetcamwhore wait why did Amelia look like she was about to sprint to max’s car herself 😭 give her a hug pls omg

@/softlandon4ever it’s the way Lando dropped everything to hug her before the restart… like. weeping. actual soulmates.

@/mercmafia She said “I hope Max comes out on top” on the GRID and then he COLLIDES with Lewis in lap 1??? nah idc what y’all say she’s the problem.

@/tifosislut69 Amelia Brown crying on live TV was not on my bingo card today. she looked DEVASTATED. get this woman a therapist now!

@/chequedflagged I get that she's emotional but Amelia being all cold to lewis post-race in the paddock was giving bad vibes… 

@/gp2engine not everyone’s fave stem girlie Amelia Brown walking past Lewis like he doesn’t exist post-race. SHE’S MAD MAD

@/papayapixels watching Amelia literally fold into Pietra’s arms while Lando’s pulled away by engineers… god this garage has SEEN things today

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