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push-the-heartbrake · 6 months ago

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𝙃𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙔𝙤𝙪 (𝙃𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙄𝙣 𝙈𝙮 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩) // 𝙎.𝙍

𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳. 𝘙𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.

First instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “I’m not supposed to do this, but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.” — or the one where Spencer really likes the library for its books, the chess, and the girl working the night shift.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.9k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Cm typical violence, Spencer gets injured but nothing major. Mention of bullying, sick parents, and addiction. Takes place sometime after he got clean, so S4 perhaps? No smut, but talk of sex. Spencer being an insecure virgin and reader having used sex as a coping mechanism in the past.

A/N: Hello!! New blog, new fic. I'm too dumb to write for Spencer, but I tried my best. Reader probably has too much personality and backstory but I stopped caring midway through. No physical descriptors used though, except for some wacky clothing. Tell me what you think? Please? Love ya, bye.

You wouldn’t think it was possible, given how most Americans viewed paying taxes, but for some reason, in some way, a very persistent person at some board meeting somewhere had managed to get through the idea that at least one library in D.C. should be open all hours of the day.

Spencer, for one, couldn’t be more pleased with that decision.

He had fond memories of spending long nights in quiet libraries when he was working toward one of his many degrees. Now, his longing for the silence and solitude stemmed from insomnia. He guessed most people his age spent sleepless nights out at nightclubs or in the never-ending search for love or just a one-night stand to suffice some sort of primal need. Spencer wasn’t like that. Never had, nor ever would be.

The library was a better place in every sense. He grew bored out of his mind by being alone in his apartment for too long, but he also got tired of having people around him. His job was social enough. The library was a perfect mixture of the two, requiring silence but still had people in motion so that he didn’t feel entirely isolated.

He’d browse the shelves, searching for things he hadn’t read. Quickly getting through many books in an evening with his way of processing words. It got to the point where there weren’t enough books about his usual interests, so he would pick up books about old cars that Rossi mentioned and learn about their engineering or read some wacky poetry that Emily had recommended that she loved as a teenager.

Sometimes he’d bring whatever knitting project he was working on and join some old ladies who met up at the library to knit and discuss romance novels. Spencer didn’t bring much to the conversation, but he liked hearing them talk. He wasn’t much for gossip, but made-up drama between fictional characters was surprisingly entertaining.

He would also borrow one of the computers and play online chess for hours until his eyes had grown tired from the bright light and he finally thought he might be able to go home and force himself to sleep. Eric, one of the chess players that he frequently met in a local park, showed up sometimes, when he wasn’t swamped with homework or had a curfew to keep. Maybe he should make some friends his own age that weren’t his colleagues, but Eric, at age fifteen, was also the best chess player that Spencer had ever met.

So, the quietness, the books, the knitting, and the chess were all perks of spending time at the library. The cute girl sitting at the front desk, working almost every night shift alone, was also somewhat of a perk.

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure how it came about or why he was so enamored by even just the idea of you, but he couldn’t help but let his eyes linger for a little bit too long whenever he walked past the front desk or saw you organizing books at some shelf in the library.

That was a lie. Spencer knew exactly how it happened and why.

It started with simple people-watching. He liked to imagine wild backstories for people he only saw in passing. Probably a result of being a profiler.

With students he would wonder about what project they were researching late at night in the library and what their majors were and if he could notice patterns in their appearances and behaviors.

He’d connect the dots with the old women knitting and their opinions about the romance novels to actual experiences in their own lives. One had been cheated on in her youth and found any sort of love triangle to be awful, while another couldn’t understand certain writers fascination with sneaking in unplanned pregnancies because she had never wanted kids herself.

And while Eric and he played chess in silence most of the time, he still picked up on how Eric didn’t like how strict his mother was on him and how his sisters got treated differently, more easygoing, than him.

And then there was you, the only other person who would frequent—well, you worked there—the library so often that Spencer could start to piece together your backstory.

His first impression was that you were cute, in like an objective way. The same way people would look at Garcia with some sort of childlike awe of how uniquely herself she was. You had that same thing about you, with colorful cardigans and ribbons tied in your hair.

The second thing he noticed was that you probably didn’t work that much. You were sat at that front desk all night, organizing what needed to be organized and helping those who needed help, but then you were left to yourself for the rest of your shift. You read a lot, but Spencer never got close enough to see what exactly. You also had the news playing really quietly on a little radio, perhaps to not go completely insane from the silent nature of the library.

At first he thought you weren’t too talkative, but then he observed an interaction you had with a student. A young mother who came to the library to study while her child peacefully slept in their stroller. Spencer wasn’t one to judge. If the child got to sleep and the mother got to study, it was a win-win situation, although unconventional.

When he saw the mother and baby leave, going up to you to check out some books, he saw just how talkative you were, practically spewing out words about the subjects she was researching and cooing at the baby who was then awake, calling it adorable and quickly playing peekaboo.

Now, as Spencer sat in a chair, not too far from the entrance and the front desk, acting like he was reading a book he had already read through, he observed you inconspicuously.

You were fronting books on a display shelf that was the first thing you saw when you entered the library. Usually seasonal books, or that followed a current event or a theme. It was Halloween this time around, and you fought with the mess that was fake cobwebs. A garland of little black bats hung over the shelf and plastic jack-o-lanterns acted as bookstands. He could spot certain covers of books he recognized. Goosebumps, for the children. Stephen King, for the horror fanatics. Edgar Allan Poe, for the poetry lovers.

You quietly cursed under your breath as your fingers got stuck in the cobwebs, and Spencer had to cover his laugh with an unnatural cough. That was when he saw that your nails were painted a pumpkin-like orange and your black cardigan had a little skeleton pattern. You were going all out with the theme, even if you barely saw any people during the night shift, telling Spencer that you were doing it all for your own enjoyment.

As you stretched to place books on the highest shelf, he noticed your trousers, and Spencer was only a man—granted a little peculiar and different—but still a man, with working eyes and needs. You wore slacks so well-fitting he wondered what tailor you went to or if you could sew yourself. And Converse, always dark red Converse. You dressed like him, but in a more colorful, feminine way.

He saw you pick up a book and judge it by its cover, then instead of placing it on display, you put it in a tote bag placed on the cart you had to pick books from. He’d seen you use the same tote bag before, when you were organizing the shelves, placing books back or collecting ones loaned online. The album cover for Kate Bush’s The Kick Inside was on it, not because Spencer knew of the album but because the text was printed on it.

You used it to pick out books for yourself, Spencer noticed in the moment. While rolling the cart around with books for others, if you saw one that you wanted to read during your shift, you’d place it in the tote bag to not lose it in the masses.

You were filled and covered in idiosyncrasies, making you nothing but enchanting to watch. And cute, in both the aforementioned objective Garcia-esque way and also a subjective Spencer-esque way. Not in the sense that Spencer found himself subjectively cute, but that you were subjectively cute in a way that felt catered to him and his attractions.

Spencer thought all of this about you, while he had never even spoken a singular word to you. He would fantasize about what your initial interaction would be like, but he never had the courage to actually do something about it. He wouldn’t say that he was shy, and he normally didn’t find it that difficult to speak to someone, but something about your subjective cuteness made you terrifying.

And it didn’t come naturally. He had a library card; he didn’t need to talk to you to check out a book. And asking for directions to a certain book seemed pointless when he had the shelves memorized.

Spencer stood up from his chair to place the book he’d pretend to read back on the right shelf, passing by his favorite section of classics translated into their original languages. He was grateful that D.C. was multicultural enough and filled with diplomats and embassies so that the library found it necessary to take in books that weren’t in English.

He stopped to browse the Russian selection, his finger grazing the spine of Война и мир.

Wait… Certain rare books had to be checked out at the front desk.

And while he already had this book at home, annotated and analyzed, you didn’t know that. He could totally loan this to compare to the version he had at home. This was an earlier copy than his own, and maybe certain parts of the Russian language were different.

Yes. That could work. He was going to talk to you.

With the book in hand, he willed himself to approach the front desk you were now sitting at after finally winning the wrestle match against the cobwebs.

You looked up from the computer as you noticed him, the soft glow of overhead lights casting shadows over the high points of your face. A welcoming smile, although well-rehearsed in a customer service-like manner, stunned him as he placed the book and his library card on the counter.

“War and Peace… in Russian?” you asked, raising a brow as you grabbed the book to scan it. The way you viewed it showed that you recognized the book from the cover, but not the Russian language. And then you looked right up at him, not afraid of keeping eye contact.

Spencer cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how intently you were looking at him. “I’m rereading it to compare to the English version.”

“Are you by any chance from Russia?”

“No,” he said with an honest smile. “I’m from Nevada. But I know enough Russian to get by.”

You let out a low hum of appreciation, your fingers quickly typing something down on the keyboard after having scanned his card. Your nails weren’t only pumpkin-colored, but on them were also minuscule little pumpkin faces.

“To each their own. Don’t get me wrong, it’s impressive.”

“Have you read it?” Spencer asked, his curiosity slipping through.

“No,” you admitted with a laugh. “I picked Infinite Jest as my designated brick of a book that I’ll never finish but still spew opinions about.”

The honesty of your response caught him off guard, and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

“Which is embarrassing to admit to someone who actually can read said bricks,” you added.

“Even worse as a librarian,” he teased, the words leaving his mouth before he had a chance to second-guess them.

“Hey,” you said, your tone mock defensive. “I mostly recommend things to kids anyway. I know all about Daisy Meadows and Captain Underpants.”

That Spencer was twelve years old when he discovered Tolstoy was something he kept to himself. He understood that most kids wanted something funny or imaginative to read, like underpants or fairies—not Russian realism.

“How long until you gave up on Infinite Jest?” he asked instead, leaning slightly on the counter in a way that felt more natural than he anticipated.

“I am seated in an office, surrounded by heads and bodies.” The quote escaped you easily, like you actually had it memorized, but the way your smile cracked through revealed that you were painfully aware of the ironic implication of it.

“That’s the opening sentence,” Spencer pointed out, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“Captivating, right?” you quipped.

Spencer kept his smile tight as he enjoyed your sarcastic humor. He would’ve never assumed that Infinite Jest was the beast that broke you. Stereotypically, he thought it was stoners and annoying philosophy majors thinking the world was doomed who enjoyed that book.

You didn’t look like either.

But there was also the huge amount of guys who kept it in their bookshelves and had it on display when they had girls over, as a conversation piece, although they hadn’t read a word from it. Maybe you had fallen victim to one of those guys and decided to give it a try on your own, at least getting further than they ever had.

“So you’re more into modern literature?” he was quick to ask, keeping the conversation going.

He wasn’t even sure if David Foster Wallace was considered modern. Contemporary was probably a better word. In comparison to the Russian mellow kind of realism, Wallace was hysterical. Spencer had read it for the sake of saying that he’d read it. After all, it didn’t take him that long. While he was comfortable being the guy who read Tolstoy in Russian, he wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being the guy who had Infinite Jest as his holy scripture. It made some interesting points about substance abuse and addiction, but that was about it for Spencer, if he was going to give a literary review.

“Not really, I adore some classics,” you admitted, before pointing to a small stack of books behind the counter. The ones you’d snuck into your tote bag. “Now I mostly read poetry, though. All kinds, as long as it’s short and impactful.”

“Oh, you’d hate this then,” he said, like a realization, meaning War and Peace.

You scrunched your nose, nodding softly. “Mhm, and Infinite Jest too.”

There was a beat of silence, not uncomfortable but charged with the kind of potential Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to do with.

“Alright, Tolstoy,” you said, sliding the book over the counter in his direction. “Enjoy your comparative studies.”

“Thanks,” he replied shortly.

As he walked away, book in hand, he couldn’t help but glance back once, catching you fiddling with the edges of your cardigan as you returned your focus to the computer screen. If you wanted to hide your smile from him, you weren’t doing that good of a job.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer wasn’t sure if he had overthought it, read too much into it, to the point where nothing was making sense. A conversation with a person loaning a book at a library that you worked at probably wasn’t that noteworthy to you, even if it left you dumbly smiling after he’d left.

So, he didn’t dare walk up to you again. He couldn’t justify it in his head. Maybe when his War and Peace loan expired, he’d find an excuse to check it out again, but until then, Spencer didn’t know how to talk to you.

On one afternoon, when the unit had just finished up a case in rural Virginia, Spencer had taken the train back home to D.C. and gone to the library earlier than usual. It was more crowded, with students cramming in some last-minute studying for their finals and parents taking their kids for a little after-school adventure.

He sought refuge in a quiet corner—a cluster of armchairs nestled between the history books and autobiographies—where he could read in peace even though it was busy. But on his way, he was stopped in his tracks. Walking past the kids section, a voice he had begun to recognize caught his attention.

You sat cross-legged on a colorful mat, a worn picture book spread wide in your hands. Your voice carried the story with a mix of humor and animation as you brought the story to life, reading aloud to an audience of tiny faces. Children leaned forward eagerly, their eyes wide with fascination, while a few younger ones had already succumbed to the comforting cadence of your voice, their tiny bodies sprawled across cushions in peaceful slumber. You held the book up for the kids to see the illustrations, pausing occasionally to add exaggerated voices that sent giggles rippling through the group.

Spencer lingered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before he walked away to not get noticed.

As time passed, the library emptied out. He saw people leave, tired from a long day. For him it was the opposite. Now was when his favorite time of day began, if he wasn’t stuck in the limbo of trying to get himself to sleep. But he had the day off tomorrow and could spend all of it sleeping if he wanted to, so tonight he wouldn’t be anxious about the lack of sleep he was getting, and instead fully indulge in the quiet sanctuary that was the library.

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in over fifteen minutes. Something heavy about the history of Nobel Prize winners in chemistry. He was lost in thought, the events of the day fading into memory.

Footsteps broke the silence, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor, growing louder until they stopped just beside him. He looked up to see you standing there, two steaming paper mugs in your hands.

“I’m not supposed to do this,” you began, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “but you’re the only person still here, so I made us tea.”

You placed both mugs on the table in front of Spencer before flopping down into an armchair of your own. You had dungarees on and a soft maroon sweater underneath, matching your Converse. Spencer blinked, unable to form a sentence as he watched you get comfortable, picking up a book from the tote bag you always seemed to carry. He didn’t necessarily recognize the cover, but he knew of the author’s name.

“John Cooper Clarke? You’re into punk?” he heard himself ask before he could think twice about it. You didn’t even get the chance to start reading.

You tilted your head. “You know who he is?”

“I have a colleague who used to be goth in high school. Full on Siouxsie Sioux. And she has told me about JCC,” Spencer explained.

Emily. She was the reason he knew about the “punk poet”. He still couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw her yearbook photos from high school. Even less so when she would quote the same poem every single time they had to wait for something—the jet to get ready, blood samples and lab reports, Rossi to catch up when they had to run somewhere. Whatever it was, she would quote Evidently Chickentown.

“Makes sense,” you replied. “He performed on the same bill as a lot of those early post-punk and goth bands.”

Spencer smiled, quietly reciting, “The fucking train is fucking late. You fucking wait, you fucking wait.”

“You’re fucking lost and fucking found. Stuck in fucking Chickentown.” You chuckled, picking up the line seamlessly. Spencer sounded like cursing was something alien to him, as if the crude words didn’t belong to his vocabulary. You found it sweet, yet unusual. “That poem is in this book! Along with the weird one about being someone’s vacuum cleaner, do you know that too?”

“Uhm, no. I don’t think I know that one,” Spencer admitted, silently begging for you to read it to him. He would be just as excited as the children hearing you read aloud earlier.

“If I’m annoying or distracting,” you said after a moment, “you can tell me to leave. I just sort of go insane spending all night here alone in silence.”

He’d been sitting by himself, looking like he was reading a book about chemistry breakthroughs, and maybe that didn’t come across as someone who wanted to be talked to. Spencer at least assumed that was your thought process when shyly admitting that you were seeking company.

“No, uhm, it’s okay. Thank you for the tea,” Spencer was quick to say before grabbing one of the mugs and taking a small sip. He didn’t want you to leave. If you were voluntarily talking to him, that was better than any made-up War and Peace-related plan he could come up with.

“I’m Spencer, by the way,” he added.

You told him your name in return, pointing to your name tag—a little yellow one with Winnie-the-Pooh on it—before reaching out your hand to him. He hadn’t noticed the tag before, and maybe that was because he didn’t want to get caught staring at your chest.

He looked at your hand, the germaphobe in him coming to life as he observed your dainty fingers. At least in comparison to his own. The orange nail polish was gone and replaced by a simple black coat. Even your hands were cute to him, yet covered in bacteria.

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and took in your reaction, your smile fading as you retracted your hand and hid it in your pocket.

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It's actually safer to kiss,” he felt the need to explain. It was a simple fact, yet he didn’t think of the implications. Spencer’s eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, and he stammered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks, “Uh… not that you and I—I mean, you know what I mean.”

You acted like you didn’t mind, keeping the conversation going without noticing the huge bump in the road that Spencer thought he had created.

“But doesn’t the other person’s bacteria stay in you forever after you’ve kissed them?” you wondered, a crease forming between your brows as you thought about it. “Don’t quote me on it, but I’ve read that somewhere. It’s like eighty million bacteria exchanged on average in a french kiss, and that some of them stay and colonize, becoming part of your own… what’s it called?” Your voice trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Microbiome?” he supplied. “The community of microorganisms found living together in one habitat?”

“That’s the one!” You lit up with realization. “It’s horrifying and poetic that, after you’ve kissed someone, they become part of you forever.”

He thought of the bacteria, while you thought of the internal battle of someone you’ve kissed staying with you forever. He blamed his background in STEM and his lack of experience with kissing for not seeing the big deal.

“I’m sure it’s not in any way that’s noticeable to us. It’s modest at worst,” he tried to reassure.

He wasn’t sure exactly what research you were referencing when mentioning the eighty million bacteria, or if it even was scientific research. Knowing a little bit about you, it could possibly be poetry about clinging to something or someone for too long. But he knew enough about microbiomes and their complexity that one exchange of saliva wouldn’t alter them majorly. Maybe in a constant way, but never majorly.

“In the sense of bacteria colonizing?” you wondered, seeing Spencer nod. “Well, it’s still psychologically fucked up.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows at your frankness, urging you to keep talking.

“I would like to forget the fact that I made out with Cody Parker in ninth grade, but no, he’s stuck in my microbiome. That’s fucked up,” you laughed, gesturing with your hands in frustration.

“Now, what was so bad about Cody?”

You huffed before answering. “Captain of the football team. Is that enough of a reason to hate him?”

Spencer could’ve guessed it from his name. Cody. He could imagine what he looked like and why you would’ve kissed him. Hell, Spencer would’ve probably kissed a guy like him too if given the chance at that delicate age of self-discovery. Just to have it done early, and as a bragging right for the future. His first kiss had been at a college party that he was too young to attend really, with some girl who probably saw him more as a little brother to care for rather than someone she was actually attracted to.

“Do you also have a deep hatred for anyone that ever played high school football?” Spencer asked with a small, curious smile.

“You could say that,” you admitted, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “I lost my virginity to Cody the same night, and then he stole my underwear and stuck them to my locker with a note that said I was up for grabs.”

You laughed after you said it, but Spencer couldn’t help but wince. He understood why you laughed, a response to make something uncomfortable feel less serious, but he couldn’t believe that someone had done that to you.

He was an annoying, know-it-all, little boy when he was in high school and had internally justified the bullying he had gone through by telling himself that football players and cheerleaders were just jealous and stupid, probably still stuck in their cliques, in Vegas working dead-end jobs. But you, you shone like light itself, and someone had still found a reason to humiliate you. It didn’t make sense.

“The football team at my school tied me to a goalpost and stripped me naked in front of a girl I had a crush on,” Spencer shared softly. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing. Not to make it seem like he’d had it worse, but to show that you had similarities.

Your head turned sharply to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “Not that we’re competing, but I think you win the bully-off we just had.” You straightened up in your seat, lifting your legs to sit criss-cross. “But you’re cute, though. Was the girl at least nice to you?”

Spencer looked down at his hands, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. You’d called him cute.He thought you were cute. It shouldn’t be the other way around.

You stared at him like you were questioning his sanity while he reacted to the compliment. It wasn’t him you were questioning, but the eyesight of all the people Spencer had around him, because why wasn’t he used to being complimented? It didn’t even necessarily need to be about their eyesight. They had to be deaf too, because just from hearing him talk, you were fascinated by the way his brain worked.

“I graduated high school at the age of twelve, and she was like sixteen, so no, she didn’t care much,” he answered slowly, keeping his cool. He knew now that he never had a chance with the girl anyway, but twelve-year-old Spencer had been heartbroken, and, of course, humiliated.

Your eyes turned even wider as he spoke. “Huh? Is that legal? Are you some kind of genius?”

“I don’t believe that intelligence can be accurately quantified, but I have an IQ of 187 and an eidetic memory,” Spencer admitted matter-of-factly. He didn’t know why it felt like a secret to tell people just how smart he was. In an academic sense, that is.

“Certified genius,” you declared with a grin.

“And I do introduce myself as Dr. Spencer Reid when I’m at work,” he added, emphasizing his name.

“You’ve got a PhD?” you asked. The crease between your brows seemed permanent at this point.

“A few.”

“More than one?”

“Mathematics, chemistry, and engineering. BAs in psychology and sociology,” Spencer rattled off, glancing at you cautiously to gauge your reaction.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “I would’ve hated you just as much as those football players.”

“Not in the sense that I would’ve tied you to a goalpost,” you added quickly, “but more so that I would’ve been insanely jealous. I might still be jealous; the jury is out on that until you explain further.”

Spencer gave a soft laugh, believing that you wouldn’t have been a mean girl. “Do you want to get into the reasons why certain people are smarter than others?”

“No, I just…” Your voice trailed off, and you paused to take a sip of your tea. “Do you ever get freaked out over how people’s lives are vastly different even though they’ve spent the same amount of time on earth?”

He tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

“Like, we look similar in age but probably have very few shared experiences because you were born a genius and I was born…” you gestured vaguely, searching for the right words, coming up with nothing in the end.

You were born… how exactly? Spencer tried to fill in the blank, but his guesses seemed almost offensive. “You don’t appear to be dumb,” Spencer countered gently. “You seem to be socially smarter than I am.”

“Because I’m sat here oversharing high school stories with virtually a stranger?” you teased, almost self-deprecatingly, like your easy way of talking was a fault.

And maybe that was true. Spencer knew what it was like to say too much at the wrong time, or have people turn uninterested mid-sentence when he was speaking. But he thought that stemmed from how bad he actually was at talking with people. And you were good at it, with a fluidity and humor to your speech that not many people had.

“I’m not good with words, and you obviously are,” he settled on saying, earnestly.

“No, not really. I was never good at anything. Always a straight B-student. It’s a damn mystery how I managed to get this job without a master’s degree,” you said with a shrug. “When I realized my own mediocrity in high school, I stopped trying. I thought it was much more fun to do drugs and get railed in the back of some college boy’s car. Spoiler alert, it’s not.”

“R-railed?” Spencer stammered, nearly choking on his tea.

“Too crude of a word for you?”

“No, I just would’ve never assumed—”

“That I was a slut in my youth?” you retorted, staring him down. “I’m only messing with you, Spencer. Now I’m sober, and boring, and in on a three-year-long dry spell.”

“We’re more similar than you think, so you don’t have to be freaked out about our lack of shared experiences,” Spencer said softly as realization struck him.

“You also got railed by college boys?” you quipped, and Spencer let out an unexpected laugh, his cheeks reddening.

“No, uhm, I meant being sober from drugs, and the dry spell too,” he clarified quickly.

As the conversation stilled, Spencer noticed he still had the book on Nobel Prize winners opened in his lap. He shut it quietly and placed it on the table, carefully looking at you as you sipped your tea. Your own book was long forgotten too, sliding down the side of your seat. You ran your fingers over your knees, still sitting cross-legged, nails rasping against your denim dungarees. You weren’t scared to look right back at him, not scared to be with him in silence for a moment. He watched as your eyes drifted to his book, struggling to read the title upside down.

“What does an actual genius do for a living? And why can he spend so much time at a library in the middle of the night?” you asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, turning the book to see.

“Do you want to guess?” he asked, not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because he sensed you were about to guess anyway.

“You’re probably some sort of professor, teaching and researching something I couldn’t even begin to fathom,” you speculated, resting your chin on your hand, flipping through the pages. “You’re also away for like a week at a time and then back here for a week, so you must travel. Maybe you go to conventions and guest lectures. Have you ever done a TED talk?”

You noticed his patterns. That he had noticed yours was no surprise. He noticed everyone’s. But you had noticed his, meaning that you cared enough to mind when he was at the library multiple nights a week and when he wasn’t. What did that tell Spencer? Absolutely nothing he could make sense of.

“No, I haven’t. And I’m not a professor, though I have done a couple guest lectures,” he explained, waiting for you to continue guessing.

“Do you work for some tech company then? Are you secretly a billionaire?”

“Nope, I make a humble living compared to the work I put in.”

“So, the public sector then,” you deduced at the same time as a bell could be heard.

You quickly whipped your head around, straining to see the front desk, where an awfully stressed-out student could be found, holding some heavy book on human anatomy that Spencer knew had to be checked out manually.

“Oh, fuck—” you muttered, quickly standing up, momentarily lost. “I should probably get back to work.”

“Don’t forget your bag,” Spencer hurried to say before you could leave without it. The Kick Inside. Was that a reference to pregnancy? Maybe Spencer should look into Kate Bush to have another thing to talk to you about.

You picked up your book and paper mug, slinging the bag over your shoulder, and gave him one last smile. “Do you know you have the face of a genius?”

“W-what?” he questioned, unsure of why you’d said that.

“It’s a lyric from a song on this album. It made me think of you,” you said, pointing to the bag, before walking away to the front desk to do what you were paid to do.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The next time Spencer talked to you was exactly two weeks and one day later. They’d been on a case in California, which naturally led to him not seeing you. But then when he was back, you weren’t working. He spent three days filling out reports at the office, waiting for time to go so that he could take the train home and go to the library, and when he showed up, you weren’t even there.

Two weeks he planned what to say to you. The last three days of those felt like torture, not knowing where you were. On the fourth day, you were finally back. And Spencer wasn’t shy. And he could justify his reason for talking to you. Two weeks and one day ago, you had talked to him first.

It was early December, and the first snow fell softly outside as he walked into the warmth of the library. He knew immediately that you were back working because you were the first thing he saw. Perched on a small stool near the front desk and the display shelf of seasonal books, you were stacking books into a makeshift Christmas tree. Carefully selected covers in colors of red and green were stacked into circles, narrowing as you built upward, creating somewhat of a tree shape.

You hummed softly as you worked, occasionally glancing down at the growing stack with concentration. As you reached for another book, you were stopped in your tracks by the telltale sound of footsteps against the library’s linoleum floor. Footsteps that could only be made by a pair of Converse.

“I listened to The Kick Inside.”

Looking over your shoulder, you found him standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, a small smile on his face. Your hands paused mid-placement as you looked down at him, brows lifting in surprise. “You did?”

“Creative use of resources, by the way,” Spencer mentioned, picking up a book from the pile and handing it to you, his long fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. “Did a song about incest really make you think of me?”

“Oh, no. Just that singular lyric.” You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s inspired by some old English folklore, I think.” Balancing on the stool, you placed the book carefully onto the stack, leaning back to eye the structure.

“A murder ballad called Lizie Wan. Her brother got her pregnant, and then he killed her.” Spencer supplied, his tone instinctively slipping into lecture mode. He stepped closer and shed his coat to drape it over a nearby chair as he continued to hand you books.

You made a face. “Well, did you like it? The album, I mean. Not the incest.”

“I understand why youlike it. It’s very… you,” Spencer explained, hoping it made sense. It was theatrical and wacky. Feminine too, in a brutal way, only archivable in lyrics written by an adolescent girl. Spencer wasn’t a music lover by any means, but even he could hear that it was undeniably good, just not his taste. “Is Wuthering Heights perhaps your favorite classic novel?”

“No, not at all. I think it’s a stupid book and a stupid song,” you said.

Spencer handed you another book, his eyes darting between the growing tree and your face. The grin you put on betrayed your monotone voice.

“Okay, no. I adore it,” you admitted. “It’s a nightmare to read, and I fully believe Emily was clinically insane, but I can’t help but love dark and twisted women. One review at the time when it was first published questioned how she could’ve finished writing it without committing suicide. That’s badass.”

“Do you know that Kate hadn’t even read the book when she wrote the song? She just watched some TV adaptation, which is why the names are all messed up,” you continued as you perfectly balanced the book he gave you onto the others. You’d soon be done at this pace.

“I did notice that she sang Cathy instead of Catherine, and Cathy is the daughter, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “So if you know the book, the song totally reads like a love song between Heathcliff and his dead lover’s daughter.”

“That’s disturbing,” Spencer concluded. “I can’t help but think that Brontë would’ve loved it.”

Your lips twitched into a smile, but you didn’t comment further, too focused on your Christmas tree. He handed you another book in silence and saw how your nails were now painted red with little white snowflakes on some of them. He wondered if you painted them yourself. You were back to wearing your usual slacks and cardigan. This time a white one that looked terribly comfortable and wintery. In your hair you had a red ribbon tied into a bow, matching, as always, your red Converse.

After a moment, you spoke. “You were gone for a while, again. Who in the public sector travels that much? I hope you’re not a politician.”

“No, I’m not,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

You blinked, looking down at him in mild shock. “You’re a profiler?”

He nodded.

“That actually makes a lot of sense. And it’s scary as hell. No wonder you’ve got insomnia, probably messed up from all the murders you’ve solved.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” you added quickly. “I’ve obviously got it too; I wouldn’t be working the night shift voluntarily otherwise.”

Spencer handed you the final book for the top tier, his gaze steady on you. “You weren’t here for a couple of days either. I had to talk to Omar, and he’s not as good of a conversationalist.”

You snorted. “Period cramps from hell,” you said casually, knowing it was the fastest way to end questions.

Spencer also knew that it was a common lie told by women to men. And he wasn’t the kind of person to be grossed out by basic biology. He might have issues with pathogens and handshakes, but he had no issues talking about the human body.

“Bold move to lie to a profiler,” he remarked, tilting his head slightly.

“I didn’t necessarily lie—”

“But you didn’t tell me the whole truth.”

He waited, silent and expectant.

You sighed, and for once your gaze was scared to meet his. “I’m kind of…depressed. Probably just seasonal, I fucking hate the winter. Spent three days on my living room floor, in some sort of verbal shutdown, just staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’m even human.”

Spencer’s brows knit together, concern flickering across his face. “Do you feel better now?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you said, forcing a small smile.

Before Spencer could respond, the precarious stack of books wobbled. You tried to steady it, but the entire top layer you’d just finished collapsed in a cascade of covers and pages, books tumbling to the floor in a loud crash. You stepped down from the stool quickly, and Spencer instinctively grabbed you by the hand so that you wouldn’t fall. He didn’t even have time to think about germs.

“You’re legally allowed to shoot me in the head,” you said with a disbelieving sigh.��

“You can’t consent to murder,” Spencer replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

“But you can consent to bodily harm, right? So maybe you can shoot me in the foot at least?”

“That’s more reserved for sports and medical procedures. Shooting you would still be a crime even if you coerced me,” he explained.

“Sadomasochism too, right? You can consent to sexually inflicted pain?”

“Ehm—” Spencer mouth got dry, and his cheeks flushed red. “Well yes, technically.”

“So you really can’t figure out a way for me to not have to work another day this year?” you asked, leaning down to pick up one of the fallen books.

Now, if Spencer was as socially smart as you were, he’d notice you were flirting. Maybe even insinuating that you’d be okay with a sexual injury that resulted in you staying home from work the rest of December. But Spencer was surprisingly dumb for having such a high IQ. And his ears sort of started ringing as soon as you mentioned sex, so he wasn’t sure he’d even heard you correctly.

“Not if you need the money, no,” he replied, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips.

“Some kind of genius you are, Spence,” you teased, shoving the book in his hands before crouching to start rebuilding the tree.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

After that conversation, Spencer helped you rebuild the Christmas tree. He’d handed you book after book with a quiet determination, his brow furrowing slightly as if the arrangement were a problem he needed to solve. Occasionally, he would pause to ask you a question about your favorite winter-themed books or share an anecdote about an obscure author. All throughout December, Spencer became a constant presence during your night shifts.

You found him fascinating to listen to, even if he seemed to doubt himself midway through every tangent. His voice would falter, and he’d look up at you with a quick, “Is this boring?” or “Am I rambling?” as if he needed reassurance that you were still interested.

You always were. At this point, he could probably recite the yellow pages, and you’d still find it captivating. Knowing him and his eidetic memory, he most likely could do it on the spot if you asked him.

December always moved slowly for you. Students crammed into every corner, poring over their textbooks and laptops as they prepared for finals. The library was busy, but there was a strange liminal quality to your evenings, the dark winter nights stretching endlessly as you walked the halls, organizing books and straightening shelves.

You wouldn’t admit it to yourself just yet, but because of this heavy feeling, you found yourself sat at the front desk, waiting for Spencer to walk through those doors. You now knew that he was a busy man—a brilliant, busy man with a job more important than yours, so you stopped expecting him to show up, getting positively surprised every time he did instead.

On the 23rd of December, Spencer walked through the entrance at exactly 9:32 p.m. You knew the time because you’d been watching the seconds tick by on the digital clock of the computer’s screensaver.

You straightened your back, softly smiling as he made his way up to you. Sometimes, you had to go on little treasure hunts to find him in the library, but today, he didn’t appear to be shy to approach you first.

With a soft thud he placed a heavy book on the counter, one you immediately recognized as War and Peace, in Russian. Your heart lifted slightly. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been waiting for the day the loan would expire, so that he either had to return it or extend it.

“Have you finished comparing them now?” you asked, eyeing the book.

“No, uhm,” Spencer hesitated, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Is it possible to extend it?”

“I’ll have to check,” you replied, tapping at the keyboard. “It’s quite a popular book. A lot of Russian diplomats in D.C.”

You pretended to eye the screen, searching for whatever you were searching for, when you already knew that it wouldn’t be an issue to extend the loan. He didn’t have to know that, though.

“Are you doing anything special for the holidays, Spencer?” you asked, to make it appear like small talk while you were tapping away at the keyboard, mindlessly clicking between pages of the software you used.

“I might make it to Las Vegas to see my mom. I don’t know if I’ll have the time, though.” Spencer’s lips quirked in a small smile. “What about you? How will you celebrate Christmas?”

You knew by now that it was a dumb question to ask if he had a lot of work to do. He didn’t have a normal schedule, sometimes getting called in the middle of the night to fly across the country.

“I’ll probably be here,” you admitted. “We’re closed for two days, and then over New Year’s, but otherwise I’ll be working. Might go see my dad if I have the time and he’s feeling up for it. Nothing major. Do you have plans for New Year’s, Spence?”

He opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head slightly. “I, uh— Sorry, what’s that on the radio?”

You cocked your head, listening to the faint news broadcast filtering in from the staff break room that had caught his attention. You always had it on to not go insane from the silence. All afternoon it had been occupied with the same emergency broadcast. “Oh, you haven’t heard about it? I honestly thought you’d be working the case.”

“What case?” Spencer asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Some senator was kidnapped, and another one was shot. Apparently no one heard or saw a thing, but they can’t figure out how since the neighborhood has, like, crazy good security.”

“Kidnapped in his own home?”

“Mhm. I think they used the helipad, but Janice and Charlotte didn’t believe me.” You gestured toward the corner where the two older women usually sat knitting and reading romance novels. “Y’know, the regulars?”

“You think the kidnappers used a helicopter, without being heard or seen?” Spencer asked, a note of skepticism in his voice. “How would they even get access to a helicopter?”

“If you know how to find and operate one, certain helicopters are easier to steal than cars. No locks in the way or keys needed,” you explained as if it were common knowledge.

Usually, this was the point in a conversation where you would shut up, thinking that you’d crossed into boring territory. But by the look on Spencer’s face, he just wanted to hear more about it.

“And if the security guards are all at the entrance to the gated community, I think you could go unnoticed. It’s close to the air force base, there are probably aircraft flying there on the daily.” You shrugged, a little self-conscious. “This job gives me a lot of free time to overthink things.”

Spencer smiled in slight disbelief. “How do you know how to steal a helicopter?”

“My dad was in the air force,” you explained. “From Fork Union to Master Sergeant. With today’s standards he’d probably be diagnosed with autism, but back when he was working, he was mostly just known as the guy who knew everything about every type of aircraft.”

You scrunched your face at the thought of your dad. You adored him, you really did, but he hadn’t given you the easiest of childhoods. That meaning being stuck with your mother because he was away a lot for work.

“What was that look for?” Spencer asked, because of course he realized stuff like that.

“I have tried so hard all my life to not be like my mother that I unconsciously picked up my father’s personality instead,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

Spencer’s expression softened. “I despise my father, so I’m doing the opposite. Turning into my schizophrenic mother.”

“My dad got sick too,” you said quietly. “That’s why he stopped working. And why my mother divorced him. He lives at a care facility by the coast now.”

Before Spencer could respond, a buzzing noise came from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen.

“Duty calling?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated before nodding.

“I don’t think I can extend this, by the way,” you said, picking up the copy of War and Peace, placing it behind you on a shelf with other returned books.

“That’s fine—” he began, but you cut him off.

“I do, however, have another solution,” you said, standing up from your chair to go into the staff room. With quick steps, you grabbed your tote bag, the one with the Kate Bush album on it, and walked back out. Spencer stared at you in confusion as you pulled out a book, not wrapped in paper or anything special, but there was a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around it.

Spencer recognized it immediately as the same type of fabric you often wore in your hair.

“I have no one else to buy gifts for, so I thought I might as well. You won’t have to keep loaning it over and over again,” you said with a shy smile, handing it to him.

Spencer stared at it, his hands hesitating before taking it. A Russian copy of War and Peace. A nice one too. Hardcover with gold leaf embossment. “Thank you…” he said softly. “I feel bad now. I don’t have anything to give to you.”

“You’ve made my night shifts a lot less depressing these last months,” you replied. “That’s enough of a gift to me, Spencer.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue but closed it again, nodding instead. “You know I’m not good with words,” he said after a pause, “or sometimes I think I might be too good with them. I say too much too quickly—”

“Do you wanna go on a date with me?” you interrupted, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “A d-date?”

“Y’know, we go somewhere, maybe get some food, and then we talk. And if it leads somewhere, it leads somewhere.” You hesitated, your confidence wavering. “If I misread this entirely, that’s fine. You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to keep your company during my night shifts, if I haven’t ruined that completely now by admitting that I find you attractive.”

“No, no, uhm—” Spencer stammered, his cheeks now fully pink. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked out this directly before.”

You held your breath as he gathered himself.

“I’d love to go on a date with you.”

A grin broke across your face. “Good, so how about those New Year’s Eve plans?”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The D.C. police office buzzed with activity despite the late hour. Phones rang, officers rushed past with files in hand, and the muted hum of fluorescent lights filled the air. Spencer stepped into the building, his scarf still loosely draped around his neck and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold December air. From the side of his messenger bag, a red ribbon could be seen peeking out.

“Spencer, where the hell have you been?” Morgan’s voice rang out from across the room. He strode toward Spencer, his brow furrowed with equal parts concern and frustration.

“At the library,” Spencer replied, unwinding his scarf as he spoke. His tone was calm, almost as if the answer were obvious. “I came as soon as I heard.”

Morgan crossed his arms. “At ten at night?”

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze darting briefly to the floor before meeting Morgan’s eyes again. “There’s one open all hours of the day.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly, but a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Why are you smiling like that?”

Spencer’s lips twitched as if suppressing the grin threatening to break through. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly, clearing his throat in an effort to sound composed.

Morgan tilted his head, his smirk growing wider. “Uh-huh. Sure it is. Library must’ve gotten a whole lot more interesting since the last time I was there.”

Spencer ignored the comment, shifting the conversation back to the matter at hand. “We should look into stolen helicopters in the area. I think that’s how they got in.”

Morgan’s smirk faded as his professional demeanor returned. “Helicopters? That’s a hell of a theory. What makes you think that?”

Spencer adjusted the strap of his bag, his fingers fidgeting slightly. “The location of the kidnapping is close to an air force base. Certain small helicopters are relatively easy to steal—no locks or keys required. If the neighborhood security was focused on the main entrance, a helicopter could bypass them entirely. Given the proximity to the base, it’s plausible they used the airspace to their advantage.”

Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Alright, genius, I’ll get Garcia to pull up any reports of stolen aircraft in the area. Nice ribbon, by the way, really pulls your outfit together.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

If December in general was slow for you, the holidays were fucking dreadful. Your dad had a cold and could not receive visitors, so you ended up spending Christmas Eve at a party—two hours sober between drunk friends, and then you had enough. Christmas Day was spent on your couch, watching all five hours of Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander, eating your body weight in Chinese takeout.

You did get a postcard from your dad, a pretty coastal view on it that was of the beach he lived by. He also sent a pair of hand-knitted socks, a hobby you knew had been forced upon him by the older ladies he lived with at the care facility. His squiggly writing was harder and harder to decipher with every year that passed, but it still filled you with immense joy that his mind seemed to be bright even if his body wasn’t.

From your mother you also got a postcard. A pretty coastal view was on it too, from Bali, where she was spending Christmas with her new partner. Hers wasn’t handwritten, instead only printed with a generic Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. No thought put behind it.

You placed your father’s on the fridge, hung with a magnet you knew he’d gotten you when he was abroad for work in England. Your mother’s ended up being a perfect makeshift and temporary coaster on your living room table. Within days you had to throw it out because the paper had been ruined by tea stains.

When you were back at work, the library was even quieter than normal, which honestly was to be expected. Janice came by to borrow some new romance novels to have over New Years. Some poor students had deadlines due first thing in January. But still, so calm you might even call it boring. And you loved this job.

You sat at the front desk, flipping through a worn-out copy of a poetry collection by Patti Smith. You’d fallen down a hole of punk literature ever since you talked about JCC with Spencer. He didn’t seem like the kind to like said literature, but he had talked with you about it anyway. It was a tradeoff maybe, quid pro quo; he got to geek out about Tolstoy and Nobel Prize winners, and you got to talk about British bands and Vivienne Westwood. He’d actually really seemed to enjoy the irony of her bringing French 18th-century aristocracy into clothing worn by the most alternative and radical people in punk-era London.

Deep down in thought, you barely heard when the entrance door opened. It was a gust of freezing cold wind that made you look up from your slouched position. In walked a man, obviously bothered by the weather, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room as he walked forward. He was followed by…

“Spencer?” you wondered, standing. “You should be in Vegas.”

Spencer didn’t even have time to answer before his companion did. “Serial killers don’t care about the holidays, miss,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “SSA Derek Morgan.”

“You’re working the senator case, aren’t you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s turned into a serial case?” you rambled before shaking your head. “You probably can’t tell me the details anyway.”

Morgan gave a tight smile. “Not exactly.” He gestured toward Spencer. “We need your help with a quote. Spencer said you were the only person he could think of who might know it.”

“I didn’t say that—” Spencer tried to explain.

“Don’t you have search engines and databases for things like that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“We do, but nothing came up,” Spencer replied. “And I don’t recognize it for the life of me.”

“Must suck to be a genius, Spence,” you chuckled. “What’s the quote?”

Morgan pulled a photograph from his pocket and placed it on the counter. Written in bold, smeared letters that looked disturbingly like blood were the words: Whoever is strong must also be good.

“Jeez, give a girl a warning,” you muttered, grimacing slightly as you studied the photo.

It answered your question about whether or not it had turned into a serial case, because this was a place where someone had been murdered, and it wasn’t some fancy senator mansion this time, but more what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

“Ehm… I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s a very simple quote. I could come up with that.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. You weren’t sure why Spencer had thought of coming to you when faced with this problem. You knew of a bunch of books and quotes, sure, but you were honestly mostly known around your workplace as the one who knew all about children’s bo—

“Oh, oh! It’s sort of similar to a quote from a children’s book, but very badly paraphrased in that case.”

Morgan straightened. “Can you show us?”

You were already walking out from behind your desk when he asked, making your way to the children’s section with quick steps. The two taller men following. “Ever heard of Pippi Longstocking?” you questioned over your shoulder as you walked.

Morgan looked skeptical and Spencer for once, too, like he didn’t recognize the name at all.

“I would assume that you had a more refined taste in literature as a child and did not waste your time with translated Swedish fairytales about the strongest girl in the world,” you added, finally reaching the right shelf, filled with thin books with bright yellow covers.

As you ducked down, you practically disappeared out of view for the two of them, squatting on the floor while picking out the right book.

Spencer perked up, smiling gently. “My mother is a professor in 15th-century literature. She used to read to me a lot.”

“That’ll do it,” you concluded, flipping through the pages. “We use it sometimes for kids’ reading hours, that’s why I recognize it. Popular with bilingual and immigrant children too since it’s been translated to over 70 languages.”

Spencer knelt down beside you, reading over your shoulder. You knew he was a quick reader, but when you knew what you were looking for, you were quicker.

“Here!” you pointed out on a page, disturbed by the look of your chipped red nail polish. “The quote in English is ’If you are very strong, you must also be very kind’.”

“That’s oddly similar,” Spencer agreed.

“It might be translated. I can look into our non-English books.”

You didn’t even wait for an answer before you started walking again, forcing Spencer and Morgan to follow suit. Down a corridor of shelves with children’s books, around a corner, to a new shelf, and then you ducked down on the floor, quickly scanning the spines. It was all children’s books divided into different languages. You picked whatever yellow spine you could see, collecting them in your arms before you sat down right on the floor. You knew the cleaning lady, she was great at her job.

“The story is from the 1940s but still relevant. Pippi is an orphan living in a big yellow house with her horse and monkey, and has to fight with adults and authorities, saying that she can’t survive on her own. Honestly quite progressive,” you explained as you gave Spencer a copy in Russian, trying to hand a different one to Morgan before realizing that not all agents had the skills of Dr. Spencer Reid.

“How’d she get the house?” Morgan asked, crossing his arms.

“Her dad is a sea captain and a king over some fictive island. She’s rich,” you replied matter-of-factly.

As you sat there on the floor, books spread around you, searching and comparing to the English version, talking about the pure feminism and boldness of a female author creating such a character during that time period, Spencer found you fascinating. Like a dancer, you had moved through the rows of shelves, with a grace and a crazy smile, firing you up.

He had sensed it as soon as the unit stumbled upon the issue with finding the quote, that if someone was going to know this simple, moral-of-the-story quote to feed down the throats of children, it’d be you.

“I don’t think it’s Russian,” Spencer said after finding the right page. ‘Kind’ didn’t turn into ‘good’ like it had in whatever way the unsub had paraphrased it.

Morgan gave Spencer a sidelong glance. “Do you even need me here for this conversation?”

You ignored the comment, pulling out a book and flipping through its pages. “The missing senator has a German surname, right?”

Both Spencer and Morgan turned to you with confused faces.

You shrugged. “I watch the news, okay? I’m alone here all night!”

With the German version in your hand, you scanned the pages for the quote. “Oh, look! My high school German might finally be paying off.” You read aloud, “‘Wer stark ist, muss auch gut sein.’”

You stood up and showed the book to Spencer, pointing to the quote. “‘Kind’ turns into ‘gut’, which can translate back to ‘good’,” you explained, even if you felt like he probably didn’t need it. Morgan might’ve found it useful at least. “Whoever is strong must also be good, right? That make sense?”

Morgan leaned against the shelf, rubbing his chin. “So, the quote is from a Swedish children’s book, translated into German, and then badly paraphrased into English? What do we do with that?”

You shrugged, closing the book. “I just know what it says. I don’t know what it means.”

Spencer paced as he thought out loud. “The unsub has to be a woman.”

“Who speaks German?” Morgan added, mostly out of confusion.

“And she most likely identifies with the abandonment issues of the girl in the book, and having to be independent at a young age,” Spencer added, a light in his eyes shone like the stereotypical picture of a lightbulb turning on when an idea was formed.

Morgan glanced at Spencer. “Reid, didn’t the senator have a daughter?”

You watched them as they spoke, unsure if this was even new information to them or something they were reciting to jog their own memories of the case.

“So, wait, was I helpful?” you asked a little self-consciously, looking around, seeing the mess of bright yellow children's books on the floor.

Spencer nodded, his excitement bubbling over. “Yes, yes, your brain is unbelievable! Thank you so much.” Without thinking, he stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you in a brief but firm hug. You felt him stiffen slightly, his germaphobe instincts clearly battling his enthusiasm, but he didn’t pull away immediately. You knew he didn’t do handshakes, so the thought of him hugging you felt even more abnormal. His voice was soft as he added, “I mean it.”

Before you could respond, Morgan cleared his throat, a teasing grin on his face. “Alright, Romeo, we’ve got to get moving.”

Spencer stepped back quickly, fumbling with his feet. “Right, of course.”

You hesitated, looking up at Spencer’s flushed face, before softly hurrying to ask, “Are our plans for New Year’s Eve still on?”

He grinned, walking away. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

–––––––––––––––––––––––

Spencer did miss it. Or in thirty-two minutes he would. He watched the clock on the wall in his hospital room with an anxious feeling. The fragments from a bullet had just been removed from his arm, and yet his biggest worry wasn’t the lingering ache in his arm—it was you.

“Your first date with her was supposed to be in a park at midnight? Do you realize how creepy that sounds?” Prentiss’s voice broke through his thoughts as Morgan had just explained why the first word they heard from Spencer as they had been allowed to enter his hospital room was your name.

“Could you stop yelling at me while I’m literally in a hospital bed?” Spencer shot back. He wasn’t one to complain, and he could hear the humor in her voice, but if he were to complain, now wouldn’t be an awful time.

Morgan leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. “They’re both insomniacs and were going to watch the fireworks. It’s sort of sweet.”

They hadn’t been able to just get the unsub when they figured out who it was. It had taken them days to plan their attack, knowing that the daughter would kill her father if they ambushed the place. A senator being killed because they had rushed their strategy wasn’t a defense that would hold up in any internal investigation.

So they waited and waited, mapping out the place where he had been taken, trying to get the daughter to leave. But she persisted, and an ambush was in the end the best choice anyway. Spencer hadn’t been shot directly. The daughter’s boyfriend had fired a shot, landing in the wall behind him, which left fragments flying all over. Some grazing his right arm, leaving it now fully bandaged. He’d also managed to hit his head on a beam while being lead out of the building afterwards, so he had three stitches on his forehead and blood in his hair.

It wasn’t as dramatic as it sounded. He’d been through worse. Which was why he now felt restless in the hospital bed, just waiting to be discharged. He wouldn’t make it in time to see you anyway, but maybe he could at least call you and tell you what had happened so that you didn’t wait outside in the cold for him.

He didn’t even have his phone on him, now that he thought of it. Or your number.

Restless and impossible, the situation was.

He had Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia all in his room. Just restlessly waiting too. Hotch was somewhere talking to a nurse about getting him out of here. Garcia was anxiously knitting. Rossi was half asleep while standing. Prentiss and Morgan were bickering about whether or not his date plans were cute or creepy. There was a radio in his room playing some sort of New Year’s program, almost taunting him by mentioning how time was closing up on the clock striking midnight. Some sort of reverse Cinderella, that was what he felt like.

With a slow knock on the doorframe, Hotch announced that he was back. “They don’t know when they can release you, and, uhm…” he began, poised as usual, though he was fighting a smile. “Look who I stumbled upon in the reception,” he continued, stepping aside as you appeared in the doorway.

It was probably all over the news that the senator case had been solved and that officers and agents had been harmed in the process. And you listened to the news, like religiously.

“You got shot…” you whispered, your voice trailing off as you took in the sight of him, pale but upright in the hospital bed.

“Oh, oh, is this her?” Prentiss asked as the entire unit watched as you entered the room.

They already knew your name. Now they knew what you looked like too.

You were all done up. Date ready. For Spencer. You had on a black coat, covered in little snowflakes from being outside, but underneath he could spot a dress that sparkled like diamonds. You had red ribbons in your hair like usual and your Converse, squeaking from being wet against the hospital floors. No tights, and while Spencer worried you might be cold, he also knew from Garcia that you just couldn’t wear tights with certain dresses.

“You’re gorgeous,” Garcia said, practically swooning. She nudged Spencer playfully. “Spencer, she’s gorgeous.”

Rossi stepped forward, clapping a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Maybe we should give them some time alone.”

Hotch, ever the professional and hopeless romantic, nodded. “We’ll be down the hall if you need anything, Reid.”

“Or pressed up against the door to eavesdrop,” Garcia added, earning a pointed look from Hotch as they all filed out, leaving you and Spencer alone.

The door shut with a click behind you as you stood flat on your feet in the middle of the room. You looked almost scared to move.

“We were supposed to go on a date, and you got shot, Spencer.”

The words left your mouth in nothing but shock. You didn’t even have time to be embarrassed over his colleagues being there and almost making fun of the situation because all you had in your head was the ringing sound of a gun firing and Spencer being the target.

“I’m okay, I promise,” he reassured gently, reaching out his unharmed arm to you.

You tentatively moved forward, almost in an inspective manner, seeing where he was hurt and not. With his hand reached out in your direction, you assumed he was fine with you touching it. You grabbed it gently, and Spencer spotted that your nails were just as sparkly as your dress.

“You. Got. Shot.” You emphasized every word, scooting to sit on the side of his bed. “Like a bullet penetrating your skin kind of shot. That’s insane.”

“It didn’t actually penetrate the skin, more like grazed me with fragments after it hit the wall behind me,” Spencer tried to explain. The bandage looked dramatic but all that was under it were scratches, basically.

“But still—” you began, but he cut you off.

“You look very pretty.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Don’t change the subject.”

“But you do. I like you in red,” he insisted, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I always wear red,” you pointed out.

“And I guess I always like you then,” he replied simply.

You tilted your head, a teasing grin forming. “Did they give you something strong for the pain? What kind of smooth talking is this?”

“I, uh— I got nothing for the pain, y’know—” He gestured vaguely.

“Drugs and that?” you filled in.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t press further. He figured you understood. Not that you had talked about it more than briefly. But you were sober, and he was sober, and breaking a sober streak even in a hospital setting was nothing easy. The pain from the fragments being removed was only temporary. The aftermath of any sort of prescription painkiller was a long-term thing for people like him. And maybe you.

In silence, Spencer moved to the side of the bed, a way of notifying you that you could come sit higher up beside him. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you grabbed his, and when you scooted to sit so that your right arm touched his left one, he felt himself tense up at the closeness. While you still had your coat on, it was like a fire spread through it to his hospital gown and in turn his skin.

You toed off your shoes, kicking them on the floor, as you lifted your legs to place them alongside his. “So, was it the daughter? Did she shoot you?” you asked, turning to look at him with wonder in your eyes.

“Her boyfriend did. Helicopter pilot, by the way,” Spencer answered, gaze stuck on how your hand held his, perched in his lap over a thin blanket.

Your eyebrows shot up. “No fucking way. I was right?”

“You’re smarter than you realize,” he replied, his tone earnest.

You looked like a child on Christmas with the way happiness spread across your face. A happiness of being right, not over the situation. That was a given.

“It was the same old tale about a rich man abandoning his child and them later seeking financial compensation for it, thinking they’re entitled to their parents wealth after they’ve practically been left to live on the streets,” Spencer explained. Journalists would’ve figured out the motive as soon as it was public that is was the daughter, so he didn’t think he was breaking any protocol by telling you.

“And those are the good kind of senators,” you quipped, earning a small laugh from Spencer. You could see that his tired body didn’t react particularly well to the sudden vibration in his chest.

Your hand dropped his, only momentarily to soothingly caress his chest. He moved to hold yours again, keeping his held against his ticking heartbeat. You were so close.

The second he could think that, you whipped your head around at the sound of a thud. It was outside, a flashing light coming through the window.

“Oh my god, you can see the fireworks from here too,” you whispered, jaw dropped.

Spencer turned his head, following your gaze. Bright colors lit up the night sky, faint booms audible even through the thick hospital walls. Both hands on the clock were on twelve.

“It’s also a lot warmer in here than the park would’ve been,” Spencer mused, squeezing your hand in his.

He could almost feel you relax as you watched the colorful explosions go off in the night sky. You leaned into his side, the side of your face carefully placed on his shoulder. In this cold, sterile hospital room, you filled him with tepidity. He glanced down at your face; cute was the only word that came to mind. The subjective Spencer-esque way of defining it. You had silver glitter on your eyelids that twinkled whenever you blinked. Your lips had been glossy but were now mostly bitten raw from being anxious.

Spencer could only think of one thing as he took you in.

“Would you mind me becoming part of your microbiome?” he whispered.

You blinked, startled by the question, looking right up at him. He hadn’t even wanted to shake your hand when he introduced himself that first time. But kissing was, according to him, more sanitary anyway. You hadn’t been nervous for a kiss since you were in high school, yet this paralyzed you. It was terrifying, looking at him, feeling an invisible force pulling you towards him, towards his face, towards his lips.

“W-what if some bacteria from Cody Parker becomes a part of you now?” you joked, buying time to collect yourself.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he replied easily, his face now dangerously close to yours.

Your breath caught as he closed the distance, his lips meeting yours. You were both tentative at first, his hand still holding yours clasped over his chest. With your other hand, you pushed his hair from the side of his face, cradling his cheek as you deepened the kiss, touch by touch.

Spencer had never had a New Year’s kiss before. He wasn’t sure this was considered one either. The clock was probably 12:07 if he were to estimate.

From the hallway, Garcia’s voice could be heard through the door. “Oh my god, he kissed her.”

“Shut up, Garcia, I’m trying to see,” Prentiss whispered harshly.

You pulled back, laughter bubbling up as Spencer’s cheeks flushed deep red. Despite his embarrassment, a shy smile lingered on his face. The fireworks outside continued, unnoticed by the two of you, as you leaned in to kiss him again.

–––––––––––––––––––––––

The apartment was quiet as you stepped inside, the muffled hum of the city beyond the windows the only sound accompanying your footsteps. Spencer moved carefully, his movements stiff and hesitant from the pain radiating from his arm. Two pairs of Converse stood on his doormat. One pair of simple black ones. Another pair of smaller, red ones.

“You need to shower, Spencer. There’s coagulated blood in your hair,” you said, setting his bag down on the floor before reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, it all sticking together in a knot.

He groaned softly, glancing toward the bathroom, then at the inviting sight of his bed just a little bit further down the hallway. “When I, for once, feel like I could fall asleep just looking at a bed?”

You crossed your arms, giving him a pointed look.

“No, you’re right. I just—” He hesitated. “How am I going to do it with this on my arm?”

“I’ll help you,” you offered immediately, then Spencer could see the realization hit you. “O-or maybe we can call Morgan, or someone else that you trust—”

His face twisted in mock horror. “I’d rather die than have Morgan wash my hair.”

“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, firmer than intended.

“You don’t have to pretend around me.” Your expression softened. “When was the last time you were naked in front of someone?”

His eyes widened, and he stammered. “Ehm, I—”

“Never?” you asked, far from in the teasing manner he was used to.

“Do doctors count?” he muttered, his face flushed.

“Okay,” you said, putting your hands together, stepping back slightly. “We’ll work around this to make you comfortable. Do you have swim shorts?”

“Yeah, that could work.”

Spencer retreated into his bedroom while he saw you go into the bathroom. It wasn’t easy for him to get out of his clothes and into the shorts, but he managed in the end. He spotted himself in his full-length mirror just as he was about to exit the bedroom. Tall and scrawny. Bandaged all over his right arm. Dressed in light blue shorts with flamingoes on them that Garcia had gotten him, as a joke he thought or she could have been completely serious. You never knew.

This was about to be the closest he’d been to another person while wearing so little clothing. And that was terrifying. No other word for it. It didn’t matter that you had kissed. Twice at the hospital. Once in the taxi home. Another small one as you helped him unlock his front door. Still terrifying.

It wouldn’t get easier the longer he waited, so he stepped out of his bedroom, too self-conscious to look at you, already rambling before you even noticed him.

“Don’t laugh, Garcia bought them for me when we had a case in Florida—”

“They’re cute,” you simply said, sat on the edge of his bathtub.

When he lifted his gaze to see you, you’d also changed. Or maybe undressed was a better word. Your dress was gone, and left were a pair of spandex shorts he imagined you had on under for comfort and warmth, maybe? And your bra. A simple black bra.

“You—” Spencer couldn’t form a sentence.

“I thought I’d make it even,” you shrugged, standing up. “Can you get in the tub without hurting yourself further?”

Spencer pressed his lips together to keep his posture. He nodded, as he at least though he’d be able to sit down on his own. But no. His balance betrayed him as he had both feet down on the porcelain, trying to lower himself down into a cross-legged position.

You were there within seconds, your hands trying to help him from falling. With an ungracious thud, he was sat down.

You sat halfway on the edge of the tub, turning the water on, waiting for it to get warm. As you did, you reached to comb through his hair with your fingers, but he stopped you before you got the chance.

“Just wait,” he said quickly, putting his hands up so that you couldn’t touch him. “For a second, will you?”

“Cause you’ll pop a boner if I touch you now?” you teased, shockingly how easy dirty words fell from your mouth.

A baffled laugh escaped him. “You’re so…”

“Rude?”

“Honest,” he replied. “I’ve been having a hard time keeping it together since you kissed me.”

“Nuh-uh, you kissed me,” you shot back with a grin. “You’re a good kisser, by the way.”

Spencer didn’t say another word as you started to wash his hair. Feeling slightly pathetic, he sat there in the bathtub, water falling from his head like a wet dog. He didn’t know how to make the situation less awkward, so he just accepted the way it was.

At least it was comfortable, having your fingers untangle his hair and massage his scalp with shampoo. When you were done, you helped him stand up, handing him a towel, but not before quite obviously eyeing his body up and down.

“You’ve turned pink all the way to your stomach,” you pointed out, and before Spencer could react, you added, “Don’t worry, it’s hot,” like that would make it any easier for him to process.

Later, Spencer was sitting on the edge of his bed, his damp curls sticking to his forehead as you helped him dry his hair. You moved gently, careful not to jostle his injured arm.

He’d been able to change into a t-shirt and pajama pants on his own, with you trying to hold in your laughter from the other side of his bedroom door when he would stumble and hit his shin on his bed frame due to the lack of balance he had with only one working arm.

“I can sleep here, right?” you said, tossing the towel into his hamper of dirty laundry. “It’s like 3 a.m. and I totally get if you wanna throw me out—”

“I want you to sleep here,” he said softly, looking up at you. “With me.”

No words left your mouth, but the smile that cracked through was unmistakable. He gave you a t-shirt to sleep in, something with an old college logo on it, and then he watched as you swiftly removed your bra from underneath it, like magic.

He settled under the covers, making room for you on the side where he didn’t have his injured arm. Spencer hadn’t shared a bed like this with anyone before, so to say he was surprised when you laid beside him, snuggling into his side like you’d done it a million times before, would be an understatement.

“Am I hurting you?” you mumbled, your head resting in the crook of his neck.

“No, not at all,” Spencer squeaked out, trying to find a natural spot for his hand under your body.

As you took in his room, your gaze landed on his nightstand, and your breath caught. Sitting neatly on the surface were three copies of War and Peace. One was pristine, the Russian copy you’d gifted him. Beside it was a well-worn English version, its pages annotated and creased. And then there was… another Russian copy, similarly worn and filled with notes.

Your hand rested lightly on his chest as you began to laugh. “You—” you started, glancing up at him with a soft smile. “You only loaned it from the library to talk to me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered between you and the nightstand as he realized that you had realized. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered with a smile.

You chuckled a little, reaching up to kiss his cheek before relaxing back down again. He’d been so tired before, as were you. But now it was like he could feel every nerve in his body, running through him like electricity. Just because you were here with him.

“Is it—” Spencer whispered, unsure where his words would lead him. “Is it weird to sleep in the same bed as someone without having experienced the sexual aspect that is usually the reason couples share a bed for the first time?”

Shit, he’d called you a couple. Maybe not directly, but definitely indirectly—

“No, not at all,” you hummed against him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“I haven’t exactly done this before, so everything feels new and weird.”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, makeup-free and squeaky clean. “Most men that I’ve been with never made me feel like a woman—like a ladylike presence they cherished. I’d sleep with them too quickly and they’d get bored, or I wouldn’t put up with it, and they’d call me a prude.”

Your voice sounded fragile in a way he’d never heard before. He’d picked up on little things where he assumed you weren’t exactly inexperienced, but the fact that experience could be something bad wasn’t necessarily something he’d thought about before.

“Whatever this is, whatever weird order we are doing stuff in, feels better than anything I’ve ever felt before when it comes to love,” you continued, stuffing your face back in his neck to hide.

Shit, you’d said the word love. Not even indirectly, like fully pronounced it, no mumbles.

“It’s not a dry spell if you’ve never done it, by the way,” you joked, and he melted at the sound even though you were trying to embarrass him. “You’ve never gotten it wet for it to become dry.”

Spencer stared up at the ceiling, biting his lip. “Can you not make fun of me?”

“I’ve used sex as a coping mechanism all my life, allow me to be a little amused about someone going over 25 years without it.” You gently laughed again. “It’s sort of sweet.”

On the side of your body, you found his unarmed arm placed all limp. With a bold move, you intertwined your fingers with his, taking both of them up to place against your chest. He was now embracing you, and he couldn’t even begin to think about the soft, ample flesh that could be found under your t-shirt.

He let out a faint groan, mumbling, “You’re not making it any better.”

Your expression softened further as you tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “We’ll get to it,” you said, your voice low and steady, “when or if we both feel like it. Don’t stress about it, okay? I don’t care.”

Spencer swallowed, his eyes darting to yours before quickly flickering away. His voice came out quiet, uncertain. “That’s something—” He hesitated, his brows furrowing as he searched for the words. “Is that something you’d want to do with me?”

You smiled, kissing his cheek again. “You just indirectly called us a couple, and I mentioned the word love, so don’t act clueless. I know you’re not.”

His face turned a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, letting it rest on his pillow as the ceiling yet again became very interesting. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt warm. He felt at home in your presence, no matter how foreign it was. His hand was still grasping yours, tucked against your chest. He could feel you fiddling with his fingers.

“Can’t sleep?” Spencer asked after a long moment of silence.

“I like ’em,” you murmured, lifting his hand to kiss his knuckles.

“My hands?” he wondered tiredly.

“I like everything about you,” you answered simply before closing your eyes.

Can we all pretend I posted this on New Years? Yes? Thank you. And thank you for reading. Title and beginning quote is from Purple by Wunderhorse btw <3

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #mgg #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #spencer reid imagine

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elssero · 6 months ago

Text

꩜ enlightenment

i.midoriya

⋆ ˚｡⋆ 01 2k words.

next, masterlist.

11:58am.

if izuku hasn’t been nervous the entire morning then he definitely is now, it feels like he’s standing on the edge of a diving board, his heart raceing, beating faster than usual, a tightness in his chest.

in two minutes exactly his long awaited test results will be emailed to him by his professor, to say he’s dreading it is an understatement. the class is english, and although not his major, it’s a class that izuku needs to do well in, or at least pass.

however going by his previous results that’s appearing to be easier said than done.

he sits on the edge of his chair, his leg bouncing uncontrollably as he stares at his computer. his hands are clasped tightly together, his knuckles pale from the pressure. every few moments, he wipes his palms on his pants, only for them to become clammy again.

izuku’s mind is a whirlwind of scenarios as it often is, flipping between hope and dread, each possibility more vivid than the last. his lips press into a thin line, then part slightly as he mutters something to himself, maybe a prayer or just a reassurance. he glances at the clock, then at the computer again, his heart thudding in his ears. when the notification finally comes, his breath catches, his hand trembling as he reaches to open it.

fail.

the email reads kind, he can tell his professor is attempting to soften the blow. excuses about his stupid mistakes or skills that just need more development, but izuku can’t tear his eye away from the result- disappointment.

he skims through the rest of the email, finding nothing of note until the last paragraph in which his professor suggests that maybe, a tutor could actually do izuku some good, followed by what appears to be the email of a fellow student of his.

he doesn’t fight the sigh that is let out in response, this isn’t the first time the idea of a tutor has been brung up to izuku. looking at his results for this english tests during his first semester would tell you that he definitely needs one.

maybe it’s a confidence thing, or maybe it’s the fact he’s never had a tutor before, but izuku is terrified- to the extent he’s been dodging his tutors suggestion of a tutor for weeks.

he doesn’t need one- he just needs to put some extra work in- why is he even taking english in the first place? it’s not like he needs to know the history of shakespeare for a mechanical engineering degree??

extra classes are a waste of time anyway.

regardless of his little temper tantrum- izuku knows in the back of his mind that this extra curricular would look great on his degree, and he’s spent far too many hours studying to just give in now.

12:14pm.

“you remember that boy that keeps refusing your tutoring? he failed another test today.”

shaking your head in disappointment you take ur report from your bag and hand it to mr yamada before you respond- “did you offer him my tutoring again?”

“yes- i even sent him your email address over in the hopes he gets drunk one night and begs you to tutor him. honestly it’s like he doesn’t want to pass”

there’s an exasperated look on your professors face amidst the giggle he lets out at the idea of his student drunk, you’ve spent enough time with him to know that this kid is stressing him out- it’s clear how much he cares about his students, something in which you admire about him.

“keep pestering him- i’m sure he’ll come around”

“i’m not so sure- midoriya is extremely stubborn, even though he doesn’t seem it- asking for help can be difficult for some kids.” you swear you watch your professors eyes flick up to your own, you get the feeling he may be alluding to something more than midoriya here.

you shake your head anyway, a small smile on your face. you’ve spent so much time in professor yamada’s office this year you’d be as well setting up camp there- it’s a silly thought.

you think back to midoriya, and what you know- or don’t know about him.

he’s a mechanical engineering student, taking english as an extra class to fill out his timetable and he’s definitely struggling. you can’t blame him- it’s not for everyone.

however he appears to be extremely and entirely against tutoring? your not taking it personally, as the boy doesn’t know who you are, but you can’t help this weird feeling in your chest- that you want to help him.

you can’t explain it, not at all. you’ve never met this boy, the only details about him you know are recounts from your shared professor, but you can’t help this internal need to want to teach him, for him to do well.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to either you or mr yamada when midoriya ignores the suggestion of tutoring in his response email, instead giving his professor a quick thanks for his grade and wishing him a good weekend.

at least he’s polite.

your time with your professor ends quickly after that, quickly bidding him goodbye with the promise of seeing him on monday before your on your way. midoriya is out of your mind by the time your off campus.

11:42pm

It’s the second friday of the month, which means that tonight midoriya will spend almost his entire weekend stuck in this stupid gas station.

living in a college town means he can expect the groups of young adults walking in any second- either already extremely drunk or looking to buy the means to get there.

he doesn’t hate his job- no definitely not. He likes the night shifts during the weeks, it’s quiet, and lonely, and he has the entire place to himself the whole night. it’s the weekend shifts that midoriya dislikes- pity he’s forced to work at least one every two weeks.

a ring of the door can be heard from the other side of the store than him, he can see the group of people from the cameras next to the till. the group looks around his age, if not a little older, two men in dark clothing with coloured hair- a cheerful blonde girl, and another, quieter girl walking hand in hand with her.

midoriya can’t see much of their faces, but he can tell the quieter one is pretty right of the bat- he straightens himself up a little, maybe a little too eagerly.

he watches as the group walk around the stalls, grabbing snacks with alcohol and cigarettes- the tall one with the dark hair is very particular about his narcotics.

when they finally get to the till midoriya can smell the weed immediately- particularly from the men of the group. they’re being shushed as they approach the counter, being told to stay back as the pretty one continues forward to pay for their haul.

“hi- uh sorry about my friends- they’re a little out of it right now.”

izuku is even more enamoured by you as you get close to him- tired eyes and a slight smile- he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more beautiful.

“uh- yeah it’s fine” he doesn’t say anything more- instead he stands stiff, eyes locked into yours, it’s not until your eyes make a quick look down to your basket of items that he remembers he’s at work- and that he has a job to do.

“oh sorry- let me ring you up quickly”

he’s trying to go as fast as he can- but his nerves are bubbling and he feels like an idiot for being so affected by one pretty girl. your making small talk with him, asking about his shift and when he gets off, he’s trying to answer the best he can.

“can I see some id please?” you have no problems taking out your id- handing it to izuku without a second thought, allowing him time to get your name, he forgets to even check that your above age until the very last second.

“uh- nice name.” he swallows immediately after saying it-

“oh! thank you-“ you pause, taking a moment to look down at his name card, probably so you return the favour. he curses that the nicknames that his work put in place for ‘safety.’

“uh- deku? thank you, your name is…” stupid, he thinks, it’s childish and idiotic. “pretty cute actually.”

that puts him at a standstill- it’s not even his real name but your compliment makes him freeze.

“well um- thank you for the service, enjoy your shift deku.”

your out the door with your friends before he can even answer- he doesn’t get a number, or a social media handle. Just an engrained image of your face and a name.

a name that read way to familiar- has he heard of you before?

it doesn’t matter anyway- he’ll probably never see you again after tonight, unless you take another late night trip to the gas station, izuku kinda hopes that you will.

it’s while now until another customer comes in, and even longer until the next, izuku has his headphones in in order to pass the time and it’s working pretty well. he can’t help himself but start to think back to school, finding himself hovering over the email his professor had sent him earlier.

would having a tutor really be that bad? maybe it’ll end up really helping him? he just needs to pass english this year and he doesn’t have to do it ever again, he can get through a few months of this right?

he opens the email after a long debate, still undecided on his decision to finally accept the offering of tutoring when the email attached catches his eye.

it’s a name- no it’s your name- the pretty girl with the weird friends name.

this has to be a sign- right? or maybe it’s a bad idea to only begin tutoring because you think the girl that’ll be tutoring you is pretty- maybe he should count his blessings that you don’t already think he’s some loser who’s failing english- maybe he should reject the tutor completely, or ask for someone different??

he doesn’t know- but he does know that he thinks your maybe the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, and that you smiled at him, and you called his name cute- and he’s writing up a draft email to send to his professor that he’s finally came around to the idea of being tutored.

it’s fine- it’ll all be fine- and if it doesn’t work out then he’ll drop out of university and work in this stupid gas station his entire life.

really it’s far too late to send this email now-its entirely unprofessional. but izuku is so worried that he’ll pussy out tomorrow morning than he sends it anyway, at nearly 1am.

he wishes he was surprised when his professor emails him back within 10 minutes- seemingly ecstatic about the idea of izuku finally coming around- that he won’t regret it- he’s sure that this will do him a lot of good- he’ll be passing with flying colours in no time.

maybe this wasn’t a good idea- he’ll just have to wait and see. but izuku now has a chance to have any conversation with you, and that’s all that matters.

taglist: @rueclfer @crimsonrubie @lovernatashaa

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keferon · 5 months ago

Note

“We’ll see Earth again.” Swerve says it not because he knows for certain, but because he has to believe it.

———————————————

“You don’t have to, you know…”. Jazz gestures vaguely at Swerve’s holoform as he takes a seat next to Jazz on the edge of the bar.

“I know. But it just feels natural, sometimes.” Swerve doesn’t know how to explain it. That he knows his holoform better than his own frame some days. And if he just walked around like this on the ship, he’d get stares. But with Jazz….

“I know what you mean.” Jazz laughs. “Piloting my mech always felt natural. And then I ended up living out of it for a while after my trip through space. Spent so long inside that wiring and metal and electrical signals felt more like me than flesh and blood. Once Prowl found out…took me a while to remember how to be human outside my mech. I still miss it sometimes.”

Jazz is gazes off at a projection against the far wall. Swerve looks closer and recognizes it as a star map of the galaxies. And he wonders if Jazz is just talking about mechs anymore.

“Hard to believe Earth is just one of those tiny dots,” Jazz says softly. “It’s hard to believe any of it still sometimes. That I’m actually out here, on an actual spaceship, with aliens that aren’t just trying to kill us all. With Prowl. With you. I mean, what are the chances?”

What are the chances indeed, Swerve thinks. That of all the ships he just happened to end up on the same one as Jazz and Prowl. But he’s glad in a way. Because otherwise — otherwise he might never have realized that his dreams, his fantasies were anything more than that.

“I’m actually glad, in a way,” Jazz says, echoing Swerve’s own thoughts. “Glad to know we’re not alone in this. Glad to get to know you — the whole you. Glad to have met Prowl. But — I miss Earth, miss home.”

“I miss Earth too,” Swerve says. “A lot. Sometimes…sometimes when I think about the life I lived there it feels more alive, more like I was living then anything I can remember before my accident.”

Swerve had friends, had a job, had hobbies. Had people, including Jazz, — people who were a part of his life and whose lives he was a part of. People who would notice his absence, who would miss his presence. (People who did notice him go missing. Swerve’s seen the status next to his own name in mecha logs. Him and Jazz.)

“We’ll see Earth again.” Swerve says it not because he knows for certain, but because he has to believe it. He needs to see it. Needs to get back.

Because he knows what he’s not telling Jazz. That things back on Earth are not nearly as good as they are here. That things are falling apart. But he has to believe that it’s not too late. That they can still help, if only they can get there. If only they can do something.

“You think so?” Jazz looks directly at Swerve, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“I do,” Swerve says. “Because while you were doing whatever pilot training it is that they have you do to go into space, you know what we were doing? There was a whole team of us behind you — mechanics and engineers — training to support the mission. What to do if things went right. What to do if they went wrong. How to make sure we brought you home. We looked everywhere for you.”

Computations of oxygen supplies, food, water, potential mech damage. All to try and determine the likely survival windows in space. The long days and longer nights and dwindling hopes as the search had stretched on. The memory gives Swerve pause for the briefest moment. But none of their computations could ever have accounted for all the complexities of reality.

“And I found you,” Swerve says, brightening slightly.

“We found Earth.” He points vaguely at the projection. “That’s already two thirds of the way there!”

Swerve grins broadly.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to have a friend like you here.” Jazz throws an arm over Swerves shoulder as he says it. “Next stop, Earth.”

HELP the fact that they both miss Earth despite Jazz being a human and Swerve being an alien is kind of poetic and I’m SO here for it

#I LOVE IT #KDKJFJFJDJD #maccadam #tf mecha universe #mecha writing #mecha bs writing

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quasi-normalcy · 1 month ago

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So here’s a question that’s recently troubled me: When did average people stop knowing how their technology works?

I don’t even mean at the level of engineers or even electronic hobbyists; I mean like…at the level of general physical principles. Like “touch screens work by deforming a charged conductor layer, bringing it closer to a second layer and altering the local current to register a touch.” Did average people ever know this sort of stuff? Because it seems like they did. Like, maybe it’s just bias in the type of late-19th/early-20th century fiction I read, but it seems like people knew, at least in general principles, how, say, a victrola worked; they were interested in radio; they knew the basics of electricity.

So when did they stop? Like, how many people actually know how their computers work? How many people know about the humongous backend of physical infrastructure that’s necessary to support cloud computing or LLMs?

I mean, there’s an entire subgenre of horror stories that’s just about personal electronics doing spooky things…and why shouldn’t there be? As far as most people are concerned, they’re surrounded at all times by unfathomable nonhuman entities that mostly do what they’re supposed to, but sometimes don’t for unfathomable reasons. Honestly, I’m surprised people aren’t as superstitious about it as 17th century sailors were about the sea.

And I mean, part of it is just increasing disciplinary specialisation meaning you can’t know things fully; and part of it is just that computers and software tend to be black boxes (and to hide the backend). But also, to a large extent, we don’t even try to explain it.

Like, I assume that kids in the early 20th century studied how electricity works and how mechanics and such work in their science classes. But I grew up in the 1990s “Age of Computers” and I can’t recall anyone ever sitting me or my class down in public school to explain how logic circuits work. Did they do it for other kids in the 1990s? Are they doing it now?

I don't know; I just keep thinking that there's benefit to knowing that the world is rationally explicable, but it just seems to be getting more and more opaque to most people. I think we might be reaping the consequences of this.

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ghostbeam · 10 months ago

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Oblivi_n.exe | Dabi/Touya Todoroki

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler.

As Dabi’s new handler, you’re well aware of his history, how frequently he goes through handlers assigned to him. Not that he ever uses them—it’s more complete resistance. You’re not particularly good at your job. Transferred from the PLF for lack of success in handling any of their pilots, you’ve always been far too gentle. You lack authority. Your pilots never respected you. You don’t think Dabi will be any different. You give it a week.

Notes: okay wow hiiiii it’s been a long time since I’ve posted an actual fic (nearing almost a year now😬) this is something I’ve been working on for a bit. I have mech brain rot curtesy of @streimiv and @hawnks (both of whom this is dedicated to bc there’s no way I could have written this without yapping to them abt it and also mint helped me come up w the acronym for HERO’s) and we’ve all got our own mech fics in the works atm but anywayssssss this is kind of my baby atm but I hope it makes sense it’s very inspired first and foremost by pacific rim and then also NGE (mostly through consumption of YouTube vids bc I haven’t actually watched it pls don’t hate me) it’s a whole mess of things and Dabi is kind of a bitch and reader is slowly coming into herself and at the end of the day they both wanna be metal fused to one another forever (no matter how hard he denies it) also I’m not a huge computer person idk if this title makes sense so don’t make fun of me pls ok anyways I hope u like it!!!!

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, pilot!Dabi x handler!reader, there’s no explicit sexual content in this part, not even a kiss sorry guys, mentions of robot gore (exposed wires, insides described as guts), brief descriptions of being trapped inside a small space, descriptions of burning while inside said space, mention of surgery to fashion a metal jaw onto someone, mentions of child abuse (nothing graphic just allusions to the todoroki family and touya’s past), angst, many run on sentences, a small cliff hanger

Words: 7.9k

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 (coming soon)

You are nothing without your machine.

It’s the first rule, the first thing beaten into his brain by his father. You carry the burden of the mech alone, or you’re weak. You don’t exist.

U.A. raises the best and brightest pilots, navigators, mechanics, and handlers, each one carefully trained to ensure the most important outcome: winning. It should be protection. It should be defense. But if Touya has learned anything at all, it’s that winning means glory. It means worship. It means HERO’s (Human Engineered Robotic Objects) are saints, and pilots are gods.

Touya used to be one of those best and brightest before his accident.

First son to Enji Todoroki, Touya was supposed to be the golden child, the first Todoroki to pilot without a handler. He was supposed to carry the burden alone, something his father couldn’t do, something only one man has ever actually been capable of.

But Touya is born weak, bad bones, a brain unable to handle all that the mech needs to unload onto it. One too many accidents results in him being expelled from the pilot program, his HERO discarded and collecting dust in its pod, and Touya is promptly transferred to mechanics.

It should have been a smooth transition. If one kid can’t handle it, the next will. Because they have to.

He doesn’t take the news well. It’s a fit of tears, a persistent fight, unable to accept the loss of his machine—of his body. Because Touya loves it. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in pure passion, and despite being unable to handle the burden, there’s no denying that he’s good. He’s almost perfect.

But almost is not enough for Enji Todoroki, and no matter how hard Touya tries, he’s made up his mind.

After months of mechanics, Touya makes a decision. When the next fleet of HERO’s is deployed for the next kaiju battle, Touya sneaks in among the chaos, tucked neatly inside the chest of his machine where he belongs. It doesn’t take long for things to go south, for Touya to get caught in the crossfire, losing control of his mech and burning from the inside out.

It should be an excruciating death, stuck inside a machine made for war, fire raining from above as a battle continues on outside without him.

But he survives, because what he lacks in strength, he makes up for in resilience, and his mech is programed with solutions to every situation. He’s stuck inside for months before he’s found.

Tomura Shigaraki rescues him, pries open the chest of his mech and pulls him from inside. His group feeds him, takes him in, fashions a new jaw for him made from the metal of his mech, and allows him the decision to join their cause or go back home.

And since there’s no home to go back to, Touya finds his footing with the league and becomes one of their top pilots. One who vehemently resists any and all handlers.

…

Touya Todoroki, known as ‘Dabi’ to the league, quirk class: cremation, mech title: Blue. You’re his new handler.

Following closely behind Tenko, formerly Tomura, he quickly explains to you the in’s and out’s of the pilot/handler relationship, along with a warning about Dabi’s resentment toward the whole idea. You try to keep up, but he talks quickly and uses his hands a lot. Even so, you can tell he’s a natural leader, something he had to grow into after overthrowing the man who raised him. His story is a tragic one, and it resonates with you because Tenko came out the other side stronger. Now, the league is a community with a cause, one you really believe in. Even if you and Dabi aren’t the right fit, you still have a place here.

You follow Tenko into what he calls the garage, a large floor of the abandoned academy that serves as the league’s base, this part of it full of HERO’s and mechanics all focused on the machines in front of them. It’s completely different from how HERO’s were worked on at UA, where you grew up, and even the PLF didn’t have one dedicated floor to this sort of work. You can feel the energy of the room buzzing on your skin, music blasting from old radios and mechanics tossing tools towards one another in a familiar routine. Tomura leads you to Dabi and his HERO, Blue, though you’re instructed not to call it a HERO around him. With goggles over his eyes and gloved hands, he brings two wires from Blue’s ankle together, sighing at the way they spark each time they connect.

“Dabi.” Tomura calls over the music coming from the radio hanging off of Dabi’s waist. He drops the wires and his gaze flickers toward the two of you. Pushing his goggles up to his forehead, he gives you a once over. His eyes are the brightest you’ve ever seen—kaiju blood blue—and burn scars litter his body. He’s striking in a way you’ve never seen, almost too beautiful to be human. Giving Dabi your name, Tomura explains that you’re taking over as his handler, seeing as he couldn’t keep the last one for more than a couple of days. “She’s your last handler. If you can’t keep this one, then go ahead and fry your brain. See if I care.”

“You say that every time.” Dabi calls from around sucker as Tomura walks away, leaving you alone with your new pilot.

You just your hand out in a greeting, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Eyeing your hand, Dabi shakes his head and turns his back to you, picking the two wires back up and connecting them again, despite the same spark from before igniting between the two. He looks back up at Blue, touching his fingers to the slim lines starting at the back of her ankle and running all the way up her leg. You peak over his shoulder at the wiring, noticing that he’s connecting two of the wrong ones.

“It’s the wrong wire.” You tell him, and he spins around to look at you, tearing his goggles from his face as he scoffs.

“Here we go.” He sighs with a roll of his eyes, pulling the candy from his lips and tossing it onto the tool cart without a care. “Handler know-it-all bullshit. This is my mech.”

You push passed him and grab the similarly colored wire from beside a red wire and connect it with the one in Dabi’s right hand. Blue lights up cyan through the thin lines that run along each of its limbs and torso, connecting with the two cameras within its head, which seem to blink before the light reaches them.

In an instant, you’re being pushed up against the hard metal, a strong arm over your chest—pinning you up against the HERO. Dabi, now having discarded his goggles, looks at you full of white, hot rage.

“Don’t fucking touch her.” He growls. You’re suddenly aware of the close proximity, eyes flickering between the snarl across his lips and his angry gaze. For a beat, you both freeze, the air suddenly charged like you’re waiting for one another to strike. Snapping yourself out of his hypnotic stare, you push against his chest, forcing him to let you go.

“If I’m going to be you’re handler, you’re going to have to trust me with her.” You remind him. He lets out a harsh laugh, like he can’t believe you would suggest such a ridiculous idea.

“I don’t trust anything but this machine.” He speaks, turning away from you to seal up the machine’s exposed wires. It’s a challenge you’re willing to accept.

“Well, I’m here to change that.” You tell him, before turning on your heel to leave him alone.

He thinks he’ll give you a week.

…

One of the worst parts of being assigned a handler, Touya thinks, is the way that pilot/handler living quarters are set up. He assumes the academy, before it was abandoned and turned into a base for the league, created this sort of set up so that handlers could keep a close eye on their pilots. The handlers Touya has burned through up until now also assumed the same.

The door that connects both the pilot’s and handler’s dorms doesn’t lock, and all of Touya’s past handlers have taken advantage of this fact. He’s been pulled out of bed far too early, pushed around and commanded and barked at. Most handlers behaved as if pilots belonged to them, which was the sentiment drilled into their brains from being thrown into such a fucked up system at a young age.—unless you were a pilot of status like a Todoroki. While he league dedicates a lot of its time to reversing these ideas, most handlers look at Touya like some kind of challenge, this arrogant pilot begging to be tamed. It never takes long for them to realize how easily he’s able to flip the switch on them. You’ll be no different.

But hours pass and you still haven’t entered. You don’t swing the door open and demand he apologize for his behavior earlier. You don’t try and punish him with training regimes, a command of a set of push ups, a schedule you expect him to follow, an extremely detailed meal plan. The entire evening comes and goes without so much as a sound on the other side of the door so he knows you’re even behind it.

He falls asleep unnerved by this, waking up late into the night in a cold sweat, expecting you to barge in, rip the covers from his body and demand to train together. When he wakes up (peacefully) the next morning, there’s no sign of you. He rises from his bed, drinks orange juice straight from the carton and eats a candy bar for breakfast. He fiddles with the navigation screen from his mech that stopped working a couple of days ago, tools spread out on the counter in front of him. Once he’s got the thing working again, your knock sounds from the unlocked door between the two of you. He thinks this might be it, the commands he expects to fall from your lips at the ready as he swings the door open, but you stand there, nervous, hands twitching as your eyes finally meet his.

Greeted by a shirtless Touya, hair mused from sleep, cargo pants hung low on his hips, dog tags swinging against his chest, his scars on display, unashamed and proud. The sight of him knocks the breath out of you, and you clear your throat in embarrassment, hoping your state of dreaming comes off as nerves rather than lust.

“Dabi. Or do you prefer Touya?” You smile. When he doesn’t answer, you continue. “I wanted to see if you wanted to eat breakfast together in the caf. I think we should start over. Yesterday was—”

You’re promptly cut off, “I already ate breakfast.”

With a harsh slam of the door, he leaves you stunned in your room.

You eat alone.

When you started as a pilot, back when you’d entered UA (a few years about Touya’s accident), you went into it believing you could change the world. The exam had placed you into the position of handler, and you were assigned a pilot who had always seemed a little frightened of you despite your obvious lack of authority. Bringing the fact up to your instructors did nothing. They all assured you that this was the ideal dynamic, that the handler always had the upper hand, but you hated that feeling. You weren’t a team like you expected to be; you were urged to control your pilot. You were there to keep them in line, not to be a pillar of support. The bond was never built on trust, and the soul link was always a looming threat. No matter how many pilots you went through, the link was never held as a gift, but a prison, something you would both be stuck with for the betterment of society, a sacrifice to make.

You’d been expelled from the handler program after guiding your pilot to help save another in the wreckage of your first battle together, resulting in the damage of your pilot’s HERO. Your pilot was okay, but the other couldn’t be saved, and you were blamed for the damage of both mech’s.

When you found the league (or when the league found you), you were working with the PLF, but proved to be a weak handler. Every pilot you were assigned to took advantage of your optimistic outlook on the kind of relationship dynamic that pilots had with their handlers. Despite all that you had been through at UA, and with the rest of the pilots you’d been paired with after, you never gave up the hope that handlers and pilots could behave as a team, or, even better, one entity.

Tenko had taken one look at you and demanded you’d be transferred to the league. There hadn’t been much of a choice in the matter, not that you really cared. You were miserable everywhere else. But when you arrived at the abandoned academy and taken a peak behind the kudzu covered walls where each and every area of the building acted as multiple moving parts in collaboration with one another in order to create one massive system, you realized that this was the future you imagined for yourself—and for the world you lived in.

Tenko saw something in you that day, something you aren’t sure you even see in yourself. And so Dabi was your first task, one that’s proving to be very difficult. But he doesn’t treat you like all the other pilots before had. He doesn’t use you. In fact, it seems like he wants nothing to do with you. And while that’s a problem, it’s still one you can work with.

You’re broken from your thoughts by the sound of a voice through an overhead intercom asking for everyone to meet on the first floor of the academy at their earliest convenience. Judging by the quick movements of those around you, you figure you’d better head downstairs as soon as possible.

The meeting on the first floor makes you very aware of just how small the league really is. While it’s definitely not a tiny organization, it’s still much smaller than both UA and the PLF. With everyone piled up like this in one group, you realize it feels more like a community, and the hum of conversation that surrounds you comforts you in a way you’ve never felt within the walls of any other academy before.

There’s discussion about the upcoming mission, one which may be the league’s most ambitious yet; the plan to hijack a mech and kidnap a pilot may be a little unorthodox compared to the league’s past missions, but the jaded pilot they’re targeting has a high chance of joining the cause. Or that’s what they have assumed. As the bodies move and speak around you, it strikes you how different this meeting is from any other meeting you’ve ever been a part of. Tenko is less a dictator and more a wrangler for the disembodied voices of your peers.

You don’t know much about his story, save for the vague details you’ve heard, but Tenko’s status as a lone handler is something you find yourself curious about. If he’s able to work without a pilot, why can’t you? It’s an idea you keep in your back pocket, one you think you can fall back on if things with Touya don’t work out. But you want them to work out. So badly.

You aren’t sure what it is about him, but he’s reignited that spark inside of you. You know he’d rather you give up, and maybe the you from a couple of months ago would have, but something about him—and this place—won’t let you leave.

As you observe the meeting, you take the time to look around the room, taking in your peers and their attentive faces as they listen to Tenko intently. You turn to your right, your eyes meeting a pair of blue ones, impossible to miss. Dabi holds your stare for what feels like ages, and when your colleagues erupt in a fit of many simultaneous discussions, you tear your eyes from his to observe the commotion. When you glance back in his direction, he’s gone.

You don’t seem him again after that. You train with other handlers, get to know your peers a little better. Everyone else seems to be welcoming, and most offer you sympathy when they find out you’re Touya’s new handler. From what you can gather, he’s had his fair share of them, all of which have quit or left in hysterics due to his harsh nature. When you ask around about where he could be, you’re told that he’s most likely in the garage, a place you assume he’s in more often than not.

You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to the garage. A place so completely different, so against the ideas and beliefs of any other academy you’ve been a part of, the chaos and community within is so foreign to you. You find Touya with Blue, working inside of her chest, where the cockpit is.

“Touya!” You call up to him and watch as he peaks his head over the edge of her metal plating. Annoyance falling across his face, he jumps down from where he stands, landing hard on his feet in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” He questions, his figure so tall and imposing above you. He’s not particularly muscular, not even all that tall compared to Tenko, but he makes you feel small regardless, in more ways than one. Rolling your shoulders back, you stare straight into his eyes, unwilling to back down.

“I figured you wanted your space today.” You explain, as Touya moves around you to get to his rolling cart of tools, forcing you to turn toward him and follow him if you want him to hear you. “I know adjusting to a new handler is rough, and I never want to make you uncomfortable. But I was thinking we could try some of those pilot/handler bonding exercises. It might be good to start training like some of the others do.”

He drops the wrench in his hand onto his cart with a loud thud, turning around toward you with a look of disbelief on his face. “Pilot/handler bonding exercises? They really brainwashed the shit out of you at UA, huh?”

At the mention of your past academy, your eyes widen in surprise. You had no idea he knew about that. Clearing your throat in order to compose yourself, you speak again, “I left UA for a reason. I have no attachment to their methods, but you guys do the same stuff here, so what’s the issue?”

“The issue is that I never asked for a fucking handler in the first place, especially not one as eager as you.” He spits, “Sure, you’re understanding now, all that bullshit about ‘giving me space,’ but the moment you get a lick of power over me, you’ll change. You’re not different.”

“I don’t want power over you. This is an equal exchange. Pilot’s and handlers are meant to be a team—” You try and argue, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“That’s what they told you, right? We’re a team, and as teammates, you make sacrifices. And it doesn’t matter if one of you turns into the other’s braindead dog because that’s your place.” His words hit you hard, the exact thought process you went through when leaving UA, completely disillusioned with their idea of “teamwork.” He’s right, and you know it, but since coming here, you thought that wasn’t how it had to be.

“Look, trust me, I get—” You’re cut off again.

“You went to UA! There’s no trusting you.” He scoffs, “It’s not like you’ll last here, anyway.”

“You are such a hypocrite! You’re from UA!” You retort, throwing your arms up in desperation. “You can hate me all you want. You can resist and resist and fry your brain ‘till there’s nothing left, but I believe in this shit. And you don’t get to tell me that I don’t, or tell me I’ll turn into something I worked so hard to get away from.”

Touya stands there, surprised by your outburst, completely unaware that you were capable of all of that. He doesn’t say anything back, and you roll your eyes. “So fuck you, and, by the way, her angel port is smoking.”

At your words, he turns in a rush, seeing the smoke billowing from Blue’s chest as he climbs his way up her form. Once inside his machine, he extinguishes the port and allows himself to relax. There are two things on his mind in this moment: how you could have possibly known it was the angel port without being inside of Blue’s chest and how, for the first time in a long time, he feels bad for his handler.

But for you, it’s the first time you’ve ever held your own against a pilot before, and that feels good.

…

Something feels weird.

Off, unsettling, strange.

He realizes, much to his dismay, that it’s your absence. Despite only having you around for such a short time, Touya has realized that your lack of presence now feels wrong. He hates it. He hates you.

He can’t find you. You haven’t knocked on his door. You’re not in the caf, not the garage, not the sparring floor, not in your room. And he did check—without knocking.

He’s not even sure how he can feel an absence. You aren’t a regular part of his life, and he never wanted you to be. But he feels all fucked up.

During training, Touya jams Blue’s halo core and she leaks vibrant neon from between her ribs. It takes him half an hour to get her reboot her system and rips one of the cables attached to the back of his suit in the process. He spends the afternoon cleaning HERO fluid off the sparring floor.

During repairs, he shocks himself over and over while trying to fix her core, fingers burning from the sparks each time he arranges the wires inside. The cameras in her eyes won’t work from the reboot, and Blue won’t let him unlock the lens panel to fix it. It’s almost like she’s mad at him too.

He’s a complete mess. It’s your fault. He has no choice but to go looking for you. Again.

He searches every wing of the academy before concluding that you’re in your room. He barges through the joint door, spotting you at the counter in your tiny kitchen. You’re surprised by the intrusion, a frightened gasp falling from your lips as you jump in your seat. You turn toward him, prepared with angry words on your tongue, but Touya speaks first.

“You’re not getting an apology out of me, so don’t expect it.” He begins, moving to stand in front of your swiveling kitchen stool as he looks down at you. “But I’m willing to be civil with you, so we don’t have to do this shit anymore.”

You’re not exactly sure what “this shit” is, but Touya looks a little worse for wear at the moment, so you don’t question it. He places a tray from the caf down in front of you that you hadn’t noticed in his hands upon arrival, says nothing else, and turns to leave the room. After shutting your joint door, you look down at the tray of food, noticing one of his suckers placed onto a vacant compartment of the tray.

You’re greeted the next morning with a knock on your door, Touya dressed in his pilot’s suit on the other side as you swing the door open. “C’mon. You’re gonna watch me train today.”

You watch him turn around to leave, expecting you to follow. You rush to pull on your combat boots and grip your dog tags in your fist as you rush to catch up to him. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you fall into step beside him, taking a look around his dorm before he leads you through the exit door.

“You need to get a feel for my fighting style.” He explains as you walk down the corridor. “I’m not saying I’ll listen to you when it comes down to it, but it’s important for you to know.”

You nod, agreeing that you should definitely observe him inside of his HERO. By understanding his moves, you’ll be able to understand the way he thinks, and you’ll be able to help him in actual combat if needed. He’s already said he won’t listen to you, but it won’t stop you from trying. He stops abruptly, turning to look at you, and you stop with him.

“If we’re gonna do this, it’ll be on my terms. I’m not your dog.” He tells you, seriously. He eye’s you up and down, taking in your expression as you nod at his words. “If anything, you’re mine.”

He begins walking again, leaving you in your spot, irritation filling your chest as you watch him, smug. “Asshole.” You curse under your breath.

“What’d you say?” He barks, turning to look at you abruptly.

“You’re an asshole.” You speak louder. He walks back toward you, making sure to tower over you intimidatingly as he looks down at you in annoyance. His eyes flicker down to the tags around your neck before hooking a finger on the chain and pulling you closer.

“Watch it.” He drops the chain and walks away again.

You follow him to the sparring floor, and he shows you where to go to watch. Stood behind a large window that looks over the sparring area, other members of the base watch the HERO’s engage in combat below. You spot Tenko and he motions for you to stand beside him.

“I knew he’d warm up to you.” He comments. The last of the previous battle finishes and you watch the two enormous machines retreat to the sides of the area, their pilots emerging from their chests with their handlers rushing to the bottom of the mech’s in support.

“He hasn’t. He’s not.” You shake your head. You aren’t sure why you deny it, if it’s some way to keep your expectations low or if there’s some kind of embarrassment aspect to the whole thing. Whatever is happening between you and Touya feels intimate and private, something that the two of you need to figure out for yourselves, not something meant for the eyes of others.

“Hm. Okay.” Tenko shrugs. “Guess not.”

You hadn’t noticed Touya enter his mech at all. You see the swing of one giant mechanic arm, too close to the window you stand behind, and you’ve shifted your full attention to the scene at hand.

The enormity of the room surprises you, despite the fact that you had seen it just moments before. But when you’re truly looking at it, watching these huge machines go at each other, the way the ground shakes, the leaves outside shake, the deep forrest clear in view from the wall that opens out to the greenery (the lack of a wall is likely from the academy’s abandoned state, but it’s a good feature to have on the sparring floor when giant robots are toppled over onto various surfaces).

The way Blue moves is electric, mechanic movements almost feel fluid with the way that Touya pilots her, easily dodging attacks from their opponent and moving around them in the most graceful way a giant machine can. It’s beautiful, unlike any fighting style you’ve ever seen in a HERO before.

“He’s showing off for you.” Tenko observes from beside you. You don’t argue with him, only because you can’t dispute it. This is your first time seeing him in action. It makes your heart beat out of your chest. There’s this ache like you should be inside with him, cables connected to both of you, tucked neatly inside of Blue together.

It doesn’t take him long to get his opponent on their back, the heavy thump against the floor jostling the ant-like figures on the ground below, handlers waiting for their pilots to finish. It goes on like this for a while, his training, using different methods of combat and winning each time. He’s amazing, and you can tell why his reputation is the way it is, second only to Tenko, who you have yet to see in action.

When he finishes his last session, you watch Blue walk to the edge of the room, and Touya emerges from her chest, jumping the long way down her body without any issue. You watch as he looks toward the window you’re behind. He waves at you, an acknowledgment of your presence, and you wave back, though you aren’t sure he can actually see you.

It’s the beginning of everything for the two of you. You think Tenko was right.

He lets you stay with him afterwards while he does maintenance on Blue. He helps you climb up the path to her chest, hauling you over the edge to sit inside with him. He turns around abruptly, holding a hand up before allowing you to walk any further.

“Do not touch anything.” He warns, completely serious, before letting his hand fall and allowing you further into the cockpit. You take in your surroundings, the guts of his machine, analyzing the different control panels and screens that line the interior. You can tell he takes good care of her, and he spends a lot of time in here. It looks lived in, stickers stuck to metal plating and pieces of him all over. He’s made a second home in between the ribs of his mech. You feel a little jealous, though you aren’t sure of what.

The two of you sit against the left side of Blue’s interior, waiting for her updates to finish, the loading screen on each of her monitors display a fire graphic that grows with the increasing percentage on screen. Between you and Touya sits an opened bag of sour gummies, which Touya picks out the lemon flavor and drops the candy in your palm with each new handful he gathers.

“How do you know all this stuff?” He questions around a mouthful of sour cherry, “Like, the real names for things, where stuff goes, how to fix them. That day with the wires…”

“I spent a lot of time around mechanics at UA, and then also at the PLF.” You explain, picking the yellow colored candy from his open palm as you speak. “I couldn’t connect with other handlers. I didn’t like how they thought, or how they viewed the pilot/handler relationship. Mechanics were mostly neutral, and they loved these machines like nothing else. They reminded me of why I joined UA in the first place.”

“Hm.” He nods, thinking about your past. “Well, I guess if you spent so much time around actual professionals…I could maybe use your help sometimes in the garage.”

“Really?” You question excitedly, a spark lighting up your eyes as you swerve your head toward him. He feels something tight in his chest at the sight.

“Yes, but only on the outside. I don’t want you messing with her insides, yet.” He establishes. “And never alone. I have to be there at all times.”

“Of course, yes, oh my god. Touya!” You smile, gripping his shoulder firmly, a gesture of thanks, communication of how much his trust means to you. “I’ll be so careful with her, I promise.”

“Yeah, well, you have no other choice.” He shrugs, throwing another pile of candy in his mouth. “I’ll kill you if anything happens to her.”

You take the threat seriously, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s realized that you’ve wormed your way into his life and he hadn’t even noticed just how entangled you were now.

As the weeks go by, you spend a lot more time together. You work on blue together, and you rest inside of her chest, sometimes allowing yourself to drift off against his shoulder on especially tiring days. He sits beside you in the caf, and while he doesn’t always say much, the feeling of his arm against yours is comforting. You can tell people are starting to notice, and they’re starting to talk. You’re being dubbed someone who’s tamed him, but you know how far from the truth that is.

Despite your differences and the petty arguments that come up when Touya feels like you’re intruding on his independence, you’re growing attached. You wonder if he is, too.

…

Spending time together in the garage becomes the new normal for the two of you. Being in each other’s dorms feels far too intimate, so you always meet in the garage. This way, one of you is always busy doing something with your hands. There’s no room for any strange feelings in the pit of your stomach to seep in.

You sit in the crook of Blue’s neck, watching Touya as he repairs the lenses in her “eyes.” Blue has three pairs of eyes; in her head, her chest, and down near her hips, which all footage is projected onto monitors inside the cockpit so that Touya has a full view of what’s in front of him.

He’s so peaceful while he works, you’ve noticed, almost like he goes somewhere else completely. It’s a part of him you don’t think many people get to see, a piece of him just for you, and you want to be selfish with it.

“Can I ask you something?” You question, leaning your head back against the metal. “But you can’t get mad.”

He looks up at you, still fiddling with a lens, a mocking look on his face. “I’m not making any promises.”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the possible fallout of the question you’re about to ask, “What do you think about the soul link?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’d never do it.”

You nod your head in understanding, “yeah, I get it. It’s weird, right? The idea that someone else would be inside your brain.”

“It’s fucking invasive.” He says.

“You know, at UA it always felt like a threat, you know. Like, it was a way for a handler to control their pilot, not a tool or a bond like it should be.” You begin, thinking back to how you viewed the soul link back then. You didn’t like how the bond was presented as this power that a handler holds over their pilot, a threat to keep their pilot in line. But, you could understand how the link could be used for good. “But since coming here, I can tell it’s not all bad. People trust each other here. I mean, there’s obviously some people who abuse it, but, for the most part, everyone seems to understand what it really means to be a pilot and a handler.”

You’re mostly just thinking out loud, but Touya doesn’t say anything to your ramblings. He continues to work on the lenses, and you can gather that he doesn’t want to talk about the subject anymore. But you can’t let it go, yet. There’s something you’ve been worried about since you met him.

“And what about…your brain? They say when a handler and a pilot don’t complete the soul link, the pilot will eventually fry their brain.” You can’t help it. You think about it all the time, what will happen when he can’t take it anymore. The closer you get to him, the realer it feels. “Are you ever worried about that?”

He looks at you, an expression you can’t quite make out fall across his face as he stares. It’s almost soft, the way he looks at you in this moment. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

The truth is, this is a reality Touya has accepted. He’s not afraid to die, and he never has been. He’ll probably die inside of Blue, and he has no problem with that fact. He doesn’t need to be around for long, just enough to show his dad what he’s capable of.

“C’mon.” You stare. “That’s not fair.”

“Shit. I left some of the screws for this in my dorm.” He curses. He looks where you lounge, tucked into Blue’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, okay?”

You watch him jump down, much higher than his usual height at her chest, but he lands anyway. He doesn’t turn to look back at you as he jogs away. You climb up the side of Blue, and look at the lenses in her head. They’re already repaired, and you know Touya used the excuse of missing screw just so he wouldn’t have to talk about the soul link.

But it’s the first time he’s ever left you alone with Blue before.

…

As the mission draws closer, Touya throws himself into training. You’re on the training floor with him most days, standing behind that big glass panel as you watch him spar with his peers. He still doesn’t let you down on the floor with him until he’s full out of Blue and close enough to the edge of the sparring floor to get to you. You’re not allowed in the actual training area, and even though he says he doesn’t want you clinging to him, it’s really because he wants to keep you safe. Seeing your human body near the giant machines that are HERO’s makes him want to grab you and keep you inside of Blue’s chest forever.

You can tell all the training is taking a toll on him. With an excess of headaches and the occasional nosebleed, you continuously get into arguments about him cutting back on training inside of Blue. There are other ways for him to prepare that don’t involve his fragile brain being hooked up to an entity that takes so much. He doesn’t listen.

Later and later into the night, as your fellow pilots and handlers disperse and return to their rooms to sleep, Touya stays inside of Blue, testing her movements and sparring against test dummies and obstacles. Once you and Touya are the only two left on the sparring floor, you speak into the intercom attached to your head.

“Touya, I think you should take a break.” You tell him, “It’s late. Get some rest and then we can pick it back up in the morning.”

There’s a pause, then, “I’m gonna stay for another hour. Get some sleep. I’ll be done soon.”

“No, Touya. You’ve been at it for hours. You barely took a break for dinner. C’mon.”

“You know, you sound awfully like a handler trying to tell their pilot what to do.” He teases, but you can hear the irritation in his voice.

“You are insufferable. I’m worried about you.” You groan.

“I’m fine. Go sleep.” He insists.

“If I find out you aren’t out of here in an hour—” Your line is promptly cut off, leaving behind static in your ear. You sigh and throw your com to the side. You hope he’s telling the truth.

With one last look at Blue, you make your way out of the training floor and find your way back to your dorm.

Touya doesn’t answer the door when you knock the next morning. With a frustrated groan, you leave your dorm and head to the training floor, assuming he woke up early to get some extra hours in. The closer you get the the floor, you notice other members of the base rushing in front of you. Feeling panicked, you pick up the pace, jogging toward the training room to make sure something isn’t wrong. You collide with a body in front of you, nearly falling to the floor as you steady yourself. Toga stands in front of you, her cheeks red and eyes glossy as she explains something your mind can’t catch up to understand. The only thing you recognize is his name, and you’re running toward the training floor in an instant.

You watch as Blue stomps around the area, her arms swinging in all directions, losing her footing as she moves. Knowing you can’t do anything on the floor, you make your way up to the overlook, finding Tenko yelling into your intercom.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” You ask him, pulling the headset off of his head and placing it on yours instead.

“He’s out of fucking control. He won’t answer. I don’t even think he’s conscious in there.” He tells you, running a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in anxiety. “You’re not linked yet, are you?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes in frustration as you try to think. You know it’s the only way. You have to take some of the burden off of him, make him share it with you. It’s the only way he’ll survive right now. “Do you think you can get into Decay right now and knock him down somehow?”

He hesitates, “I can get inside. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to touch him at all.”

“You have to.” You plead, desperately. “I just need him down for ten seconds, tops. As long as I can get inside of her, I can save him.”

He looks at you like you’re insane, and maybe you are. But you know you can’t live with yourself if you don’t try something. Tenko nods.

“I can do it.” He tells you. You rush passed him, following the stairs down to the training area. You feel Tenk grab your wrist firmly. “You bring him back, okay?”

“I will.” You nod.

He dodges Blue’s movements, weaving between her legs as he finally makes it to Decay. It takes a few moments for him to connect, but he goes straight for Blue. You watch the giant machines fight one another, but it’s clear that Blue’s lack of control hinders much of her ability. She needs Touya just as much as he needs her. It’s tough for Decay to dodge her swinging arms, but Tenko manages to knock her down quickly.

The fall shakes the room, but you waste no time running for Blue. Climbing over the side of her, you manage to touch your thumb to the pad on the outside to open her chest up. She begins to stand up, and you slip down, grabbing onto a bar beneath her ribcage. You let out a frustrated groan as you try to pull yourself up over the edge of the cockpit. Finally making it over, you see Touya sitting there, still connected to his pilot’s chair, eyes glazed over and blood gushing from his nose. You push the button that closes the panel in Blue’s chest, and you’re suddenly alone with him.

Touya’s body is being jerked around by the movement of the mech, and you hang onto the walls of her chest in order to make your way to him. You situate yourself in his lap, taking his head in your hands as you look at him with tears in your eyes.

“You fucking asshole! I told you to take a break.” You sob, resting your head against his as you try and think of what to do next. “Touya, please. Please, baby, I need to you come back. Just fucking come back so I don’t have to do this without your permission, please.”

With no response from him, you wipe your tears, coming to terms with the fact that you have to complete the soul link now, or he’ll die. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Touya. Please forgive me.”

The soul link isn’t exactly an action so much as it is a feeling, an experience. There’s no trigger for it, no way to make it happen. It just begins.

It’s Touya, aged thirteen, wild, chubby-cheeked and happy, in the pilot’s seat of his father’s HERO. It’s his drive, his determination, his anger, his hurt. It’s the day he snuck into battle, the day he couldn’t get out, flesh burning and fusing to the metal walls of his mech, the feeling now deep in your skin. It’s you, aged fifteen, hopeful, alive, shaking hands with your first pilot. It’s your heart, much too big and much too open for your line of work, it’s your passion, your fire, every piece of you that was broken down again and again until there was nothing left. It’s Touya and it’s you, and every single bit of your souls now tied together in one big knot.

There’s nothing but darkness. And then there’s screaming. And then you can hear everything. Every thought running through Touya’s brain right now echoes in your head as you slowly come back to yourself. He can hear the same of yours.

It’s overwhelming at first, to have two sets of thoughts in your head at the same time, but you manage to focus. You can feel an anger inside of you like you’ve never felt. It’s almost like it’s your own. You need to come back. You’ve lost control of Blue.

In an instant, you feel yourself come back to your body, now straddling Touya like before, you feel his arms shoot around you and he tucks his chin over your shoulder to pilot Blue like he’s used to doing. He pays no mind as he presses up against you, but you feel your heart rate increase at the closeness.

He’s so close.

I have to be. You’re in my lap.

Shit. I didn’t think—

Clearly.

I can’t fucking believe you. I told you we weren’t going to do this.

You were dying!

Then you fucking let me!

You’re jostled around in his lap for a moment as he stops Blue from destroying any more of the training floor, and Touya wraps an arm around your waist, holding you steady.

He gains control of her quickly, moving her toward the edge of the room. You tuck your face into his neck, not wanting to distract him and keeping your thoughts at bay so you don’t overwhelm him. He powers Blue down, severing the neural connection between the two of you, and shoves you from his lap and into the pilot’s chair like you’ve burned him. He storms out of the cockpit, climbing out of his machine and leaving you inside. You think about the argument you had within each other’s head, how Touya would have rather died than be linked to you like he is now.

You slump against the seat, comforted by the metal cage you’ve been left inside of.

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #bnha x reader #tw claustrophobia #just in case it’s like so brief and doesn’t describe much yet but I just wanna be safe #ghost.writes #ghost.fic

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kimberly-spirits13 · 8 months ago

Text

Tired Timmy

Pairing: Tim Drake x reader

Warnings: None

Summary: Fluff- When you return from a mission, you realize how tired Tim is and get him to sleep.

Note: Found this in my drafts and idk what it was doing there so here ya go

Word Count: 1598

Tonight, was an especially cold night. Snow fell over the city and blanketed everything in sight. You had just gotten back from a mission in the Amazon and was on break from patrol duty. Aside from getting used to the change in climate from where you were versus where you are now, you were worried about Tim. Of course, he was relieved that you were back safe and sound, he told you as much, but he seemed especially stressed as of lately. It wasn’t uncommon for him to stress about you leaving for a mission without him, but even coming back didn’t seem to stall his emotions.

“How’s it going Timmy?” You asked in the comms, watching the surveillance cameras from around the city.

“mmm” he grumbled in response

“That good huh?” You started snickering at his response, “Only thirty more minutes and then you can come crash.”

“Good to know.” He said as you watched him haphazardly swing from one building to another, “any leads on the Riddler case?”

“A few, I’m pretty sure he and Penguin are in cahoots again. I’d say that they’re getting ready for a heist. Give them three weeks tops.” Tim heard paper being tossed around as you combed through the case files regarding your suspicions, “We can go over them when you’re rested.”

“I’ll be fine.” Tim said, “We’ll talk about it when I get back.”

You weren’t going to argue with him. Tim could be stubborn about working and you didn’t want him angry on patrol, especially when he was this tired. It was a good way of making sure that he came home injured.

“Dick, make sure that Tim doesn’t throw himself off a building or something.” You said on a private link.

“I’m always on it, Y/N/N.” He replied in a chipper tone, “You see it too?”

“Yeah,” you leaned back in your chair, watching as the boys ran through the city, “I’ll pick his brain on it when you guys get back. Just make sure he comes back in one piece.”

“Will do.”

You logged into the computer database on Penguin and Riddler’s recent moves, trying to pinpoint connections to them. It was late and you told Alfred to go to sleep so there was only Damian’s pets keeping you company. The first sign of extra life was the sounds of the Batmobile roaring through the underground tunnels. Sometimes, depending on how fast Bruce was going, the walls would vibrate and shake. Dust from the cave’s ceiling would fall onto the floor and in the air as he came flying into the garage. Today it was mundane, and no dust came off the walls. You heard the mechanical sliding of the doors opening and two pairs of heavy footsteps before the sound of two other engines roared through the cave.

“How’s the investigation going?” Bruce asked, raking through the papers as Damian picked up Alfred the cat from the chair arm rest.

“It’s moving along nicely. I think they’re going for the new diamond exhibit downtown. I don’t know why anyone exhibits anything valuable in this city anymore.”

Bruce gave a stiff chuckle before patting you on the back, “Good work, turn in for the night, you need rest.”

Bruce started walking off as Tim came up and leaned over the side rest.

“Hey babe.” He tipped your chin to give you a kiss.

“How was patrol?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

“It was fine.” He said, pulling up a chair next to you.

“You seem exhausted.” “Timmy let’s go to bed. We need rest.”

“Looks aren’t always as they appear Y/N/N.” He mindlessly ran his fingers through your hair and stared at you, “What do you have on the case?”

You knew there was nothing you could do to get Tim to go to bed at this point. It was time for plan “yapping to death”. Talking fast, you told him everything you had. There was no repeating what you had said, and you started flipping through the papers as fast as possible without raising suspicion. You had the clocks set to look like a later time, making sure that Tim would think it was later than it was. It was obvious when the plan was working since you saw Tim’s unfocused eyes start wandering around the cave. When it got to this point, Tim would finally decide it was time to rest.

“Does that make sense?” You asked, thumbing over his fingers, “I’ve got the schematics of the-“

“Y/N/N, it makes sense but, uh, I’m not focusing anymore.”

“Do you wanna go to bed?” You asked, searching for any sign of resistance in his eyes, “Come on.”

You stood up and pulled him out of the chair, he leaned into you and let his weight rest against you.

“Sorry, you just got back from a mission, you must be sore.” He said, leaning off you.

“It’s okay Timmy, I’m alright.” You hugged him and led him upstairs, “Come on, I’ll get you to bed.”

“M’ not a baby, I can’t get there myself.” He mumbled into your shoulder before pausing, “That came out snappy.”

“You’re fine Tim. I know you’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

Again, you didn’t say anything back, but instead led him up the next flight of stairs and into his room. Leaving him to grab his clothes, you walked into the bathroom and started the shower. When the water was warm enough, you opened the door to tell Tim it was ready. He walked in before calling you back in, the softness of his voice showing how tired he was.

“Hey um, you haven’t showered yet either have you?” He asked, crossing his arms with a towel wrapped around his waist.

“I showered after dinner Tim.” You said, raising a brow.

“Oh yea.” There was a silence in the room for a few seconds.

“But, if you insist, I can’t say no.” This made Tim chuckle a bit before you shut the door and he dropped the towel before he got into the shower himself.

You quickly undressed and opened the glass door, joining Tim in the hot stream of water. Tim leaned his head against your shoulder and sighed deeply.

“I’m tired.” He admitted, wrapping his arms around you, relishing in the heat of the water and the closeness of you.

“I gathered as much.” “You’ve been over working yourself recently. I told Dick to make sure you didn’t run yourself to death before I got back.”

“It’s not Dick’s fault.” He said, “I have my ways.”

“Oh, I know.” You laughed, making Tim laugh with you.

“I’m glad you’re back. I thought I’d kill someone for the past three weeks.”

“I’m glad to be back too. Also, glad you didn’t kill anyone, that would be unfortunate.” You started running shampooed hands through his hair, washing the dirt and grime down the drain.

Tim closed his eyes and let the water run over his head, washing away the soap and eventually the conditioner that you ran through his hair. He began to wash himself, making sure not to run over the bruises on his torso. Tim gave you a quick glance before double taking. “What’s this from?” He asked, running a soapy finger over a stitched wound on your stomach, “I haven’t seen it.”

“Got grazed by a blade during the mission.” “One of the assassins got the best of Cassie and I jumped in front of her.”

“It looks painful.” “I’ve been leaning on you this entire time, are you hurt anywhere else?” He spun you around and started looking for signs of other injuries.

“Besides a few bruises, I’m fine. You’re fine Timmy; I’m not hurt.”

“This doesn’t look fine. Why did you tell me?” He asked

“I didn’t want to worry you, you’re exhausted.” The rest of the soap ran off the two of you and into the drain, “I didn’t want you stressing yourself out.”

“I’m sorry.” Tim said honestly, “You said to get rest but I totally didn’t.”

“Tim I’m not upset with you. I know it’s your job and you feel passionately about it, I’m just worried you don’t sleep, it’ll get you hurt on the field.”

“I know you’re right.”

“Come on, let’s get dress and go to bed. I don’t think I have a change of clothes in here.” You said grabbing two towels from the heated rack.

“I brought you some sweats.” Tim replied with a smirk.

“Oh, so you’re admitting that you planned this all along?” You laughed nudging him jokingly.

“Just the shower.”

When you had dried off totally, you walked back into the bedroom and turned the fan on. Walking back to the bed, you saw that Tim was already getting into bed. His eyes were fluttering shut and opening again, over, and over. He turned his head to you and spread out, getting comfortable.

“I’m tired.” He said softly.

“I know love.” You climbed next to him and reached over him to turn the lamp off.

“That’s a good view babe.” Tim said with a smirk in his voice before you leaned back onto your side.

“Glad you approve.”

You laid down, pulling Tim closer to you. He put his head into the crook of your neck and took a deep breath before wrapping his legs around you. Pushing the covers over his shoulders, you ran your fingers through his hair, watching as his breath evened out and his body relaxed.

“I’m exhausted. Can’t sleep without you” he said in a whisper.

“I know Timmy, but you can sleep now.”

#tim drake x reader #tim drake x you #tim drake x y/n #tim drake imagine #tim drake fanfiction #tim drake fanart #red robin x reader #red robin x y/n #red robin x you #red robin imagine #batfam x reader #batfam x you #batfam x y/n #batfam imagine #batfam fanfic #batfam fic

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onyx-plutos-moon · 7 days ago

Note

Right back at you, what are your post-highschool study and/of job headcanons for the NPMD characters?

Not because I’m going to steal them for a fic or anything. What? No. That would be crazy… 👀

I only have ones for the main 6, sadly

Steph: automotive mechanic. There's no fucking way she's doing uni in my mind

Pete: I rotate between what sort of scientist j think would be neat. Pharmacist or like an aerospace engineer would be so neat

Grace: teaching. Tell me I'm wrong. She continued with schooling because she didn't know what to do after high-school and tell me Grace wouldn't fit being a teacher

Ruth: has a degree in something smart (general science degree), but ended up as a shop manager. She's passionate about theater and porn, not science

Richie: he's a twitch streamer but makes no where near enough to live off of, so he's got a job at a supermarket or double door dash as well. He does freelance IT stuff, because he's got a computer science degree, but he really thinks twitch will work for him

Max: chippy. If NPMD was set in nz, he would have dropped out of high-school at 16 to do a builders apprenticeship. "Professional football" shut up, no one wants him as their teammate, he's mean. He's a tradie and fucking acts it

#hatchetfield #hatchetverse #npmd #nerdy prudes must die #grace chasity #pete spankoffski #steph lauter #ruth fleming #richie lipschitz #max jagerman

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ducksido · 2 months ago

Note

Hai! It’s ur fav Idia anon😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈 okay hear me out, Idia with a half frank stein half cyborg reader. Like reader has an electric heart and organs but a human brain and is like made out of like ten dead human parts, oil for blood type. So Idia is just like checking up on their vital robot organs on his computer, like using wires to connect to reader’s organs (entry thing on back??) while reader is on his lap, just relaxing and chilling, and u can interpret the rest😝😝😝😝😝

[Yes you are my favourite Idia anon😁]

(Tw: mild body horror mentions, nothing gory, just wires and weird organs. Soft vibes override.)

The room is bathed in a neon-blue glow, flickering slightly as a screen updates line after line of data—pulses, pressure, charge levels, synaptic fire. All of it you.

“Okay, okay… entry port's clean, transmission’s stable…” Idia mutters, fingers dancing across his keyboard, fast as lightning, faster than your own synthetic nerve relays. His hair pulses in hues of cerulean and violet, glowing brighter every time your vitals spike. Which they do. Every time you shift in his lap.

You’re leaned back against his chest, legs folded sideways over his, like a puzzle piece slotted in place. Calm. Almost sleepy. Like it’s normal to have a bunch of cables trailing from the base of your spine, connecting your bio-mechanical organs directly into Idia’s rig.

Your heart? Electric. Hums like an engine when you're content. Your lungs? Powered by soft hydraulic pulses that compress with a hiss and expand with a shudder. And Idia? Well, he’s obsessed.

Not in the "science project" kind of way. More like the "I can't believe you're real and I get to be the only one who gets this close to your wiring" kind of way.

"How’re you feeling?" he asks, voice unusually quiet. His hand’s resting over your sternum, right above the casing where your electric heart clicks and pulses like a steady metronome.

"Warm," you murmur. “Even with the oil circulation. Feels… nice.”

That makes him freeze for a nanosecond. Nice. Nice? YOU think it’s nice??? His brain blue-screens. You’re literally half-built from corpses and spare parts—there’s tubing under your skin instead of veins, a synth-liver that processes coolant, and an actual operating system that pings him when your battery’s low. And you're just… on his lap like a cat.

“Uhh… yeah… obviously it’s nice. My setup is, like, peak comfort optimization. Nothing less for my… my um…”

He trails off.

You blink up at him. “Your…?”

"...My favorite test subject." He coughs. Loudly. “N-not in a creepy way!! Just, like, statistically you’re the one I monitor the most, so it’s just accurate, you know?? Purely clinical—"

You tilt your head back a little more so you can look up at him with that half-synthetic eye of yours that flickers softly when you smile.

“Idia.”

He stiffens.

"You don't need to short-circuit over every compliment."

"...I d-don’t short-circuit." (He does.) (He literally does. Your neural link picks up a micro surge in his output whenever you’re too close. Which is always.)

Still, he leans down, brushing his nose against the crown of your head. “Just sayin’. No one else gets to do this. Monitor you, I mean. Tinker. Maintain. You’ve got, like, a whole corpse-Wi-Fi situation going on, and I’m the only one who knows the password.”

You hum again. You like that. The idea of belonging—not as a project, but as a person only he understands.

“Okay, diagnostics are good. All organ-tech’s running smooth. Heartbeat's in the sweet zone. No overheating.” He lets the wires retract with a whirr, but doesn’t move you off his lap. If anything, he wraps his arms a little tighter around your waist. “Guess I’ll just keep you here a little longer. For observation. You know. For science.”

You smile, letting your body rest fully against him, your cold frame soaking in his heat.

“Sure, doc. For science.”

#twst x reader #twst #twst wonderland #twst yuu #idia shroud #idia twisted wonderland #twst idia #twisted wonderland idia #idia x reader #idia x you #idia x yuu

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seungkw1 · 2 months ago

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heroes — chs [TEASER]

💿 heroes - david bowie 🎶

🪐 pairing: chwe hansol x gn!reader 🪐 theme: sci-fi au 🪐 teaser wc: 2.2k 🪐 teaser warnings: none, but the full fic will contain elements of horror 🪐 a/n: this fic is loosely based on the movie Alien (1979), one of my all-time favs!! and who better to star in it than our favorite Movie Guy™️ chwe hansol. i'm honestly having a blast researching and writing for this one, so i hope u guys enjoy it as much as i do :) p.s. release date is tbd, i’m gonna be v busy these next several weeks but i am hoping to post by end of may, pls bear with me <3

You’ve been Captain of the Atlas IV for five years now, so a months-long interstellar cargo haul like this one is standard work for you. But when you’re mysteriously woken prematurely from your cryogenic sleep-stasis to find yourself still in the middle of deep space, nowhere near your destination planet, it’s up to you and your Pilot to figure out what triggered the Emergency Revival System - before it’s too late.

hisssssss

Your brain begins to awaken as you re-enter consciousness. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognize the sound of the sleep pod unlocking, signaling your long journey through the depths of space must be coming to an end - but right now the only thing you can think about is how dead you feel. Waking up after such a long, artificial sleep is always physically challenging, but nothing you’re not used to by now. You give yourself a couple minutes to lay there, still half-lucid, letting your body slowly readjust from the months-long cryogenic sleep cycle. You listen to the ambient sounds of the ship. The noise is loud, but low - mere background noise that you’ve grown accustomed to. The mechanical rumbling of the engine amidst the otherwise silent ship brings you a strange sense of comfort, a contrast to the usual chatter of the crew and beeping and blooping of machinery. You decide to take a few more moments to enjoy the peace and quiet before you have to get back to work.

Suddenly, you are flooded in the sterile brightness of the ship’s interior lighting as the capsule lid is opened - nearly blinding you even behind closed eyelids. You reluctantly open your eyes to, to see-

A face, staring down at you.

You jump a little. You blink a few times as you sit up, still processing the identity of the face’s owner. Then it registers: it’s your Pilot.

“Jesus Hansol, you fucking scared me.”

“Sorry, Captain,” he apologizes. He just stands there, upright, so still that he could be mistaken for a mannequin if you weren’t paying too much attention.

“Why are you standing over my pod?" you grumble, still adjusting to being roused so abruptly.

He looks at you, his demeanor calm as always - but based on the concerned look in his eyes, you guess he’s going to tell you that there’s a bit of a problem.

“We have a bit of a problem.”

“Yeah, I guessed that much. What-”

Before you can ask anything, he’s already spun around on his heels, making a beeline back to the cockpit. You stumble out of the pod and quickly don your coveralls before hurrying after him.

You enter the control room, its many processors and screens humming all around you. At first glance, everything seems fine - all machines are fully operational, no blinking lights, no alerts going off. Somehow, you find this more worrying than if all the alarms were blaring.

Hansol hovers over the main computer. You join him, stepping up next to him to get a good look at the screen. To an untrained eye it would be incomprehensible, but you could interpret the map in your sleep. You take one look at the coordinates and the issue is glaringly obvious.

“Shit.”

Your whisper is barely audible, but Hansol gives you a stoic nod.

“Yeah.”

You’ve captained the Atlas IV for five years now - you’ve been on so many of these routine, months-long cargo expeditions that you’ve stopped keeping count; every last detail of its operations is ingrained in your memory at this point. The ship is programmed to wake up the crew in stages upon entering a 0.5 parsec orbital radius of the destination planet (Pilot first, Captain next, and then the remaining crew), allotting plenty of time to communicate with the ground crew and prepare for landing.

However, the blinking blue light indicating the ship’s position is nowhere near the destination planet. It’s not even near any planet - you are in the middle of fucking nowhere.

The system is designed to wake the crew early if an emergency arises - a critical built-in safety measure - but there’s no emergency. Aside from the fact that you’re deep in interstellar space, there doesn’t even appear to be a minor issue at hand.

You look up at Hansol, who is patiently awaiting your response.

“Why was the Emergency Revival System triggered?” you ask hesitantly.

He stares at you for a second before responding.

“I don’t know.”

“And is anything malfunctioning? At all?”

He shakes his head.

“I’ve run all diagnostics twice - nothing. If there’s a problem somewhere, it’s undetectable.”

You grimace. Hansol lets out a sigh. You both know you only have one option here.

“Well, guess we better start combing the place. Find the problem ourselves.”

He nods resolutely. You head to the supply room together, gearing up in silence. You grab as many tools as you can carry - anything you might need to repair… whatever the issue is.

“Alright, I’ll start at the fore, you start at the aft. Take your comms - radio me if you find anything, no matter how trivial.”

You prepare to head out, but the silence filling the room stops you. You turn around to see Hansol, geared up head to toe with supplies, holding two pulse rifles. He extends one to you.

“Why-”

“Just in case.”

“We’re the only ones here, and everyone else is still in stasis. Who would I possibly need to shoot?”

“Nobody. But you never know what you might come across.”

“Hansol if there was anyone, or… anything else on this ship we would know about it,” you reply, but not confidently. You know he’s right. Weird shit happens in deep space sometimes - better safe than sorry. You take the rifle.

“Be careful, y/n.”

Normally if a subordinate addressed you informally, you would scold them. You have a good camaraderie with your crew, but you still demand respect. But you and Hansol have known each other for years - although you were never super close, you were still in the same class at the Academy. You did all your basic trainings together - and that kind of shit builds an unspoken bond. You wouldn’t necessarily consider him a friend, but truthfully you do see him as your equal. Being on a first name basis with him just comes naturally.

You give him a firm nod. “You too.”

He clips his rifle to his utility belt. “Meet you in the middle. Unless I find something first.” He shoots you a playfully-smug grin. “Which I will.”

You roll your eyes, but you grin back at him. “Hey, take your fucking time, it’s not a competition.”

“I know,” he says as he exits the room. His voice echoes from the hallway. “But I’m still gonna win.”

[two hours later]

You wipe the sweat from your brow as you shut the large panel door. You’ve checked what feels like a million controls and systems at this point, but - frustratingly - everything appears to be in order. Still no insight into what’s going on.

With an exhausted groan you sit on the ground, leaning your head back against the wall. You grab your canteen and chug some water. This type of work isn’t hard, but it’s fucking tiring. Not to mention boring as hell. At least you have an old mp3 player to keep you company, but you’re still too alone with your thoughts for your liking. As level-headed as you normally are, your mind can’t help but wander, imagining every terrible thing that could possibly happen. You try to push those thoughts aside, knowing you’re probably overthinking it. But the worries still linger.

You close your eyes, zoning out to the sound of David Bowie’s voice in your ears:

I, I can remember (I remember) Standing, by the wall (by the wall) And the guns, shot above our heads (over our heads) And we kissed, as though nothing could fall (nothing could fall) And the shame, was on the other side Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever Then we could be Heroes, just for one day

“Captain! Come in Captain!”

You jolt upright. You curse yourself, realizing you must have drifted off to sleep for a bit. It takes you a moment to process where the voice is coming from - but then you notice the red light of your comms lighting up on your wrist.

“Hansol, come in.” you reply, bringing your arm up to your face.

“Geez, I was starting to think something happened to you.”

“Sorry, was just taking a rest. What’s up?”

“I found… something.”

“What do you mean ‘something’?"

“It’s easier if you see for yourself. Meet me in Cargo Bay 7.”

“Roger, on my way.”

The large pneumatic doors to the cargo bay open with a deep whoooosh. The coldness of the hangar stings your face as you step into the freezing room. Hansol’s head pokes up from behind several rows of large crates, his breath visible in the frigid air. He waves you over to him.

“What is it?” you inquire as you approach him, but as you step around to where Hansol is facing, you see it. Along the side of the crate, where the door is meant to be sealed shut, is a large hole ripped through the multilayered titanium walls. The shredded-up metal protrudes outwards in a peculiar manner, almost as if…

You lean in to get a closer look at the busted door. Hansol’s arm instinctively shoots out in front of yours to stop you from getting too close.

“Be careful - we don't know what's in there.”

You give him a firm nod. You retrieve a crowbar from your toolkit, sticking it into the small opening. Hansol lifts his pulse rifle into position, pointing it at the crate. Slowly you heave the large door open.

The beam of your flashlight illuminates the crate’s interior. In the center of the crate sits a biocapsule - not unlike the ones you use to enter stasis during long journeys, though notably larger. The capsule’s exterior is fitted with several, heavy-duty locking devices that appear to have been inadequate, given that the glass lid is almost entirely missing, accounting for the thick shards of broken glass strewn all over the floor. Dozens of tubes and wires connect the capsule to various bizarre pieces of machinery, presumably keeping its former occupant in stasis or something of the like. But now, it is vacant. Whoever - or, whatever - was in there, is gone.

“Okay, this is fucking weird,” you say, turning to Hansol. “Live cargo isn’t even permitted on this ship. What do the logs have listed for this shipment’s contents?”

Hansol lifts his arm and activates what looks like a sleek wristwatch. The watch projects its hologrammatic display into the air in front of his face, featuring a small keyboard. He types in the crate’s serial number into the interface.

“Um,” he starts, his face remaining placid, but you can see the confusion in his eyes. “There’s no record of this container in the system.”

“Like… at all?”

He types in the number again, checking if he made a mistake. But the projected screen once again only says 0 results found.

“Nothin’.”

You furrow your brow. That should be impossible - crates go through two checkpoints to ensure they are registered correctly before they are even allowed on the ship.

“Search the lot number.”

He types AT-07 into the device. It brings up the general cargo bay information - shipments are sorted into different bays depending on the type of contents they carry.

“‘General Plumbing Equipment’,” he reads from the screen.

You let out a short laugh.

“Plumbing equipment my ass.”

“Yup,” Hansol agrees. “This has gotta be contraband.”

Despite all the weird shit that’s been going on, the man has remained cool as a cucumber the whole time. You’re reminded why you’ve hand-selected him to be your Pilot for the last six missions.

“So, we have no idea what this is or where it even came from.”

Hansol nods. “Affirmative.”

You take a closer look at the hole. Crude, jagged edges line the gashes where the wall was torn asunder. Worse, however - deep scratches lay engraved around the hole’s perimeter, distinctly made in sets of three; they look eerily like claw marks. It looks exactly like what you’d expect a titanium crate to look like if something large broke out of it. But, the impenetrable thickness of the walls renders the crate nearly indestructible. Whatever being was held here - it is capable of gargantuan strength.

“What could have possibly done this?” you ask - not necessarily to Hansol, for you know he doesn't know either. You really would rather not find out, but that doesn't seem like an option at this point.

Hansol stares into the bizarre crate, mind racing with theories and questions.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”

You turn to face your Pilot. His demeanor is unchanged, but he looks undeniably concerned. As are you.

“Well. What now?”

Hansol gives a slight shrug.

“It's your call, boss.”

“Right,” you sigh. Being in charge of decision-making is something you've gotten very good at over the years, but it certainly is a burden sometimes.

A sudden few beeps resonate from Hansol’s wristband. He lifts his arm to read the notification.

“The rest of the crew is waking up now,” he informs you.

“Shit. We better go brief them on the situation.”

Hansol nods in agreement. He puts his flashlight back on his tool belt and pulls his pulse rifle up again - safety still on, but ready to fire if needed. You do the same, silently praying to any god who might be listening that you won't need to use it.

But you're not too optimistic about that.

TAGLIST: @miniseokminnies @kyeomiis @tinycatharsis @hannieween @smiileflower @exomew

#ren's fics #vernon #svt x reader #svt fics #vernon x reader #svt vernon #chwe hansol #vernon imagines #vernon scenarios #vernon fics #svt imagines #svt scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen fics #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #scifi au #alien au

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eyneyke · 9 months ago

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A brother?!

Pairing: Max Verstappen x PewDiePie!sibling Summary: What if Felix had a genius brother who works as a RedBull's engineer and is also secretly dating Max part 1 of A Calm to my Storm Masterlist

Felix's computer breaks during a live stream and he calls for help

The livestream was going well—at least, it had started out that way. Felix, aka PewDiePie, was doing a joint stream with Jacksepticeye, playing some ridiculous co-op game. But his computer, stubborn as ever, kept crashing mid-game. After several frustrated sighs, Felix turned to his chat, explaining that he was going to call someone to fix it.

"Ugh, sorry guys, I have no idea what’s going on," Felix muttered, scratching the back of his head. "I think my PC’s dying. Lemme call my brother, see if he can come over and help. He’s good with this stuff."

Jack, ever the jokester, feigning surprise knowing that nobody knew Felix had a brother, chimed in. “Wait, did you just say brother? You have a brother? I thought you had a sister!”

“Yeah, I do, Fenny - who everyone knows already,” Felix said casually, as if it wasn’t news to millions of fans. “and Sam. He’s a mechanical engineer, does some motorsport thingy. Pretty boring.”

The chat exploded instantly with questions and shocked reactions.

User1: "PEWDS HAS A BROTHER???"

User2: "WHO’S SAM??"

User3: "HOW DID WE NOT KNOW THIS???"

Felix hasn't even noticed the fan reaction, already dialling Sam’s number while Jack sat back in smug silence, watching the chat freak out. The call was short and sweet. "Hey, Sam? Yeah, my computer’s being stupid again. Can you come over real quick? Yeah, thanks."

Minutes passed, and Felix distractedly scrolled through his phone while Jack entertained the audience. Then, the doorbell rang.

"Hang on, that’s him," Felix said, disappearing from the screen for a second. When he returned, a tall figure followed him into the room.

The chat went absolutely wild.

Sam had black hair styled into an overgrown mullet that fell messily around his face, held back by a bandana. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt that showed off his toned, slightly muscular arms, which flexed every time he adjusted his grip on Felix’s computer. He didn’t say much, just nodded at Felix and got to work, crouching down in front of the PC, picking it up and on the table, pulling it apart like he had done it a hundred times before.

User4: "OMG WHO IS THIS????"

User5: "IS SAM SINGLE?????"

User6: "HELLO, SAM, NICE ARMS!"

User7: "THAT MULLET THO 😍😍"

Felix and Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at the exploding chat, but Felix remained focused on Sam.

"Need anything else?" Sam asked in a deep voice, standing up after fiddling with the computer for a few minutes. His arms were glistening slightly from the exertion as he dusted his hands off.

"No, that should do it. Thanks, man," Felix replied, glancing at his now-revived PC.

Sam turned to the screen, saw Jack and gave a polite nod. "Hi, Jack," he said casually, waving.

Jack waved back, a bit wide-eyed. "Hey, Sam. Thanks for saving the day, man."

With that, Sam left, exiting as mysteriously as he arrived. Felix settled back into his chair, fixing his headset. "Alright, let's see if this thing actually works now."

But before he could continue the stream, the chat was still going insane, demanding answers.

Felix sighed, glancing at Jack, who was grinning ear to ear. "Fine, fine," Felix said, leaning forward to read the chat. "Yes, that was my brother, Sam. No, I guess I never really mentioned him because, well, he’s busy. He’s, like, a mechanical engineer for some motorsports thingy as I already said. Pretty boring, if you ask me. And he's never home, basically."

Jack laughed. "Boring? Your chat seems to think otherwise."

User8: "HE'S HOT, FELIX."

User9: "DOES HE HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"

User10: @User9 "BOYFRIEND???"

Felix raised an eyebrow, glancing at the chat. "Uh... I don’t know? I think he mentioned a girlfriend—or maybe a boyfriend? I’m not really sure. I haven’t met them yet."

Jack cackled, "The internet’s going to explode now."

Shrugging, Felix continued, "Anyway, back to the game. Can we focus on something other than Sam now?"

#fanfic #writing #max verstappen #pewdiepie #max verstappen x male reader #max verstappen x reader #jacksepticeye #pewdiepie x brother!reader #pewdiepie x sibling!reader #f1 fanfic #Formula 1

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idkwhatimdoinghere1655 · 2 years ago

Note

Are your requests open? I would love to request a dad!carlos fic if you feel like it ❤️ also side note, I’m not a huge Max fan but your baby fever fic literally had me kicking my feet and giggling so well done

Picture of Perfection - Carlos Sainz

If you were being honest with yourself, you shouldn't have been in work today. You had never felt worse, and it was really putting a damper on your performance. You had been Fred Vasseur's assistant since he had replaced Binotto at Ferrari, and your job was pretty easy.

You sorted his schedule and his emails into different sections. But today, you couldn't even muster the energy to respond to the numerous unimportant emails that Fred received on a daily basis. Your head was throbbing, you felt sick to your stomach, and you wished you could shrivel up into a ball and die.

As the phone rung, the shrill ringtone felt like a nail being tapped into your skull with every note, and you were sure your head was going to explode. Picking up the call wasn't at the top of your to do list, but if it stopped the ringing, then it was worth it.

"You're speaking to Y/N, how can I help?" you said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. As long as people didn't look at you, there was no way to tell that you felt like you were dying. "I think you're the one that needs help," a voice chuckled, and relief flooded you when you heard it.

"Did you call to talk to Fred, or to make fun of me, Carlos?" You asked your oh so sympathetic fiance. "We have our fun, but I was calling to check up on you. How are you feeling, querida?" he asked, his tone changing to a slightly more soft one.

"I'm fine, just a little rough. I'll bring your lunch down in a few," you said, checking the time on your computer. "You really don't sound fine," he pressed, but he had bigger things to focus on today. Him and Charles were testing out some upgrades on the car.

"I will be after lunch, I'm sure. Can you ask Charles if he wants anything as well?" You said, walking to the canteen. Carlos knew you wouldn't be fine, but he would wait to see you to make his final decisions about what he would do with you.

You heard some muffled voices through the phone, before Carlos said, "Yeah, get him the same as me, I'll see you in a minute," he said, putting the phone down. You trudged down to the canteen and picked up the food for the pair of them.

As you walked, people cast dubious glances in your direction. You knew you felt awful, but it was apparent that you weren't looking great either. You kept your head held as high as you could as you wandered down to the garage, and found Carlos and Charles sat by their cars as the mechanics adjusted some things.

"Lunch is served," you smiled, painting on your best poker face. But, there were cracks running through from the start, and Carlos saw straight through it. They both thanked you as you handed them their lunch, and you stepped to stand back beside Carlos.

"Come on, tell me what's wrong," Carlos said, barely loud enough to be heard over the noise of the cars and machines that the engineers and mechanics were running. "I promise, I'm OK," you reassured him. He knew that was a lie, and so did everyone around you.

Your skin was paler and your eyes looked sunken. You were also looking more dishevelled than normal, since you were usually quite bright and bouncy. "If you don't tell me what's wrong, then I can't help you," he said, looking up at you with those big brown eyes.

His fingers slowly trailed up and down your spine as you stood next to him, and you felt a wave of nausea rush over you. The smell of the oil, the fuel and burning rubber caused your stomach to twist in knots, and you firmly gripped your hand onto Carlos' shoulder to steady yourself. You were slightly dizzy and unsteady on your feet.

"Hey, hey, sit down for a second," he told you, standing up and gently pushing you towards the seat he had just vacated. Sitting down was arguably the last thing you needed right now. Your eyes darted around the garage, hunting something down that would be the best option to spill your guts into.

Nothing checked out.

Your last option was to sprint to the bathrooms at the back of the garage, and you came up with all of this in around a second. Your mind had never worked so fast. Within a blink of an eye, you had run all the way across the garage, hand firmly pressed against your mouth.

"Shit," you heard Carlos say behind you as his footsteps followed you closely. You barged through the ladies room and into the first open stall. Everything that you had eaten throughout the day exited your body in a violent wretch, and your throat was left burning and raw.

"You're OK, just let it out," Carlos said, rubbing your back and pulling your hair out of the way. You looked up at him, concern written all over his face. "You guys OK?" you heard Charles shout, confused at how fast everything had gone south.

"Could you pass me a water, please?" Carlos called back, going to the door to catch it. Throwing it might not have been the best idea, but it certainly was the quickest. He cracked it open, before handing it to you.

"Thanks," you said, your voice scratchy and hoarse as you spoke. The taste of it still lingered on your tongue and it was far from pleasant. "I'll go get your stuff, then I'll drive you home," he said, handing you some paper towels from the dispenser.

"I'll be fine, it'll pass," you said, taking a sip from the water.

"No, you need to go home," he said, taking a step towards you. You were never sick, so this was unusual. He would be more worried about you if you were at work, because you'd be more comfortable at home.

You took another sip of your water. "Honestly, Carlos, I'll be fine in-," you started, before hunching back over the toilet. It was just straight water, and your body was rejecting everything you put in it. "You were saying?" he teased, leaning against the sinks.

You just looked at him, discomfort etched onto your features. "Come on, you're going home," he said, gently taking your elbow. "I can drive myself, you've got important stuff to do," you said, not wanting to interrupt his day.

"I'm on break for an hour, that's enough time to get you home," he said, his heart aching to see you like you were. "OK, I'll go and tell Fred I'm going,"

"I'll take care of all that, you just go to the car and I'll get your stuff," he told you, leading you out of the bathroom and back through the garage. "You alright?" Charles asked, realising how much worse you looked in the pan of five minutes.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," you weakly smiled at him.

"I'll be back in a bit," Carlos told him as he helped you walk out to the car. You sat in the passenger seat, actually quite glad to be going home. Carlos went to get your things, and came back to the car. "When we get home, you're going straight to bed," Carlos said.

"Sure, dad," you laughed, the motion of you giggling making your stomach churn. You closed your eyes for a minute, waiting for it to pass. "Just breathe, baby," he told you as if you hadn't already tried that.

"Easier said than done," you said, gripping your thighs to try and take the edge off, to focus your mind on something else. Without another word, Carlos took one of your hands and threaded his fingers through yours as he drove home. His thumb subconsciously ran up and down, just out of habit.

You pulled up outside your house, slowly stepping out of the car. You took another moment to steady yourself, the dizziness returning. "Take it steady, take it steady," Carlos softly instructed, looping an arm around your waist as he walked you inside.

"Couch or bed?" Carlos asked as you stood in the entrance hall.

"Couch, it's close to the kitchen and the bathroom," you said as he sat you on the couch.

"You want to get changed?" He asked. He had this compulsion inside of him to take care of you. Seeing you uncomfortable made him uncomfortable. It was like this itch inside his brain that couldn't be scratched unless you were happy.

"The less moving involved, the better," you said, flopping down on the couch and not wanting to move from your position. "I'll see what I can do," he nodded, ascending up the stairs and rooting through the drawers to find what he was looking for.

Yes, it was his hoodie, but you wore it more than him. He would wear it once, then it was yours for the taking. "Here, do you want a drink?" He said, passing you the hoodie. You slipped it over your head, not bothered to take off your clothes from work.

"No thanks, it would come back to bite me anyway," you told him, bringing your knees up to your chest as you settled against the armrest of the couch. "You need to stay hydrated, you'll feel worse if you don't," he said, disappearing into the kitchen and returning with a glass of water.

"I'll try," you said. Carlos picked a blanket up from the back of the couch and draped it over you, making sure you were cosy. "You need anything else before I go?" He asked, not wanting to leave you by yourself. This was one of those days where you would benefit from his presence, from him holding you.

"I don't think so, I'll see you later," you tried to smile, not wanting him to be late for the end of lunch break. Charles would be waiting for him and so would everyone else. "OK, call me if you need me, alright?" He said, approaching you and kissing you on the forehead.

"I will," you said, picking up the TV remote and pressing the 'on' button. You shifted around for a second, before finding your comfy position. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he called, closing the door and heading back to the factory.

After around an hour, you tried sipping at the water, but it just came back up after a few minutes. As the movie you were watching came to a close, you were left in silence after the entire credits had rolled.

You were left thinking. You hadn't been feeling too great for the last few days, but this was the worst of it. It didn't take much thinking for you to come to a conclusion. There were a few factors that added to it too.

Surely not though, right? And this wasn't the time for that. You and Carlos hadn't been engaged for that long, and you weren't thinking about that now. Maybe in a few years, yes, but definitely not now.

You sat there, fighting with yourself in your mind, feeling sicker with worry than you did with nausea. You told yourself you were being silly, and that you were just jumping to the most drastic conclusion possible.

Everything was going to be fine.

Carlos, on the other hand, was worried sick about you for a whole other reason. He thought you were sick, like, sick sick. Not the kind of sick you thought you were. He thought you had a stomach bug, but not a literal one.

Him and Charles had another quick, fifteen minute break to sit and have a drink while the mechanics tinkered on some things. "Is Y/N alright?" Charles asked, glugging some more water down. "Yeah, she'll be fine. It's probably just a bug or something,"

"You sure?" Charles questioned, cocking an eyebrow at his friend. "She's been off for what, nearly two weeks?" he said, referring to your numerous complaints about different ailments you had.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Carlos dismissed. You'd be right as rain again in a couple of days, that's what he kept telling himself. "You two have plenty of fun, just think about it," Charles smirked.

"No, no, mhm," Carlos shook his head in embarrassment, "I know what you're implying, but no," he rushed. "That you get up to a lot or what could be up with Y/N?"

"Both," Carlos said, standing and leaving Charles by himself. He couldn't think about either of those things right now.

"Carlos, is that you?" You called out, trying to act like everything was fine and you were feeling better. Well, you were feeling better, but you were just anxious. "Yeah, it's me," he said, walking into the living room and sitting on the couch next to you. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel alright, but the water came straight back up when I tried drinking it," you explained, not able to meet his eyes. He could tell there was something wrong by your body language. You were stiff and your hands were fidgeting.

"Come on, what's wrong?" he pressed, and you could feel his eyes burning holes into the side of your face. "Nothing, I feel fine," you told him, shrugging your shoulders.

"Then what's really wrong?" he asked, grabbing your chin and turning your head so that you were looking at him. You didn't want to tell him. You didn't want him to be mad. This wasn't part of the plan.

You whispered what you wanted to say, but so quietly it was unintelligible. You weren't even sure you had fully formed legible words. "Louder, querida,".

"I think I'm pregnant," you said, staring into his eyes, searching. Searching for any sense of anger, annoyance, hatred towards you. But you saw nothing but the soft brown eyes you had become so accustomed to.

"Have you done a test or anything?" he asked, not really knowing what to say to you.

"No, not yet," you muttered, averting your eyes down to your hands instead of at Carlos.

"Then I'll go to the store, pick one up, and we can see, OK?" he asked.

"Yeah, OK, sounds good," you nodded, and he was gone nearly as quickly as he came. You didn't have a clue how he felt, he was completely neutral. He didn't show any emotion.

Before you knew it, you had left the test on the bathroom counter and sat with your back against it while you waited for the time to be over. Carlos wordlessly came and sat next you, resting his hands on his knees.

"What're we going to do if I am?" you broke the silence, the question being on the tip of your tongue since he had gotten back home. "I'll support whatever decision you make, no matter what," he said, his tone dripping with sincerity.

"If I am, I want to keep it," you mumbled, waiting for him to yell at you or walk out.

"Then I'll be here every step of the way," he said, "I- I want a baby with you, Y/N, I really do," he told you, placing a calming hand on your thigh. "I feel like there's a 'but' at the end of that sentence," you nervously said.

"No, baby, no, there's no but. I mean it," he said, and a part of you felt comforted at his words. The minutes went by and they felt like hours. Long, agonizing hours. "How long has it been?" he asked.

"Two minutes, I think?"

"OK, we'll give it a bit longer so the results are clear and everything," he nodded. He didn't want to tell you how much he actually wanted you to be pregnant, just in case you weren't. He didn't want you to feel like you had let him down or anything.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, turning to look at you. You were still pale, and you were still mindlessly fiddling with your fingers. "I'm scared, nervous, but excited at the same time. I'll be kind of disappointed if I'm not, but also terrified if I am,"

"Well whatever the outcome is, I'll be here. If you are, then that's great. But if you aren't, we can think about it fully and maybe start properly trying if that's what you want," he explained, and it sounded like music to your ears. "What would we do about the wedding?"

"I'd still have our wedding if you were pregnant, but if you don't want to, then we can wait. I honestly don't mind," he smiled, his fingers tracing random circles on the skin of your thigh. You were counting your lucky stars that you had ended up with a guy like Carlos.

"You think we should check?" you nervously laughed, genuinely not knowing what you wanted the outcome to be. "Do you want to do it or do you want me to do it?" he asked, wanting to make this as easy as possible for you.

"Could you go and stand outside while I do it?" you asked, and he happily nodded and stood outside the bathroom as you closed the door. You blocked out the world around you. In this moment, it was just you and your thoughts.

You took a deep breath, trying to slow your heart rate down a bit. You thought prolonging it would only make it worse, so you turned over the test on the counter and had to clap your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from screaming.

You stared at it, as if looking at it longer would change it. As if it would make that second pink line disappear. You tried to compose yourself before going to tell Carlos. You were trying to hide the joy, just incase what he said earlier was just him being supportive.

"Y/N? Baby? Are you alright?" he said, knocking on the door gently. You didn't answer, unsure of what would come out if you opened your mouth. "Querida? Por favor, diga algo," (please, say something). You could hear the concern and worry in his voice, but your mouth wouldn't say the words you wanted it to say.

"Can I come in?" he asked, getting really concerned at your lack of a response. He wouldn't have been surprised if he walked in and you had passed out due to your silence. Just as he turned the door handle, you opened the door.

You looked at him, wide-eyed, as you handed him the thing that would change your lives forever. You searched his face, trying to find any hints of emotion. You could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but you were certain your eyes were playing tricks on you.

You couldn't handle it anymore, so you threw your arms around his neck. "Are you happy?" he asked, not wanting to give his full reaction until he knew how you felt. "I'm ecstatic, you?"

"I'm over the moon, baby," he smiled, squeezing you back. He let you go, and you couldn't help but allow a few happy tears to slip down your cheeks."I think we're going to have to postpone the wedding," you told him, and he smiled and nodded.

"You're having my baby, your wish is my command," he said, vowing to be there through every little thing, and he was your slave for the next nine-or-so months. That was the least you deserved.

"This is amazing," you smiled, not really finding the words to express the joy you felt. It had all been so quick, but it had led to this, so you weren't going to complain. "Looks like you're stuck with me forever, now," you joked.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he smiled, trailing his fingers up and down your hips. You were all he ever wanted, and now you were having his child. His child. It didn't sound real, but in the best way possible.

You had gotten home early, and you couldn't stop looking and touching at the small bump you had growing. You were around 4 months pregnant at this point, and you couldn't have been more excited for your impending arrival.

You had just received a text from Carlos, asking if you wanted anything from the store while he was on his way home. He did this every day, no matter the time, no matter how tired he was, no matter what.

You and your baby came before everything and anything, with no exceptions. He treat you like a princess, and sometimes he stepped around you like you were a paper-thin sheet of glass. He didn't let you do much by yourself anymore.

You didn't mind, but you had asked him to stop treating you as if you were incompetent. You replied to his text with a food combination you had been desperate to try all day. Your brain was just telling you it would be good, so you thought you would feed it what it wanted.

Carlos responded with a 'That's gross, but sure', and you couldn't help but laugh. He was back after fifteen minutes, your items in hand. "If you get ill, don't blame me, OK?" he laughed, handing you the jar of pickles as well as the peanut butter.

"I honestly hate how good this looks to me right now," you laughed as he took a seat next to you. "Y'know, the lady at the counter said, 'It's either you know someone who's pregnant, or you've got weird tastes," he told you as you cracked open the peanut butter with a pop.

"What did you say?" asked, trying to open the jar of pickles, but struggling immensely.

"I told her my fiance was pregnant, and she was relieved," he laughed, finding it very amusing to watch you struggle. "Hand it here," he said, and you passed him the jar with a huff. Effortlessly, Carlos opened the jar of pickles, and you hated the way you felt about it.

It just made you tingle all over, and you blamed the hormones for making you go crazy. It was just something about the way his arms flexed to make his muscles pop and how his knuckles went white because of how hard he was gripping the lid.

"You like what you see?" he smirked, handing you the jar again.

"Maybe I do," you replied with a grin, batting your eyelashes at him. He looked at you with the eyes, and they never failed to reduce you to mush and answer his every last little request. But you had him under your spell.

"Later, querida," he winked at you, pushing himself off the couch. "I'm going to have a shower, you think you can cope with the thought of me till them?" he teased.

"Oh I'll be fine, don't you worry," you giggled.

"But first, I want to see the disgust on your face when you realise how disgusting that combination is," he laughed, leaning over the back of the couch to look at you. You dipped the pickle into the peanut butter and took a bite out of it.

"OK that is actually really nice," you smiled, going back in for another taste. Carlos' nose scrunched up in disgust. "That is nasty, ew, no," be laughed, backing away and up the stairs. "You should try it!" you collared, and you were met with a hearty laugh.

When Carlos came back downstairs from the shower, his hair was wet and he look a lot comfier. A lot hotter too. "How were the pickles?" He asked, looking at the pickle jar that only had a quarter of the pickles left in it. And the half-empty jar of peanut butter.

"Great, you want one?" you offered, brandishing the jar in front of him. Carlos didn't like pickles on the best of days, but definitely not now. "Not a chance, that shit is nasty," he laughed, pushing the jar back towards you.

"I'll tell you what else could be nasty," you smirked, looking at him with a devilish smile on your face. "Oh, so you're being like that, baby?"

"Maybe I am," you said, leaning back and watching as that mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes. "I'll see what I can do for you, then," he grinned, walking towards you. You knew just what to say to make him tick, and you had done it again.

As much as your bump slowed you down, it didn't make you work any less hard. Fred had asked you to carry a box of some sort of documents down to the guys at the garage, and you were glad to be able to stretch your legs.

You got to the door to get out of the office, but you couldn't open it with the box in your hands. As any normal person would, you put the box on the floor to open the door, and then bent over to pick it back up.

"Hey, hey, hey, you OK?" Carlos appeared out of nowhere, pulling you back so you were stood upright. "Yeah, I'm just taking this box down to the garage," you nodded, appreciating the concern. He thought you were doubled over and in pain, but he was glad to be wrong.

"You go sit down, I've got it," he said, picking the box up.

"Carlos, I need to do something with myself, a bit of exercise is good for me," you told him, trying to pull the box off him. "No heavy lifting, that's what the doctors said, you can walk with me," he said, setting off through the door.

"You think that that box his heavy? You need to work out more, Carlos," you mocked, walking beside him. "No, but you know that's not what I mean. Minimal strain,"

"I think you pay more attention than I do," you laughed, skipping down the stairs.

"Someone has to take care of you," he playfully rolled his eyes at you, watching your every move as you hopped down the stairs. "Where do you want this?" He asked as you reached the garage.

"Just put it down there, they'll know it's there," you said, pointing to the corner Fred told you to put the box in. He had told the mechanics that it was there, and someone would come and find it later.

"What are you even doing here today?" you asked, the question suddenly dawning on you. You knew there was no testing on the car, and Fred didn't have any meetings with him or Charles today. "Just some stuff with the media people and stuff," he lied.

Well, half-lied. They did have a meeting with the media people, but that had finished an hour ago. He didn't need to be at the factory anymore, but he was compelled to keep an eye on you. It wasn't that he thought you were incapable of taking care of yourself, he just needed to be there in case anything went wrong.

If you needed him, he would be there. If something happened and he wasn't, he would never be able to forgive himself. "OK, well I'll see you in a bit," you said, seeing that something was up but not thinking too much about it.

You walked away and off to your desk to do another hour-or-so's work before you broke off for lunch. You checked Fred's calendar again, answered a lot of emails, but you felt a pair of eyes lingering on you.

You looked up from your screen, but you didn't see anyone there. But, as soon as you focused back on your work, you felt the eyes glued to you again. This time when you looked up, you saw a motion in the doorway in front of you.

Sighing to yourself, you figured you would leave Car- I mean the mystery individual to play their little games. You let him watch for a bit, let him think he had won. Then, you looked up again, catching him dashing behind the doorway.

"Carlos, what are you doing?" you called out, staring at the doorway. There was zero movement, and he clearly thought he was being slick. "Carlos, come on darling, what are you doing?" you called out again, and he slowly wandered out.

"I was just inspecting the doorframe, making sure it wasn't going to collapse or something," he rambled, leaning on your desk with his hands on the edge of the wood. "Sure you were, don't you have media stuff to be doing?" you skeptically asked.

"Yeah, actually, I have to go and do that, right now," he said, turning around and walking away as quickly as he could. It was very odd, but you just thought it was Carlos being Carlos.

Finally, lunch rolled around and you took yourself to the kitchen, where your lunch sat waiting for you in the fridge. The kitchen was empty, since you tended to take lunch later than everyone else, and it was nice to have some silence during the day.

Next to you, you heard something falling off the table, and turned to see a potted plant on the floor, with soil everywhere. Then you saw the perpetrator. "What's your excuse for sitting under a table while I'm eating my lunch, Carlos?"

"I was uh-," he stuttered, and you could see the cogs turning in his brain, trying to churn out an excuse. "Go on, lie to me," you said, staring daggers into his soul.

"Fine, I was just making sure you were OK, that's all," he breathed, sitting down opposite you.

"I can take care of myself, Carlos. You don't need to watch over me 'secretly' like you have been all day," you told him, watching as his cheeks tinted pink and he couldn't meet your gaze. "Querida, I know that, I just want to be here if you need me,"

"If I need you, I will call you. Go home, relax, have some peace and quiet. We will be completely fine," you reassured him, and you could tell he still wasn't fully convinced. You also didn't think it would take that much, but there you were.

"Look, I really appreciate you wanting to be here for me, I really do. But you don't have to watch my every move. If I need you, I will tell you," you further pressed, taking his hand from across the table.

"Do I have to go home though? I can just sit with you at your desk, bring you snacks, talk if you get bored. You won't even know I'm there, baby, I promise," he pleaded, looking at you through those big brown eyes.

"Go home, and take some time for yourself. It's not a request, it's an order," you said sternly. Carlos looked dejected, and he had resigned himself to the fact that there was nothing he could do. "Yes ma'am," he sighed, unhooking his jacket off the rack with a sulk.

"Please?" he begged one more time, standing by the door.

"Go home." You told him one more time. He pouted, and you glared at him. He knew not to argue with you when you were being really stern with him, and he knew he had to go. Carlos didn't know what he'd do without you at home.

He literally lived to serve you, and make sure you and your child were OK. That was his life, besides racing. He hadn't been by himself in a while, and he felt kind of lost without you. But he did as he was told, and went home, by himself.

The second he got home, he couldn't resist the urge to pick up his phone and text you. 'Hey baby, how are you doing?' and you just sighed, looking at your phone. There was no way you were responding to him.

'Hey, is everything OK?' he texted back around fifteen minutes later, the show he was watching wasn't occupying his mind like he wanted it to. No matter what, every thought in his mind was replaced by panicked thoughts of you, in pain or something.

He couldn't go by a second without worrying for you if you weren't around him. You ignored this message too, thinking it would teach him a lesson. 'Querida, if you don't tell me you're OK, I will come straight back to work,' he messaged, his leg nervously bouncing up and down.

He was staring daggers into the car keys on the coffee table, almost willing them into his hand by telepathy. When you read that text, you knew he was deadly serious, so you had to text him back. 'Carlos. You come back to work and we are going to have some serious issues. I'm fine,'

Carlos almost didn't want you to respond, just so he'd have the excuse to drive back to work. But he needed to know you were alright, he just wouldn't be able to make sure of that himself. He had a secret weapon lurking up his sleeve.

He might have been sent home, but he knew someone who hadn't been. Charles was at the factory, and he was actually supposed to be there, because he actually had meetings. He would check on you between meetings, and report back to Carlos.

You were sat on your desk, when Charles walked past and smiled. Obviously, you smiled back and didn't think twice about it. Ten minutes later, he came back and stood right in front of your desk, seeming to be doing something on his phone.

You caught his eyes as they flicked up from the screen and onto you, before he walked away. "Hey, do you know if Fred had any messages for me?" Charles asked, coming over to your desk. "No, nothing," you shook your head.

"Can you check?" Charles asked, as if he were expecting something, but you knew there was nothing. "There's nothing," you told him again.

"Fine, fine," he said, knowing there was nothing he could do, "How are you feeling?" he asked, leaning over the desk. "You can tell Carlos I'm fine and that nothing is wrong," you said, instantly sussing out what he was doing.

"I'm just asking how you are," he sheepishly explained, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You're a bad liar, I'm fine," you said, resting your head on your hands.

"But he-"

"Charles. Tell him I am fine," you instructed, glaring at him. He put his hands up defensively, backing up from the desk. "OK, OK, I get it," he said backing away and out into the hallway. He texted Carlos to tell him that you had foiled their plans.

You rolled your eyes as he walked away, but a small grin spread on your lips at the thought of him, texting Charles and asking him to watch over you.

"Shit," you whispered to yourself, turning over for the literal thousandth time. No position was comfortable, your overly swollen stomach got in the way at every turn. You just decided to lie there in the dark, your eyes wide open as you stared into the blackness.

There were rims of moonlight coming through the sides of the curtains, but that was it. Carlos was so tired after a day at the factory, and he had been out for hours at this point. In the end, you thought you'd lie there until you became so tired you would pass out.

No matter what, everything was aching. Your back was constantly sending uncomfortable shoots up your spine, and it made everything a challenge. Including falling asleep. This combined with the pounding in your head didn't help. Turning your head to the side, you saw that it was nearing on three am.

You turned your attention back on the ceiling as you thought about what you were going to do tomorrow. Well, later that same day. You had been on maternity leave for around two weeks, and you had already done everything you wanted to do around the house.

Time ticked agonizingly by, the silence and darkness driving you crazier by the second. And more frustrated at the lack of sleep you were getting. Just as you were going to go downstairs and do something to try and make yourself tired, the bed shifted next to you and the bathroom light flicked on.

You stayed in the same position, expecting him to just walk back to bed and not notice you. The second before he turned the light off, he notices your open eyes looking back at him. "Hey, baby, did I wake you up?" he asked in a hushed whisper, getting back into bed and shuffling as close to you as possible.

"No, don't worry. I wasn't asleep," you said, sighing.

"What, so you haven't slept?" he asked, lying on his side to face you as his fingers traced shapes on your stomach. "No, I can't," you shook your head, hoping he would just brush it off and go back to sleep, but you knew he wouldn't.

"What can I do?" he asked. You may not have been able to see him very well, but you could feel his eyes burning holes in the side of your face. "I'll fall asleep soon, I'm really tired," you told him, your right hand tangling into his dark locks.

"Well then, what can I do to help you fall asleep quicker?" he lightly chuckled, prodding you gently in the ribs. "You've had a long day, darling, go to sleep," you instructed, not wanting to make him tired later.

"You've had just as long a day as I have, querida, you need to sleep too. You not sleeping isn't good for you, it isn't good for the baby, and that therefore means it's not good for me either," he chuckled. "So you're trying to guilt trip me into letting you help me?" you asked, and you could just picture the smirk you knew was on his face.

"Yes and no, and I know it's working. We're in this together, if you're awake, I'm awake. If you need something, I am here," he told you. You weren't the biggest fan of always relying on him for things, since you liked to have some form of independence, but it was times like these where you were extremely grateful to have someone so caring and doting.

"So, do you want a tea, or an extra blanket, or we can go and do something until you get tired?" he listed, masking the yawn he was letting out. "A tea sounds great," you told him, and he was gone like a flash. "Do you want anything else while I'm downstairs?"

"Could you grab two paracetamols and my book off the coffee table?" you asked, the hall light switching on outside. "Headache?"

"No points for guessing that one," you laughed, rubbing your temples as Carlos headed downstairs. A few minutes later, he was back, with a perfectly brewed tea in one hand, and your book with the paracetamols balanced on top of it in the other.

"I didn't make it too hot so you can drink it straight away," he smiled, "Watch your eyes," he said, turning the lamp on as you screwed them shut. It took a second for them to adjust, but you were fine after a few seconds.

He handed you the mug and the white tablets, downing them in a second. "Thank you," you smiled, and you could still see the tiredness in his face. "Anything for you," he hummed, setting your book in your lap and sitting next to you.

You had nearly finished your tea, and it was already making you feel sleepy as the paracetamol seemed to be working on your headache, it turning from a pounding to a soft thumping instead. As if on cue, you and Carlos yawned in unison.

"I think we should probably try sleeping now, yeah?" you asked, shimmying back down under the covers and putting your book aside. You wouldn't need it after all. "Yeah, yeah, c'mere," he smiled, switching the lamp back off and shuffling into you. He pulled you against him, his chin resting atop your head as his hand lazily trailed across your stomach.

Even now, it was a strange sensation that he relished. Knowing that your baby was just beneath his fingertips, only separated by a few centimetres, made his heart sing with glee. It made him look forward to the impending day that they would arrive even more, and he couldn't wait to hold them and give them the best life possible.

He knew the two of you would be brilliant, loving parents to your child, no matter what. He also knew there'd be hard times, but you'd get through it together. Just like you always did.

"Goodnight, darling," you sleepily whispered, tangling his legs with yours.

"Goodnight, baby," he mumbled into your hair, trying to force himself to keep his eyes open. Unless you were asleep, he wasn't allowed to. Thankfully, he waited for around ten minutes and he was confident you were fast asleep, and nothing could harm you.

Not while his two favourite people in the whole world were at home, in his arms where he could keep you safe until the end of time. That was how it would always be, for forever and longer if the world would let him.

God you were tired. Well, you had every right to be. No more than an hour ago, you and Carlos had welcomed your newest family member into the world. You nearly refused to sleep so you could watch over her, but your body wouldn't let you stay awake.

"Baby, please sleep. I'll watch her, she'll be fine," Carlos had told you, even though his body was also desperate for rest after being there through every second of the 9 hour labour process. He didn't care about himself though, he could stay up for hours to make sure you got the rest you needed.

You were exhausted, and deservedly so, and he would happily wait up for longer to give you the time. Also, he couldn't take his eyes off of your sleeping daughter. She was absolutely perfect in every way, and she was currently sleeping in the corner as he watched her.

You were sleeping lightly, your parental instincts keeping you on edge, ready to strike into action at the drop of a hat. The silence was nice, as well as the lack of pain. It was like your body was floating you felt so peaceful, yet alert. Carlos was holding your hand, his habit of running his thumb up and down not being broken just yet.

His eyes were pinned on her, monitoring her every breath, searching for any tiny abnormality. She was his responsibility, and he was not going to let a single thing happen to her. He had only held her once so far, and he was so desperate to hold her again, but he couldn't wake her.

He wasn't even able to hold you right now, so his arms felt cold and empty. Every now and then, he would check the digital clock on the bedside table on the other side of you, just to see how much time had passed by.

He lost track after a while, and your girl woke up, the small beginnings of a cry escaping her lips. "Hey, hey, cariño," he said, approaching her and picking her up. One hand was under her head, the other one under her back as he handled her like she could shatter at any given time.

He held her against his chest, lightly bouncing her from side to side. His every touch was as delicate as a feather, not wanting to harm her in any way. "You're OK, Daddy's here," he soothed, rubbing her back. She was slowly getting louder, but he didn't want to wake you up.

"Shh, don't cry, you don't want to wake Mommy, she's tired," he said as if she could understand him. It was almost as if she had, however, because her cries quietened and stopped as she fell silent against Carlos' chest.

"Thank you, cariño," he smiled, planting a kiss atop the soft skin of her head, "Now let's sit down and wait for Momma to wake up," he told her, refusing to put her back down in her cot. He wanted to keep her tucked against his chest, where she was safe.

She was so tiny against him, her back barely the size of the span of his hand. It felt so weird to have such a high amount of love for such a tiny someone, but she was just too perfect not to adore with every fibre that he had in his being.

"While we have some Daddy-daughter time, there are a couple of things I want to say to you," he started, looking over at you to see if you had woken up. Your eyes were still closed, and your position hadn't shifted, so he assumed you were still asleep.

"For starters, you have no idea how excited I am to finally be able to meet you and hold you. I guess you'll only really know if you have your own kids. But I don't want you thinking about that yet, you're not allowed a boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever whoever you like until you're at least twenty-one, and I'm serious about that,"

"Next up, you're going to have to work with me here, I am going to teach you Spanish so we can gossip and your Mom won't know what we're saying, since she failed miserably when I taught her Spanish. No sabía escuchar y siempre estaba distraída," (she was not a good listener and always got distracted)

You didn't have a clue what he had said to her, and you didn't like the sound of not being able to understand what they could be saying. But, you had to bite back a giggle at his comment about no romance until she was twenty-one.

"Finally, since I'm sure you're already getting bored of me talking at you, but get used to it, I promise I will love you no matter what, until the day I die. I will protect you and keep you safe, no matter how old and frail I might become,"

"I also hope you know just how lucky you are to have the best mother in the whole entire universe. I might not always be with you, since I'll be racing, but she will be. You will grow up with the best role-model you could ask for, and I know you'll be a fantastic person too. I love you, cariño,"

"Thanks for making me cry, Carlos, I appreciate it," you spoke up, wiping the tears from your eyes. You loved what he had said, and your hormones were still all over the place. "You weren't supposed to hear that," he chuckled, shifting in his seat to face you more.

"You can try and teach me Spanish again, I don't want to be left out," you smiled, looking at the perfect picture that was set out in front of you. "Sure, we can try that again," he nodded.

"Can I have her?" you asked, holding your arms out for him to put your precious girl into. Carlos just smirked and shook his head, "No, she's mine,"

"Please?" you pouted, leaning forward to try and take her away from him. You just wanted to hold your daughter, it really wasn't a big ask. "OK, baby, OK," he triedly smiled, placing her in your arms. "But move up, I want to sit with you," he said.

You made sure she was comfortable, and scooted to the side so he could sit on your hospital bed with the two of you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, not able to stop his fingers from brushing against her.

Carlos was finally able to close his eyes and let his guard down. He was finally able to rest for a bit. Not for too long, but for a bit. "Hey darling, before you sleep, we're sticking with the name we chose, right?" you asked.

"I think it suits her," he sleepily nodded against your shoulder. You agreed, and left him to get some well-deserved rest. He had been there through every torturous second, sat through all the abuse you had hurled at him, and stuck through his hand getting crushed or his shoulder being punched.

And he'd do it all over again. He'd do it all for his girls, he'd do anything.

"She's normally very talkative, but she's just pretending to be shy," you laughed with Toto as Harper giggled and buried her head in your neck. She was always the center of attention at every race, and she had grown to know a lot of people.

Toto received a text, and had to dash off. You thought it would be best to head back to the garage anyway, so you set off across the paddock. A couple of people were having interviews, and she waved at her favourites as you passed by.

She waved at a certain curly haired boy, and his eyes lit up at the sight of her. Sure, he was in an interview, but he just said, "Sorry, I have to go," and dashed over to the pair of you.

"Well if it isn't my favourite little lady!" Lando exclaimed, plucking her out of your arms as she willingly let him take her. "Muppet!" was all Harper she said, since it was her way of greeting him since she had heard Carlos say it a few times.

"Now what is this?" he asked, poking her in the stomach and making her giggle uncontrollably. "Your Daddy might race for Ferrari, but your favourite uncle Lando doesn't. This should be papaya, not red," he playfully scolded, tickling her even more.

Her laughter was contagious, and you could see other drivers and personnel around smiling at her. The cameras clicked as the press took some photos, and you could tell she was loving the attention.

"I also wear red, therefore she is in the perfect colour," Charles said, popping up beside you. "Carlos is just finishing up an interview, he'll be out in a few," Charles told you, as Harper held her arms out to him and did the grabby hands.

"I have been replaced, my heart is hurting," Lando said with feigned sadness as he clutched at his heart. Thankfully, Harper was used to being passed around from person to person often, so she didn't much mind.

"Think how I feel, she's always leaving me for one of you," you laughed, nudging him in the ribs. "You do make a good point, but you're not her favourite uncle," Lando said, folding his arms and he swayed from side to side.

"No, you're not, I am," Charles said, bouncing around with Harper on his hip as she continued to giggle at him. "We're not starting this now," you sighed, not wanting to hear the favourite uncle argument again.

But before they could answer, Harper was on her feet, running away from Charles. Tag was their favourite game, and he could never say no to her when she asked to play. Well, he never said no to her in regards to anything, but tag was the most important.

"Charles, be careful!" you called, not able to not worry about her running around a very crowded place. "I know!" he called back, slowly jogging to try and catch up to Harper.

"Don't worry Y/N, I'll keep an eye on them," Lando grinned, and you could see he was itching to get involved in the game. At this point, Harper was chasing Charles as fast as her little legs could carry her, but Charles was barely even walking away from her.

But, Harper saw opportunity strike when she saw Lando next to her. She hit him in the leg with a squealed, "Tag!" before turning and running away.

"Harps, you're just too fast!" Lando laughed, trying to chase her. His sights turned on Charles, however, who was cowering away from him. As Lando set off on the hunt for Charles, Harper laughed and clapped her little hands, "Run, Charlie, run!" she shouted as Lando grappled Charles and tagged him.

Harper started to run away again, when an arm slithered around your waist. "I have to be in an interview while you guys are all out here having fun, so unfair," Carlos smiled, pulling you into his side as he kissed you on the head.

He was so glad that his best friends were so good with his daughter, and she loved them just as much as they loved her. "I know, it's just so unfair," you laughed, smiling at him as he watched Harper, his eyes full of love and wonder.

The two of you chuckled as Charles caught Harper, picking her up as he tickled her. She squirmed in his arms, fits of giggles sounding out around the paddock. "Stop it!" she laughed, hitting him in the chest.

"Oh hey Carlos," Lando said, breathlessly coming and standing next to you. At the mention of her Dad's name, Harper's attention turned from Charles to Carlos. "Papa!" she exclaimed, wriggling out of Charles' arms and running over to Carlos.

She leapt into his arms as he picked her up and spun her around. "Hola, cariño, ¿qué tal?" he asked, holding her on his hip as she squished his cheeks. "Estoy bien, ¿y tú?" she smugly grinned, loving that she could show off the Spanish Carlos had been teaching her.

"Yo también," he proudly smiled, "Eres muy inteligente, ¿lo sabías?" he said, and your understanding of his words stopped right there. "Yo no comprende," she looked at him, confusion written all over her face.

"All I said was that you're my clever girl, sweetheart," he smiled kissing her on the cheek. She let out a giggle of happiness, her smile lighting up Carlos' face. You could watch them together all day, and it was your favourite form of entertainment.

He kissed her on the other cheek, and she scrunched her nose up. Carlos started kissing her all over her face, as she squealed and squirmed. "Daddy, stop it! That tickles!" she laughed, trying to push his head away from her.

"Does it? I hadn't noticed," he chuckled as he carried on. But he eventually stopped, leaving her breathless from laughing. Harper rested her head on Carlos' shoulder as you, Charles, Lando and him stood and talked.

You noticed she hadn't said anything in a while, so you stepped to stand behind Carlos. "Harper? Sweetheart? Are you tired?" You asked, her eyes looking droopy as you brushed a lock of her dark hair out of her face. It was nearly as dark as Carlos'.

"Mhm," she nodded, her face squished against Carlos' shoulder.

"OK, do you want to go for a nap?" you asked, gently massaging her scalp.

"Yeah," she yawned, all of that running around with Charles and Lando clearly making her tired. "Come on then," you said, she flopped out of Carlos' arms and into yours. She buried her head in the crook of your neck, her breath soft on your skin.

"I'm going to her to your room, I'll see you guys in a bit," you said, rubbing your hand over Harper's back soothingly. "Yeah, that's fine, is she OK?" Carlos asked, instantly thinking she had fallen ill or something, "Estoy cansada, Papa," she mumbled, lifting her head to look at her Dad.

"OK, I'll see you later," he nodded, kissing Harper on the head and tugging you close to him for a kiss. "See you later, Harps, say bye to Muppet and Charlie," you told her. She smiled at the two drivers, waving them goodbye.

"Bye," she sleepily chuckled, and Charles took her hand and kissed the back of it as he smiled at her. "Sleep well, Harper," he said, and she always giggled at the charm of Charles.

"I'll beat you in tag next time, little lady," Lando smiled, fist bumping her before you walked away. You took her all the way over to the Ferrari motorhome, and into Carlos' drivers room. It was quiet in there, and the couch was comfortable enough.

"Do you want to sleep on the couch?" you quietly asked Harper as she looked up at you with those big brown eyes that were identical to Carlos', and you could see the tiredness in them. "No, I want to sit with you," she mumbled, shifting around until she was happy in your lap.

"OK, sleep well, sweetheart," you said, planting an affectionate kiss on her head. For a while, you just sat there, Harper soundly sleeping on you. You looked at the table opposite you, and all of the pictures on there brought back the best memories in your life.

One of them was the day Harper was born, and you were sat in the hospital, sleeping with her on your chest. Another was of the three of you on a carousel when you went to a carnival the previous year. You took the picture, and Harper was smiling while sat on Carlos' knee as the horse flew up and down.

The final one was just of you, and you remembered it was from on of your first dates with Carlos. He had offered to take a picture of you with the full moon behind you, and it instantly became his favourite photo.

The door to the room opened, and you were initially alarmed. You were afraid that the person thought Carlos was in there and were going to wake up Harper by accident. "Hey, baby," he quietly said, slowly closing the door behind him.

"Hi, darling," you smiled as he came to sit beside you.

"How long has she been asleep for?" He asked, his hand moving to the back of your head and gently playing with your hair. You pushed your head into his hand, the feeling sending warm tingles through your brain.

"Half an hour, she was asleep as soon as we sat down," you told him, slotting yourself into his side like a puzzle piece. "Do you want me to take her? Your legs are probably getting numb," he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pressing a kiss into your hair.

"I'm alright, I don't want to wake her," you told him, leaning your head onto his shoulder.

"OK, but let me know if you want me to take her," he told you, resting his head atop yours. You closed your eyes for a moment, just feeling a little sleepy. But you had what you wanted, and all you needed in your life.

Carlos looked down at his girls, both sleeping and safe with him. You had given him everything he wanted in his life, and he would never be more grateful for that. The two of you were the picture of perfection, and neither of you would have it any other way.

A/N - This has been a long time coming, but it's here! Rest assured, all requests are being worked on! Also, I know I always give them daughters, but they're all girl dads to me, y'know? Feel free to submit any requests, I love to write them! Hope you enjoyed 💖

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